#wine-induced head canons

[pedrito-friskito]

strawberry wine - joel miller x ofc!liv stone/fem!reader

during - part sixteen

series masterlist | main masterlist | read on ao3

the aftermath (and after that).

a/n: I swear this is the last time liv and joel will fight for a while 🫠 we’re working through some shit, but we come out the other side! ALSO TUMBLR IS STILL BEING A BITCH AND CUTTING OFF THE ENDING SOMETIMES but not other times?? READ ON AO3 IF YOU CAN!!!!!

word count: 5.8k

warnings: MY BLOG IS 18+, MINORS DNI, canon typical violence/injuries, blood, treatment of injuries, angst, everyone says a lot of shitty things but we come full circle, unprotected p-in-v (wrap ur shit in the apocalypse folks), let me know if i missed anything!

✨follow @friskito-library for updates on new chapters/works!✨

2 months later - May 2009

You’re standing at the stove, nursing a cup of shitty coffee. It’s lukewarm by now; your mind has been wandering all morning, and you keep forgetting about it, leaving it on the counter or the bookshelf or the kitchen table.

There’s too much on your mind, not enough, too much, not enough.

Where are they, now? Are they alive, are they safe? Is he still with—

You shake your head, blink back the tears that have crawled up your throat. It’s the same feeling, every day since it happened. You can’t shake the guilt, the grief, the fear. It just comes back up again the next morning, strong enough to knock you to your knees if you let it. You don’t, most days, but other days, you can’t help it.

The curtains are drawn, mid-morning light filtering through the gauzy material. You should really find something better, something that blocks out the light more thoroughly. Maybe then you could both get some half-decent sleep that wasn’t alcohol or drug-induced. 

You’ve done a lot of drinking in the two months, which, given the circumstance, isn’t shocking, but you’re running out of bottles in your stash behind the fridge. Tess has brought you back a few more, but you want to go back to a few places you haven’t shown her yet, and you know full well Joel isn’t about to let you go for a run anytime soon.

Sitting on the couch makes you antsy, so you park yourself at the kitchen table, bringing your coffee with you. There’s a bottle for whiskey on the table, and you reach for it, pour a healthy amount into your mug. The sound of the bottle hitting the table feels ten times louder than it really is, and you sigh heavily as you lift the mug.

From the corner of your eye, you see Joel rise from the bed. His movements are slow, his boots dragging a bit with every step. You see him push his hand through his hair — it’s grown out on the side where you’d had to cut it away, more of a mop than it was before. You should trim it, the beard too, make him look a little less unkempt.

He makes his way into the kitchen, but you don’t turn your head. He stops behind your chair, bends at the waist to brush a kiss at your temple, and carries on to the stove. “Mornin’.”

You return the sentiment, sipping your spiked coffee. You set the mug back down, reach for the bottle again. You can feel him watching. “What?”

“That kind of morning, huh?”

Saying nothing, you top up your mug.

It’s quiet, mostly, for a few minutes, as Joel makes his coffee, fishes a granola bar out of the cabinet. He tosses one to you, too, grumbles something about putting food in your stomach if you’re intent on drinking. You let it sit on the table, right smack in the middle of your map of Boston, and just stare it down.

The scar on your side prickles with memories of the last two months. It’s a strange feeling, not like any of the other scars you have, accompanied by the strange raised lines that spread from the bite itself, spidering out across your skin. The infection, you figure, trying to work it’s way through your bloodstream and failing, by some stroke of luck.

Is that what it is? You’re lucky?

The bite healed easily, once you were able to give it the proper attention. There were other things that took priority.

+

Another stroke of luck, that Nick’s aim failed him miserably that night.

They both fired at the same time. Joel’s bullet found a home in Nick’s shoulder, knocking him back a step, but Nick’s…

Joel shoved you backwards as the shots sounded, and you sprawled back on the pavement, stuck watching as the bullet from Nick’s gun hit Joel in the head. Horror rose like bile in your throat as he stumbled back, tripped over his boots, landed on top of you. You screamed, scrambled beneath him, grabbing for his head, yelling his name.

“Joel!”

Nick stood there and stared, one hand gripping his bleeding shoulder. His gun clattered to the pavement.

There were fresh tears on your face, your movements frantic as you turned Joel over, tried to see his face. The fear sparked with relief when you saw he was still breathing, saw his eyes were cracked open. The bullet had hit just above his temple, and skimmed along the right side his skull. There was blood everywhere already, pouring down the side of his face, making his hair clump together. You reached for his bag, pulled a bandage out and pressed it against his head. Joel hissed, his hand reaching up to cover yours.

And then Nick spoke.

“Liv, I just—”

Everything in you screamed as you grabbed Joel’s gun from where it had landed, scrambling to your feet and lifting it, pointing it at him. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

His eyes were wide, pupils blown, as he stared back at you. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

You took a step forward, pulled back the hammer on the gun. “What do you think?”

“I’m doing my fucking job, Liv! You’ve been bit, and you think I’m just gonna let you back in here? I can’t, y-you could get people killed. You could turn, you could—”

“I was bit yesterday, you fucking jackass,” you spat, taking another step. There was only a few feet between you. “Why do you think we were out there all night? You know what, it doesn’t fucking matter. It’s not—”

“Yesterday?” Nick repeated, and his eyes got impossibly wider. “If you were bit yesterday…” He trailed off, and you could see the wheels turning in his head. “Liv, that means you’re—”

You took another step, until the barrel of Joel’s gun was pressed right to Nick’s chest. “Don’t you fucking dare. I’m not, as far as you know. You tell FEDRA that I am, and I’ll tell them about the smuggling, about the sneaking out, all of it. I will drag you down with me, Nick, so help me god.” The corner of your mouth twitched, an unkind smile on your face. “Guess I’m just as terrible as you thought.”

Joel called your name, and everything in you froze.

“Olivia.” You couldn’t move, staring at Nick’s face, rage making your gut twist. “Put the gun down.”

Slowly but surely, you did. You shoved it into the waist of your jeans, turned back to Joel. You were both grunting with pain as you got him to his feet. He was pale, his hands shaking as he gripped your forearms, used you as leverage. Worry filled your gut.

When you turned around, Nick was gone.

As quickly as you could, you took Joel home. He held the bandage to his head the entire way, and you supported his sagging weight as much as you could, your side screaming in pain with every step, but you knew whatever you were feeling, he was feeling too. You stopped a few times, propped him against the brick and wiped the blood from his face.

No one dared approach you as you walked. Your guns were hidden, the bat slid between the straps of your backpack, but you paid it no mind. Even the few FEDRA soldiers that crossed your path looked the other way, and it made your gut twist. No one wanted to get involved, risk themselves for someone else, and as you approached the building, you knew you couldn’t go to Deanna. You couldn’t go to Tess or Tommy. You had to help Joel, then help yourself. If anyone saw the bite, it put them at risk. You were already a risk. 

Leaving Nick alive was a risk.

Joel nearly passed out on the stairs, and you had to half-drag him down the hallway to your apartment door. He came to again in the doorway, stayed alert long enough to get to the couch, but then he was out again. You hastily threw a clean bandage on your bite, grabbed what first aid supplies you could find, and set to work.

You had to cut his hair, baring the wound along his scalp. There was blood everywhere, sticking to your fingers and clumping his hair together, and you found the cleanest towel you could to wipe it away. He hissed loudly when you wiped at it with alcohol, one hand flying out and curling around your thigh, fingers digging into your jeans. You shushed him, tried to work as quickly as your shaking hands would allow. “I know, baby. I know.”

It felt like forever, sitting there, cleaning the blood from him. It was deep enough in one spot to need a stitch or two, and you were grateful as all hell that Deanna had taught you what she had, that you knew enough to fix it, to make him better. Tears slipped out of his shut eyes as you stitched it, and you fished an oxy out of your stash, pushed it between his lips.

 Finally, his breathing evened out. The wound was still nasty-looking, but the blood had slowed, the few stitches you’d given him were holding, and his grip on you was relaxed. Not completely limp, but relaxed. You smoothed your hand over his hair, brushing it away from the wound. Joel mumbled your name, and you leaned down to kiss his forehead, wincing at the pain in your side. You needed to tend to that. “Get some sleep,” you murmured, rubbing your hand across his chest. “I’ll be right back.”

He didn’t nod so much as just lift his chin, but it was confirmation enough, and you got to your feet, taking the first aid supplies with you, heading for the bathroom.

You were a mess, just as blood-covered as Joel, if not more so, crimson streaked across your middle, dragged down your hips, disappearing beneath your waistband. You peeled off your jeans, pulled off the bandage, bit your lip as the pain spiked. Your hands shook as you reached for the rubbing alcohol, tried to stifle your whimper as you poured it over the bite. If you were too loud, you knew Joel would try to come and help, and you didn’t want that. He needed rest.

You’d stashed some of the same medical glue stuff that Deanna had used on you years back, and you reached for that. It stung just as bad as the alcohol, but it seemed to work. The bleeding slowed, you wrapped yourself up, tying the gauze around your middle to keep the bandages in place. You popped an oxy yourself, swallowed it dry, spread your blood-covered hands across the counter.

You stared at yourself in the mirror, and cried.

It wouldn’t stop, as you washed the blood from your hands, cleared away the dirty bandages and towels. You didn’t dare make a sound, didn’t want Joel to hear, as you moved through the apartment, cleaned up. He was out cold, hand dangling off the edge of the couch. You circled back to him every few minutes, hot tears on your face, checked his pulse, made sure he was still breathing. You fished a bottle of whiskey out from behind the fridge, drank until your throat felt raw with it. You perched in the chair across from the couch, watched Joel, eyes glued to the rise and fall of his chest. He was mumbling in his sleep, his face pinched, and you got up, sat at the edge of the coffee table instead. You smoothed your hand over his hair, careful of the bandages, over and over and over until his face relaxed, and he leaned into your touch.

Then someone knocked at the door.

Your heart raced as you walked towards it. What if it was Nick? Or FEDRA? Had he ratted you out? It had been maybe two hours since the alleyway. What was—

“Tess,” you breathed, sighing heavily as you pulled the door open, but the relief was temporary, fresh fear crawling up your throat when you saw the expression on her face. She reached for you, hands wrapping around your biceps.

“They’re gone, Liv,” she said, and confusion prickled at you, obviously clear on your face as she continued. “Deanna and the kids. I just went up there, and the door was open. All of their stuff is gone, and I found this on the table.”

She handed you a piece of notebook paper, folded in half, your name scrawled in an unfamiliar hand on the front.

Tess stepped into the apartment with you, closing the door behind her. From the corner of your eye, you saw her gaze snap to Joel laid out on the couch, but she didn’t say anything as she lead you to the kitchen table, sat you down in the chair as you unfolded the note.

I won’t tell anyone what you are, but I won’t let you put them at risk. Don’t come looking, Liv. You’ve done enough. Stay in Boston. Keep yourself alive. — N.C.

Your hands shook as you read the words, over and over again, as if they might change if you read them just one more time. Tess just stared at you, her eyes occasionally flicking over to Joel on the couch. You laid one hand on the table, shaking so much your fingertips tapped against the wood. “Did you read this?”

“No.”

“Can I have your lighter?”

“Lighter?” Tess repeated, but nodded, fishing it out from the pocket of her jacket. “Liv, what does it say?”

Wordlessly, you took it from her, got to your feet, walked towards the kitchen sink. You folded the note in half again, flicked the lighter, and let the corner catch, holding it over the sink as the flame ate at the paper, until your name curled to ash, until the fire grew too close to your hand and you dropped it into the sink, watched until the paper crumbled into nothing.

“Liv?”

“I need you to understand something,” you said, still staring at the sink. You heard the scrape of a chair, felt Tess moving to stand behind you a moment later. She reached for you, and you flinched, but let her grab your arm, turn you towards her. “Nick took them. I can’t tell you what happened. Ever. Joel’s alive, and I’m alive, and that’s all that matters, but I can never tell you what happened. And I need you to be okay with that.”

She stared at you for a long moment, eyes raking over your face. You held your ground, curled your fingers around the sink to try and keep yourself upright. The air felt still, the both of you just staring at each other, her eyes searching yours. Your side twinged with pain, and you put your arm around your middle, flattening your palm over the bandage. And then finally, Tess broke first, rubbing a hand over her face. “Okay.”

She didn’t stay long. Long enough to have a drink with you, both of you sitting in silence, the only noise in the apartment Joel’s slow breathing and the clink of your glasses. “I’ll cover for you, if Tommy asks,” she said, halfway out the door. “Clearly you two need some rest.”

“Thank you.”

And then she was gone. As soon as the door swung closed, you reeled, planting your hands agains the wood, hanging your head between your shoulders.

They were gone. Deanna, Henry, Emily. Nick. Gone. You didn’t know where; you knew Nick had enough sway with FEDRA that he could get transferred to another QZ if he asked, but taking the three of them with him? That was different. There’s no way FEDRA would sign off on something like that, which meant he was sneaking them out, and instantly, you were so worried you felt ill. The thought of those kids out beyond the wall, it made bile crawl up your throat, and you sprinted for the bathroom, emptied your stomach into the sink.

There was a hand on your head a few minutes later, and Joel sank onto the tile behind you, pulling you back against his chest. You protested, whining as you wiped at your mouth, but he just held you tighter. Neither of you said a word, leaned against the bathroom cabinet, until the sun disappeared outside and the dark was all that remained.

+

“You need to eat something,” Joel says to you, sinking into the chair across from you. He pushes the granola bar across the table to you, and you just stare him down, lifting the mug to your lips again defiantly. He stares back, his brow going hard before he looks away, pushes his hand through his hair. “You can’t keep doing this, Liv.”

“Can’t keep doing what, Joel?” you throw back, your tone nearly mocking. “Please, enlighten me. There’s a fucking laundry list of shit I shouldn’t be doing — living included — yet here I am.”

He bristles, shoulders going tense. “You can’t keep shoving your shit away,” he says, hand curling around his own mug. “I know that you’re upset, about Deanna and the kids, but they weren’t—” Joel cuts himself off, staring down into his coffee, and now you’re the one bristling, planting your feet on the ground and learning forward.

“They weren’t what?”

He won’t meet your eyes, shaking his head as he keeps staring down into the mug. “Nothin’.”

“They weren’t what, Joel?”

Finally, his eyes lift to yours, and you can’t read them, can’t understand the expression in that dark gaze. “They weren’t your kids, Liv.”

It hits you like a punch to the gut. “I’m sorry?”

“I know that you…that you cared for them, and you helped Deanna raise them, but—”

“Shut up.” The words are nearly spit from your mouth, shoving your chair back and getting to your feet. The whiskey crawls up your throat, buzzing in the back of your mind, threatening to send you sideways, but you grip the table, lean against it. “You don’t know everything that happened here before you showed up, Joel. You don’t know what we—”

“Sarah died in my arms,” he throws back, still sitting, shoulders still tense, still not looking at you. “And I couldn’t do anything to stop it. So don’t talk to me about what happened before, or what you went through. There’s a lot of shit we haven’t told each other, Liv, but don’t you dare try to throw this in my face.”

Your hand curls into a fist, and you press your knuckles into the tabletop. “Oh, you want all the details, Joel? You wanna know how Emily watched her father rip her mother’s throat out, right in front of her? That kid hasn’t said a word since the outbreak, you ever wondered why? And me, well, where do I start? You want the list of the people I’ve killed? The shit I pulled to stay alive after the walls first went up?

“And you, fuck, I should be furious at you. All this time, you’ve been here, right in front of me, but my sister was alive, and you didn’t have the balls to tell me? You’re right, Joel, there is a lot of shit we haven’t told each other, and I let it slide. But Anna? How could you?”

Your voice snaps on the last word, and you don’t bother wiping at your face, tears dripping off your chin, splattering onto the table. He finally stares back at you, his expression still unreadable. “I didn’t want to hurt you any more than I already was, when we got here,” he says, his voice gruff and low. “And then when you got bit, I knew it was the only thing that would stop you from losing it, stop you from telling me to put a goddamned bullet in your head. I’m sorry, that I kept it from you, Liv, I am. I just didn’t want to hurt you. I don’t want to hurt you.”

Your bottom lip quivers, and you sink your teeth into it, squeezing your eyes shut for a moment. “Well, you are.”

With that, you turn on your heel, yanking your jacket from the back of the chair and walking out the door. If Joel calls after you, you don’t hear it.

Your head is spinning with every step you take up the stairs. Deanna’s apartment is still empty. FEDRA tried to shuffle new tenants in a few days after they were gone, but you wouldn’t let them. You expected pushback, but got none, and part of you wondered if Nick had anything to do with it.

Now, you step through the unlocked door, and your heart sinks into your toes. Whatever they hadn’t taken with them has been rummaged through, picked over, anything useful long gone. Not that it shocks you. But there are still remnants of them, Henry’s math homework spread out on the kitchen table, Emily’s pictures taped onto the walls, Lego pieces and Monopoly money scattered across the living room floor. A long-empty bottle of gin sits in the sink, and you wonder if it was empty before they left, or if Deanna needed the liquid courage to agree to go with Nick.

You wander, your hand skimming along Emily’s drawings on the wall. The paper is torn in some places, crinkled in others, and as you move, one of them flutters to the floor, facedown. You crouch down, picking it back up, and your heart breaks even more. 

It’s a classic little kid drawing, stick figures of different colours on the page. Four of them, total, each with a name scrawled beneath.

EM. HENRY. DEE. LIV.

Joel’s right, they’re not your kids. You didn’t hold them as they died, you didn’t watch the life leave their bodies. You didn’t give birth to them, but it doesn’t matter. Since the mall, you and Deanna have been the closest those kids have to family. Before Joel had come back, they were the only things keeping you going, and providing for them was what kept you on your feet, kept you going beyond the wall. To keep them safe, keep them alive, keep them healthy. They were your family.

If it weren’t for Nick, you know that FEDRA would have dragged them off to the schools for orphans, that you would have lost them much earlier than you did. But now he’s undone all of that, left you reeling.

Now they’re gone.

+

You don’t come home, and Joel gets anxious with every hour that passes.

It was unfair of him, to say what he did. He knows he shouldn’t have kept Anna from you, that he should have told you what had happened a long time ago. But the look on your face, the crack in your voice, that’s exactly what he was trying to avoid, and yet here he is. Right where he didn’t want to be.

His hands shake as he props his elbows on the table, leans his face into his palms. The memory of Sarah will forever leave him reeling, and the guilt eats at him for using it against you. He knows how much you loved those kids, knows that their being gone, not knowing to where, not knowing if they made it, it’s not the same, but it’s still awful. The fact that Cowan’s the one who took them from you just makes matters worst.

The scar along his scalp prickles. It’s healed nicely; you pulled the stitches out when they were ready, kept him bandaged, forced him to take it easy. You had enough ration cards to get you by for some time, and while you weren’t telling Tess or Tommy what had happened, Tess showed up once a week with some food, spare cans of soup or beans or whatever she could get her hands on.

He hasn’t told you that his hearing has been off, ever since that night. It took a while for him to notice it himself. Things have been so tense between you since that night, there hasn’t been enough conversation for him to realize something was wrong. It wasn’t until Tommy asked him for help with a job at the other building — a door that needed replacing — that Joel even noticed. His brother had called his name four times before Joel had even responded, and once Tommy said what needed to be said, Joel took a step back, lifted his hand to his ear, snapped his fingers. The sound was there, but it was muffled, like there was cotton in his ear.

Most of the scar is hidden by his hair, and he touches his middle finger to the bit along his temple, the line slightly jagged, imperfect.

You’ll come home, and he’ll apologize. Part of him wonders if he should hide the whiskey, stash the pills somewhere you won’t find them. He’s worried. He’s always worried.

And the ring, the one he found that day in the jewelry store, still sits heavily in his pocket, a weight that follows him around.

He loves you, so much sometimes it’s like he can’t breathe. The world you’ve found yourself in, it’s not fair, none of it. 

If he had his way, he’d still be in Austin, with you and him and Sarah all together in that house. You never would have left for Boston, would have stayed instead. He would have asked you to move in at the end of the summer, asked you to marry him by Christmas. He would have done things properly, would have asked your dad for permission first, asked Anna for input on what ring to give you. He would have talked it over with Sarah, made sure she was okay with it.

He would have married you a long time ago.

The clock ticks closer and closer to curfew, you still haven’t come home, and Joel only worries more. Finally, he gets up, pulls his coat on, locks the door behind him. He checks all your usual places; the food bank, the pharmacy, the warehouse that used to be the donation hall. He sees McCoy out on patrol, but the soldier hasn’t seen you either.

It’s not until he’s circling back to the apartment that he runs into Tess. “I saw her heading up the stairs to Deanna’s floor on my way out a few hours ago,” she tells him, crossing her arms over her chest. “What happened?”

Joel gives her the short version, and by the end of it, Tess shakes her head, shoves at his shoulder.

“You’re a dick, Joel.”

“I know.”

“Go apologize.”

The door’s locked when he gets up to Deanna’s. He can see light from under the door, shadows like you’re moving around. He wonders if you’re standing on the other side, waiting for him to say something. Hastily, he runs back down to your apartment, finds a piece of paper and writes a message across it. Then he goes back out, stops in front of the door, bends down and slides the note through the gap.

+

You can hear him on the other side of the door, the shift of his boots across the floor. You hear the rustle of paper beneath the door from where you’re standing, Emily’s picture clutched in your hands. Still a tear-stained mess, you walk towards the door slowly.

The paper is face up, Joel’s handwriting scrawled across the page.

Please come home.

It’s a few hours still before you find the courage. Joel’s note and Emily’s picture held to your chest, you leave Deanna’s, you boots echoing with every step down to your floor. The door is unlocked, and when you push it open, your heart leaps in your chest.

Joel’s standing at the stove. It smells like spaghetti sauce, and there are two plates set at the table, your place and his. As the door swings shut, he turns to look at you, and you nearly burst into tears all over again. You put the papers on the counter, step towards him, right into his arms when he holds them out to you. You bury your face in his chest, sling your arms around his waist.

“I was a jackass,” he says into your hair, “m’sorry.”

“I don’t wanna fight you anymore,” you reply, resting your hand at the small of his back. “There’s enough shit out there out to get us, Joel, please. I’m sorry, too.” You squeeze him slightly. “What you went through with Sarah, I…” You bite your lip, shaking your head, and Joel pulls back slightly, one hand lifting into your hair, angling your face so he can look at you. “I know losing Em and Henry isn’t the same, but…”

“No, baby,” he murmurs, turning off the hot burners before taking your face in his hands. “I shouldn’t have…I shouldn’t have said that. You love them, and I’m sorry they’re gone, and you…I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about Anna sooner, and I’m sorry I’ve done nothing but fuck everything up with us since I got here.”

“You didn’t fuck everything up,” you tell him, and you both crack smiles, Joel rubbing his thumbs over your cheeks. “The world’s fucked up. We’re fucked up.”

“Still love you though,” he jokes, and you pinch his hip, making him yelp. 

“Still love you too, even when you’re a jackass.”

He kisses you then, his mouth warm against yours. You fall into it, letting everything else melt away until it’s just you and him, the world outside forgotten for the moment. You let yourself push away everything that’s happened, losing yourself in Joel as he claims your mouth, his tongue laced with whiskey when it pushes past your teeth.

“Dinner’s almost ready,” he mumbles against your lips, the words broken up by your insistent mouth. He walks you back until your ass hits the kitchen table, and you slide on top of it, wrapping around him when he lifts your legs around his hips, your arms around his neck. He drops his head onto your shoulder and you turn yours, your lips glancing across the scar at his temple.

“Dinner can wait,” you reply, pushing yourself against him. You can feel how hard he is, bulging against his jeans, and a shudder wracks through him when you close your teeth around his earlobe, cheat your hand between your bodies to palm him through the denim.

He scoops you up a moment later, one of the chairs toppling to the floor as he makes for the bed, laying you out on top of the blankets. His movements are frantic, Joel yanking your boots from your feet, your jeans down your legs. You reach for his belt with the same fervour, the metal clanging against the floor when you toss it away. He pushes his jeans down just enough to free himself, and then he’s leaning over you, your legs wide either side of him, your back arching until your chest is pressed to his.

There’s no preamble to it, not that you need it. It’s been a while, since you had him like this. Since that night, since that awful tension had formed between you, you’d barely reached for each other, too wrapped up in your own heads, too broken from what had happened.

And when he pushes into you, you nearly cry with relief. You toss your head back against the blankets, arms curling under his shoulders. His own cage around your head, mouth seeking yours as he rolls his hips against yours. You’re nearly blind with the pleasure, nails scrabbling at his back, teeth sinking into his lower lip.

“Fucking christ, Joel.”

“Whaddaya need, baby?”

“Harder, please. Fuck me harder.”

He listens. Joel pulls his hips back, until just the tip of him is nestled inside you, before slamming back in with such force that the air is punched from your lungs. You moan loudly, pushing your face into his neck. He doesn’t let up, giving you that same intense thrust again and again until the bed is creaking beneath you, the mattress shaking with the movement. The pace grows faster, the tip of his cock dragging along that devastating spot inside you until you’re cumming, tangling one hand in his hair as you press your cheek to his, your mouth dropped open as your thighs twitch against his ribs, pure fucking ecstasy rumbling through your veins.

“You got another one for me, baby?” he growls in your ear, and you don’t have words, just a frantic nod as the pleasure ebbs only to ramp up once more when he starts up again, having slowed only slightly to let you ride out your orgasm. The bed creaks louder, wobbling, but you both ignore it, your ankles locked together against the small of Joel’s back as he drives into you again and again.

You pull his hair as you cum a second time, everything inside you going tighter than sin as the second one barrels through you. He growls in your ear, gritting out praise that makes the hair on the back of your neck stand up. You can feel his body start to tense, his mouth dragged across yours, hot breath spilling past your lips as his eyes screw shut, hips stuttering as he spills inside you. You’ll never get over that warmth.

Joel kisses you, both of you spent, and just as he settles some of his weight on you, there’s a loud crack and the bed frame gives out, snapping in the middle, both of you thudding to the floor, padded by the mattress. Joel curses under his breath, and you just start laughing.

“Y’alright, baby?”

“Yeah, I’m good.”

You lie there for hours, sprawled atop the broken bed. You only move when the position makes your hips ache, and even then, you’re still holding onto each other. And you just…talk. You’ve done this before — the night he admitted he couldn’t stay away from you — but there are new stories, things you haven’t told each other, things you were too ashamed to share, gaps in your timelines filled in. You both ask the other questions, pry as much as you dare, but you’re both laid completely bare to each other by the end of it — your pasts, your sins, your regrets, it’s all right there in the open.

And after, when hunger has gotten the best of you both, you disentangle slowly, sliding towards the edge of the now much lower mattress. You’re pulling your boots back on, Joel stood in front of you, when he slowly sinks back down, onto his knees, fitting himself between your legs.

“There’s one more thing I gotta ask you, Liv,” he says, and your brow furrows as he reaches into the pocket of his jeans.

The ring is simple, rose gold etched with flowers, glinting in the streetlight coming in through the window. Your whole body stalls, breath hitching in your throat as he holds it up, pinched between his index finger and his thumb.

“Will you marry me?”

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(tumblr has been eating the last few paragraphs of my posts lately

idk why

i’m doing this to hopefully avoid that

read on ao3 if you can just in case!)

#my fics #strawberry wine #joel miller #joel miller fic #joel miller x you #joel miller x reader #joel miller smut #joel miller fluff #joel miller angst #the last of us #the last of us fic #the last of us spoilers #joel miller x oc #joel miller x liv stone

[welcometowhore-rrorville]

𝒩𝑜𝓉 𝒲𝒽𝒶𝓉 𝒴𝑜𝓊 𝒯𝒽𝒾𝓃𝓀

Featuring: Brahms Heelshire

Word Count: 3k

Warnings: slightly inaccurate to movie, i did not rewatch it before writing this so details might be off, injuries, blood, wounds, patching wounds with unsanitary and unsterile materials, canon-typical violence, horror and thriller themes, sort of fluffy but also dread inducing, hopeless ending? 

-

You hated the idea of going to visit the manor your friend worked at—ever since you’d moved to town, you’d heard nothing but terrible rumors surrounding the place. Still, it worried you that Malcolm hadn’t called. Despite knowing it was probably just him getting caught up with the new nanny—you couldn’t shake the feeling something was wrong. He may have been a little love-drunk, but he knew better than to scare you like this.

Especially given the house’s more-than-strange residents, you found yourself with a heavy feeling in your chest. It pulled you forwards, leading to your current situation—taking the closest cab available to drive you up to the secluded abode. 

You clutched your phone with shaky fingers. You’d tried calling, texting, leaving voicemails—he hadn’t gotten back to you. Was this some sort of joke? He played the odd prank every once in a while, but you would kill him if this was his idea of funny. You thought of him as a brother, and if something had happened. . . 

You let out a sigh, looking out at the pouring rain. This was over-dramatic, even for you. He was probably too busy swooning over. . . Greta? Was that her name? And tossed his phone aside somewhere.

You nodded to yourself. You were just being silly—in fact, you should probably just tell the cab driver to take you back home, but by the time you talked yourself out of it, you were already being ushered out of the vehicle. 

The driver tipped his hat, hurriedly clambering back inside before slamming his door and driving off into the night. You huffed. You were going to ask him to wait for you, but looked like you’d have to find some other way home.

Deciding not to worry about it, you turned your focus to the looming black gates in front of you, still partially open and shuddering slightly in the wind and rain. Taking one last look behind you, you stepped in, slipping past and heading towards the looming home in front of you.

You couldn’t make out much detail besides the odd silhouette illuminated by flashing lightning, but the looks of the place were the least of your problems. 

You finally reached the front door, and hesitantly reached out, fingers rapping against wood. Would you even be heard over the storm?

Nobody answered, and you began to shiver, regretting not bringing something heavier than a cardigan and sweatpants. In your defense, you didn’t expect to be visiting the Heelshire tonight, or ever for that matter. 

Without thinking, you tried the door handle, only to find it unlocked. You rose a brow. You would’ve thought a place as fancy as this would lock their doors at night. The dreadful feeling in your chest grew, but you cracked the door open, anyway. It hinged outwards with a squeak, and you quickly slipped inside, shutting it behind you.

The spacious home muffled the rain, and you were left in a dark and quiet manor. You weren’t quite sure what to do. Should you call out for somebody? Should you even be here? No, you answered yourself. 

You took a few unsure steps forwards, eyes squinting in an attempt to see around you. The only glimpses you had were when lightning struck, and so you felt around blindly for a light switch. Did a house this old even have electricity? 

Your hand hit a small lever, and you let out a sigh of relief. You flicked it, eyes adjusting to the now lit entry-way. It was a beautiful place, you had to admit. Everything was aged like fine wine. Ornate wooden railings led upstairs, decorative floor and ceiling crowning etched intricately around the room, paintings of long forgotten places hung in perfect order against the pretty wallpaper. 

If you didn’t know any better, you’d feel comfortable here. But you did, which is why you quickly moved along. You slipped off your wet shoes, socks sliding against the wooden floor as you walked. You weren’t sure where to start your search for Malcolm, and so wandered aimlessly. 

You soon arrived at the entrance to a game room of sorts, though you weren’t even sure if you could call it that. A billiard room was probably the better term, but you weren’t rich enough to dwell on it. 

It was dark inside, but you could see a pool table in the middle of the room. Something inside of you forced you forwards, and you tiptoed into the darkened space. Your fingers again moved to find the lightswitch, and you flicked it on. 

You wished you hadn’t.

Your eyes widened, and you bit back a scream at the sight before you. A man lay dead, sprawled out as blood pooled around his body. You froze, looking at his face. It wasn’t your friend. In fact, you’d never seen the man before.

It didn’t matter.

You rushed over, panic in your voice as you spoke. “Oh, my God,” you whimpered, reaching out to feel for a pulse. Nothing. You figured, but couldn’t help but let out a choked sob. What had happened here?

Your eyes suddenly widened, a realization dawning on you. The body was still warm. Whoever did this was still around.

Panic set in, and you bolted up from the corpse, head spinning. You grabbed a discarded pool stick from the table, clutching it in fear. “Malcolm!” you cried, rushing out of the room. “Where are you! Answer me, please!”

You had no idea where you were running to in this maze of a house. Every hallway led to more doors, more rooms, more spaces with who knows what lurking within. Tears rolled down your burning cheeks. You could only hope your friend didn’t suffer the same fate as the man in the room.

You wound up upstairs, slowing your wobbly running into a cowering walk, pool stick still in hand. You gripped the wooden rod, inching forward down a particularly long hallway.

“Malcolm,” you whimpered, voice barely louder than a whisper. “Please come out. . .”

A faint noise sounded from a nearby room, and you froze in place. Slowly, you turned to your side, staring at the closed door. “Who’s there?” you murmured, unsure if you wanted the occupant on the other side to hear you or not. 

Whoever it was fell silent. You let out a hushed breath. Your hand rested on the door handle, the other hand poised with the pool stick in hand. Counting to three in your head, you finally swung open the door, only to drop your pool stick at the sight that greeted you.

A man was slumped against a dresser, a giant red splotch on his low cut white shirt dripping blood onto his dark pants. His hair was unkempt, curls falling into his face—well, mask you should say. A broken mask adorned his face, revealing a burned and scarred visage. Upon spotting you, he moved to stand, but fell back against the wooden furniture, clutching his wound. 

“Woah, woah, woah,” you chastised, holding both hands out to settle him down. “Don’t move, you’re injured.”

You had no idea what had happened here, but you weren’t about to let another person die tonight. 

You looked around the room for anything to plug a wound before ultimately taking off your sweater, holding it in front of you. You stepped slowly towards the stranger. “Let me help,” you said gently, noting the fear in his eyes. “I’m not gonna hurt you.”

It’s not like he had a choice—he was too weak to move, but you wanted to get his permission, anyway.

“Please,” you urged. “You’re bleeding bad.”

He pulled his hand away from his wound, staring at the blood coating his fingers. He stared at you from behind his mask, studying you. Finally, he nodded weakly.

You wasted no time in clearing the distance and dropping to your knees in front of him, carefully lifting his shirt. 

You winced at the sight—a gaping hole oozed blood steadily from his abdomen, curls of hair on his chest soaked in the red substance. “What happened to you?” you whispered, pressing your balled up sweater against the injury.

You felt his body tense underneath you, his hands wrapping around your wrists tightly.

“I know it hurts—I’m sorry,” you explained, trying to shake his hands off of you. “If I don’t stop this bleeding. . .”

Your sentence gave him pause, and he released your wrists, allowing you to continue putting pressure onto it. You knew pressure alone wouldn’t stop this wound from bleeding, though. “Do you have a sewing kit somewhere?” you asked through grit teeth, your hands becoming sticky with gore.

His eyes widened, looking apprehensive. His hands rested close to his chest as he stared at you like a small child stirred from a nightmare. You brought one hand from tending his wound to rest against his clasped hands. “You’re scared. Me too. But I’m not gonna leave you to die.”

Something about your words stirred a fire underneath him, and with newfound strength he moved his sprawled out legs, arms swinging to either side of him as he forced himself to stand. 

You recoiled backwards, arm immediately grabbing his own and placing it around your shoulders. You still pressed your sweater against his wound, making sure to keep it tight enough to stop the blood. 

He was tall and well-built, and you strained against his weight as he leaned against you. Still, you managed, following his every step as he led you out of the room and towards a particularly large painting. Reaching out a hand, he pushed it aside, revealing a small entryway carved from the wall.

You didn’t stop to question it. Those could come later. You simply helped him inside, coughing at the dust floating in the space between the walls. 

Down a cramped corridor the two of you went, suffocating walls pushing the two of you against each other. Finally, the space opened up, and you were met with a small living space—it was unfinished, dusty, and a little unkempt, but as long as it had something to sew his wound shut, it didn’t matter.

You spotted a bed and helped him take a seat. “Keep holding my sweater—where’s the needle and thread?” you said, leaving his side to examine the area.

You saw him look to a desk tucked in the corner and raced over, seeing craft supplies scattered messily over the surface. Finding what you were looking for, you snatched a particularly sharp needle and some fine black thread. You returned to his side, scooting a wooden stool over to sit as you placed the supplies on the bed.

Ideally, you would somehow clean the needle and thread beforehand, but ideally you’d also not be in this situation in the first place. You simply got to work, threading the needle. 

You looked into his eyes, asking for permission.

“Do it,” he rasped, voice deep and barely audible. It was the first time you’d heard him speak. He set your bloodied sweater aside, pulling up his shirt once again.

“There’s too much blood,” you muttered. “I can’t see where the wound stops and skin starts.”

You needed something to clean the area at least temporarily, but your sweater was already ruined. You looked down at your t-shirt. Setting the needle on your lap, you grabbed the hem of your top, pulling it up and over your head quickly before getting to work wiping the area. It would only provide a temporary visual, and so you maintained your focus, unbothered at your now shirtless state. You still wore a bra, but under any other circumstance you’d feel more than embarrassed. But this was an emergency, and a little nudity wouldn’t kill you, but not getting this injury patched up would kill him.

You swapped your shirt for the needle, holding your breath as you brought it to his skin.

“Here we go,” you warned. “You might wanna bite down on something.”

He made no move to take off his mask, or even look away from you. He sat, weak, bloodied, and transfixed. Nobody had ever treated him like this before. You were strangers—you’d snuck into his house in the middle of the night after Greta and Malcolm had left him for dead, working non-stop to save him after finding him bleeding out in his room. 

Now you sat in front of him, half-naked and a worried look in your eyes as you loomed over his injury. He already felt numb from the blood loss, and so barely even flinched when the needle pricked his skin, pulling it up to meet the other side of the gaping wound. 

You looked more hurt than he was, an expression of anguish on your face.

“I’m so sorry,” you repeated over and over, whispering it as you sewed him together.

He brought a weak hand up, gently resting it against your cheek. You looked up from your task, tears in your eyes. He wiped them away with a bloodied finger. You sniffled before getting back to work, knowing he was having a hell of a worse time than you were.

Still, his hand never left your cheek, rubbing soft circles against your flushed skin with his thumb. 

You looped the last stitch, pulling it taut as the wound cinched shut. Quickly, you tied it off, using your teeth to bite the thread until it snapped. You set the needle and thread on the bed, grabbing your shirt once again to clean up the blood that had returned. The stitch up wasn’t pretty, but it seemed to be holding. Only tiny droplets seeped out from between the stitches, black thread laced through his pale skin.

You let out a sigh. “Looks like that stopped the bleeding,” you said, hands stopping, your shirt still pressed against his abdomen. You stared, horrified at what you’d done to him. You just sewed a man like he was a pair of ripped jeans. What was wrong with you?

His hand which rested against your cheek moved to grip underneath your chin, tilting your head up. You met his gaze. There was no malice. No fear. No pain. Only a look of. . . what was it? Gratitude? Sympathy? Love?

You didn’t know, but it didn’t matter. You were sure he wasn’t upset at your patchwork, you knew that much. 

“Are you hurt anywhere else?” you asked, tilting your head. He finally removed his hand from your face, instead skimming over your stitches.

“Hey, careful!” you chastised, hand gripping his own to prevent him from touching it further. “That’s just sewing thread. Any movement could tear your wound wide open.”

His head fell, looking like a child scolded.

“Sorry,” you added, releasing his hand to rest your arms in your lap. “I didn’t mean to yell, I just—I don’t want you hurt. Are you okay otherwise?”

He brought a hand to his face, feeling where his mask had broken. He felt the tough flesh of his scars, burn marks seared into him from the fire long ago. 

“Did you burn yourself?” you asked. 

He shook his head. It must’ve been old, then, you assumed. Was the mask what he was worried about? The porcelain was cracked and worn. It must’ve been important to him.

“It broke,” you said, frowning. “Did that happen tonight, when you got hurt?”

He nodded. “When she left me,” he mumbled, voice audibly higher than the last time you heard it. It sounded like a little boy. You didn’t think much of it, instead more focused on what he said.

“Who left you?”

“Greta. She was supposed to stay,” he said quietly before his hands balled into fists. “She was supposed to stay!”

This time, his deep and raspy voice returned, causing you to flinch backwards. 

“Hey,” you whispered calmly, hands moving to rest on his knees. “You’re okay. It’s okay. Just let yourself heal. We can figure out the rest later.”

“We. . . ?” the soft and delicate voice was back.

“I can’t leave you here like this,” you replied. “And if you don’t mind if I stay a little longer. . .”

You were taken aback when he suddenly wrapped his arms around your neck, pulling you forwards until you stumbled off of your stool and into him. The two of you fell backwards onto the bed, leaving you to try and find a grip on something without disturbing his fresh wound. You eventually settled with your hands on his upper chest.

Your head was pressed in the crook of his neck and shoulder, your legs to his side.

“Stay,” he whispered, petting your hair.

You weren’t usually the hugging type, especially given your still topless state, but you supposed you’d let this slide, being he was severely wounded and almost half of his blood was stained into your clothes. 

“I’ll stay as long as I can,” you replied, each word sending your breath against his neck. He fought back a shiver. “But you need to quit with the sudden movements. I just told you those stitches could burst open with a light breeze.”

“Whatever you want,” he muttered. “Just don’t leave me.”

You let out a breath. This surely wasn’t how you pictured your night going. Still, it was kind of nice to be wrapped in someone’s arms, even if it was a stranger. You pressed against his chest just enough to lift yourself up. You looked down into his eyes. “I never got your name,” you said before introducing yourself.

“Brahms,” he replied. “Brahms Heelshire.”

Your hair stood on end.

Memories of rumors came flooding back to you. The fire. The missing little girl. The strange little boy. He was always clinging to her. He never wanted her to leave. He was obsessed. Unhinged. The little girl never stood a chance. No. It wasn’t possible. That boy died in a fire.

Your eyes gazed over his scarred face. You swallowed harshly. No. No he didn’t. He was alive. And you’d just saved his life. And now you were in his grasp, laying in his arms, in the depths of a house swallowed by haunted memories. You were never getting out of here. 

#fanfiction #fanfic #x reader #reader #y/n #yn #horror #scary #slasher #slashers #brahms heelshire #brahms #slashers x reader #slasher x reader #fluff #angst #reader-insert #the boy #slasher fucker #horror movie #scary movie #slasher fanfiction #slasher fanfic #horror fanfiction #3k

[quietwings-fics]

Home Sweet Home

Rating: General Audiences Archive Warning: N/A Fandom: Supernatural Ship: Gen (Gabriel & Fen) Additional Tags: Moving, Home, Furniture, Past Gabriel/Kali (Supernatural), Pre-Canon, Gabriel-centric (Supernatural), Domestic Summary:

Gabriel moves in.

Gabriel flicked on the lights to an apartment that was bland and dusty. Beige walls greeted him like lazy cows, with barely a glance to acknowledge his existence before they went on chewing their cud and farting. The light above, the only light in the whole place, flickered from the effort of the Herculean task he’d set it. The double windows on the other side of the room had droopy eyes from the broken blinds, half-covered on one side with the other missing to reveal the grime crusted into the corners of the glass.

Under Gabriel’s arm, Fen wriggled. He’d been stuck there patiently for at least half an hour while Gabriel had danced along with the motions of getting his documents in order and his keys handed to him. The lady down in the office of the complex had had eyed him with suspicion, but how was she supposed to know that Fen weighed a couple hundred pounds more than the sixty pound limit on dogs in the building? He was light enough to toss around when he wanted to be.

Gabriel lifted him up to give him a kiss on his tiny wet nose, receiving a dozen enthusiastic licks in return before he set Fen down and let him pad around the edges of the room.

“Bit of a fixer-upper,” Gabriel mused. The ceiling above him creaked as his upstairs neighbor moved around. He made a face. Fen sat in the middle of the floor and whined at him. “Not as fancy as Kali’s place, I know.” He scowled because the other option was to admit to feeling heartbroken, and he wasn’t doing that until he’d set up a TV and a dozen pints of ice cream for good measure. Fen flopped down against the floor and pouted. “Stop acting like a child of divorce and help me pick out where the furniture should go.”

Gabriel didn’t really have a vision of what he wanted the place to look like yet. He was flying by the seat of his pants. One thing he did know was that the pitiful excuse for a kitchen that was tucked into the corner had to get more inviting. Cabinets that didn’t look like they were falling off their hinges and a stove that was halfway between shiny-new and well-loved rather than familiar with the rust on its burners. He opened the fridge they provided him, and then he shut it just as quickly. There were things growing in there that God never imagined. Gabriel blinked that fridge away and put a new on in its place. Right at the foot of it went Fen’s dog bowl.

What was the point of having grace if he couldn’t have fun redecorating? Make the dishes do a little song and dance before they tucked themselves into the cupboards and retile the walls with a snap of his fingers and sweep away the old wooden flooring for carpet until he’d made himself a nice nook. He leaned back against a small dining table he didn’t have to carry up six flights of stairs and took it in with pride. 

Fen yelped as Gabriel started playing with the living room next. Whips and chains with mood lighting to match turned into housewife chic with a light up poster above wine before noon gave way to a disco ball scattering light over the whole room. Fen chased one of the glittering beams, sticking his nose into it like he could catch it. Damn, but Gabriel missed disco. Humans let things fall out of fashion too quickly. Disco, plaid dresses, the guillotine… By the time Gabriel was catching up on the fads, they were already years out of date.

The light was kind of headache inducing once the novelty wore off. Gabriel sighed and sent it back beyond the veil where the style of ages past belonged. He rolled out rugs under his feet, tiger, zebra, bear, but the heads always gave him the creeps, so he went psychedelic instead, all fuzzy pinks and greens and blues with plenty for fluff to sink his toes into. Fen rolled across it like a kitty on catnip.

Gabriel could lean into sleaze. That was fun, the sharp contrast between the bright and welcoming kitchen and his den of hedonism. He dropped himself back into a cushy loveseat, first blue, then purple, then red when he settled on it. He made sure the carpet would match while the walls turned to complimentary wood. He popped the leg rest up and leaned back on his arms as he worked out the rest of the room: a couch too green to tell if it was dingy and too dark to check for stains, magazines littering a coffee table with two ringed marks doubled up on the left side and coasters that would never be used stacked just next to them, the light above them finally getting a rest as Gabriel swapped it out for a dimmer bulb.

Gabriel took a deep breath. The loveseat squeaked under his weight.

Fen popped up, paws on the footrest and tail wagging so hard that Gabriel could hear it beating.

Gabriel patted his stomach. “Here, boy,” he called. Fen leapt up onto him and squirmed around until he was comfortable enough to flop down in Gabriel’s lap. Gabriel scratched behind his ears. “What do you think? As good as our last place now?” Fen huffed in disagreement. “You’re not exactly helping me get over her, you know.” Fen’s tail thumped against his chest as he pushed his nose onto Gabriel’s arm like an apology. Gabriel sighed. “Well, I like it,” he said, mostly to himself.

He’d still have to sort out the bedroom later. He was thinking dark pink bed, heart-shaped, sheets like satin and covers thick enough to feel squished under them. Lava lamps? Maybe a shelf to store knick-knacks on. All the good stuff he’d found over the years, his personal sketch for modeling for Michaelangelo (and definitely earned the night after) and the ankle bones of an old vessel he’d loved (he should go visit her great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great grandkids sometimes soon, make sure they’re getting on alright) and… one of Lucifer’s feathers (which would spend half of its days displayed where Gabriel could see it and half of them shoved into a drawer where he didn’t have to think about it.)

Home sweet home, if he did say so himself.

(Enjoyed it? Any interaction is welcomed. You can even support me on Ko-Fi <3)

#SPNArchangelWeek #fanfiction #1001-5000 #general audiences #spn #genfic #gabriel & oc #gabriel & oc (fen) #gabriel spn #oc #oc (fen) #pre-canon

[thevillagegay]

Wishing Out Loud

crossposted to ao3

Synopsis:

Alcina is gone. Murdered.

Distraught moans ring throughout the castle, cries and wails shared by everyone in the family. Except for Miranda.

Tags: Alcina Dimitrescu/female reader, all the lords are here and present i'm just too lazy to tag, not mother miranda friendly, Character Death, Blood and Violence, not really graphic but maybe we'll get there, Angst, Hurt No Comfort, Not Canon Compliant, canon? who's that, no really

Notes: TWO FICS IN TWO DAYS??? More likely than you think. ANygays, female reader with lots of angst because the fluff is not fluffing and lesbians just can't live laugh love in this village.

Also apologies for any mistakes I dont beta read almost ever so here, take your rations and starve

The dagger that was used on her wife was kept a secret, a myth among few. But one man had decided to act on a legend. After all, legends always ring with truths.

Instead of the fool going in recklessly like the others, he actually had a plan. The dagger wasn’t difficult to find, albeit having to sneak through a castle with a few loyal maids(who were good with knives) and two deadly women. The more difficult to please maids had helped him with that, because they apparently were living with monsters who never did anything for them.

The events unfolded not unlike this. Alcina had noticed a maid acting suspiciously, and decided it was nothing to worry about as she was most likely nervous about being brutally murdered for a mistake(which hadn’t happened in quite a while, mind you). 

She had gone to sleep a little earlier than normal after her wine had tasted off, and slept for hours while the man-thing broke in and stole the object of her downfall. As it turns out, nightshade acts less like a poison and more like a coma-inducing drug for genetically modified vampires. Who knew?

The daughters were at Donna’s house for the week, tending to her garden after wrecking it so they weren’t a problem. The maiden was easily called away while her wife napped to tend to a few projects she had as a surprise for Alcina. The only thing left to do was carry out the heinous act.

The nightshade had been quite effective, leaving her comatose for many hours. The man had gathered his courage and stabbed her in the side while she slept. The toxins forcing themselves into her bloodstream woke her with a scream of agony. The maiden quickly ran through the halls to their shared bedroom to kill whoever had hurt her beloved. 

The man realized his mistake as the maiden burst in and stared at him with a deadly rage. Her wife laid on their giant bed curling in on herself in an effort to minimize the pain.

The man didn’t deserve the normal punishment of being drained in the cellar and turned into both wine and a scarecrow, no that could come later. Instead the maiden reached for the small dagger and stabbed the man in the upper abdomen and dragged the knife down his torso to take care of him.

She was called back to attention by her wife’s antique wine glass crashing to the floor. Her arm was left outstretched, her eyes closed in agony while her mold-riddled body absorbed the deadly poison and further weakened her in her drugged state.

Her normally bright golden eyes were quickly dimming in the firelit room. Her grayish skin somehow getting paler in the feeble light given by the fire. Her hands let go from her abdomen and reached towards her wife. The dark red contrasted much differently in this situation than in most others since the blood was her own.

When was the last time I bled, Alcina wondered. Oh.

Now, her love was rushing towards her and holding her large frame close. Even though they were very different in size, Alcina’s wife was protecting what little she could cover of her quickly dying wife. Alcina laid her head back down on the plush pillows, bed sinking further with her weight. The precious embroidered dolls from their daughters were held close as Alcina closed her eyes and let the few tears that had collected on her long eyelashes finally fall. 

Her maiden thought that she was gone, no coming back. But before the inevitable, Alcina turned her head slowly and placed her large hand on her lovely wife's cheek for the last time. The way her lips were turning up as she smiled were forever etching themselves into her wife’s memory. 

“ Noapte bună draga mea. Noapte bună. ” Her final words were whispered as her eyes fell shut for the last time, the final tear streaking her pale face. Her wife allowed the tears to cascade down her cheeks for a few minutes before she thought of what she would tell the girls. 

Fortunately, she didn’t have very much time to dwell on her failure to protect her wife for very long, since Heisenberg burst through the doors only a few minutes later. The savage lycans must have been useful for once and informed him of the intrusion. His loud entrance into the room failed to rouse the maiden from her spot next to the bed as he rushed over.

His disbelief showed on his face, and where his words were once abundant they were left barren. Empty. Much like the corpse that laid on the bed. Once a powerful countess capable of crippling anyone in sight, reduced to a mass of poison filled blood. 

The woman laid on top of her lover for another hour, tears cascading down onto her wifes stained nightgown. Screams and begging echoed throughout the castle halls, maids and monsters alike quirking up their ears towards the chamber. Few of the maids were brave enough to travel up to the rooms, scared of the lycans and moraica traversing the halls in search of who had done it. 

Heisenberg and the loyal help in the castle quickly found the mole, keeping her in the darkest and most secure cell, surrounded by the monsters reaching through he bars to punish the traitor. They might have been mindless, but they held loyalty. And knew when someone had wronged their heads of house by the way they were treated.

Meanwhile, the few maids that had gotten to the room had started to coerce the woman away from the bed. She needn’t stay any longer provided she try to join her wife. They had Heisenberg move the body to the atelier, knowing she would be mostly out of the way until they could put her somewhere final. The knife was also given to the metal working man, to have in safe keeping and so he could melt it down with the wife at a later date.

Early the next morning the girls and Donna rode to the castle, and figured quickly by the excess of creatures roaming the usually empty halls that something was up. Upon hearing the news, the daughters had staggeringly different reactions. 

Bela was in disbelief, knowing that so very little could kill their mother, and just falling to the ground with her mouth agape. Few tears escaped the crestfallen face, hands held to her cheeks like her mother used to do. It took her several hours to even look at the body laying in the atelier, still thinking it was some cruel joke that her sisters or Uncle Karl had played on her.

Cassandra was explosive, crying violently as she dragged the dead man down to the cellar. Sounds of screaming from both the maid and herself were easily heard across the grounds. As wails echoing around Miranda’s church, townsfolk were terrified that another onslaught would take place. Cassandra’s only stipulation to having a first go at the woman was that she still had to be alive. She took that as a challenge to make her feel the most pain possible, knowing that it wouldn't even compare to what she felt at losing her mother.

Daniela immediately broke down, falling to her knees and crying so hard she ran out of tears. After that, she begged for her mothers corpse to reanimate as theirs had done so many years ago. She clutched at her mothers dress, gripping it so hard it was a surprise that it didn’t rip from the sheer force. Her futile attempts at seeing her mothers eyes again or feeling her arms wrap around her as she pretended to sleep continued, praying to whatever gods or deities would listen to please, please , bring her back just one more time.

Donna was more downtrodden than usual, despite her normal state of grief. Alcina had been like the sister she’d never gotten to grow up with, to have when she needed. Angie had lost her normal bubbliness. Her snarky comments ceased to ring throughout the rooms in search of the tall woman. She instead sat on Donna’s lap, curled into a little lump of wood and fabric, wishing she could cry.

Oddly enough, Karl was affected as well. He was more together than the rest however, knowing someone would need to take care of things since their main support was no more. He’d let himself have time to cry later, in the privacy of his factory. Throwing sheets of metal into the portrait of Miranda. Carefully rehanging the family picture they’d taken the year before. Yelling meaninglessly into the metal walls about how if only he’d gotten there quicker or left more lycans surrounding the castle instead of calling them away to spy on Miranda he could have prevented this. He could still have a sister. His siblings could be okay.

Her lover was numb. She couldn’t break down more, lest her children start to fear losing her as well. She kept a mostly stiff upper lip and made her rounds to the daughters, comforting and crying with each one as they tried in vain to process the loss of their mother. She stayed in the dungeon the least amount of time, knowing if she looked at that buffoon she would destroy every fiber of his being with her bare hands. She knew that all the time she had spent on making her anniversary present was spent pointlessly. She could have spent all of that time with her wife, holding her, talking to her, loving her . Instead now she got the man that killed her, the woman that helped, and her family in tears at the loss of their biggest support.

Karl eventually called Moreau, letting him know of the news and asking that come to show his support. He appeared in tears, his wooden crown missing and the growths on his back pulsing with every sob. He knew that Alcina would never forgive him should he ruin her carpet, so he stayed in the dining hall, curled up next to her large chair and wishing they could have just one more dinner, a concert, hell even a council meeting. Just wishing that she didn’t have to leave them.

The lords had rooms always made up for them in case of emergency, but they went unused and empty as they all cried together in her room. Moreau on the large plush carpet as his sobs died down, Donna cuddling the girls as they all held their respective dolls she had made when they were newly reborn. Her lover sat in her own chair, sitting in her wife’s would have been too painful to bear. Karl stayed closest to the door in a stiff wooden chair brought from the kitchen. Both himself and the widow had practically forced everyone to eat the bare minimum, knowing they would neglect to take care of themselves in their grief. Few words were exchanged as everyone knew what they were all thinking. 

Why can’t she just come back? 

Please.

Just one more time. That’s all.

#alcina dimitrescu x reader #female reader #major character death #i cried #chapter 2 on the way #i had a quote prompt thingy to use for this #but the buildup took this long #angst #hurt no comfort #my fic #yall i posted this an hour ago and got a comment and almost died of joy #the boost yall give me when i actually post #the lesbians cant live laugh love in these conditions

[mirohtron]

note: yall remember this right. so @madness-maybe-managed and i were (playfully arguing) abt smth 2 do w the sequel bc they can read my drafts bc best friend perks and i told @cybelpunk that i'd write them smth w their characters if they agreed w me and not m bc m sucks m is a loser m stinks and this was supposed 2 b a joke but now it's nearly 7k words. happy pride noah is a trans man (he/they, the narration will switch between he and they when referring to him. mostly he) and mochizou is... some guy (he/him) i used to simp for anyway going to pretend this is an actual fic. bc it is. this is not canon

pairing: noah x mochizou | wc: 6.9k/7k | au: muse/ballet dancer!noah x artist(sculptor)/celebrity!mochizou | they're allosexual btw hear hear all my yearners who want to get blue balled

cw for: stress-induced crying which can be interpreted as a breakdown

sign language will be written in single quotes [' ']. lowercase is intended sorry people who have pet peeves about it it's my aesthetic. also i am not hard of hearing this is my first time writing a partially deaf character if you have constructive criticism or corrections pls do tell me!

—

“do you love me?” asks noah.

“i enjoy your company,” replies mochi.

“you like me?”

“i like you.”

he flicks his gaze up to the table noah sits on. today the sun shines on his skin that’s brown like old honey and casts a golden glow around the edges of his outline. it is gorgeous. it is his essence. he is aphrodite’s favourite child and dionysus’s favourite wine. he flicks his gaze back to the brown clay. it is his muse’s same exact skin tone, except it lacks the variation. the light freckles sprayed on his shoulders like the flick of white paint on the painting of a dark night. the deep pigment that his muse’s elbows and knees have, the result of being worn against hard surfaces. it lacks the sunny flecks in his eyes, the pink-tinted twin scars on his chest. 

it is still a perfect imitation of the folds of the silk that covers his body. the cloth does so timidly, falling in delicate curves and folds to the surface of what he is sat on, dripping from where noah’s hand is clutching it like it is a waterfall, afraid of covering up his beauty. it, much like his scars, is tinted a slight pink, only more of a rose-gold, glimmering in the lights.

mochizou glances up again, only because he feels the other man’s stare bore into him like two solar lasers. noah has his eyes slightly narrowed.

“relax your face,” mochizou says. “i’m not taking pictures.”

“did you only say that to flatter me?” noah moves their head as they speak, and the corner of mochizou’s mouth twitches as a perfect strand of hair is displaced. 

“that is not how i flatter.”

“how do you flatter?”

“not like this.”

it morphs into silence once again, only the scrape of mochi’s tools against the clay and the drip-drip-drip of water being scooped up to wet dry parts for fixing serving as white noise. 

this is how most of their sessions go. noah poses a pretty pose in the pretty sunlight that helios sends down from the heavens and mochi sculpts from clay as a warmup before he goes to marble and glass and granite and whatnot. occasionally, noah asks a question, and it breaks mochizou from his focus and ignites a frustration that is quickly smothered upon seeing the angel on the table in front of him. do not disturb me, he used to say the first few times noah had broken his focus.

noah would simply furrow their brows and not obliged.

this was months ago. now, it is second nature for mochizou to not think of his anger directly, more so smothering it by flicking his eyes up the slightest bit and mumbling out an answer to noah’s endless questions. perhaps, one day, he will find himself not angry, just merely looking up at the man because he looks stingy when he isn’t looked at after speaking.

“you frown easily,” mochi had said one time, pushing a bowl of warm soup towards his muse. noah furrowed their brows, merely proving his point. “sometimes i find myself sculpting out the lines of your frown.”

noah had rolled his eyes. dragged his bowl towards him with a roughness that was unnecessary. “how flattering.”

mochizou let the silence pass. until the noisy stirring of noah’s soup became more subdued as his muse realised they were not being talked to. 

“i do not flatter like this.”

noah ate in silence.

mochizou has learned, over the past couple of months and two weeks, that noah is naturally stingy. makes faces when he is told to do something. uses up part of their scheduled time getting changed, the other talking about the most useless things, the other being stubborn about what pose to take. a rather difficult muse. but the people had been talking, about the youthful rebelliousness his new sculptures were depicting. much like a thorny rose. pretty. but the beholder was too selfish to let other people indulge in it. noah would rather his face be passed through the filters of mochi’s fingers and be carved into something pleasant-looking and un-sneering.

the only time noah makes an effort to look pleasant to anyone but himself is when he is on stage.

“do you love me?” asks noah for the second time. it is after mochizou touches his jacket, the worn, purple thing he wears every single day. it has been resized enough times that the threads all come together in a messy sprout at some places. impossible to pull at and ruin, because it is so tangled.

still, mochizou pushes at a loop of white thread with the pad of his index. “i love you as much as an artist loves their muse.”

“how much is that?”

“as much as you want it to be.”

mochizou feels the frown without needing to turn his head. it is there in the silence. he does not quite understand it, but his muse is a complicated thing, and he will turn simple when he wants to.

they go out together, once, and a stranger stops them while noah is sipping on his coffee.

it is one of those rare days where both of them are free from their schedules. only, during those rare days noah is too exhausted to do anything but rest and mochizou is still busy cleaning up his workplace. they do not text unless it is to confirm their schedule. mochi texts first, for those.

noah texted first, this time.

his hearing aids are gone, the purple things tucked away into his pockets because he says crowds are too loud for him. the stranger raves about them, about mochizou, how happy they are seeing the artist and his muse for the first time.

noah is glaring, and before mochi can try and soothe him his coffee has been crushed in his hand and the stranger has shut up.

mochi gets him a new cup. he is staring at nothing, resting his chin on a table in the café while mochi is stood outside apologising to the stranger.

“i didn’t know i was interrupting,” they say, rushing through their syllables. the excitement is still there, just a tiny morsel of it. “they’re…unpredictable. much like your art.”

“they’re complicated. isn’t everyone?”

the stranger is sent off with a bow and a wave.

when they are walking back, noah is not apologetic.

“that’s what you deal with everyday?” his aids are back on. the grip on his cup is still tight, like another stranger will come and talk to them like the three of them are friends. “i’d rather go completely deaf.”

mochi notes how they lean closer to him when chattering strangers pass by. perhaps he has not adjusted to the noise just yet.

“i can hold your cup,” he offers. “you can sign. i understand.” and noah knows that. 

sometimes, noah does not immediately reply to him. he frowns and does not utter a word for several long moments, until mochizou starts thinking he’s said something wrong, and right as an apology is on his lips, noah speaks like nothing has happened.

the twitch in his hands do not go unnoticed. 

sometimes noah can be seen running a finger over the curve of their aids continously, like they’re trying to sooth sore skin. then he notices mochizou is looking at him and stops, and pretends nothing has happened.

noah leans in again, his worn purple jacket brushing against mochizou’s expensive one. the movement breaks mochizou out of his thoughts, and he takes in his hands the cup noah has been holding in his direction.

after that, noah starts leaving his hearing aids in his bag when he comes over. it sharpens mochi’s own rusty sign language and noah starts ignoring his schedule to spend more time in the studio. it does not usually affect mochi’s own schedule, as most of it takes place in his house, signing paperwork and responding to emails and cleaning up the one mug noah always asks for when he wants to sip on a beverage. sometimes, though, he has to push noah out with a quickly signed sorry, because he’s realised they’ve passed too much time together.

noah retaliates by ignoring his signs the next day, feigning confusion, and it only ends when mochizou brings out hot cocoa with marshmallows in that mug, and noah quietly says “thank you,” before he takes it into his own hands.

sometimes, mochi forgets to sign ‘hold on,’ and merely drops his things to walk over and position noah into his desired pose. because in the studio, what they are is an artist and his muse. and his muse can be as rebellious or rose-thorned or difficult as he likes, but before the clock chimes the sixth hour, noah is his, right?

the first time he does it, pressing noah’s back up with no warning, he feels as though noah’s a wild, startled fawn. looking over his shoulder with wide eyes, the skin blanching, before colour returns to his lips and his ears and his eyes, and his cheeks take on a new shade and mochi realises his mistake.

he also realises that his boring old clay can never match the wine-coloured hue of a blushing noah.

next time, he decides to walk up to the table more slowly, so noah can track him. his cheekbones still mildly take on the shade of wine, the red mixing with the melanin in his skin in a way that makes mochizou stare for a couple moments too long. when the sun is right, bathing him in a golden halo, those wine-stained cheeks still present, he looks like aphrodite’s most gorgeous creation. 

mochi has been thinking of committing the picture to memory: noah dressed in the finest silks, haloed by the rays of the sun, looking like the first angel to bless soil. maybe one day he’ll turn the picture into a marble sculpture, have it displayed in museums.

noah, of course, does not know anything of this.

one day, mochi realises this: he’s never seen noah perform a second time. he thinks it’s somewhat unfit — noah’s ballet performance was what had caught mochizou’s eye. the grace he had, the expressions more vibrant than even the most expensive paints mochizou could find, the years of practice put into each controlled step.

he asks noah about it, one time. noah predictably scrunches his face up, but tells him about his upcoming recital either way.

‘will you come?’ he asks. there’s a hesitancy in how his hands move through the air, the way noah’s brows become the slightest bit downturned.

mochizou gives them his softest smile. ‘of course.’

he does not ask if the recital’s rehearsals are what noah has been skipping out on to spend more time in mochi’s apartment.

mochizou gets the date marked on his calendar. he sees noah staring at it, looking at the bright red circle like it’s another sculpture of his and it’s his first day at mochi’s. mochizou taps his shoulder and noah whips around, giving him a fleeting, dismissive smile before he stomps toward the studio.

perhaps, it is nerves.

mochizou finds out the morning of the recital.

it is a repeated buzzing at his door. then knocking. and when mochizou opens the door it is noah, puffy-eyed with those wine-stained cheeks making his stomach drop rather than flutter. his ballet shoes are a mess, and one is nearly completely untied and the ribbons are trailing behind his foot, and the soles are brown with dirt. there are sores on his foot, red and blue and yellow, and his hair is more unkempt than it has ever been before, and he drops the bag he is carrying.

“sweetheart?” mochizou says before he can stop himself. noah doesn’t seem to take notice — he simply hugs him. buries his face entirely into mochi’s neck, and mochi doesn’t waste a second wrapping his arms around his muse. he soothes him, curling his fingers around his hair, realises his aids are gone. he pulls the bag in and pulls the two of them inside, too, placing noah on the couch, making a move to step back, but noah’s grip on his clothes are unyielding.

mochi tugs on his hair. the motion makes noah let go, his hands coming up to try and sign, but they are trembling and his fingers can't form the images correctly, so he takes his muse's cold hands into his own and strokes the knuckles and kisses his temple until the shaking's stopped. 

he still hiccups, but mochizou supposes this is the best he can do.

noah waits until mochizou signs.

‘your shoes are dirty.’

‘i have spares.’

'is something wrong?'

'stress.'

'do you have rehearsals?'

'yes.'

'is it a break?'

'no.'

mochizou pauses before he signs again. 'did you walk out?'

‘i wanted to be with you.’

oh.

noah takes black hearing aids from his bag and puts them over his ears. he does not speak, though, so mochizou supposes he just wants to hear things clearly. the wine-like hue has left his cheeks, replaced by honey-brown skin.

noah does not say anything when mochizou takes his untied shoe off, but he helps him undo the ribbons of the other one. then he withdraws, and mochizou realises he’d rather mochizou take his shoes off.

the skin is irritated, and the skin at the back of his ankles is dry and peeling off and red. mochizou gets two cushiony pads and presses them into noah’s hand.

“for your heels,” he says. noah simply nods.

he is silent, his hiccups gone as mochizou puts ointment on his feet next, his touch as light as a feather. a part of him is afraid, that maybe noah will crumble like sand if mochizou is too rough with him. he looks tired. worn. he always looks a little tired and worn. mochizou wonders if that is part of why he’s so irritable. noah flinches the slightest bit when medicine is applied to the red skin behind his ankles, his heel twitching in mochizou’s hands, but he says nothing.

the silence is rather comforting. it reminds mochizou of their time spent together. one time, noah had signed a joke.

“wanna know a pun?” he’d asked. mochizou had dropped his tools, just to watch the smug little smile on his face.

he’d nodded. noah had signed milk, bringing his hand past his eyes.

it took mochizou a delayed second, but when he got it, he laughed. it was one of the few silly things noah did while they were together. the corner of mochizou’s lip turns up at the memory.

an earlier memory of them joking together would be when they first met. after noah's recital, after mochizou had asked him, "would you like to be my muse?" and when noah had started negotiating their salary. he’d been wearing black aids too, then, because it blended in with his hair.

"one thousand," he'd said, like it was a big number for mochizou, "per week."

"five thousand," mochizou had replied. "biweekly."

noah had whipped his head to stare straight at mochizou, his brows furrowed incredulously.

"ten thousand per week."

mochizou shrugged. "twenty thousand per week."

"twenty-five thousand."

"thirty thousand."

"thirty-five thousand."

"forty thousand."

"...two hundred thousand?"

"two hundred million."

noah had scoffed, at that, crossing his arms and imitating mochizou's lean against the glass wall of the theatre. "five billion."

"ten billion."

"five trillion."

"how much money do you think i have?"

"five quadrillion."

mochizou had laughed and shook his head. thought, maybe now the pretty ballet dancer with dry humour would ease up to him.

"what's your name?"

"noah."

"does the prospect of being the muse to a multi-quadrillionaire seem welcoming to you now, noah?"

"maybe."

"is that a yes?"

noah wasn't smiling, but he did roll his eyes as he hummed, pretending to consider. "sure."

later, mochi had realised just how not warmed up noah was to him.

“how much do you love me?”

mochi’s hands flinch, at noah’s worn voice. it is raspy, and deeper than usual because of the crying, and it pulls mochizou into present time. he looks up.

“i love you enough to take care of your feet.”

“how much is that?”

“how much ever you’d like it to be.”

“how much is that?” noah repeats.

“i will love you how much ever you want me to love you.”

"will you kiss my feet if i ask you? will you kiss me if i ask you?"

mochizou straightens on his knees. he tilts his chin up, watching his muse's face. "i will."

noah’s fingers twitch around the pads. everyone has a protruding part of their throat, and some have it more prominently than others. noah’s is not as defined, but as he swallows, mochizou watches the soft bump in his throat bop up and down. “show me,” he says.

mochizou swallows, too. his hand is still cradling noah’s heel, his thumb gliding along the underside of the ball of his ankle. it slips on the skin easily from the oils. the sun is shining, the rays falling on the side of noah’s face, brightening the brown of his eyes, revealing how his pupils are slowly dilating.

noah tilts his head, like he’s impatient. his fingers clutch the pads in a death grip, so mochizou closes his eyes and takes a breath, and brings his lips to the inside of noah’s ankle.

this is their first kiss. noah makes a sound, a startled mix between a soft cry and a gasp. it is stuck in his throat and ends abruptly. it is far too virginal a sound for noah, for a simple kiss to the ankle.

mochizou feels his muse shake. his foot trembles in his palms before it settles, before noah’s breathing subdues. it feels unnatural. noah’s breath rose and turned loud from the kiss, he must have forced himself to calm down.

somehow it frustrates mochizou. but, he takes his lips off. the resulting sound makes noah’s voice catch audibly.

when mochizou looks up, noah is looking like a startled fawn again. his fingers are twitching now. his voice is delayed for a long beat. his pupils have swallowed his honey-brown irises. 

his leg moves, positioning the knee closer to mochizou’s lips.

mochizou stares at it for another long beat. he looks back at noah and noah tilts his head to the other side. 

so, mochizou kisses the side of noah’s knee, down his calf, up the beginning of his thigh. and the entire time noah is gasping softly, pushing himself against the couch’s pillows, tensing up his leg to stop himself from moving. mochizou feels his gaze burn into his skull, sees noah’s hands dig into the cushions. as his lips withdraw from noah’s skin, he thinks that perhaps his own gaze is burning as he stares at the intimate inside of his thigh. he feels noah shiver with each exhale he gives, the muscle in his calf twitching under his grip, he hears the tremble in his breath.

his muse. his muse. right?

mochizou leans in, slowly, to that spot. his vision tunnels, he feels the warmth in noah burn his lips.

noah pushes him away.

this has no warning; mochizou’s shoulders are simply caught in a death grip, pushed hard and fast. noah’s knee hits his nose, and for a second mochizou thinks it’s bleeding.

noah’s breathing hard again. it is in time with the second pulse thrumming in mochizou’s skull. mochizou sits there, kneeling, for several moments as he processes what he has just done.

“i’m so sorry,” he says.

“no,” says noah immediately. “no. i, i wa —” he cuts himself off. mochizou looks up at him again and he is blushing and pursing his lips, his legs closed. he relaxes, relieved that noah is not angry. “are you mad? i’m so sorry. i — i panicked.”

he is still bathed in the morning light, his dark hair coloured by the sun. there are lines of worry on his face, in the way his lip is curled. mochizou could never be mad at such beauty.

“i’m not mad.”

“angry?”

“no.”

“irritated?”

“no.”

“hurting?”

“no.”

noah waits, still, like he expects mochizou to be lying. he purses his lip once more, gnawing on the flesh. it comes back coloured the same red as his cheeks. “your nose is pink,” he says. it’s said quietly, like how he quietly says his thanks to mochizou when he’s given hot cocoa to break his endearing silence.

mochizou brings his hand up. it is true, and his nose was stinging, but it has died down. he looks up at noah through his bangs and gives him a small grin, and it is mostly because he cannot contain a grin inside right now.

he can’t explain how relieved he is that he hadn’t misread noah’s body language. 

noah gives mochizou a small smile back. he does not usually smile so genuinely. most of the time, his smiles are smug and haughty. his biggest, most genuine grin is on the stage, when he is in character.

mochizou wonders what it will take to make noah burst into a grin off the stage.

noah glances at the clock to the side, and the smile is wiped off. on the couch he scoots to the side, away from in front of mochizou, and gets up, grabbing his bag and his shoes. ‘i need to go,’ he signs.

of course. mochizou stands up from his kneel. noah steps toward the door, palm on the handle, and pauses. he drops his shoes and rummages through his bag, taking out a ticket, and turns around to press it into mochizou’s hand.

“vip,” he informs. his brows turn down the slightest bit once more. “come. eight o’ clock. you remember, right?” he steps close, and this is the closest mochi’s seen of noah’s puppy eyes.

mochizou runs his fingers through the side of noah’s scalp in a gentle motion, careful not to touch his aids. “of course,” he says.

“and.” noah gulps again, like he’s nervous. “will you wait afterwards? for me?”

“i will.”

“you’re free, right?”

“why wouldn’t i be? it’s you.”

noah blinks, at that. then he quietly laughs. breathily, looking down. mochizou can’t recall hearing him laugh like that. “okay. okay. i should go. final rehearsals.”

“you’ll do wonderfully.”

noah smiles one of his small smiles and goes to pick up his shoes, and leaves. the door shuts with a click.

mochizou stands there for a bit, running back the fresh memory of noah’s smile, the sound of his laugh, in his head. then he moves to the couch and lies down, thinking of the two of them.

when they’re in the theatre — mochizou and his friend — he feels as though he’s getting cold feet. it’s partly because he fears that noah is just as nervous about seeing each other again because of mochizou’s kiss, and if that is true, he’s afraid noah will stumble in his step if he sees mochizou in the crowd. it’s why he’s picked out darker colours to wear, even if his pink tuft of hair makes him stick out like a sore thumb. he’s hoping that maybe noah will not spot him, so that mochizou will not mess up his performance.

he bounces his foot impatiently when the play starts. noah doesn’t appear, not until the second act, when he descends from the ceiling in a flash of glitter, the brightest smile on his face. the ribbons around him are cut from the ceiling when he lands on his toes, hands high above his head. everyone on stage acts amazed, looks at him in awe, watches as he takes the lead and dances with her in a pas de deux. at least, that’s what mochi thinks it is. he really only knows the word because noah mentioned it once, while he was posed all pretty in his studio with a dried flower crown on his head, and then he’d briefly explained the translation of the word and what it referred to in ballet terminology.

once their dance finishes, noah goes on his toes again, one arm in an outward arch above his head. the lead mimics it with clumsiness. noah spins around in time with the innocent music playing, his eyes moving through the crowd. as part of the music, a twinkling sound plays as noah’s eyes land on mochizou’s hair, bright as a beacon. even though noah is glimmering in the lights, from the glitter that is sticking to his body, his eyes beam and his grin is brighter than the sun.

he does not falter, he does not miss a step. he dances with more joy and more confidence, like a bright flame, and mochizou relaxes in his seat and enjoys the rest of the ballet in peace.

when the performance ends, the cast gathers on stage, bowing in unison. for this, noah is out of character, but he gives his brightest grin to mochizou’s side of the audience, waving to him when the rest of his crew waves to the audience.

mochizou waits for noah, as promised, and he tells his friend that she can leave early if she wants to. yu kkot does so, because it has been a long day for her, and mochizou thinks she needs the rest. 

mochizou does not feel nervous anymore to face noah; his muse has expressed no kind of discomfort, and he’s done splendidly in the ballet. his heart is swollen with pride, and maybe all he wants to do is tangle his fingers into pretty, pretty noah’s hair and pull him in for a kiss.

the attendees gathered inside the theatre begin to clap, and mochizou turns away from the entrance to see the dancers have gathered in the halls with bright, crowd-friendly smiles.

except for one, who is dead-faced and moving his eyes across the hall in search.

it is only when noah’s eyes land on mochizou that his eyes light up again, and he sprints forward and practically leaps into his arms. mochizou feels as though he could’ve been thrown back with the force, but then he hears noah’s giggles right next to his ear and all he can feel is airy and light. he draws back and the golden lights halo him. this is his essence, this is why helios’s rays favour him. because he is a golden boy, untouched by midas and blessed by aphrodite.

“i need to take a picture with my crew,” he whispers, like nobody is staring at them. “will you wait?”

“of course,” mochizou replies. his words are too breathy and sound too disconnected, but noah doesn’t pay attention. he gives mochizou a grin, and it’s all too new and too much but mochizou swears to commit every line of his face to memory, and then noah draws back and joins his dancers.

someone recognises him, an attendee, so they engage in conversation with him. they are older, not young, the lines on their worn face and their callused hands that firmly shake mochizou’s own are indicators. they ask about his craft, mention how their daughter has taken up sculpting because of him. they ask about noah, the man that hugged him, if he’s mochizou’s muse. mochizou says yes. they ask him how he inspires mochizou, mochizou says it’s his dedication to his craft, his strong sense of self, his attitude that reflects in mochizou’s stone and jade.

it is also his beauty, his smile, how he is brighter than the sun when he is doing ballet. it is how he makes silence pleasant, how one glance up at him is enough to bring mochizou calm. 

noah returns after he's changed into his regular clothes, that purple jacket over his shoulders. mochizou asks him if he wants a ride home.

"can i come to your home?"

"for a session? this late?"

there is a beat of silence. noah purses his lips and watches mochizou's face, then nods. "sure. okay."

a strand of messy hair falls just past noah's cheekbone with the movement, and mochizou cannot help himself as he lifts his hand up to brush it back. it is a quick, fleeting gesture. what it should be is an unimportant memory, but it's as if time slows down just for the moment to last longer. mochizou watches noah's eyes track the movement of his hand, watches them nearly close as his thumb massages a circle on the curve of his temple.

distantly, he wonders how tired noah must be. 

during the car ride, mochizou finds himself glancing at noah. he’s not doing anything, just staring out the window serenely. the sleeves of his sweater have been pulled over his hands, over the tips of his fingers, and those fingers curl to press the worn fabric down between the pads of his fingers and his palm. it looks old. mochizou hasn’t touched it since the first time.

“are you cold?” he asks. noah hums no. “tell me if you are, all right?”

“will you heat up the world if i am?”

“without hesitation.”

“even though it’ll cause negative side effects to the ecosystem?”

“mh. just for you.”

“why?”

“because,” says mochi, “i love you.”

noah is silent after that. mochizou looks at him out of fear, that maybe noah didn’t like that he said that.

noah, pretty noah, just has wine on his cheeks as he stares at mochizou. 

noah wears dark, platformed shoes wherever he goes. they click-click-click on the concrete, echoing across the parking lot basement, bouncing off the walls. noah shivers, folding his arms.

“cold?” mochizou asks again. noah does not look at him, his eyes are on the other cars parked in the basement.

still, he nods after a moment. mochizou stops, taking noah’s hands in his own, covering the cold fingers with his palms. noah watches him kiss his knuckles, his nails, the pads of his fingers, and blushes.

“better now?”

noah purses his lips, holding back a smile. he nods.

usually, when noah is changing, he doesn’t wear the clothes right. every time he comes out of the unused guest bedroom, something is crooked, or a crease needs to be smoothed out, or something is tied wrong, and noah stands there with his arms crossed, frowning, as mochi corrects his clothing.

mochizou’s called into the room this time.

‘i don’t know if i’m wearing this right,’ noah signs. so, mochizou guides him to the mirror and stands behind him, looking noah’s reflection up and down.

‘do you feel uncomfortable?’

noah shakes his head no.

‘in your skin?’

noah shakes his head again. “not since treatment,” they say.

‘then?’

noah’s hands fidget with the clothing on him. they rub the fabric between their thumb and forefinger, before letting go.

‘do you think i look good?’

mochizou gives noah a smile. laughs, to himself, because part of him can’t understand why a beauty like noah would worry about how he looks. buries his nose into the crook of noah’s neck.

then, he catches himself and draws back, and he imagines his blush might be as noticeable as noah’s is.

‘you’re beautiful,’ he signs. there is wine on noah’s cheeks, again, and the corners of his lips twitch up into a brief smile.

when mochizou is helping noah sit on the table for posing, his thumbs are resting in the dips of his hipbone and his eyes are looking straight into noah’s, and the tips of noah’s fingers are buried into mochizou’s hair and the palms are resting, cradling his nape. mochizou doesn’t know how they got there. one second his muse was holding onto his shoulders for balance and support, and the next…well.

noah’s cheeks are taking on the colour of wine again. it spreads up the highs of his cheekbones, colours the tips of his ears. he looks sweet. like a maraschino cherry. like mochizou could kiss him hard, right now, fingers tangling up with his hair, and if he were to draw back, noah’s lips would be the colour of a red grape. from his lips, mochizou’s gaze travels downward, to the soft curve of his throat where the skin is paler and stretched tighter.

noah’s breath is hitching, and his fingers twitch in mochizou’s hair. a nail scrapes against mochizou’s scalp and he moves back. he hadn’t even realised he’d been leaning in.

mochizou’s muse makes a choked sort of noise, his fingers tensing up. they press up against mochizou’s scalp, pushing him forward. noah leans in, too, parting their lips. inhaling, exhaling. mochizou can’t stop looking. at the soft line of noah’s lips, the hint of teeth he can see.

involuntarily, he swipes the tip of his tongue across his bottom lip. he can’t stop thinking. does noah taste like wine? like purple grapes? will it burn at first touch and simmer down his throat and light his insides up, better than the finest aged wine?

the soft bump in noah’s throat bobs as they swallow. mochizou’s transfixed by the movement, by the pretty, pretty neck of pretty, pretty noah. he tilts his head, curves his palm around until he feels noah’s curls and tugs. he presses his lips searing hot against noah’s skin.

noah takes in the softest, prettiest gasp. his hands drop from mochizou’s hair and go down to clutch his shirt like two vices, and his breathing turns harsh and shallow and mochizou can feel it against his lips. mochizou’s other hand leaves noah’s hip, too, to gently hold the small of his back.

it’s a short kiss. it has to be a short kiss, and maybe time simply slowed down for mochizou. when he draws back, noah’s lips are flushed, like he’s been biting them. his cheeks are nothing but wine, wine, wine, and his fingers still clutch onto mochizou’s shirt with no sign of relent.

mochizou feels as though his voice is gone. his head is pounding, again, and it hasn’t even been a day since he’s kissed noah’s thigh. it’s like his vision has gone blurry, like his nerves are alternating between becoming hypersensitive and being dead and numb.

“mh,” noah says. it’s a frustrated hum, almost like a growl, and swings mochizou’s vision back into focus to realise the frustration in his muse’s eyes.

mochizou snatches his hands away immediately, coming up to sign a hundred apologies, and noah pushes his hands down in one rough motion.

‘you can’t do that.’ his hands are moving fast. they’re slightly trembling. mochizou feels dizzy. and cold. and pale. noah doesn’t look like he’s taking notice. ‘you can’t —’ his hands come down in clenched fists, his knuckles losing colour.

“you have to —” noah speaks in a stiff voice. flicks his gaze up to the ceiling. “why can’t you kiss me?”

mochizou’s heart stops. it stutters and spurts like an engine, beating a hundred miles an hour. his tongue is rubbery.

“what?”

noah is not completely deaf. he’s partially deaf. and mochizou’s muse is a smart, wonderful, unpredictable thing, and has probably read his lips. or realised what he’s asked through the sounds he can hear. “i…” they shut their eyes, shaking their head. their hands come up to sign. ‘why don’t you kiss me?’ is their question. they pull mochizou in close, wrapping their legs around his midriff, and they sign again. ‘i thought it would be in the morning. in the theatre. in the parking lot. in the changing room.’ their arms wrap around mochizou’s shoulders, and noah speaks each following word slowly, and with clarity, “you can’t just kiss my legs. and then my neck. twice. and not kiss my lips. it’s not fair!”

oh. oh. mochizou feels dizzy again with relief. he curls his fingers into noah’s hair. so, noah liked it. noah liked everything.

his muse nods like it’s consent to kiss them.

so, mochizou does. he kisses his muse eagerly, and his muse kisses back harder, and noah burns like wine on summer, or like summer itself. he burns like fire whiskey and embers and sets sparks off at mochizou’s nerve endings. and he’s turning dizzy again, breathless because noah’s tugging his hair back with one hand and making him cry into his muse’s mouth. and then, when neither of them can breathe, noah pulls back gasping.

mochizou’s chest is cleaving. his head reels, dizzy like he’s experiencing vertigo. it’s like his vision tunnels again, focusing on nothing that’s not noah.

mochizou had thought — he’d honestly thought noah would be shyer. and noah is shy; he’s blushing furiously, and his lips are the colour of red grapes, and mochi’s hand is seared when he brings it back to cup noah’s cheek. but he thought would noah kiss more…softly?

he feels like an idiot. noah’s legs drop from his midriff. he drops down to the floor and falters, mochizou’s arms coming up to steady him, and he knows that it’s probably because noah just had a ballet performance, and their legs must be exhausted, but a tiny little smitten voice in his head suggests that, maybe noah’s weak-legged because of their kiss.

noah buries his cold nose into mochizou’s neck, and kisses him.

it’s open-mouthed, and noah’s tongue burns mochizou’s skin, and it makes him jump. noah’s hands clutch his shirt again, unyielding, and mochizou can feel it when his muse scrunches their brows up in frustration. after a moment, noah withdraws, giving mochizou another frustrated look.

he’s still upset about how long it took for mochizou to kiss him. mochizou can’t say he blames him. he cups the side of his muse’s cheek again, rubbing circles around the curve of his temple, moving to his scalp, watching him shut his eyes briefly from the little massage. it’s almost perfect how easily noah’s cheek fits into his palm. like two halves of a whole.

they decide that noah will not pose for mochizou today. it’s mainly because when he’s sat on the table again, noah feels out of his element; he’s fidgety, and his body wants to fold in on itself.

‘what’s wrong?’ signs mochizou.

‘i can’t stop thinking about our kiss.’

there is also another reason why they decide not to have a session: it’s late, and there is a droop in noah’s eyes as it gets closer to midnight, and his head lulls forward like a sleepy angel every time mochizou soothingly tugs on his hair. 

when they’re kissing on the couch, noah is purring against mochizou’s mouth like a happy kitten, one hand intertwined with him. there is still wine on his cheeks when mochizou withdraws, and the lights are bathing noah in gold. he giggles along when mochizou does, music to his ears, prettier than an angel’s harp. apollo must be ashamed to lose such a muse, one who puts the rest of aphrodite’s children to shame, one who is favoured by helios’s rays. it is his essence. it is who he is: an unrivalled beauty.

“when did you start liking me?” asks mochizou.

“loving you,” corrects noah.

“loving me. noah,” says mochizou, and it sounds like a beautiful word on his tongue. he says it slowly, softly, moulding the two syllables with each other with care. no-ah. “when did you start loving me?”

noah purses those pretty lips of his. what a complicated, beautiful, wonderful thing he is. mochizou’s prettiest muse. he could sculpt that face and body every day of his life. “i realised it when you touched my back. you did it so gently, with so much care.”

mochizou…did not know that. he looks at how he’s holding pretty noah’s hand. gently. following noah’s grip.

“i…didn’t notice.”

noah giggles again. “it’s a small detail. when did you start liking me?”

“loving you.”

noah giggles again, at how mochizou copies him. maybe he’s also giggling because he’s happy that mochizou loves him back, not just like. “when did you start loving me, mochizou?” noah is as careful with his name as mochizou was with noah’s. he does not slur it, like how everyone else does. he does not rush through it. he says it clearly, softly, ringing out each syllable like his tongue is a cradle for it. mo-chi-zou.

slowly, mochizou bites his lip. he watches noah’s eyes track the movement. “when i realised how you calmed my anger,” he said. “i once looked at you frustrated, and all my anger just…disappeared. how could i be mad at such beauty? i knew i was in too deep when i thought that.”

“is that why you’re always so patient with me?” noah asks in a soft voice. his eyes are twinkling like a night sky under the living room lights. “why you can put up with my shit?”

“it’s not putting up, you’re not a chore. i enjoy spending time with you. i love talking to you. i want to paint you and i want to make a sculpture of you that will put angels to shame.”

noah makes a sound. it’s almost like a shriek because of how flustered he’s become all of a sudden. “you can’t just say that. i fell in love with you because you touched my back. i’ll have to marry you if you say things like that.”

mochizou raises his brows. “good,” he laughs, “i’ll keep saying it, then.”

they giggle, again. mochizou stares at his lips for a long, long moment, before his pretty muse has pulled him down for another kiss. there is wine in his mouth and grape on his lips, because he is dionysus’s favourite wine and aphrodite’s favourite child and helios’s favourite thing to shine on.

“do you love me?” asks noah.

“i love you as much as a boyfriend would his gorgeous lover,” replies mochizou.

“how much is that?”

“this much.”

his pretty muse is kissed until the sun seeks him out again.

#m tag #cybel #writeblr #writers on tumblr #kyles.writing #au for cybel #mochinoah #mochizou and noah #noah and mochizou #sculptor #muse x artist #my god. how do i tag non-hero vi11ain shit? #words #spilled ink #outofink #writing #my writing #not expecting this 2 get over 10 notes tbh #Gay people pining and not communicating about their feeling #but it's okay they kiss and talk about it #mlm #pining #queer ocs #queer romance #hoh fiction #sign language #greek references #ballet dancer #queer ballet dancer #thank you cybel for these tags

[anabsolutefreak]

Chapter 23: Resurfacing

This is a canon adjacent full campaign based story involving my original TAV character, the full BG3 crew and, of course, our favorite undead high elf. I created this story to help me get through an exceptionally difficult time in my life and so, you might notice Tav's story is a little more atypical than some. Be advised that the story I have created has some mature themes including violence, kink, mental health and self harm. I will be placing warnings on each individual chapter when any of these themes are included so please be aware. I hope you enjoy. Summary: The morning after their crazy, mushroom and alcohol induced fun. Astarion struggles with his insecurities and worries about telling Embrae the truth. The gang moves on to the shadow cursed lands. Mature Content: Not really-- some nudity and mentions of sex.

Embrae opened her eyes to darkness. It was nearly impossible for her to tell whether or not it was actually morning in the Underdark. For all she knew, they might have been completely switched around by now. She blinked a couple of times, allowing her dark vision to catch up. Where was she? The inside of Astarion’s tent came into view. Oh, right. Her cheeks filled with heat, remembering the mushroom and wine-fueled chaos that was last night. The tent's other occupant shifted against her and wrapped a cool arm over her waist. “Good morning,” he purred. “And how are you feeling?”

She smiled. “Happy,” she replied honestly. “But also bloody thirsty,” she said as she swallowed. Her throat was as dry as ash. 

“Oh well, we can’t have that can we?” The weight of his arm disappeared as he snaked out of the tent silently, still completely nude. He returned only a moment later with a glass bottle filled with drinking water. She took it and sat up and pressed the bottle to her lips. The water might have been ambrosia as far as she was concerned, she was so desperately thirsty. She drank too quickly and coughed, water spilling over her chin. Astarion laughed and patted her gently on the back. 

She finished half the bottle and set it down, leaning back against her lover. He stroked her shoulder gently with long fingers. 

“What about you?” she asked him. “How are you feeling?”

“Hmm? Oh, quite well.” He kissed her head. “Whatever was floating around in your blood last night was certainly potent. I— don’t think I’ve ever felt anything quite like that.”

“Me either,” she smiled. “We’re lucky Gale didn’t kill us though… speaking of, how is everyone out there? Do you think we’ll be able to get them up and moving today?” 

He shot her a wicked grin and grabbed her hand. “Come see for yourself, darling.” She pulled her to the front of her tent and gestured towards the flap. She moved it aside cautiously. Her mouth fell open in sheer shock. Just outside Astarion’s tent, Shadowheart lay naked over Lae’zel covered in bruises. The gythyanki had one arm thrown out beside her and the other wrapped possessively over the cleric. She too seemed to have sustained several dark marks on her neck. Halsin was lying next to his tent still completely naked as well, and surrounded by about a dozen freshly carved ducks, one of which he held against his broad chest. Karlach and Wyll were asleep beside one another, pinkies touching only and Gale, the man responsible for the whole debacle was half set up against a large stone, muttering in his sleep. 

She retreated into the Elf’s tent chortling. “Holy hell,” she said. 

“Indeed,” agreed Astarion. “I must say, I’m quite glad Shadowheart and Lae’zel finally erm, ‘came’, to something besides blows. 

“Ha! And it looks like they might have drawn more blood during than you ever have,” she teased him. 

“Hmm,” he agreed snatching up her wrist and kissing it. “Perhaps I should step up my game,” he quipped, nipping the thin skin. 

She yelped and giggled. “Hey!” she scolded and gently shoved him onto the pile of blankets. “I’ll bite you back if you don’t ask first, you know.”

He looked seductively up at her.“Is that a promise?” 

She gave him a very unladylike snort and collapsed onto him, resting her head on his chest. “You really are quite something, you know.”

He chuckled and began stroking her back.“If you are referring to my prowess in bed, dear, I assure you I do already know.” 

She laughed at his arrogance. “I wasn’t, actually. But that’s true too.” 

His hands continued to stroke and knead at the long muscles in her back. When he spoke again, his voice was less self-assured. “What were you talking about then, if not sex, I mean?”

She lifted her head and stared at him. His deep ruby eyes held hers, searching. 

“Astarion,” she said, feeling suddenly uneasy. “You do know that’s not all you are to me, don’t you?” Surely she had made it obvious. He had to know how hopelessly she had fallen for him, that she might burn the world for him if he but asked her… It frightened her how deeply she was in this. 

He turned his face away, saying nothing. She placed a gentle hand on his face and he turned it slowly back. His eyes were still turned down, no longer willing to meet hers. She felt her heart break a little.“Oh you silly elf,” she sighed, pressing her lips to his forehead.

***

“You do know that’s not all you are to me, don’t you?” 

He felt his throat constrict and found he couldn’t reply. What could he say, after all? He believed he’d hidden well from her, that she’d never see the weakness, the fear in whatever was left of his soul. And yet, there she was, tugging at the edges of it, seeing more of him than he’d intended again. He turned away from her, desperate to be free from those beautiful, probing, hazel eyes. He felt her hand on his face, gentle but insistent as she turned him back towards her. He looked at her collarbones, unwilling to meet those too-perceptive eyes again. 

She let a slightly exasperated sigh but her voice was gentle when she said, “Oh you silly elf.” She pressed her lips to his forehead and he closed his eyes, willing the sudden moisture that had accumulated in them back. There was so much he needed to tell her, he realized with a pang of guilt if he really wanted what they had to be… something. But he wasn’t ready yet. Gods, he wasn’t ready for the conversation that may well ruin everything. But here she was, tugging at the darkness inside him, asking to be let in. And he just couldn’t let her in, not yet. 

“Embrae?” He almost choked her name. His voice sounded weak and unsure and he hated it.

“Yes?” 

“I— don’t think I’m ready to have this conversation yet, pet,” he admitted. “If, that’s alright?”Please can she just let it rest for now? 

She kissed him again on the forehead and pulled away slightly. He glanced up at her anxiously, expecting to see anger or disappointment perhaps but was surprised to see she was smiling gently at him. “Then we won’t,” she said firmly. She sniffed and rubbed a palm against her eye, as though she were wiping away a tear. Gods, had he made her cry? He sighed with relief and shame. She really was far too nice to him. 

“I think I hear the others out there stirring,” she said with a short laugh and rolled off of him. He sat up and watched her silently as she searched his tent for her clothes. She groaned. “Gods, Astarion you’ve completely wrecked both of these.” She held up the ripped underwear and the shift which was now missing almost all of its buttons. 

He chuckled and reached over to his bag. He pulled out an extra shirt he kept in case his other camp clothes were being washed. Unlike the other men in the camp, he preferred never to be without a shirt around anyone but her. He handed the off-white fabric to her. “I doubt there’s any hope they won’t know what we’ve been up to given the obscene level of noise you made,” he said trying and failing to sound rakish and carefree once again, “but at least you’ll have something on, which is more than can be said of at least three of our companions.”

She took the shirt and slipped it over her head with a smile. His undead heart felt like it skipped a beat seeing her in it. “It’s going to be an awkward kind of morning,” she agreed with him, rolling the too-long sleeves down to free her hands. “Let’s hope no one up and throws themselves into the shadow curse out of sheer embarrassment.” 

***

Breakfast was indeed an awkward affair… for most of them. Lae’zel and Shadowheart sat eating on near opposite sides of the camp, refusing to look at one another while Gale couldn’t seem to stop apologizing. 

“You have my sincerest of apologies, Embrae. I swear, I thought those mushrooms were safe. They looked just like the ones the hobgoblin showed to me and— well— evidently they were not. I promise it will not happen again. I—” 

Astarion, who was sitting nearby reading, cut off the Wizard’s frantic outpouring in a sharp tone. “Do you think perhaps you can make it up to us by ceasing your incessant yapping for a while? Some of us are trying to read.” 

The wizard looked at Embrae and said more quietly. “I really am sorry.”

“Don’t worry Gale,” she said. “It could have been a lot worse, mind you, but we’re all alive and well… although, I think Withers got quite the eye full last night. She glanced over at the skeleton who looked more dour than usual as Scratch and the Owlbear Cub rolled around in the dirt beside him. “Just, avoid mushrooms from now on, huh?”

Unlike the other erstwhile lovers, Karlach and Wyll seemed closer than ever, shooting furtive glances and grinning at one another as they cleaned up their dishes and began to prepare to move camp. It was almost disgustingly cute, she thought. Halsin, it seemed, was the least affected but given that the Druid had no issue whatsoever with nudity and likely had some experience with psychedelics, she wasn’t surprised.

She passed by Withers on the way to clean her bowl in the water. “Though hast now a bosom companion,” he observed in his querulous voice. She stopped and stared at him, her face turning beet red. He continued, “Take care you art not distracted on thy quest, seeking comforts of thy quest.” The last thing she wanted was to be called out by Withers. Ew, it was like having a grandfather comment on your sex life. “I um, well—” she stuttered. He held up a decimated hand and said. “Recall in time, all becomes dust and bone.” 

“Right…” She said awkwardly and then hurried away to the water. 

***

Finally, after a few tense hours of preparation, Embrae and her companions stood in front of the metal lift. Embrae’s heart pounded in her throat. This was it. This was the elevator the Duergar had indicated would take them into the Shadowlands, one step closer to Moonrise Towers… a step closer to a cure. She pulled the golden lever and the metal doors slid open with a screech. They all piled into the elevator and the same door screeched closed, leaving them all piled like sardines in the dark. A different anxiety gripped her then, a familiar one that had nothing to do with what awaited them. Ugh, she thought closing her eyes as the gears beneath them began to grin and the elevator began to ascend. Damned claustrophobia. She tried to focus on her breathing as her heart hammered in her ears, then felt cool fingers slip between her own. She opened her eyes and looked up. Astarion was staring straight ahead, his own face rigid and tense. He gave her fingers a squeeze and she returned it gratefully, feeling the panic abate somewhat. 

Finally, after several long, agonizing minutes, the elevator ground to a halt, and the doors began to open once again. 

Embrae stood in silence for a moment as the others slid out of the lift, similar expressions of unease on their faces. She looked out on the most oppressive darkness she had ever seen. 

#astarion fanfic #original female character #baldur's gate 3 #baldurs gate astarion #bg3 tav #slow burn #astarion smut #baldurs gate smut #astarion angst

[seenashwrite]

Conversations With The Commissioner: Crappy Monsters In Barber Shops, a.k.a. Nash's First Headcanon + Wine = The Image I’ll Never Be Able To Top

@lipstickandwhiskey kindly thought to tag me when she saw a jovial post that reminded her of my disappointment in the lack of dinosaurs in the *alternate world and hoped to cheer me, but little did she know [mainly because I completely brain farted on posting this way-back-when] this had been addressed. In an objectively bizarre way. Admittedly.

FYI: Spit-take warning in effect, also cursing, should you choose to carry on

Preamble

* Dear SPN Writers' Room*: I'm not calling it The Bad Place, because I'm done with y'all ripping from other stuff, in this case, a beyond phenomenal show - hey! you do recognize carefully crafted season arcs when you see it! - even if y'all thought it was a homage, it's not since viewers of the show "The Good Place" already know about The Bad Place and it's not a physical nightmare, it's a psychological nightmare.

Pay. Attention. Stop ripping from well-known pop culture shit without (1) making sure the “homage” is used correctly, (2) double-checking that something similar hasn't been done before and, if so, (3) adding your own cheeky-sneaky spin. Not doing so makes you look, at best, like hacks, at worst, like doofy dipshits, particularly when it is from shows in your same genre - like a renowned show from the same fucking network that hadn't even ended their run but a year and a half prior to when yours started - and wrapping up *your* season with a title that was an iconic element from an iconic show [it was iconic, for several reasons, that's an essay for another time] which was the basis for everything from a/possibly *the* pivotal moment in the series and which was tied to many of the composer's pieces for the soundtrack, as it was a central thread. TV Tropes is your friend.

Tangentially related, while we're here:

[Shep as Romo Lampkin]

I digress.  

The Background

The Commissioner and I pop a cork, start talking about the Wayward pilot. We don't say a word about the scripting or the acting [because if we do, I go down a Dolly Deadeyes road, and nobody wants that]. Rather, we do a deep dive on the things that resemble other things and postulate how this came to be. Not in the minds of the peeps behind it, no, the dive comes via what the youths call a "headcanon". I've never had one before, I don't think, and I'm proud this is the first.

Oh, and a housekeeping side note: While my observations/the conversing began that night, the main convo/legit start on the image at the bottom happened later on. This has been run through the Nash snark filter for funsies, which is why the tone is the same for the whole conversation as, in truth, I have little clear memory of a lot of this, and the time taken for the assemblage of the image took longer than a conversation's worth, since the beginnings were sponsored by wine but it had to be done, it's how I combat insomnia and after seeing the monsters, I needed to purge my feelings of.... well....

The Beginning

After a verbal review (an accosting-of, really) of both Well-Coiffed Predator in a Bane Mask and Dollar Store Doomsday from the Wayward pilot, we begin discussing theories on how exactly this came to be in the alt world. Everything below is based on (a) the fact that New!Kaia's outfit denotes the presence of some sort of killa shopping and/or a hella talented Matrix-obsessed seamstress in the alt-world, therefore why not additional styling like a salon, and (b) the fact that we were lit on wine.

And the Predator rip - who, in the concept art, does not appear rippy-offy, it should be noted - got that mask somehow. He's either homaging Bane all over his face [his own face, not the other-way-'round] or he's gotten hold of one of the real things, modded it a touch to account for the spread of his general mouth region. Seems their temp name is the generic supernatural/folklore catch-all that I was vaguely aware of - "Canid" - and that some dude who's apparently of import on the show hates it, and I concur because all I can think of when I see the name is Candida. The Commissioner asked for a reminder, and I explained what that infection was and that now upon learning the creature’s name, I looked upon it as a yeast infection made sentient. The copious amounts of viscous discharge helps that along.

This then got a general science light bulb to pop, and we again consulted the googles, and boo-yah:

It's a dog. That. That up there, that I linked to. A daaaawwwwg.

No, not a if-this-is-a-dog-then-what-does-the-owner-look-like, maybe-they're-just-disgruntled-puppy-mill-alums type of WTF. The WTF is because I, once again, am wondering if at any point people over yonder are bothering to check shit out with this cool new thing called google. I know. It's a novel suggestion.

Somebody sure as shit used said googlins for squid beak - it's a touch birdy beak, but nah, slimy squid goes better with the aesthetic - and I guess they had to, as they already gave the far superior on the creepy scale pacu teeth to the Dollar Store Doomsday.

Because we were sneery and feeling gross at this point, we needed something fun, so we refilled on wine, and decided to make a mash-up image of the “inspirations” [to be clear: The Commissioner decided I should make a mash-up]. We were also feeling gross after looking at all that above, so for an eye sorbet, we needed some pretty, and STAT. We both instantly knew what would do the trick.

We start the conversation with Bane.

The Conversation

[looking at still from that Batman movie Bane was in; neither of us have cared to clarify which of the Nolan B-mans it was, because we don't care]

The Commissioner: He is so smooth, like, everything, even the fit of the clothes.

Nash: I'll never forget his turn as young Picard in that shit 'Trek movie, what was it called?

[we do not look it up; digression discussion of the awesomeness that is Sir Patrick Stewart]

TC: What's in his hand? Is that a riding crop? Or a shuffleboard thing?

N: Yes, exactly, Bane took a break from beating up Batman to shuffle. Nooooo. He got drug away from riding his horsey----

TC: YOU MUST MEAN HIS STALLION - if he rides horses, they are buff

N: ---to bring the mask, and is he pissed about it?

TC: No. No, because he is a dollbaby - he loves dogs.

N: You're mixing Tom Hardy with Bane.

TC: NO.

N: [realizing] BECAUSE THAT IS A DOG THING, THAT CREATURE IS DOG

[digression googles to look at pics/vids of Tom Hardy with pups]

N: Oh, no, wait - can we make it a putter? Like he was on his way to golf?

TC: But he still doesn't mind, because he's good guy Bane? And golf sucks? Oh hell yes.

[putter image sought; we go back to staring at Hardy, sip wine for untold moments]

N: And Preddie's all - Oh Bane, no! I couldn't possibly! Aren't these custom made? But he's gripping the shit out of it, like, pry it from my hands, bitches.

TC: And he takes a sniff when nobody's looking and swoons. *SWOONS*

N: Freaked-out stylist saw, though, and a touch of pee slips out, because it was weird before, but now shit's kicked off.

TC: Oh, she's already wet her pants at least once, absolutely. Do we need to add her?

N: No, she's in the bathroom.

TC: But you know who we should add.

[Image of 1990s Leonardo Di Caprio is immediately sought; we love the R+J still too much for words and select it with zero pause]

N: But why?

TC: You know he's gonna end up bopping  around to other worlds anyhow, and for Bane to be here, there must be other rifts----

N: Low-Sugar Low-Fat Low-Calorie Eye of Saurons?

TC: ----so they're babysitting.

N: THIS MAKES SO MUCH SENSE [gulp of wine]  Hey, you know who should be his foster parents if he’s bopping around to all points?

TC: Is it some side-character who's off-show at the moment? So we can get the show back to, um, Sam and Dean?

N: Chuck and Amara.

TC: You remember they're brother and sister, right?

N: [side-eye] Okay.

TC: They are. It's canon.

N: OKAAAY.  [stares at Leo] Alright, what are we having him do? Satan's crotch goblin?

TC: [possibly disgusted with me] Pencils.

N: YES I KNOW WHAT TO DO they need to keep him busy so they just keep giving him piles of pencils to sharpen, and he's distressed because there's no more and the sharpener’s motor burnt out.

TC: [touch of a spit take]

[we stare at the collection of images; it is a bitch to find a clear shot of a Pred sitting, but we need him in a barber chair; I will ultimately cobble it from three separate images; it was worth every goddamn minute]

TC: Okay, now what about that thing? The thing? Deadpool?

N: No he was something else, that's Reynolds. Deadshot? Wait, hang on.

[we watch the Bob Ross Deadpool thing, maybe twice, I have no idea]

TC: What'd you say?

N: I dunno.

TC: Me neither I just remember thinking you were wrong.

N: [looks it up, or we'll be here all week] DOOMSDAY

TC: Stop, stop, stop - didn't we also say Lord of the Rings cave troll?

N: I can't remember if it was me or somebody else.

TC: Do cave troll.

[we search]

N: Holy shit. He's in the club.

[image chosen; best one is of him pointing; I later add the touch of a framed photo of King Kong that's inexplicably hanging in the barber shop, also next to it a photo of Captain Shitty Render]

N: But Doomsday.

TC: Do it.

[image chosen; this was also a bitch, I had to blur and cobble and blend and hide part of his bottom half because ZACK SNYDER LOVES SHOOTING EVERYTHING LIKE WE'RE IN A DANK CAVE]

N: They're so glad Bane pulls through, because Preddy won't shut the fuck up about him.

TC: It's because his last boyfriend was garbage, keeps hanging out with humans, and Bane's loyal, like he was to that chick from Inception, like----

N: LIKE DOG

[the bottle is empty; we are sleepy]

The Results

I regret not adding an aquarium with a squid.

The Aftermath

Both TC and my Tumblr wife @butiaintgonnaloveem had reactions that can nicely tuck under the umbrella of [in concerned tone] Nash are you okay, like, is life beating you down somehow, this is crazypants which I appreciate from the latter, but as for the former I pointed out that they are my enabler/dealer/peer-pressurer in every bit of this.

There is no end to this post. 

#Nash Shares #Conversations with The Commissioner #dollar store Doomsday #discount 90s Leo DiCaprio #well-coiffed Predator in a Bane mask #poorly rendered #rip-offs #do better #pseudo-art #Wayward Sisters pilot #wine-induced head canons #Queueby Dooby Doo #Dad's on a blog post and #he hasn't been queued in a few days

[sponsoredbydestiny]

Okay I'm only midway through Arc 3 and wow, Pale is such potent OC-generator bait. I'm going to have like a dozen floating around my head by the time I finish it.

I'm jotting down one practitioner here, to serve as an anchor so I'm not flooded with new ones as I continue reading.

(I haven't read Pact and only finished a couple arcs of Pale, so I expect that some details will conflict with canon practice. I'm okay with that: it'll make the character interesting to revisit once I've read more.)

Subject to revision, my on-the-nose name for this practitioner is Fluxing. She's a transmuter whose province is paradox: reshaping of what is seen as set in stone, reversal of what is felt to be inevitable, reconsideration of what is unspokenly assumed.

I'll stick to the circumstances of her awakening and early apprenticeships.

Fluxing wasn't born to practitioners. At age ten or so, she lost part of her Innocence when her best friend was stolen by Faerie while they played beside a river. Bereft, already singled out as a fag, she got kicked from one school for stabbing a bully with a pencil and from a second one for smoking pot. She ran away to escape military school and lived with one scumbag after another, dressing for them more than for herself. She became a club kid and found a friend or two, so things felt less rough by the night of her awakening.

It went down at a warehouse rave, weirdly heavy-handed about screening people for "bad vibes." She'd heard rumors that the collective hosting the rave were culty assholes. The DJ wore a mirror mask and only spoke to two friends, intense dancers who were heavily inked and nearly naked. These two are the dervishes. The male dervish (gorgeous ass) flirted with her and gave her mushrooms.

Again, not knowing much of the practice yet, I can't say what spell or ritual the dervishes had planned for that night, only that they did it by dancing. Invoking or swaying a wind elemental feels like something in their wheelhouse, even though I don't know what Wildbow's conception of an elemental is yet.

They weren't dead-set on awakening anyone, (their focus was the ritual’s bigger purpose,) but they left room for it in their circle-work. They held to a mystic-inflected stance of "if it's fated, great; we won't force it."

Dancing all night, noticing more and more spirits as the ritual intensified, she peaked in the center of the subcircle at dawn: Fluxing awakened. This was the third time someone had awakened during one of their raves. The dervishes were grateful, as it boosted their casting. They were gentle in pulling her through to the finish of both rituals. Hers was a frenetic fifteen minutes; their own stretched on until noon. Her new Sight slotted smoothly into the flashing lights and shroom-induced visualizations. With so much new to See, she didn't notice she'd grown breasts (leaking sweet wine) until after the rave.

[It's by no means clear to me, this early into Pale, whether a semi-spontaneous awakening, nested within another ritual, is feasible. In my current understanding, the trio's awakening ritual was very much old-school and tailored to the interests of the Kennet Others, so other awakenings might take very different shapes.]

The dervishes didn't want to cut her loose afterward. After their first induced awakening, the larger ritual became unbalanced and they'd had to leave the newly awakened one with a healer. The second time went rather well, but the new practitioner was held fast by family. This time, Fluxing had next to nothing tying her down, so they invited her to travel with them. One dervish is a gay man and one's a lesbian, so having a bisexual transsexual apprentice fit well with their practice.

Their teaching was informal and perhaps overly careful; they'd both had friends with similar damage who got in too deep too fast and got wrecked. Neither dervish is bookish, preferring magic of intention plus gesture, subtle and slow to master. Fluxing danced with them often, in private and at parties, but she found the practice of music-making more appealing. Their DJ is an Other, a (shared?) Familiar, though I can't say what kind. It taught music magic to her, about the power held in rhythms especially; eventually she took up a hand drum as her Implement.

Some years passed in this way, not untroubled by any means but with room to breathe and reclaim her body. All is upended when she meets the deconstructionist. He's giving a lecture on French critical theory in the college town they're passing through. She attends, she's impressed, she goes to talk with him afterward. He clocks her as useful, in part because he has a side project studying the use of rhythm in rhetoric and magic. He invites her to join his grad program. The dervishes pride themselves on not being clingy; they don't ask many questions and she leaves with their blessing. Thusly things once again start to get fucking messy for her.

The deconstructionist is a selfish prick with a shady practice. His whole shtick is parasitic: he accrues power by undermining people's belief while tricking them into thinking they've gained insight. The lecture where they met was one such maneuver. (Note: I realize this guy is perilously close to a 'Cultural Marxism' caricature. No shade on Derrida et al., I only site them here because I've found their texts fruitful.) He's not the literal worst, but he's manipulative and Fluxing is not well defended against that.

[Isn't he racking up massive karmic debt by habitually toeing the line of 'technically not lying'? Probably! He's mastered rhetoric above all else, so he knows how to minimize that malus, but I think he's also got outside help with balancing karma. Perhaps a secretive, ultimately doomed patron relationship with a Faerie?]

I realize, having recently finished 2.Z, that the shithead academic angle threatens to reduce this OC to "Nicolette Belanger, except trans and if she had more time to work through her trauma before landing in a fresh hell." I think that because both student and professor have different tool-sets than in Pale, you'd expect the two dynamics to diverge significantly. But I'll admit some overlap; it's a deliciously fraught sort of scenario. Also, I'd like Fluxing to arrive at a blend of intuitive and cerebral practice, and academia seems like a natural way to stir the latter into the mix.

#pale web serial #wildbow #practitioner oc

[bharatiya-naari-sab-pe-bhaari]

Thorns and Roses [The Elizabeth Romanova Snape series]: Socializing

Pairings: Severus Snape x OC

Genre: friendship, humour, slight angst, slight smut (almost negligible)

Type: Oneshot

Words: 2.4k

Author's Note: This is my first writeup following up to the head canon I have already posted before. The OC is mine.

The timeline for this one shot is one year after the arranged marriage of Severus Snape and Elizabeth Romanova. Snape is working against Voldemort as Albus Dumbledore's spy (as a Death Eater) but the Order doesn't know that yet.

Snape is twenty two while Elizabeth is twenty years old.

Summary: Severus Snape hates socializing and specifically when he has been explicitly ordered to do so. Fortunately for him, so does his wife.

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

"Remind me again, why the hell are we doing this?"

"You know very well why we are doing this. We need to be present in the social visit card list for half the people present here."

"But that means I'll have to suffer through this madness... again?"

Severus shuddered at the mere thought of spending another evening in midst of all these pea-brained puffed-up poncy peacocks.

He saw Elizabeth who had one of her arms entangled with his, hide her smirk behind the rim of her third glass of red wine while they swished through the crowd of their apparent illustrious and distinguished guest list.

It was half the ministry filtering in and out of the great hall of their manor, busy gorging on the appetizers being carried by the waiters and partaking in the overflowing wine happily. Sometimes Severus found that attending the parties of the Death eaters and Voldemort's cohorts was better than hosting one for the officials of the Ministry of Magic.

At least Lucius Malfoy's guests kept him on his toes and wary of slipping off. It maybe taxing but not boring. This.. this was head achingly boring. Pretending to be sickly sweet and having to listen to the fat arses go on and on about their own greatness was stifling at the least and made him want to murder someone at the worst.

"Oh come now darling, it’s not that you are the sole and lonely person having to pretend that they are not on the verge of flipping open their own skulls to pour in water on their brain in a vain attempt to cleanse it."

Elizabeth drawled languidly, giving Lady Atwood a painfully fake saccharinely sweet smile while Severus stopped momentarily to relieve a champagne flute from the advancing waiter.

"I don't know how would we even get the information? So far all I have gathered is about who is courting whom and what are the general nonsense that all of their grandchildren are getting into."

Snape retorted thoroughly disgusted. Dumbledore wanted him to find out who was the Dark Lord's spy on their side. As per covert information gathered from the ongoing investigation into the following matter there is someone in the Ministry who is selling them out.

"I don't know how Albus figures we will be any help here. These people aren't even conversing with us like adults. They think we are still children."

Elizabeth huffed and resisted the urge to glare at the youngest son of Lord Cartwright as he kept leering at her like she was a leg of mutton. She wished she could hex him to next Tuesday.

"Of course they would! We are one third of almost everyone's age around here."

Snape grumbled and handed the fifth.. or was it the sixth glass of wine to his wife who quickly looked around surreptitiously trying to see if anyone is keeping count. Sometimes she forgot that she is an adult now, living on her own rights, out of her conservative family's shadow.

"Don't worry. I have a plan. We might just get someone useful information by the end of this entire migraine inducing poppycock."

Severus cocked an eyebrow at that but refrained from commenting. He knew better than to underestimate his wife by now. This woman is a devious fiend underneath all the refined poise and grace. And he lo.. admired... admired her more for it.

As promised, by the end of the party which had mercifully ended before he could strangle anyone or keeled over himself, Elizabeth Romanova Snape had successfully taken out two names who stood to be their primary suspects.

"How did you even manage it? I could hardly see anything suspicious in anyone's demeanour?"

Severus asked as he entered their bedroom, shutting the door behind him. The manor was blissfully silent after the night's festivities and he revelled in the quiet for some time before ripping open his stuffy black coat and dropped it on the armchair.

He was treated to his wife's amusing endeavours to open the corset as she struggled incessantly trying to reach all the trappings in the back, standing in front of the full-length mirror of the dresser. They had been married for one year now and surprisingly the frosty business-like relationship which both had maintained in the initial months had changed into a warm camaraderie.

There was something between them. A sweet familiarity of old friends and a sizzling spark of curiosity mixed with the excitement of uncharted territories. It was not as if the physical intimacy was lacking. They had unanimously agreed that sex was a good let out for mutual frustration and the initial shy awkwardness of first-time lovers had changed into smooth suave experience.

They would not call it love yet but Severus knew he was fond of his wife and he knew she shared his affection as well. It was good to have a partner. Someone who knows how it feels to be stuck in a situation as his. Elizabeth may not have been forced into this circumstance too roughly but she had been situationally coerced to some extent as well.

And both had decided to make most of the situation. Thus, agreeing to spy and work for the Light led by Dumbledore himself.

He saw her reflection smirk at him mischievously.

"There's nothing a beautiful woman and copious amounts of alcohol can't take out from a man."

He felt a hot flush travel lightning fast through his spine making him feel slightly sick. He realized the violent reaction as something borne out of jealousy.

"I hope her Ladyship hadn't had to be too overly friendly with said bastard."

To his delight she laughed out loud at that, her beautiful features glowing like the full moon sparkling outside in the night sky.

"My my... I had no idea that the green colour suited his Lordship this good."

"Shut up."

He grumbled but she could see his lips twitching upwards slightly on the mirror. She chuckled and called out to him.

"You shut up and come here. Help me open this thrice damned contraption before I suffocate."

Severus laughed and jumped out off the armchair and stood behind her taking the straps of her corset. He made short work of the elaborate bindings with his long and lithe fingers snapping the offending garment open.

Elizabeth drew an audible sigh of relief and pulled her chemise loose and it accidentally dropped to her waist completely leaving her torso naked.

"Woaps! Disobedient cloth piece."

She joked while Severus's brows furrowed noticing the red angry marks, the corset had imprinted on her soft creamy flesh. He did know it would have been highly uncomfortable given that his wife through having athletic limbs and a narrow waist, had quite a voluptuous chest.

"Why do you even wear these monstrosities when it pains you like this? Mad woman..."

He traced the lines on her waist and over her breasts gently with a finger, eyebrows drawn in an adorable frown. Elizabeth tried to control her shudder feeling his touch ignite a flame in the pit of her core while the cool breeze of the room hit her bare skin.

"Hah! It’s easy for you to say. I have to maintain the look of the gentle bred high society dumb brained bimbo for these so-called elite guests of ours."

She found her voice sound slightly breathless. Severus was still busy looking at her torso with a remarkably unsexual gaze. Still, it did something funny to her insides. Before she could say anything, she felt herself being drawn closer and lifted up on the dresser to perch there in a smooth move.

"Sev..."

Her voice choked off in the middle when his lips touched her without warning. She felt his lips kiss over the bruised lines tenderly trying to soothe the soft skin. Elizabeth felt herself throwing her head back and her long raven curls recently escaped from the elaborate hairdo cascaded like a waterfall down her waist and spilled in front. She gasped feeling her nipples pebble painfully trying desperately to gain her husband’s attention.

But when she didn't feel his mouth right where she wanted it and the heat pooling in between her thighs had started to get unbearable, she brought her white knuckled hands which had been gripping the edge of the dresser to tangle in his soft black locks. She pulled his hair open from the simple dark ribbon which was holding it in a pony at the nape and pulled at it in an attempt to guide his scorching lips where she wanted it.

But he abruptly leaned back up leaving her moaning in disapproval. She looked at him and was alarmed to see a smidge of pain behind the velvet darkness of his black eyes.

"Sev what.."

"I don't want you to do this Liz..."

She chuckled uncertainly taking aback at the seriousness behind his quiet words.

"What? Wear a corset? Oh Sev.. it looks worse than it is. Don't you worry about that. If you have forgotten let me remind you, I am a Romanova. These teensy discomforts don’t pain me in the least."

He shook his head making his tousled hair fall over his unconventionally striking face.

"I am not talking about the corset. I mean I am but not in the way you think."

"Then.. what. I don't understand..."

"See.. you are taking the pain, however mild it is.. doing something you don't like in the least for some greater purpose as has been fed to us. This will increase in extent. till one day it turns into something which would be intolerable. Dumbledore has pulled you into this mess and he would keep asking sacrifices from you till he gas bled you dry. I wish... I wish I could get you out of this."

His voice had gone very low at the end of the surprising tirade and he had fixed his troubled gaze at some indistinct point on her chest refusing to look at her face. There was an ominous silence in the room for some time before Elizabeth cradled Severus's face in her hands and cajoled him gently to look up at her.

She felt a burst of affection bloom in her heart for her young husband which travelled through all the pores of her body making her feel warm and tingly. For the first time she saw the brighter side of Dumbledore's plan.

Suddenly the resentment she had felt for the wily old man for his conniving methods to get her hitched to a complete stranger, a death eater at that and so young, dwindle considerably.

"Sev.. look at me darling. I have opted to be in this mess. It is not your fault. I had been given a choice to walk away but I decided not to. I chose to marry you. I chose to spy for the Order. I am aware of the dangers of this profession. And I choose to face it head on. With you by my side. Do not worry about this."

He swallowed discreetly and looked askance. She rubbed her thumbs on his cheekbones and leaned forward to press a kiss on his cheek.

"We may have been forced into an alliance unwillingly, but I somehow feel it from the bottom of my heart that I struck quite lucky in this marriage game."

She gave him a wink and Severus let out a surprised laugh which made his entire face light up like the sun and his usual inky dull eyes glitter.

Happiness suited her husband too well.

Suddenly she felt an insane urge to spread him up like butter on a toast and lave him off till he begs for mercy in that husky and hoarse bedroom voice of his which she absolutely adores.

Unaware of her less than pure thoughts Severus linked their fingers and kissed each one of her knuckles before planting a kiss on the simple platinum wedding ring.

"Now I believe you left me off quite rudely sir. If you do not continue, I shall be quite cross."

She continued with feigned haughtiness. Severus gave a smirk which somehow thrilled her even though it made him look downright evil.

"Oh right! How remiss of me Madam. Let me make it up to you."

His voice flowed like chocolate on velvet and she squeaked in surprise when he literally swooped her up in his arms and walked towards the bed.

It would be a long night...

After she had been properly sated having had to almost sob for release and had in turn, turned her husband into a babbling pleading mess beneath her they were laying in a sweaty tangle of naked limbs on the dishevelled sheets.

Her head was tucked neatly under his chin and her hair spilled like waves over his chest, one of his arms wrapped around her back while hers were wrapped around his waist and their legs were tangled together as she practically was lying over him.

Severus knew he should reach for his wand and at least attempt to clean up the mess they have made but he could hardly gather the energy to move. Between the boneless limp weight of his naked wife tucked over him like a soft blanket and the thought of his legs giving away if he tried to walk after this, he gave up.

"Well.. that was a vast improvement from our evening activities."

He chuckled at her sleepy words and kissed on the top of her head.

"True. I really wanted to punch that old coot when he suggested to keep the party today."

He felt her rumble in mirth over him and saw the mop of her hair on his chest move as a soft pair of lips pressed on his left pectoral, directly over a rather large love bite left there. He hissed in pleasure and felt her lips press on his collar bone next.

"I for one would have loved to be a fly in the wall if that had happened."

She reached his face and caught his lips in her own and sucked in whatever he was about to say. Elizabeth returned to use his chest as her pillow after a few minutes of breathless kisses and yawned burrowing into him.

"Goodnight husband and a happy anniversary."

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

Cross posted in ff.net

#harry potter fandom #severus snape #snape fandom #pro severus snape #severus x oc #oneshot #severus snape fic #fanfiction #romance #friendship #first wizarding war rp #albus dumbledore plays matchmaker #but he has his own plans as well #corset

[fific7]

Dangerous and Divine - Part 3

Billy Russo x Reader

Summary: Billy Russo is an itch you don’t want to scratch. But he’s all over you like a rash.

A/N: This does not follow canon, it’s mainly lemon zest 🍋 The GIF is from Exposed, unreleased pilot show in case you’re wondering 😌... Billy vibes.

Warnings: 18+ NSFW due to sexual content including oral sex, between consenting adults. Some drinking & swearing.

(My GIF)

“Nothing to see here,” you muttered and scooted across the café as quickly as you could, heading for the sanctuary of your office.

Closing the door firmly behind you and heading straight to your fancy CEO swivel chair, you sat down and shakily placed your hands flat on the desk. You took some deep breaths. That stupid big idiot and his BDE! How dare he kiss you like that in front of everyone.

And even worse, leaving you all hot and flustered like some kid who’s never been kissed before! Let’s be honest, that’s what was really getting to you... he hadn’t actually bent you over the counter and fucked you, but by your reaction he might as well have.

How ridiculous, you told yourself sternly, get a grip! You put your forehead on the desk’s cool surface. They’d all been staring at you, and you could feel your face heating up again at the thought of them watching Billy kiss you really quite passionately. And you melting like a complete fool in the process.

After a couple of hours hiding out in your office, you knew you’d have to face the music sooner or later and made your way back down to the café. The regulars, you saw, had gone by now so that was something but by the mischievous looks on your co-workers’ faces, you knew you were in for some serious teasing.

You made your way over to one of the two monster Gaggia coffee machines in the café and started making yourself a cappuccino. “Anyone want one?” you asked over your shoulder. Jake said he’d have one too, but the other two passed. You could just feel their curiosity crackling through the air like electricity. They were of course fully aware of the Ex and that whole daytime soap plot, but were just about losing their shit as they didn’t know anything about this hot dude, who’d walked in to the café and kissed you like he knew you extremely well.

You handed Jake his coffee and helped yourself to a danish cinnamon pastry - yeah, eating the profits again - munching into it and then pointing at your staff members with it. “Okay, guys. Here it is. In its entirety. I went to little cousin’s cocktail party last night as you know, and met the guy who was in here earlier. We left the party, went for a couple of drinks elsewhere, he drove me home, I got out of his car and he drove away. Like, immediately I got out.”

You really didn’t feel the need to mention the kiss he’d stolen before you got out of his car.

Gabrielle’s mouth fell open, “You met him last night???” The implication being that A) how was that possible and B) where did that kiss come from if you hadn’t slept with him? You sighed, taking another bite of pastry. “Yes! And as I’ve just told you,” you looked around to make sure there weren’t any customers in earshot, “he did not stay the night, okay? He didn’t even get out of his car.”

“It’s just that it looked a bit ...” Steve trailed off nervously. “Well...umm... friendly... for someone you’ve only just met,” finished Jake. You nodded. “I’m aware of that. What you saw there was the Billy Russo Show, done purely to embarrass me. He’s a cocky big shit. And trying to get me to go out with him.” “Are you going to?” asked Gabrielle. “Oh, hell yes! Wouldn’t you?” Jake almost got whiplash, he nodded so emphatically, “Yes. Yes, I would.” You all had a good laugh at that.

»»————————————-———-　⚜　———————————-————-««

There were only 2 days to go until Friday, and you found yourself panicking. What to wear, what to wear? OK, after mentally reviewing your wardrobe you decided that a shopping trip was in order.

Hanging up your new purchase in the wardrobe, you felt pleased with your choice. Nothing too flashy - you weren’t sure of the venue, so went with smart/casual - a sleek navy number, wraparound style, mid-thigh length and showing only a hint of cleavage. Less is more right?

Teamed with a pair of metallic navy heels, it would be fine. You hoped. What if he was taking you somewhere really low-key? Oh well, you shrugged, if you ended up looking a bit like Cinders at the ball in some local pizzeria, so be it.

Jake and the others were still buzzing about your upcoming date, in fact you’d eventually asked them if they wanted to come along too. They’d at least had the decency to look guilty, but only a little. You were sure that if they found out where you two were headed, they’d follow you. You decided you’d better check for shadowy figures tailing you on Friday night.

»»————————————-———-　⚜　———————————-————-««

8pm on the dot, the buzzer sounded in your apartment, Billy’s voice announcing that he was downstairs. You were not quite ready, still had a couple of tweaks to make so buzzed him up. He strolled in as you opened the door, leaning in for a kiss to which you turned your head, so it landed on your cheek. “Lipstick!” you trilled, moving back towards the bathroom. “I won’t be long, have a seat. You’re looking good, Russo, by the way.” “Thanks,” you heard his voice from the other room, “and you’re looking absolutely gorgeous, sweetheart.”

You’d felt happier when you saw that he was also smart/casual.... what looked like a cashmere burgundy sweater over black jeans, with a leather jacket. He looked edible.

When you emerged back into the living room five minutes later - a veritable vision in navy, you mockingly smirked to yourself - Billy Russo was nowhere in sight. You stopped in your tracks, and then heard a drawer opening in your bedroom. You walked through to it, just in time to see Billy picking up a pair of your lacy silk panties out of your underwear drawer.

“Russo!” you yelled, “put those back, you perv!” He slid the smooth fabric between his long fingers, grinning devilishly at you. “Mmmmm, are you wearin’ something similar right now?” Before you could stop yourself, you bit back, “Who says I’m wearing any at all?” His eyes widened, a big grin appearing on his face. “Oh, really? Wanna prove it?” “No!” you replied, knowing your face was scarlet, “just forget I said that. I’m joking with you.” He shook his head, “Yeah, like I’m goin’ to get that image out of my head anytime soon.”

“Let’s go, Billy,” you said, walking to the front door and pulling on your own leather jacket. “Hey, we’re matching,” he laughed, pointing between your jacket and his, “ain’t that sweet!” “It’s creepy, actually. Matching clothes? Vomit-inducing.” He laughed, “You’re funny.” “No, I’m just not some soppy sappy woman who’s going to fall at your feet, Russo.” He took your hand as you closed and locked your front door, and the two of you headed for the stairs.

“Yeah, I’d kinda got that vibe already,” he grinned at you, “but it doesn’t matter, I know I’m gonna get you in the end.” “Just keep on telling yourself that,” you snarked back.

Looking at the back of his head as he walked down the stairs in front of you, you really wanted to run your fingers through that hair but managed to keep your hands to yourself.

Fastening your seat belt, back in the gleaming Wraith, you watched Billy’s fingers as he fastened his and then placed his hands on the steering wheel. You mentally shook yourself, you were beginning to fantasise about different parts of his body and you’d better snap out of it, you told yourself.

»»————————————-———-　⚜　———————————-————-««

He took you to a really nice Italian restaurant, not too posh, just nice and relaxed with friendly staff and really good food. The conversation from the night in the bar was picked up where it left off, each of you adding more and varied information. You learned that Frank had sadly lost his wife and kids when they innocently got caught up in a savage gang war gun battle. Billy told you that his friend had gone off the rails for a while, but had recently met a lovely lady called Karen and they’d started dating. He was really pleased for him, as he’d been so worried about him for a while. You thought you’d quite like to meet Frank sometime.

You told him something more of your life, thankfully not involving assault and cheating ex-boyfriends this time. He’d been fascinated and truly appreciative of the struggle you’d had to get your business off the ground, saying that he’d been lucky in having a major investor lined up before he’d even left the Marines.

You saw a dark look flit over his face for a moment, but then it cleared and he went on to ask you more questions about your business. You’d both chatted easily together until it was almost midnight, and you’d become “that couple” who were the last ones in the restaurant. You realised that, when he dropped the ‘Billy Big Dick’ nonsense, you really enjoyed his company and felt that you two had clicked even more this evening.

He drove away from the restaurant, and it took you a few minutes to notice that he wasn’t driving the route to your apartment. “Billy,” you sighed, “are we heading to your place by any chance?” That damn smirk was back on his face. “Yeah,” he said, “I’ve seen yours, so now you can see mine.” ”Oh, ha bloody ha. I’m not sleeping with you, you know.” A grin appeared on his lips as you glanced across at his profile, illuminated by each passing streetlight. “Just keep on tellin’ yourself that, sweetheart,” he replied mockingly. You laughed out loud, “You cheeky big bastard.”

»»————————————-———-　⚜　———————————-————-««

His apartment was everything you would’ve expected - open plan, with modern, sleek furnishings and decor in dark masculine colours. You settled yourself onto the large sofa, and he headed to the kitchen area; a moment later, you heard wine being poured then his tall figure reappeared, holding the two wine glasses. He handed one to you, and you took a sip - it was very good wine. “So, Billy... I’m guessing your li’l batchelor pad here sees quite a lot of action, and not the type you saw in the Marines, huh?”

That smirk. He sat down next to you, hand going to rest on your shoulder and playing with a strand of your hair. His expression became serious, “No. I don’t bring women back here.”

You scoffed, “Oh come on, Billy... you’re...” then you stopped, looking away from him. “I’m what?” You shook your head. “C’mon, what were you going to say?” “Never mind. Well, if you don’t bring them here, let me guess... you go to their place and disappear before the morning light?” He shifted uncomfortably on the sofa, breaking eye contact with you. “Okay... that, I can’t deny. How did you guess? And what were you going to say before?”

Oh to hell with it, you thought.

“I was going to say... you’re hot, Billy. So obviously - unless you’ve got a problem down there and need some little blue pills...” his eyebrows rose, his mouth dropping open slightly before he started grinning, “...you won’t be a saint and you’re more than likely a player.”

He leaned in towards you, eyes staring deep into yours, “Firstly, I have no problems with my equipment in any way shape or form,” ....smirk... “it’s in perfect workin’ order. And I’d be more than happy to prove that to you.” His lips met yours in a kiss, quickly growing heated. He pulled away, making eye contact again, “And you’re right, I’m no saint. A player? Yeah, maybe. But I can be a saint for you, if you want me to be.”

“But that wouldn’t be the real Billy Russo, would it?” His eyes were still on you. You carried on, “Look, I’ll level with you. I like you - when you’re not wearing your BDE persona. It’s a total clichè, but I really don’t intend to be just another notch on your no-doubt designer bedframe.”

He smiled at you, “I get it, I really do.” He trailed a finger along your cheekbone, “I wouldn’t be tryin’ to be someone I’m not. I just meant that I like you too, and I feel comfortable dropping the persona with you.” You smiled back. “OK, but Billy?” “Yeah?” “I’m still not sleeping with you.”

Laughing, “Oh, yeah?” pulling you against his chest, a hand going to your cheek as he kissed you long and hard. Breaking away, hand on his chest, you whispered, “Yeah...”

»»————————————-———-　⚜　———————————-————-««

Billy was poised above you, looking down at you as if you were something he wanted to devour. Your clothes had joined his on the bedroom floor a little while ago; you were both lying on his very large bed, and yes it was designer-made - you’d asked him.

He gently pushed aside a strand of your hair, before kissing your lips. His mouth then made its way slowly but surely down to your neck and collarbone, and you felt little nips on your skin before his tongue licked your skin slowly. He moved slightly lower and sucked your nipples while his hands were busy massaging your breasts. Your hands moved to his broad shoulders, pulling him down further so you could feel more of his skin against yours.

You heard a chuckle, “So yeah, I guess you really aren’t gonna sleep with me after all, huh?” You shifted out slightly from under his body, “Shut up Billy, and put this to good use,” letting your fingers trail down to his hard length. You slid your fingers around it and gave his tip a firm squeeze. His breath hissed between his lips, and those big hands pulled you back underneath him. “Don’t worry, I was gonna.” You smirked, “I confess I was impressed when I saw what you were packing,” another squeeze, another hiss, his mouth on your neck, “but actions speak louder than words.”

He laughed, “Be careful what you wish for, sweetheart.” Deciding to head for the mother lode, you gave him one last squeeze, firmer than before, sniggering as his hips shot forward. “Same to you,” you said, before sliding your hands into his silky hair at last. Running your fingers right back through it, you sighed out loud and grabbed a handful with each of yours, and tugged. “I see you like my hair,” he smirked.

You leant forward and kissed him, hard. He groaned, kissing you back even harder. Then your hands ran over the muscles of his chest, down the trail of hairs on his lower stomach, before grabbing his cock and wrapping your fingers round it. He growled, “And what ya gonna do with that, sweetheart?” You began stroking him firmly, “This.... until you decide to get off your ass and do something.”

He laughed out loud, and suddenly his hand was between your legs, his thumb on your clit, rubbing hard. His lips at your ear, whispering, “Something like this?” and you felt a long finger plunging into you, swiftly joined by a second one. He began sliding them in and out, curling them, and it had an instant effect on you, your breath hitching. “Billy,” you sighed, your hand stilling momentarily on his length. You heard his low chuckle, and he increased his pace. Okay smartass, you thought, and gave his tip a very firm squeeze. “Aahhh!” you heard, and gave him another one for good measure. “You minx,” he laughed, then picked up pace with his fingers again. Then they were gone from you, and you saw him moving his head downwards, hands moving to your hips, his tongue replacing his fingers. He was lapping at you, his thumb back on your clit, and now you really were in trouble.

You grabbed his shoulders, digging your nails in, beginning to writhe on the bed, and then his fingers were back, sliding in next to his tongue. The combination of thumb, tongue and fingers was like an incendiary bomb going off in your core, and you could feel your climax building by the second. His pace increased and that was it, the explosion happened and you now grabbed his head like a vice, keeping him where he was as the aftershocks of your orgasm washed over you in waves. Very pleasurable waves. Finally, you released his head and you saw his dark eyes meet yours, a satisfied glint in them. “That was only number one, angel,” he grinned, “fasten your seat belt.” “Cocky bastard. And I’m an angel now, am I?” He moved up and back over you, hands sliding up your body.

“For sure,” kissing your neck, nipping the skin lightly with his teeth. “And I’m so lucky, havin’ one in my bed.” He sat up, opening a drawer in his bedside table, scrabbling around until he produced a condom, unwrapping it and holding your gaze as he rolled it on.

His hands moved to your breasts, palming them then circling his thumbs over your nipples as they peaked once again. You grabbed that hair of his again, little gasps making their way between your lips. Your feet were flat on the mattress, knees either side of his thighs and you felt his hand moving down, then the head of his cock was between your legs, edging its way in. Billy thrust right inside you, and there were loud groans from you both as he sunk in. “Mmmm...” he kissed you, tongue diving into your mouth, then he pulled away, gazing at you, “you don’t know just how good you feel around me.” You shifted a bit, rolling your hips to his, “About as good as you feel inside me.”

A low growl, then he was moving on you, fast right from the get-go, his thrusts forcing a moan from you on each stroke. Your legs moved - seemingly of their own accord - around his hips, and this new angle obviously pleased both of you, as the noises the two of you made got even louder. You felt him deep inside you, and every time you squeezed and held him there, he actually whimpered.

“Good puppy!” you managed to gasp out, hearing an answering snort of laughter from him. “I am not...” he gasped back at you between thrusts, “...a fuckin’ puppydog, sweetheart.” “But Billy, you’ve got those big brown eyes ...” your own eyes closed at a particularly forceful thrust, “...and you are fucking me, so...”

His only answer this time was to pull one of your legs higher onto his back, thrusting deep as he did, and then his hand cupped your breast and massaged it hard. That shut you up.

His fingers were at your inflamed core again and then he was rubbing at your clit, making your back arch with sheer pleasure. He was switching between kissing you hungrily and nipping and sucking love bites onto your collarbone. Thank god he wasn’t targeting your neck, you thought, that would look so professional at work. You, meanwhile, were over-indulging in your obsession with his hair, running it back off his forehead with your fingers and tugging on it to your heart’s content.

Finally your over-pleasured body couldn’t take any more, and your climax hit you like a truck. Your nails dug into his muscled shoulders, grabbing him in a death grip and a small scream of “Billy!” exited your open mouth. You felt him give a few sharp thrusts, realising that he was about to come; you heard your name, then a long groan and he released his warm seed into you. He sunk down onto you, kissing you softly but with passion, long fingers laying gently along your jaw and neck as he did so.

“Angel....” he sighed.

»»————————————-———-　⚜　———————————-————-««

@blackbirddaredevil23

#ben barnes #billy russo #billy russo x reader #billy russo imagine #billy russo fanfiction

[queensofthekastle]

For the dialogue prompt -- how's about 42?? :]

HOLY SHIT OK IT TOOK ME A MONTH BUT I'VE DONE IT. FINALLY. Life was just happening everywhere, thanks for waiting me out. 🙏

TW: descriptions and references to racist police violence.

The prompt was "I'm only here to establish an alibi." I was totally stuck--what could be blamed on Frank that he wouldn't have actually done? Canonically to the comics (though I commend the show for not giving a flying fuck about whether Frank went after glorified DHS cops who were dirty) the only things Frank won't touch are bystanders, cops, and active duty military.

And then I had it. Because 2020 has been A Year and I'm still processing some shit. So, here we go.

-Stellar

************************************

The door rattles under a succinct knock at 2:45 am—just when Karen had been so close to falling asleep, caught in that limbo of vague consciousness and wandering thoughts just on the cusp of falling into dreams. So, it’s with more irritation than concern that she drags herself out of bed after the second round of door-bludgeoning. It being post-closing time on a Friday—well, Saturday now—she's fairly confident what she’ll find through the peephole will be a drunk neighbor with the wrong apartment. It wouldn’t be the first time, nor, probably, the last.

A cautious look through the peephole does not reveal one of her gregarious bar-hopping neighbors though, but a still figure; hood pulled close around his face to shadow shifting eyes that look black as ink in the low, shit light of the apartment hallway. Frank has a lovely mouth, but it’s set now in a tense line. Karen’s heart picks up speed, a fullness in her chest and a pressure in her veins—middle of the night, tense Frank is never a good sign. Though he doesn’t seem to be bleeding from anywhere, which is more than can be said for some of his other visits.

She undoes the door chain, and she’s quietly but earnestly asking “what’s going on?” before she even has the door open wide enough for him to see her face.

“Nothing.” He says, voice rough and low, but calm. “I just need someone to know it’s nothing.”

He looks askance, looks at her. She allows herself a sigh.

“What does that even mean, Frank?”

He shifts his weight and looks at her from under the shadow of his hood. 

“I’m only here to establish an alibi.”

“Because you didn’t do something, or because you did?”

“Didn’t,” he says, and she believes him. She always does. It’s one piece of why he’s so dear to her: Frank never lies to her, and she never lies to him.

“This should be interesting,” she says, and opens the door far enough for him to step through. When she’s closed it behind him she asks if he’d like a drink. He answers without looking her in the eye, mind working on something else far away from her little apartment—he asks for his usual, of course. Only Frank would suggest coffee this near to 3:00 am.

“Not sleeping tonight?” she asks. He shrugs one shoulder.

“Guess not.”

“Uh-huh. So you didn’t do anything, but you’re pulling an all-nighter in my apartment? I’m going to need an explanation here soon, Frank.”

He hovers beside the hutch that acts as her kitchen island without looking any more settled than he had out in the hall. His jaw works for a moment before he answers.

“I don’t know how much you want to know. Let's just say I ran into someone with a mission about like mine and I’m giving her space to work.”

“Oh. God. A Punisher copycat? Jesus, Frank. The law turns a blind eye to one of you, I doubt you’ll get away with two.”

“Nah,” he says, “nothing like that. I’m it. This is a one-time thing—lady's got some things to get out of her system. I only found out because she was after the same supply chain I was.”

“Supply chain?”

“Ammo,” he says flatly. Karen holds her next blink a little too hard and a little too long. But he is what he is—she accepts that again every time she opens her door to him—and she doesn’t comment except to ask:

“Who is this person after that you aren’t?”

“It’s probably better you don't ask. If someone comes sniffing after me about it you should be able to say you didn’t know anything.”

“So if one of your Homeland ‘friends' shows up to see if you’re testing their good graces what do I tell them, then? That you just showed up at three in the morning for a chat? No one is going to buy that.”

He shifts, not quite shrugging, looking off into space with the raised eyebrows of feigned innocence.

“Just say I saw your light on, came to say hi.”

“Right. And you were walking around Hell’s Kitchen to see my light on in the first place because . . .?”

“Couldn’t sleep. Hoping maybe if I tried my luck with a walk I’d find you up.”

Karen sighs, turning away to pour his coffee. She’s made it thick as hot asphalt for him, in part because she knows he likes that, in part because she’s so damn tired she’d lost track of how many grounds she was piling into the coffeemaker. Frank takes the mug she offers him with a low “thank you.” And sure enough, after a sip, he smiles.

“You always make my kind of coffee,” he says.

“It’s an easy recipe,” she says, leaning over the counter opposite him, “just make it so no sane person would drink it.”

He laughs, a very short, low sound that rumbles in his chest and rasps in his throat. 

“Dare I ask what you were actually in the neighborhood for?” She asks. “If insomnia is your alibi?”

“Probably shouldn't. Let’s just say I had a meeting.”

Karen quirks an eyebrow, conveying as much skepticism with the look as she can.

“Meeting as in you’re probably accessory to whatever it is this friend of yours is doing?”

“Something like that, yeah.”

Karen fixes him with her best piercing journalist stare. He drinks his coffee. They stalemate that way in silence for a minute or so before he meets her eyes and speaks.

“There are some things I don’t touch,” he says. “People doing their jobs, following shit orders and shit training and fucking up in the process—shit I’ve done, Afghanistan . . . I wouldn’t have a leg to stand on. Would be a hypocrite. It’s not my place. And I guess you could call it self-preservation, too. Doesn’t mean I don’t think about it, though.”

“Think about…?”

He takes a long drink, eyeing her over the top of the mug, making some calculation she can’t guess at.

“You know any Latin?” he says finally. “Quis custodiet ipsos custodes mean anything to you?”

It does, and for a moment, she’s sure her heart has stopped.

“Oh, no,” she says. “Who watches the watchmen. Tell me this is what I think it is.”

“I’m not telling you anything, don’t worry.”

“Frank,” she hisses. She doesn’t need his sarcasm right now. She thinks she knows what it could be that he won’t touch and still endorse: with Frank it’s always either war or justice, and every headline for the last month has been about the absence of justice on a battlefield where he could never hope to win. Cops in the city conveniently overlook Frank. He gets the ones they can’t, they have no vested interest in handing him over so long as he doesn’t mess with them. It’s an unspoken arrangement that lets Frank do what he does—and what he does lets him stand to live. Karen knows that. They’ve been over it enough. The police let Frank slip through their fingers and he doesn’t pick a fight in exchange.

But it’s been a long summer, and every day of it has been a fight with police for the thousands of protesters gathering over and over throughout the city. In early June a beat cop—White, of course—used a kind of handheld Taser repeatedly on an unarmed Black man “resisting arrest" for a crime he didn’t commit. Cell phone footage from witnesses made it online despite the NYPD's best efforts, and all anyone saw when watching it wasn’t a criminal resisting, but a victim on his knees, clutching his chest, begging please, please, I have a heart condition, I have a pacemaker, before the cop shocked him again. And again. Until he wasn’t on his knees but prone on the ground, gone still and silent.

The officer was reinstated after a paid leave six days ago. The DA declined to prosecute. 

And yesterday, the innocent man, having spent weeks in a coma induced by heart failure, was declared dead.

Frank looks Karen hard in the eye, an unflinching stare that says he knows she understands. She puts her face in her hands.

“There’s shitstorm coming, isn’t there?” she says.

“Probably.”

She shakes her head, drops it into her hands again. She can feel him watching her. A minute ticks by. Maybe two.

“Karen.”

She lifts her eyes just enough to meet his.

“You feel you gotta do something with this?” he asks. It neither a judgement nor a threat. She worries her lip for a moment before answering.

“This person you know of,” she says slowly, “they won’t implicate you?”

“No.”

“And do you know enough of their plan that you could stop them? Tip someone off?”

He takes a long drink, holding her with those deep inkdark eyes, and for the first time, he lies to her.

“No. Nothing.”

She knows it’s a lie. She knows he wants her to know. She could call him on it and he wouldn’t deny it. But she doesn’t. 

All she says is “then I guess there’s nothing we could do,” holding his eyes while she speaks, making sure he understands what’s happening here.

Frank nods. It’s enough.

Karen looks away, stares at her hands folded in front of her, tracing the patterns of veins under pale skin.

After a moment she asks, “would you like anything stronger?”

Frank looks at her with cool appraisal that says what he won’t out loud—that somehow, on some level, he helped with what’s to come. And he knows she’s letting him get away with it.

“No thanks,” he says. “But you go ahead.”

And she does. She falls asleep beside him on the couch, drunk with her head resting on his shoulder, sometime after 4:30, an economy bottle of wine that started full and is now half gone still out on the coffee table.

On Monday, Ellison will ask her to look into the story of a body found charred beyond recognition in an NYPD patrol car.

She’ll tell him there was nothing she could dig up, and never mention it again. 

#kastle #kastle fic #BLM motherfuckers #queensfic #someday someone at Marvel will have the guts to put Frank up against a precinct of horrible cops #and on that day my only request is they let Garth Ennis write it

[leviathan-dee]

DMC Week 2020: Day 7: An Enticing Outcome

(An AU day! I’ve recently watched Van Helsing and had the need for masquerade Vergil and vampires. I’ve also never written smut before, so there is a small debut of spice at the end of this story lmao) (Vergil x Reader) (NSFW, sexual content, mentions of alcohol, canon typical blood and violence).

Thrown amidst an exsanguinous masquerade, you were left to fend for yourself, until a handsome and very much animated young noble graced you with his presence in hopes to rescue you from your predicament.

Word Count: 4,682

Characters: Vergil, Dante, Fem!Reader

Read On AO3

A starless night stretched outside the arched windows, an abyssal blanket shrouding the supposed ‘jovial’ celebration. It appeared as though the evening was overbearingly cold, albeit the vermilion glow of candles and chandeliers that peppered the ball. You should be warm. In fact, you should be sweating. However the facade of extravagant foods and fabricated smiles couldn’t possibly hope to mask the cold reception.

You brushed your goosebumps away, before observing the patrons of the masquerade evening. Mulberry silk and crushed velvet fabrics draped over bodies dragged on the tiles, the sound resonating almost deafeningly. These strangers waltzed amongst the golden halls, frozen limbs rigid in their movements. Even the gentle lul of acoustics, violins and pianos, appeared tuneless. Lifeless.

Naturally, the perfume thick air became colder with these observations. You coiled your tense fingers around the wineglass, the liquid within thickly sloshing at the movement. You eyed your drink with curiosity, sniffing the rim of the crystalline glass, before a sickly scent overwhelmed your senses. It was oddly metallic for a wine. You silently took note that the aristocrat your father wanted you to marry had peculiar tastes.

You assumed a doleful smile. Admittedly, you never expected yourself to be handed away to some noble, body and soul, for a fleeting promise of wealth and power. For a mere title, your flesh and blood threw you away like some bleating lamb, ready for the cut. Sad, truly. And yet, here you were, wearing the finest satin gown with an amethyst encrusted mask, preparing to don the title of Countess of Redgrave alongside your future husband.

For one final time, you attempted to swig a gulp of the obscure alcohol, instead gagging at the smell as it hit the back of your throat. You made a wheezing sound, forcing the bile down before it projectiled onto the polished surface of the ballroom. The mask wearing passersby began to eye you with stares that seemed oddly vacant; Perhaps even hungry? You averted your gaze, attempting to keep to yourself, as a morbidity so indescribably visceral, pierced through you at the thought.

Your prayers appeared to have been answered, a towering man with a gaze that gleamed with life graced your presence. The subtle flint hue in his irises was a welcome change to the usual cadaverous stares from the guests. Though their colour was cold, his eyes radiated a fervid warmth.

Tentatively, he approached you, seeking silent permission to close the gap. Your tranquil manner confirmed his wordless request. As he drifted across the polished tiles, you noted he was of highborn descendancy, his frame draped in exquisite brocade, the colour of Siberian delphiniums cascading from his chest in lacy frills. The man’s chiseled jaw was framed by a Venetian mask of vivid golds, whilst his silver locks sat subserviently slicked back. His tailcoat settled on the broad shoulders with nary a sign of creasing on the fabric. You took note that the air of sovereignty appeared to move behind him like an obedient wind.

Undoubtedly, he intrigued you.

A sweet scent of spiced apple and cinnamon gently wafted through the labyrinth of expensive perfumes, as the man finished his approach. It was as if he eclipsed the entire world with his presence. Though his height was intimidating, you felt safe knowing that the rose tint of his plush lips seemed more alive than the population within the hall tonight.

"You do not belong, my lady." The slight adenoidal, yet husky tone of the voice caught you off guard, alongside the strangely insulting statement. Though the sentence was forward and harsh, it was oddly true. You inhaled a quick breath before responding.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Forgive me for my brashness, your courtesy, but I fear a lady of your stature and health must not reside in such establishments, no matter how tempting it may be.” The cordial hum that followed his explanation somehow warmed your chilled core. Becoming aware of the titles he rained upon you, your cheeks began to blaze with a feverish life. You chuckled bashfully in turn, tracing the lip of your wine glass with your fingertips. His eyes followed the movement eagerly.

“I have yet to marry the Count. You need not address me as such.”

“It would be inappropriate of me to address you as anything but your future title, your ladyship.” The man’s tone stayed low yet soft spoken. Falling into deep thought, your fingers continued to circle the rim of your crystalline glass, a sweet melodic sound resonating between the two of you.

“I see. May I ask the gentleman his name, my lord?” As you finished your request, the noble beckoned your hand.

“You may, my lady,” swooping down to a low bow, he palmed your fingers, cradling them close to his face to plant a chaste kiss upon the knuckles, “Vergil Sparda, at your service.”

This noble, Vergil Sparda, kept his gaze on yours with every inch of your knuckles he pecked. A bashful expression spread across your face, the man sighing contentedly at your blazing cheeks. For the first time tonight, you felt welcomed. Welcomed by someone that appeared animated, as opposed to the cold-blooded patrons of the evening.

You took your hand back, already missing the feeling of his velvety lips upon your skin.

“It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, my lord.” Feeling somewhat embarrassed at your sudden schoolgirl attitude, one certainly not befit of a future Countess, you averted your gaze in order to regain your composure. It was not a successful endeavour.

“The pleasure is mine, your ladyship.” Vergil seemed to enjoy your abrupt change in posture, dragging out the vowels of every word with his honeyed voice to get another coy response. You wanted to return his teasing with your own coquettish mannerisms, however the exchange took a turn in your stomach, your abdomen becoming a breeding ground for rabid, carnal butterflies.

Trying to keep whatever dignity you had left from your burning cheeks, you proceeded to ponder the man’s goals. He appeared as though he did not belong here.

Come to think of it, neither did you.

“May I inquire as to what your affair with the masquerade is tonight?” Your question appeared to have caused his hand to reach for his silver hair, slicking the loose tendrils back into their place. Vergil fell deep in thought, before reaching for your glass of obscure scarlet liquid. He beckoned the wineglass onto his palm.

“I have business with the Count. A personal matter. In fact…” As he spoke, you obeyed his request for the glass, reaching forward dangerously close. Your fingers brushed past his, the warmth of foreign flesh feeling utterly scandalous.

Calculating his movements, his eyes kept burrowing into your soul, your stomach continuing its somersaults. Albeit the flirtatious moment, he examined the liquid within the glass with a disgusted snarl. Even through the Venetian mask, you could easily distinguish the slipping facade of stoicism, revealing a repulsed frown.

“My lady, have you ingested anything this fine evening? This drink included?” He swished the sanguine liquid, as an almost noxious, metallic odour began veering itself into your lungs once more. You tried not to gag, attempting to retain your poise. You kept your mouth shut in fears of suddenly emptying your stomach onto your ball-gown, instead opting for a vigorous shake of the head. Vergil nodded approvingly, before tossing the crystalline container aside, letting the macabre smelling swill pour in torrential floods down the polished surface of the ballroom. The ghoulish crowd reacted disapprovingly at the shattering sound of the glass.

“Very good. Now, follow me.”

Cradling your hand, the young noble pulled you in like a singularity, both mentally and physically. He seemed hasty, albeit his cool exterior of unwavering stoicism. You both weaved through crowds of marbled velvet, avoiding the dragging gowns and spilled wine . Each patron’s mortiferous faces contorted at the sight of your apprehension and worry. It appeared as though the whites of their eyes were a ghastly porcelain, so unbearably white that they gave off a luminous glow. Even their smiles seemed pernicious in nature, each tooth a sharp rapier ready to gnaw at whatever fell beneath their gaze.

Something felt off.

Sudden panic spread within your frame, your fingertips going numb, alongside an anxiety induced lump of phlegm forming in your throat. Your legs carried you beside Vergil, yet the seductive noble provided you with not a sliver of information to suggest why there was such a rush.

What was his business with your future husband?

What putrid liquid was in the glass?

Why did these guests appear so necrotic in nature?

With each step, your calves seemed to burn with a sweet ache of exhaustion. Undoubtedly, you had enough.

“Stop!” Your plea went ignored, the ultramarine draped noble with eyes of silver continuing on his cascade down the stairs towards the exit of the masquerade.

“Please?!”

“Not now, your ladyship.” Pausing in his surge out of the doors, Vergil turned to you, his arctic eyes pinning you down with an unwavering stare. It appeared as though it was a warning, yet not for you personally.

“Stop calling me that. I am no Countess. And unhand me, at once.” You inhaled a shuddering breath, unsure whether the surging unease was from your nefarious surroundings or the noble’s frigorific stare. You continued, nevertheless, once more attempting to break the silence of Vergil’s gaze.

“Where are you taking me?”

“Away. It is not safe here.”

“Why?” You continued to wriggle your wrist under his iron albeit somewhat tender grip. Firm, yet not once feeling uncomfortable. He wordlessly sighed, tugging at your wrist, beckoning you to follow him. You felt safe in his presence, however each step felt like pulling teeth, your lack of knowledge in the situation filling you with dread. Giving up in your endless tirade of defiance, you followed the noble, his mood improving dramatically.

Each stranger became a grotesque amalgamation of lucid terrors, their teeth lengthening with every inch of the gap you closed between yourself and the exit. Their skin grew rubicund scales, their pupils morphing into sharp slits.

The golden arches of the entrance called to you, Vergil’s steadfast resolve forcing you away from danger, and certain demise.

It all occurred so incredibly swiftly.

One moment you were being protectively held against the silver hair’s chest, feeling his proud melodic drumming of the heart. The next, an ancient, ethereal weapon of foreign lands materialised within Vergil’s hands, flooding your vision with phosphorescent cerulean sparkles.

He stormed at the diabolical crowd, gently pushing you behind him to safety. Within a sliver of a second, the patrons of this nightmarish evening metamorphosed to what you can only explain as vampires from stories your dear mother told you, in order to scare you, and make you obey her orders. Your noble protector, however, made short work of them, parrying each swing of their hungry claws. Lifeblood flowed in rivers. Flesh was torn, and bones were fractured. These fissures within the vampiric patrons’ bodies were endless, Vergil showing no benevolent mercy as he summoned a cyclone of blades to sever body from limb.

Slashing with an unmatched speed, Vergil was a tempest. None could stand in his way. With every attempt at his flesh, the monsters were tossed aside, their teeth still baring and searching for a chalice to drink off. It was inevitable that one exsanguinous guest was lucky enough to swipe at your protector. Swirling on his heel, Vergil barely dodged a gnarly claw, his Venetian veil dropping to the bloodied floor. It was then, that you finally earned a glimpse of the noble’s face.

He was an incredibly concentrated man, the wrinkles upon his visage indicating a permanent grimace. A small, albeit deep, crinkle took residence between his brows. You could not help but become entranced with his features. Even his silver locks had come undone from their usual position, swaying in the wind with effortless ease, framing his sharp jaw. Every aspect of his face was bedecked in grace and grandiose elegance; Expressions of harsh focus, yet features of tender origins.

This fixation was cut short, Vergil Sparda calling forth Geryon, a horse of sublime magnificence. Its sleek surface appeared to reflect the vermillion lights of the ball inside, the horse’s shadowy appearance seeming like a void of pure black.

Snapping his fingers, Vergil ordered you forward beside him, whilst fending off hordes of ravenous predators. Undoubtedly, you obeyed. Hiding behind him, Vergil inhaled deeply before crouching, drawing his sword only a minuscule sliver to reveal the radiating power within its sheath. You observed the peeking metal. It appeared as though it was a pure mirror, reflecting the nobles devious visage in all of its glory.

The ground shook violently, forcing you to steady yourself on the man’s shoulders. As the necrotic beings approached, cerulean energy swirled around the two of you, the air becoming thick with tension and the smell of smoke.

And then… Silence.

Silence that was followed by pained groans and the cacophonous sounds of sliced flesh. The display of severed dimensions, refractions of light dancing around your vision, materialised without a single movement from Vergil Sparda. Your jaw sat ajar at the sudden majestic view. The air seemed to become sliced into many tiny slivers, like paper-cuts in reality.

As the quiet resumed once more, the noble closed the gap between his hilt and the sheath with an achingly slow snap. His lips curled mischievously upon seeing your expression of shock.

“That was- What was that?” Your query went ignored, the noble wordlessly hooking his arm around your waist to prop you upon the horse. Letting out a tiny squeak, you complied, grabbing onto the braided mane of the creature. The noble effortlessly sat upon the steed’s spine in front of you.

“Hold on.” His voice was steady. Husky and low. Whether it was from the battle, or your closeness to him, the sudden change in character concerned you. Nevertheless, you once again complied, coiling your arms around his chest, feeling his steady heartbeat pound against your palm. The scent of cinnamon would have been overwhelming, if not for the splatters of blood that blended with the sweet spice.

It was a tranquil ride, the stillness of the Redgrave forest forcing you to adopt a reticent manner. Though your physical closeness to the man was evident, you still had barriers to uphold. Your head seemed to nod against his broad back, the warmth calming you into the realm of slumber. No words were spoken between the two of you.

Thus, the horse continued with utmost haste.

Away from the masquerade.

Away from the Count.

Away from your title.

…

“My lady. We have arrived.”

The noble hopped off of the horse, his ultramarine shirt ruffles soaked in tar-like blood. Tentative in his movements, he offered you his hand in order to help you reach the floor to safety. Your toes touched ground with a less-than elegant huff resonating from your lungs, with you accidentally stumbling into the towering noble’s chest. An apologetic expression graced your visage. Before speaking, you yawned widely, a small giggle bubbling from your chest.

“Thank you,” keeping your fingers laced around his own, you squeezed reassuringly before craning your neck up to observe the scratches upon his face, “how are you faring? You’re injured, my lord.”

“I’m fine.” Although his voice was firm, his expression was grave. It seemed to soften whilst his eyes lingered on yours. Your own vision appeared to trail around his features, the glimmer of intrigue never dwindling. The curiosity was overwhelming. You wondered how his velvety lips would feel upon your own plush mouth. Would the sensation be the same as the chaste kiss he placed on your knuckles? Or would it be so much more-

Unfortunately, your trail of thought was cut short. The tender, yet focused gaze of the man morphed into one of annoyance, as a boisterous noble sprung forth from a gold embellished carriage, his horse neighing in defiance.

You attempted to wave off your bashful and warming complexion; However, to no avail.

The man appeared identical to Vergil, noting that the noble may be a less stoic twin to your saviour. He was draped in matching brocade, except for the scarlet hues that peppered his frame. His locks also appeared to match Vergil’s current state, cascading to the sides of his jaw, framing the chiseled features elegantly. A broad, genuine smile spread across the man’s lips as you approached beside your saviour, continuing to subconsciously lace your fingers with Vergil’s.

“Welcome back brother, you finally made it. And ahh, Lady Y/N, it is an honour to finally make your acquaintance. I am at a disadvantage.” You attempted a warm smile, your curling lips appearing disingenuous. You instead opted for a curtsy, the scarlet clad man bowing in turn.

“We must leave at once, the Lamiae demons are close behind, Dante.” Vergil ran his fingers through his silver hair to fix its positioning, furthering the differences between him and his brother.

“I beg your pardon? Demons? My lord, explain yourself! Demons?!” A small ghost of a smirk tugged at Vergil’s lips, leaving you perplexed as to why he derived such pleasure from your fright. Holding on to your delicate fingers, he pulled your figure towards the carriage, beckoning you to enter to safety.

“Come on. We need to press on.” Vergil’s brother, Dante, assumed a serious tone which somewhat bewildered you. He returned to the carriage, placing his posterior back into the rider’s seat, whilst whistling to draw the attention of Geryon. To your surprise, the black horse emigrated in front of the carriage. Dante’s arms began to glow with a royal violet magic, a bridle morphing in his palms, connecting him to Geryon and the carriage.

You watched in complete awe. Vergil Sparda noted your wide-eyed stare.

“I will explain everything when we’re moving towards safety, my lady.”

Nodding in agreement with your features still morphed through perplexion, you followed the towering man. The inside of the carriage was a luxurious change to the forest outside. Countless silk fabrics were draped over the seats, swaying with embellished fleur de lis symbols. Vergil gently fixed a section of the silk, letting you relax from the recent life-threatening events.

You sighed as you landed amongst the cushioning fabrics.

Vergil sighed with contentment in turn.

“Me and my brother were to exterminate the threat within the masquerade tonight, the Lamiae. We did not anticipate that their depraved rituals would involve an innocent bystander such as yourself, until recently...” Sitting beside you, Vergil’s fingers laced around yours, gently stroking your skin with his thumb. It was a harmless act of absent-minded tenderness and comfort, yet it felt so much more than a simple gesture. Something amorous began to broil in your stomach.

“I… apologise if I was too abrasive, my lord. You saved me from certain demise, and I should thank you for that.” As you spoke, the noble kept his softened gaze upon yours, drawing your hand to his lips, to place more ardent pecks on the skin. That same feeling of wanton curiosity overwhelmed you as it once did at your first meeting with the enticing man.

“No need to apologise, Lady Y/N. It would be a shame if a woman of your stature was overly submissive.”

For the first time this evening, your name rolled off his tongue. It sent countless lascivious shivers down your spine, your grip on his fingers tightening at the mention. He seemed to note the reaction with his own returning squeeze of your delicate hand.

“Besides, I could not allow a creature of such extraordinary beauty to fall into the hands of that vile Count.” The atmosphere within the chamber appeared to drift into one of attraction, the two of you being pulled in by pure inquisitiveness. Your eyes danced between his own, whilst the blaze within your abdomen and cheeks began anew.

“I- Thank you, Vergil.” You decided to grace his ears with your own utterance of his name. He gave a small smirk, reaching up to a stray lock on your cheek, which he deftly pushed aside to have a better view of your embarrassed visage.

Sitting quietly, the carriage began its journey, Dante whistling a tune to himself, occasionally talking to the horses. You let out some giggles upon hearing the noble’s less stoic twin make conversation with the creatures, and hearing Vergil’s exasperated scoffs at the comments.

Pondering your predicament and the sudden appearance of your timely rescuer, a question bounced to the forefront of your mind.

“Was I to become one of them?” Though the question was harmless enough, Vergil’s brow wrinkle made a comeback.

“Your ladyship, you were no future wife to the Count, but a sacrifice. These demons are vampiric by nature, and rarely ‘recruit’ into their ranks. The Count simply found you worthy enough to… drain.” As the words cascaded from his lips, your nausea returned in full force. Vergil noticed your anxious demeanour, cradling your chin to meet his gaze. Your head spun like a silk throwing machine, the world becoming a hazy mess of subdued hues.

“I am sorry to say this, but your father knew this all along.” His low, yet tender tone flowed through the air. Though tears were meant to escape your vision, your sorrow and grief was as dry as a desert. Nothing could hurt as much as the mention of your own father wanting your death in exchange for a title.

Vergil continued to cradle your face, stroking small circles upon your skin to ease the sting of such news. He seemed to understand this burning feeling. Your eyes met with his again, searching for answers that were not there. Perhaps you were not searching for answers? Searching for comfort instead? Perhaps a friend?

“Truly, Vergil. Thank you for this. How can I possibly repay you?”

“There is no need, my lady. Your company is enough.”

The comment rolled off as a request, rather than as a statement. Your company was his desire,

and you wanted to comply.

For what monstrous contessa would deny this pulchritudinous hunter their reward?

Certainly not you.

As the smell of cinnamon and spiced apple graced your lungs, the thrill of supple lips brushing against yours overpowered the senses. His fingers carded through your hair, mirroring your own movements of trailing fingers through his arctic locks. Your shivers seemed to come in endless waves. His tongue delved curiously at the entrance of your lips, asking silent permission to explore further. You complied once more, parting your mouth, and sighing into his warmth. Tiny mewls escaped your throat, the noble reacting positively to your noises with the nestle of his palm against your thigh, and a possessive, almost hungry, pull towards his hips. Eager to sate your wanton curiosity, you plunged into each others’ embrace in unison, sharing this moment of voluptuous desire.

You hadn’t even noticed the speed at which your clothes were discarded. Vergil’s hands moved along your naked thigh, enjoying the shifting muscle, to meet the folds of your slicked petals. His hands began to travel miles upon the shivering skin of your loins, his fingers tracing your exposed core, finally pushing to the apex of your pleasures with repetitive yet decisive movements. Pump after pump of his fingers against your satin centre, your gaze shifted towards his lustful eyes, his expression reflecting the sheer pleasure he experienced watching your flower unfold beneath him. The mischievous smirk that formed on Vergil’s visage appeared to have pushed you even further into the blissful euphoria he was so easily able to thrust upon you with nothing but his hands.

The feverish yearning for his full glory inside of you was unbearable. You began to plead him, as his honeyed sighs and low growl resonated against your neck, his velvety lips promising release, brushing soft kisses against the flesh. He did not give in, however. His delicate, yet strong digits continued their tirade at your core, pushing you to your limits as you sighed out his name in a delectable, yet hushed voice.

Oh how scandalous this union was. To be stolen away on the night of the masquerade, which your fiance gifted you for the consolidation of two families. How scandalous was it to spend the night with a stranger you barely knew, no matter how tempting it was. You continued mewling into his ear, gracing your saviour and conqueror with euphoria, whilst pondering these vulgar acts.

Impatience appeared to overtake the silver haired noble. His facade of stoicism and composure slipping into one of fervent need for your sweat slicked body against his. Before your very eyes, his skin was exposed to the fervid warm air of the carriage. Unable to control your own carnal need for the man, your fingers laced around his member, his seed beading at your satin touch. A small, almost cautious exhale of gratification escaped Vergil’s lungs. Achingly slowly, your thumb traced the tip of his cock, coating his seed across the silken skin. His eyes darkened with an insatiable hunger, pushing your back against the cool silk of the carriage. It was then that your thighs shivered with an expectant welcome.

As his frame fit against yours, like a finishing piece of the puzzle, the sensation of his decadent skin propelled you to a realm of exhilaration. He pushed your folds to the sides, revelling in the display of your glazed over eyes and your slicked petals opening up only for him. Tentatively, he lavished your core with his length. The noble closed the gap between your hips, relishing in the sensation of your satin walls, whilst observing the blooming lethargy his body caused in your own. With each slow pump, the quiet groans that escaped Vergil’s lips poured out in unison with your own.

An abrupt thrust into your core caused an overbearing moan to escape your lungs, Vergil’s eyes widening in fears of alerting the oblivious driver. He placed his palm against your mouth to quieten your fragmented voice. The danger of being found out only quickened your arousal, your silken walls closing around Vergil’s cock. This caused his pupils to completely blow out, quickening the pace to chase his pleasure with yours.

Vergil’s racing heartbeat unified with yours, and the marks he left upon your skin with his longing bites, seemed to push you to your limits. Your thighs closed around the noble’s hips, welcoming a vigorous ecstasy to bloom within your frame. He followed suit, prolonging his euphoria with feverish thrusts into your core. Amidst each pump, you breathed in his scent, kissing the frame of his jaw with worshipping pecks after pushing his palm away from your mouth. You let your voice fill his ears, his own husky groans gracing your skin as a delectable orgasm spread within his body.

This maelstrom of pleasure pushed all of your worries aside, forgetting the predicament of betrayal and the discovery of the existence of demons. The view of the panting, undone hunter above you, his muscles rippling alongside the intoxicating feeling within his loins, was grandiose to say the least. You admired his sweat slicked skin, running your fingers across the Herculean build of his abdomen.

A victorious, as well as dangerous, smirk formed on his lips.

He appeared to enjoy your cherishing gaze.

Reaching down to knead the skin on your buttocks, he drew you in for another round, his craving for your silken walls not yet sated.

You expected this evening to be dull and monotonous. And yet, your heart beat faster than it had its entire existence from carnal pleasures. Was this your way of saying thanks? With both your bodies interlocking, causing saccharine friction between silk sheets?

It appears so. But you didn’t mind.

And neither did Vergil.

Here’s hoping Dante wouldn’t hear the events of this hedonistic night as it continued until the end of your long journey.

#dmcweek #dmcweek2020 #devil may cry #vergil x reader #vergil #dante #vampire #masquerade #leviathan-writes

[jiminthestreets-bonesinthesheets]

Sounds of Someday - CH 2

Title: Sounds of Someday

Fandom: Supernatural

Pairing: Destiel 

Rating: E (eventually)

Tags: canon typical violence, character death, kind of cuz you know, nothing really dies in Supernatural, smut, fluff, bit of angst

Summary: Sam was dead, Cas was lost forever, and Dean's entire world had been turned upside down in less than an instant. He was alone, again, a typical Winchester ending, but god damn if that was how he was going to leave it. He was going to get Sam back, he was going to get Cas back, and he was going to fix everything that had fallen apart, and now he was going to do it all with twin babies and the king of hell back on his side. Season sixteen… here we go.

MASTERLIST

AO3

*** My works are not to be posted on any sites without my permission! But comments and reblogs are love! <3 Please and thanks!!

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Chapter two

     Jody Mills tapped the wooden spoon in her hand on the side of the pot, splattering her famous spaghetti sauce all over the white of her stove top. The doorbell rang again, followed by a persistent knocking as she scowled into the pot of sauce, angrily dropping the spoon into the empty sauce can beside her. She swiped her half full wine glass off the counter as the knocking and ringing continued, and she stormed towards the door wondering who would have the gaul to be so arrogant on a Sunday afternoon. 

     "I'm coming, I'm coming, keep your pants on, yeesh!" She called out, grumbling to herself about the arrogance of some people as she finally made it to the door. She quickly swung it open, ready to give the person on the other side a huge piece of her mind, but instead she only managed a stunned, "Dean?!"

     "Jody," he breathed. 

     "Dean Winchester! Where the hell have you been?!" Though it wasn't exactly the warm welcome Dean had been hoping for, he was still happy to have this nonetheless. "I haven't heard from you in ages, and now you just randomly show up on my doorstep, unannounced, on a Sunday afternoon? And those…" She looked down to the two car seats, one in each of his hands and pointed to them, "Are… are those babies? You have babies?!"

     He just nodded and looked to her with his still red rimmed eyes and tear stained cheeks. When she was finally able to take him fully in, getting past the initial shock of seeing him after so long with no word as to why, she realized there must be more to this then at first glance and quickly ushered him inside. "Let's get you all inside, I do believe I'm entitled to a very lengthy and detailed explanation of what the hell's going on here."

~~~~~~~~~~~

     "You were dead?" 

     Jody looked up at Dean from where she was sitting on the couch across from him, playing with the babies in the car seats where they sat on her coffee table. He just looked back at her with a solemn expression and nodded. 

     "Yeah, or at least I thought I was. Turns out I was just in some sort of Chuck induced fever dream for four years."

     "And Sam?"

     It wasn't missed on Jody the way Dean's entire being died with the question, the already dimming light completely fading from his eyes. She already had her answer. 

     "He's dead, he's back at Bobby’s right now," he confirmed with a nod, "and Cas is… he's gone too, the Empty took him."

     "When the hell did that happen?!"

     Dean just shook his head, thinking back. He wasn't sure if he should tell her, hell he wasn't even sure if he was ready to say it out loud himself. But he figured who better to bear it all to then Jody, a woman who had basically been his mom for years now. 

     So he nodded to himself, trying in a way to convince himself it was okay, then scrubbed a hand down his face as he looked up to her, "It, uh… it happened right after he allowed himself to be truly happy."

     She gave him a questioning look and asked, "And that was how?"

     "He…" He waited a beat, took a deep breath, then continued, "He told me he loved me."

     Jody's eyebrows shot nearly straight into her forehead, and her bottom lip shrugged out almost in that typical Winchester way. "Well, okay, yeah, that makes sense."

     "That… that makes sense?" He scrunched his face at her, "The hell is that supposed to mean?!"

     "Exactly what it sounds like," she chuckled lightly, "you two were always so oblivious. Everyone knew that you were both in deep for each other, the only two who didn't know it was you. At least one of you finally said something."

     "Yeah," he scrubbed his face again and sighed into his hands, "and as soon as he did, the Empty took him away. He never should have made that deal with the Empty. He let himself be happy, told me he loved me, and then to save me he let the Empty take him away from me for it. I didn't have a chance to say anything before he was gone. I just… I just stood there like an idiot."

     "But you're gunna save him right?" She asked, then turned a wide smile on one of the babies as they cooed at her. 

     "What?”

     “Oh don't you play me for a fool, Dean Winchester,” she eyed him from the side, “I know you, and I know that even if it takes everything you’ve got, you will find a way to bring back both your brother and Cas. You'll have your chance to talk to Cas about this, I'm sure of it.”

     “But that's just the thing Jody, I can't do that anymore,” he gestured to the two little ones in front of him, “I have these two now, kids, I can't go running around all reckless like I used to. I have to make sure I’m there for these two, I have to be a good dad.”

     “Seems you're off to a good start at least, thinking like that,” she smiled at him softly, “but I'm sure together we can find a way around this. We'll find a way to bring them back without having to go the familiar route of the typical Winchester sacrifice.”

     He just nodded, thankful but not really knowing exactly how to put in words just how much that all meant to him. 

     “And if you decided that you wanted to keep hunting after we got them both back, then we'll find a way around that too, I know it’s important to you.”

     She reached over and placed her hand on Dean's knee, giving it a little shake. He managed to give her the smallest hint of a smile, which she returned, then looked back to the two small bundles still cooing on her coffee table. 

     “I still can't believe that these two precious little munchkins are God and the Darkness. Two very horrible people we once tried to kill,” she looked up from the babies, “how… how do you feel about that, I mean, the last time I saw you, you were pissed at Chuck and now you're raising him.”

     “It's… an interesting development,” he stood from the chair across from Jody and moved to sit beside her, looking at both the babies. Chuck was still awake, wide eyed and looking at everything, and Amara was sound asleep in the car seat beside him. He smiled a little, lifting his hand to run his finger down Chuck's little cheek, “I know who they were, but they aren't that anymore, they're just babies now, human. No power, no memories, just little Chuck and Amara Winchester. A once God turned human and his now equally human twin sister.”

     “Wait, Winchester? I was wondering what you would be doing for last names.”

     “I don't really have much of a choice.” He reached into the side pocket of Chuck's seat, pulling out the envelope he had found earlier and handed it to Jody. 

     She gave him a curious look then turned to open it, dumping the contents into her lap. She rifled through, looking at every piece, eyes widening as she went deeper. 

     “Did Chuck do this?!”

     Dean nodded, “Just before he blew us back to reality.”

     “Birth certificates,” she lifted each piece as she said it, “he made both of them Winchesters, officially. Guess he thought of everything.”

     “Not everything,” Dean grumbled, “he zapped the three of us back here with no supplies for the babies, no formula, no diapers, no cribs, no place to live, and it's going to be hard to find a place by myself that's going to take an ex-hunter single dad with two kids and a dog.”

     “You're not going back to the Bunker?”

     “No,” he answered a bit too fast, then sighed, “no, not right now at least. I… I just can't right now after losing Sam and Cas.”

     She nodded, understanding how he felt. “Well you know, i've got some extra rooms in the house since the girls left. Claire’s never here aside from a quick visit to check in for the sake of my sanity between hunts, Patience is off to college so she'll be back in the summer but that's it, and Alex is still working at the hospital in town but she's now all moved in with her boyfriend. That gives you a room for yourself, a room for the twins, and then we still have a spare room for when the girls come to visit.”

     “Are you… you want me to move in here?”

     “Why not?” She shrugged.

     “Jody, I can't just move in with no notice like this, I don't wanna impose on you.”

     “Dean, honey, you are not imposing,” she placed a hand on his knee and gave it a light squeeze, “I am happy to help. So you, the babies, and your dog are all going to be living here starting now until further notice. And as for the rest, the supplies for the babies, I can also help you with that. I don't have anything left over from when my son was little, but it's nothing a quick trip to the store can't fix.”

     “Jody I can't, “ he shook his head, “I can't ask that much of you, and I've still got so much to deal with, and Sam… I’ve still got to bury Sam,” he whispered the last part, voice cracking, choking back a sob as he tried to hide it behind his hand.

     “Dean, please,” she leaned forward on the couch and looked into his eyes, “I want you here, and this isn't something you should have to go through alone. 

     “I… I don't know what to say.”

     “Don't say anything,” she smiled at him, “once we take care of Sam we’ll head to the store, grab what we need for the babies, then you can grab what you need from the Bunker and get settled in here.”

     He just nodded, staring at the floor unable to actually look at jody right now, “Thanks, Jody, this really means a lot.”

     “We’ll get through this, Dean, okay, one step at a time.” He just nodded again as Jody gave him one last squeeze then stood and said, “Let's get to the store so these babies have food, then we'll head over to Bobby’s… and take care of Sam.” 

     She left him to sit on the couch for a few minutes, to think over everything and have a little time to process, time she was sure he hadn't allowed himself to have yet, and started gathering her things to wait for him outside.

~~~~~~~~~~~ 

     Dean pulled up to the all too familiar junk yard that was home for him once upon a time. Home for him and his little brother all those years ago when John was too busy hunting to be a father, too riled up in his revenge and anger to be a dad, too misguided and self centered to be a parent. But all for the better, Dean thought as he drove through the maze of piled up cars, because they found something better. 

     In those old worn down walls they found a man more worthy of being their father then John ever was. A man who actually cared for them not just as children, but even later in life when they showed up lost and alone on his doorstep. Even on his dying breath he loved them like the sons he considered them to be. In those old worn down walls they felt true love.

     He pulled the impala to a stop outside the burned down and broken remains of Bobby's old place. He remembered how he felt the day he drove in to find the place up in flames, after the Leviathans had destroyed it, killed Bobby, ruined their lives. Dean thought they had taken everything away from them. But he realized soon after, when they buried Bobby there, that as soon as he stepped foot on the soil outside that burnt up mess, it was still home. 

     There may not have been much of a house left, and Bobby was gone for good, but the feeling that Dean always felt when he was there never left. It was something the Leviathans or anything else could ever take away from him. The memories, the love, that feeling of home. And in the end, Dean couldn't think of a better place to bury his brother. Sammy would want to be home. 

     He got out of the car, breathing in the sweet Sioux Falls air he loved so much, and walked to the back doors to start getting the babies car seats out of the back as Jody drove up and parked beside him. He got both seats out of the impala and placed them on the ground, watching as Jody pulled the new double stroller they just bought out of the back of her van, and pushed it over to Dean. 

     He lifted Chuck first, holding his seat over the front of the stroller, testing and turning it a few times before he asked, "How…?"

     Jody just laughed and reached for the car seat, "Here, it goes facing you, and just clips in like this "

     At the simple little snap Dean eyed the stroller warily and reached out to give the car seat handle a little test jiggle, "Is this safe? It doesn't seem safe at all, I mean that was too easy!"

     "It's perfectly safe, Dean, you insisted we got the most top of the line everything for the babies, and according to the clerk at the store, and the seven articles you read on the way there, that's exactly what we got. And the articles said it was tested and proven the best stroller in America right?" She laughed as he just nodded sheepishly. "Don't worry so much, Dean, you're gunna be a fine daddy. Now you try clipping Amara into the bottom part of the stroller."

     It took him a few tries, but eventually he had both babies clipped in and he was pushing the stroller towards the back of the house. The pire he had already set up before going to Jody was still there, Sam wrapped in a white sheet in the center. He stopped for a moment, not really able to move or breathe as he just stared at Sam. This wasn't what he wanted, this was never what he wanted, he had what he wanted and it turned out to be a stupid fake reality. Everything was falling apart at the seams. 

     Jody lifted her hand and squeezed his shoulder, urging him forwards. He nodded and walked closer to Sam with Jody by his side, and after making sure the babies were at a very safe distance from the pire, he pulled his lighter out of his pocket. He shifted it from hand to hand for a moment, staring at the dirt, trying to find the right words to say.

     "Well, Sammy," he choked out, trying to hold back tears, "I'm sorry. I tried, I really tried, but I couldn't help you. But mark my words, I will find a way to bring you back. I promise you."

     He waited another moment before he nodded to himself, then tossed the lighter and took a step back to stand with Jody. They watched as the pire lite up, standing side by side, and there was no stopping the tears now while he watched his brother burn. 

     "This isn't permanent, you know," she said from beside Dean, "it's only temporary. We will find a way to make this right again. We always have."

     He took a deep, shuddering breath and wiped away the tears rolling down his cheeks. Jody shifted over and wrapped an arm around him, "When you're ready, we’ll head to the bunker and get what you need. Then we'll get back home, get the cribs set up in their room, and get you and the babies settled."

     "Yeah," he cleared his throat and turned to look at Jody, "let's get the babies home."

~~~~~~~~~~~ 

     Dean stood in the entryway to the Bunker, his legs unable to move. This was the last place they were all together. The last place that he, Cas, and Sam were all together. It was also the place where he lost Cas. Where he confessed his love to Dean, where he stood stock still and did nothing, said nothing as Cas was taken from his life again. It's where he spiralled after that, falling to his rage and anger, feeling the loss of Cas again though this time it weighed differently. He knew Cas loved him, had loved him all those years together when he'd been too afraid to say anything. Losing Cas always ripped his heart out, but knowing how Cas felt, that his hidden feelings for the angel were reciprocated, knowing that they had lost so many years when they could have been together, it made the pain infinitely worse. And he felt that pain renewed as he stood just before the threshold to the place that held his worst nightmares inside. And what was worse was that now he stood here alone. No brother… no Cas, just himself and the bad memories.

     "You ready?"

     He turned to Jody who was now standing beside him, holding both car seats. He jolted out of his flashing memories of losing Cas just beyond this door, took one of the seats from her, sighed and said, "As ready as I can be. Let's just get this over with."

~~~~~~~~~~~

     Dean wanted to spend as little time in the Bunker as possible. The bad memories as of late outweighed the good and all he wanted was to get in and get out. So after putting the sleeping babies in the lounge, he rattled off a list of things for Jody to find, and the two split up to cover more ground faster. And with the promise from Jody that if ever they needed something else from the Bunker, she would come get it so that Dean never had to come back after this. She could tell it was really hurting him to even be in here for this short of a time. 

     After about an hour the two met back up in the map room, shoving their findings into the few duffels Dean grabbed from his old room, when a pounding at the door had them both frozen and silent. Eyes wide, Dean looked to Jody for an answer who just shook her head, as lost as he was. 

     The pounding came again and this time Dean's heart felt a little jolt of hope and he perked up slightly. Afterall, it had happened before so why not now? "Cas?!"

     "Oi! Someone open up will ya!"

     He sighed, but why would he be so lucky. 

     He and Jody both exchanged unimpressed glances as Dean headed up the stairs to open the door, though just enough to stick his head out. 

     "What do you want, Crowley?! I am not in the mood!"

     "Easy, Squirrel, easy," he held both hands up, "not here to bother you, just came to find out why in the bloody hell the world suddenly jolted back to life after four years. Figured if anyone had anything to do with it, it would be one of you lot. Gunna let me in?"

     Dean just rolled his eyes and backed away to let him in. "You could have just snapped your way in like you usually do."

     "Didn't want to be rude now, Squirrel.". He strolled in, hands in his pockets and looked around. He eyed Jody at the bottom of the stairs and raised a brow. "Where’s Moose?"

     "Dead."

     "Ah," he nodded, seemingly unfazed, "and your devilishly handsome boyfriend?"

     Dean shook a little at the mention of Cas, but answered through gritted teeth, "He's in the Empty, for good this time."

     It didn't pass Crowley that he never even bothered to deny the boyfriend comment but he went on anyway as they headed down the stairs together. "You seem fairly untroubled by the fact that I am indeed alive. Last we saw each other I "killed myself"," he turned to use air quotes at Dean who rolled his eyes again, "back when we were fighting my old compadre in the Endverse world."

     "Yeah well, after the last four or so years that I've had, nothing really phases me anymore."

     "Assuming this has something to do with the world being frozen. Glad you're back by the way. The world was boring while Chucky had it frozen. No deals to be made, no fun to be had."

     "Where were you all that time, huh?" He turned Crowley back to look at him, "How did you not die, what did you do?"

     "Ah well, that. I had a contingency plan in place in case one of you clots should be my end."

     "Of course you did, what was this brilliant plan?"

     "Pulled myself a Voldemort." He smiled smugly at Dean who just furrowed his brows. 

     "You… what?!"

     "I put a small piece of myself in some sorry sap down in New Mexico before Lucifer pulled his second tantrum of the decade, and after I killed myself I was able to use that piece of myself to be resurrected. As for where I've been, it takes time to recover from such a trauma you know, so surf, sun, and sandals." 

     "I, you… did you just make a Harry Potter reference?" He was still stuck on the first part of the conversation. 

     And though Dean was confused, Crowley looked almost impressed, "Didn't take you for a Potterhead, Squirrel."

     "Of course I've watched Harry Potter," he scoffed, "Hermione kicks ass! She'll be a good role model for the kids when they watch it with me when they're older.” 

     "Kids..? Yours? You have kids," he turned, looking around the room for little rugrats tearing the place apart, then back to Dean, " Did I miss something?!"

     "You have no idea-" Crying came from the room behind them and Dean just closed his eyes and let out a full body sigh, "Damn it, I was hoping they'd stay asleep till we got home."

     He left for a moment then came back in the room bouncing a tiny baby in one arm, and carrying another car seat in his other hand. 

      When Dean walked up to Crowley he had to laugh a bit despite everything that had happened in the last twenty-four hours. He was sure he had never seen such a look of genuine confusion on his face as he darted his eyes back and forth between the babies. "Is that…?"

     Dean just nodded, "Chuck and Amara."

     Crowley walked over to Dean, still a little shook that he was looking at two creatures he used to fear once upon a time. When he was close enough he bent down slightly, looking into Chuck’s car seat, "Capitol G, look at you now," then up to Amara in his arms, "and the Darkness. And now you're their… father?"

     "Apparently," he placed Chuck’s seat down by his feet and took the outstretched bottle from Jody as she came back from the kitchen, "they didn't give me much choice. Just fixed reality, put me back on Earth, sent Sam to Heaven, and just poofed themselves into human babies with paperwork saying they’re Winchesters."

     "And how do we feel about that?" Crowley asked, "You're now father to the creature who made your life a living hell for years, who tried more than once to kill you, and attempted to destroy the Earth. Doesn't it bother you to now be caring for the little hellraiser?"

     Dean shrugged. Sure, he'd thought about all that, thought about how angry Chuck had made him, the things he did near the end, and Amara was no saint in her own way. But when Dean looked down at Amara in his arms, and Chuck still sleeping soundly in the car seat at his feet, he found himself smiling as he answered Crowley's question, "It doesn't bother me. It may have bothered me for a split second when everything was being thrown in my face all at once with Sam's death, my reality, the babies. But then I realized that even though this is Chuck and Amara, God and the Darkness, in a way it's not. They have no memories of what they did before they started their lives over as humans, they're just babies, humans now. And I'm going to make sure they're loved and cared for, always, as every baby should be."

     "My," Crowley raised a brow as he stared at Dean, a little mixed between impressed and speechless, "that's very noble of you. I myself don't think I’d be able to do the same."

     "You couldn't even raise your own son, Crowley. What was his name… Gavin? That kid was a mess because of you," Dean rolled his eyes, "I wouldn't expect you to suddenly grow a heart."

     "Glad we're on the same page then," he smirked, then walked a little closer to Dean, looking him up and down once. Dean eyed him cautiously, watching his movements, then he looked back at Dean after one last look over, "although, Dean Winchester with babies, very… dilf of you, Dean."

     Dean scoffed, "In your dreams, Crowley."

     He just smirked over at Dean, and said in a smooth, deep voice, just barely above a whisper, "Every night," with a wink.

     Dean gaped at him, mouth opening and closing a few times, but no words came out. 

     Crowley then knelt down, same devilish smirk on his face as before, and looked into Chuck's car seat. "Well, now little ones, how about Uncle Crowley helps Daddy get back your other Daddy and Uncle Moose?"

     "Okay, first of all, Uncle Crowley?" He just shrugged up at Dean as he continued, "And second, why do you wanna help all of a sudden? What's the catch?"

     "No catch, no tricks, no deals. I just want to help that's all." Dean didn't even say anything, just stared him down until he rolled his eyes and tossed his head back, "Alright, fine. I'll admit, you're not my favourite people on Earth, but it's painfully boring up here without the Winchesters around to stir up trouble. And I figure I scratch your back…"

     "Cut the crap, Crowley, what do you want?"

     "I'm not asking for much here, but when I… died," he drawled, "of course all of hell assumed my throne was up for grabs and gave it to my mother of all people, and when the time comes, you could help me get it back. Besides, I think you could benefit from having friends in low places, don't you?"

     Dean sighed and shook his head. He knew himself that Crowley had gotten them out of a jam more than once, and it was always helpful to have the King of Hell on their side in tough times. But he’d be the last person to ever admit that out loud. Especially in front of Crowley. 

     "If you can get Cas back, and Sam, I'll help you get whatever you want."

     "Jolly good show. So we've got a deal then?" He stuck his hand out to Dean waiting for him to take it, but Dean just glared at him, so he pulled it back and laughed, "Joking, of course."

     "Right," Dean huffed, then turned to sit in a chair while he continued feeding Amara, "where do we start?"

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A/N: So there’s chapter two of my fix it fic, let me know what you guys think! And if anyone wants to be tagged for future posts or destiel fics, let me know <3

Tags: @thebridgekid @frostingsfics @frostedej @clairewinchester14 @kitsunecastiel 

#supernatural #destiel #destiel fanfic #dean winchester #castiel #dean x castiel #dean and cas #dean/cas #dean winchester/castiel #dean winchester x castiel #sam winchester #supernatural fanfiction #supernatural fix it #supernatural 15 #supernatural spoilers #jody mills #daddy dean #daddy cas #uncle sam #uncle crowley #Crowley #ill fix it #smut #fluff #angst #happy ending #sounds of someday #chapter two

[reigning-rhapsody]

Rotten Pleas

TW FOR canon death, violence, metaphorical violence

Hollander tells Genesis that Angeal is no more. Genesis doesn’t want to accept that his beloved is gone and one with the lifestream.

“What… what do you mean, dead?”

Genesis had been second guessing himself on this plan, anyway. On this whole deal they had. The professor promised, he swore that he could cure him from his degradation if Genesis would just help him first, then he’d cure him, then he’d cure Angeal.

“Dead, killed by… what’s his name again? The damn loudmouth?”

Genesis swore something, too. That if there was no cure, and he would die, he would take the world with him. Primarily, his world, for being separated from his angel would just be unbearable. He would receive the Goddess’ gift in the aftermath, healing him from decaying and falling apart any further, shielding him from eternal pain and agony- like it was supposed to be in the first place.

And Angeal would be with him, right there, by his side. Even if it would just be for a few moments until the blood-red angel was separated from his monochrome counterpart, one descending into hell, the other ascending to heaven, he would still be watching over him. Like he always did, even when Genesis stopped needing it at all.

“You’re… lying. You’re a fucking liar, Hollander!”

Genesis Rhapsodos was dying, slowly, but definitely. Quietly, but surely. And he anticipated it to be in his beloved’s arms after a heroic battle, saving his life and giving his. He had pictured it, written about it, told Angeal that, no, he never, ever, wanted to die anywhere but in his strong embrace, the salty, mourning raindrops coming from Mako-clouds hitting his face. It was the perfect end to his story, the final act.

It would have been.

“Oh, I wish! Couldn’t even get a sample before they started fightiー”

A punch right to the side of his face cut the scientist off. He had not time to retaliate or defend himself when he was grabbed by the collar, laying on the ground holding his sore cheek and letting a fleeting thought roam around his head about the tooth he missed,

“SHUT UP! You’re wrong- you’re…”, Genesis yelled at him, eyebrows furrowed, teeth gritting looking dangerously close to shattering one another with how much pressure was applied to the white pearls that usually showed in a confident smile. His breathing was steady, yet fast-paced, every pant exhaled in an attempt to steady himself with his fists in Hollander’s shirt.

The crimson warrior swallowed hard, violently shaking his head. “He’s alive.”

“He isnー” “He is!” Genesis retorted with a, once more, raised voice, quivering with the rage that filled his slender, tall frame. The body he held up was discarded back onto the ground with force, the THUNK created from the head hitting the ground satisfying the sadist SOLDIER, but only in the slightest.

Genesis paced around the room, chewing on his lower lip as he walked back and forth to follow the trail his thoughts raced. Then he stopped dead in his tracks, pools of cerulean focused on the rejected scientist, “If he is indeed not alive anymore…”, he began in a slow, with danger induced voice. Slow steps moved over to the table he sat at, a book residing on it, and so did a blood-clad blade which Genesis took in his right hand, “Then, tell me, how do you know?”

Silence filled the room, minus the bubbles traveling to the surface in the tubes full of Mako and the experiments soaking in them and Hollander’s pained groans and hisses. “Tell me!”, Genesis insisted with a yell, raising his rouge rapier and walking closer with a few quick steps. The with wine dyed edge of the magical blade was right by the professor’s neck, and the man should know very well that every wrong word, move, the wrong moment to inhale a breath could cost him his life. He did.

“The… the copies. The Angeal copies, he fused with them. The boy defeated him, God damn killed him! When he was gone, I checked, but his soul already returned to the Lifestream.”

Genesis’ breath hitched, mouth agape as they came out in arrhythmic puffs. His hands shook- his whole body was trembling, overflowing with emotions he’s used to convey and hold back bundles up behind acting skills and charisma. Plush lips were quivering until the corners of them twitched upwards into a shaky smile. It grew wider and wider, his eyebrows furrowed, eyes hooded, nearly pinched shut with an unbearable, indescribable and incomparable sadness to them- but he was smiling.

And then he was chuckling, breathlessly. Just a few weak quirks of his shoulders that soon turned into audible giggling with little to no rhythm at all to someone who’s a musician. It turned into full on cackling, hollering, even, bubbling out of him uncontrollably as his knees buckled and his free hand clutched his chest. The dam holding back crystal shimmering floodwaters broke at once, letting waterfalls of regret, of nothing but a deep pain rooting in his heart, spreading, digging its thorns into his arteries and blood vessels like a cordyceps infecting him, slowly, but definitely. Quietly, but surely.

His laughter was now freakish- hell, maybe he was the freak here. It wasn’t a poetic play of the epic he loved, just another fucked up story of some freakshow, and he was the main attraction. Genesis dropped to his knees, unable to bear the burden of standing any second longer as his lunatically loud laughter mixed with sobs broke down into wailing, screams of the pain the restrictions in his chest caused him. He succumbed to the earth until his forehead hovered right above the tiled floor, the huge tears that formed rivers down his pale, freckled cheeks recreating the lake they once were within his decaying, rotting body on the ground.

Genesis panted, gasping for air between violent weeping and choked back sobs, almost sounding like he was hyperventilating. Maybe he was, who knows. Maybe he was dying, even, slowly, but definitely. Quietly, but surely.

Brutally, but deserved.

#black magic blazing | ic #book of scintillation | writing #TW death #TW violence #monochrome dualism | ship #burning passion | shipping #gengeal #banorashipping #angeal hewley #genesis rhapsodos #have some angst i wrote for my angeal :) #nim u asked i delivered that's how i work bro

[lady-plantagenet]

♦ for all three sons of York! 😄

Asked via the Headcanon Meme: https://lady-plantagenet.tumblr.com/post/634584063141920769/headcanon-meme.

Darling I apologise for the delay 😭😂, hope you enjoy this semi-historical train of thought. You indulge me xx ☺️☺️ (rest of you get ready for a similar level of uncalled for ridiculous levels of detail)

♦ - Quirks/Hobbies Headcanons

~Edward IV~

Ok, one more grounded in reality and some more Headcanonish:

So, in Lord Edward Lytton-Bulwer’s ‘Last of the Barons’ I uncovered a fascinating (and primary-sourced) fact about our Edward: He engaged in international trades of his own. Apparently, he had his own ships and vessels that would jettison wool to and fro Burgundy. The trading classes, with whom Edward was always on great terms, were initially thrilled and felt a bit of sense of connection because of this. However, it became a bit of a bother when his self-given exemption from custom and duties gave him an unfair competitive advantage. Since reading that, I’ve always seen Edward as someone whose hobbies revolve around these types of matters rather than military ones. I really headcanon trading as a genuine hobby of his. With that, I would also connect other practical as opposed to artistic or conventional pastimes. I always saw Elizabeth Woodville as the big account manager (based on how she ran her crown property), so I headcanon Edward as liking to meddle in the external more merchantile matters, which translates to enjoying himself by making wagers/bets with those around him and always winning whether it be on personal matters or businesses (sometimes even in appropriately on women of the court). Not to mention a talent at games like cards and dice. If he lived today he would be the grand master of monopoly 😂. He wasn’t the most intellectual of men (he was at one point planning on defunding Eton College to get funds), but I always headcanoned he was pretty strong at maths (which was part of a nobleman’s education, but at that time it was mastery of the arts that granted you the reputation of a smartman). Of course, this fits in with his historical interest in alchemy, which I headcanon he was also partly interested in because of the potential of it yielding gold, but upon his marriage, the mystical side beckoned him too.

~ George Duke of Clarence~

I’ve done one for him here, which you can check out. But hell, do I have a lot of headcanons about him so I’ll do another here.

Our George was by all accounts a talented demagogue. His performance in the inheritance dispute indeed adds stock to what chronicles such as Rous Rolls and Crowland have said about his oratory and reasoning talents (which allegedly were rival to Edward’s own). Though some personality quirks could make him appear like a bit of a (popular Headcanon nowadays) himbo: penchant for airing out his grievances, flamboyancy and a great pride which combined with a famous sense of humour leads to instances where it verges into innappropriate levels of macabre (his own death being the prime example).

N.b: and yes I do in fact believe he was drowned in a barrel of wine and by his choosing. I don’t need Shakespeare to tell me this, I need only look at the strong evidence proposing this: a) Margaret Pole’s barrel charm, b) The fact that his head was reported as attached to his body when his body was exhumed centuries later. Drowning in a bath is another possibility, but then again, it was famously a womanly execution and I doubt a man as self-important as George would have been alright with the association, c) The fact that contemporaries such as Mancini (among others) have stated that this is the manner in which he died. Shakespeare’s play just further reflects that at that time (as in closer to 1478 then we are now) this was the consensus. Not to mention that in Richard III he wasnt technically drowned but stabbed and then thrown in a barrel. Arguments against center around ‘this seems just a bit too crazy’ but stop there.

So where was I? Oh yes. So in spite of that, I headcanon teenage George as very resentful of those who thought him bumbling, giddy and unserious (young Richard especially), because well, he was very touchy about his pride and saw himself as a prince worthy of deference and gravity (multitude of evidence for this). His charming nature never left him even as he grew bitter but instead he learned to harness it into a mask in order to induce others into error and subestimation. Indeed, much of his earlier successes hinged on the fact that Edward didn’t expect that level of planning (and betrayal) from him. Nevertheless, he never hid his talents completely, he had a very astute legal mind and I headcanon him as having a hobby for the law since he was a young boy and realised how useful this knowledge would prove in time and loved it on an intellectual level as he engaged with debates on matters from trusts laws to constitutional canonical and jurisprudential matters, first with his tutors, then his brothers, then Warwick and then his chief supporters and friends at Warwick and Tutbury when he became a magnate post-1472. Of course, I feel like this fits in with the impression of an argumentative and opinionated man as exuded from the historical figure. I also headcanon him as being delighted to have had Caxton’s Games and Playes of Chess (1474) dedicated to him (becoming one of his patron around this time historically). It remains the second book printed in English (first being Anthony’s dictes and sayings of philosophers - I think) and I headcanon him as doing the head in of all those around him with discussions and debates around the book’s message XD.

~Richard III~

Richard gets a reputation in fiction (where other people get most of their headcanons from) as being extremely serious. I personally share this Headcanon and I feel it was the most striking difference between him and his brothers’ personalities. I think he had very little ‘quirks’ as it were. Though there was this author (haven’t read the book) Jonathan Hughes who somehow manages to write an entire book about Richard’s interesting divination. He draws onto some vaguely paganistic symbols among Richard III’s choice of clothing and such, and posits that he had some interest in pre-conquest Northern religious culture. Anne Neville who by all accounts seemed to have had some interest in mysticism (read and discussed Ghostly Grace by a German mystic with her mother-in-law at length) I headcanon bonded with Richard over conversing on these types of topics. Therefore, I headcanon him as having a (very very lowkey because, as I said, he took great care in presenting himself as conventional and unsuspicious) hobby for northern paganisms, myths, prophecies and the like. I think it would explain what appears to be the historical figures ‘apparent hypocritical personality: Only banning benevolences after first trying to acquire them, having Shore pay penance when he himself had fathered bastards (John probably during his first year of marriage if Kendall’s reasoning is right) and aspiring and holding others to strict chivalric values of which he often fell short. The signs of stress found in isotopic analysis on his bones however makes me think that he was aware of these contradictions. Of course, he could have been stressed around the time of his death for other obvious reasons, but I’m not getting into that here. I suppose my headcanon of him as very utilitarian (yes I know Bentham came centuries later but, you know, he didn’t exactly invent this manner of thought) in his beliefs classifies as a quirk? Haha. As for hobbies, I think his scoliosis made him eschew some of the more physically demanding types of sports, so I see him as fairly bookish and like his brother George, extremely interested in the law as a hobby (though nowadays we wrongly see it as a rather vocational discipline). Though he shared the interest in matters of jurisprudence with George (about which they both strongly disagreed Richard taking the less fiscally conservative stance), he was more interested in criminal law matters (which checks out as he had made reforms on the criminal law and bail). I think he was genuinely concerned with justice, just a bit self-contradictory in his approach and diverse in his spirituality (the last more headcanonish)

#to everyone: this meme is still open ☺️☺️ #there you go sorry sorry for the delay #but as you can see I do love my detail #a bygone era #tagged that for AO3 future chapters reference #george of clarence #edward iv #richard iii #🍷❤️ #will add read more function soon #basically I love them all #I love making fun of them but nothing will convince me that they weren’t indeed talented young men full of talents and smarts #which by all accounts accords with historical fact #george plantagenet

[saiyuri-dahlia]

Kurama

Why I like them: Everything...being a fox, the rose motif, the actual roses, long hair, he loves his mommy so much and he’s gonna do good by her despite being a top-tier thief and probably on multiple wanted lists in Spirit + Demon World, the carnivorous murder plants, the kick ass violins he got in his “Nightmare” character song, the fact that he’s down to play tricks with Kuwabara just as soon as Yusuke wakes up from not-dying again, and his ride or die friendship with the entirety of Team Urameshi. Kurama is a thousands of years old fox hanging out with two middle schoolers and a murderous rabid raccoon that attacked him on the street that he decided to take home and patch up. He’s pretty much permanently in control of the Team brain cell —Genkai’s test proves that. I love characters that fight more with their wits than overwhelming brawn. I love how his looks really would deceive in that if you looked at Team Urameshi and were asked who was one of the most frightening, nightmare fuel-inducing, cutthroat ex-cons and it’s the softly-smiling pretty boy in pink holding the rose.

He was quite possibly my first anime crush—either him or Sailor Uranus, both voiced by Megumi Ogata and quite possibly the key that unlocked my bisexual magic. In retrospect, falling in love with the long-haired pretty boy that’s often mistaken for a girl should’ve been a clue to myself that I may find more than one gender attractive, but it took two more decades for that thought to sink in.

Why I don’t: As much as I love him, it frustrates me to no end that he’s always got to have his secrets and gotta be cryptic in his replies. Why couldn’t he reveal to his mother that he was a fox demon?

Favorite episode (scene if movie): There’s just something so satisfying about Kurama’s fight with Elder Toguro and him putting a fitting end to the soulless fuck.

Favorite season/movie: Pretty much all because I like his character arc through the series. But I do like Kurama during the Dark Tournament because he’s surrounded by these arenas full of lower class demons spewing insults at him and he just doesn’t give a fuck and he’s a little indignant at being called a traitor by demons who probably have never shown loyalty to anyone. And you know that on the inside that he’s like, “Do you know who I am? Even without my full potential, I will murder you.” It’s like a mob of ants yelling at an anteater who has five essays to write and Finals when he comes back from Rigged Death Fight Island.

Favorite line: How dare you make me choose between all his gems… But the first that comes to mind is one of his earlier lines: "Sorry, I don't have the time to be arrested." It kinda summarizes him in a lovable rogue kind of way—polite, busy with his own plans, and not always law-abiding.

Favorite outfit: This feels like a minefield, given how it’s fun to make fun of Kurama’s fashion choices, lol. I really like the green variation of his battle robes, the one that has the teal wave pattern on his torso

OTP: Kurahi is a cornerstone of my heart, but over time I’ve come to love KuroKura and Kuwama. Really, I can see Kurama paired with any of the main guys, including himself. He’s very shippable with a lot of the cast.

Brotp: I guess, Kurama and Touya. Every brotp can be made an otp with a kiss though.

Head Canon: Later in life, Kurama has to get glasses. Mostly because I think he’d look good in glasses.

Unpopular opinion: As much as 15 year old me would protest, Kurama would be a terrible boyfriend. He may be the romantic soldier but he’s full of secrets, half-truths, lies, and backhanded compliments. He’s not kind and he can be a bit of a jerk even to his dear friends. The guy can sell you piss and convince you that it’s a cup of fine wine with a heavenly smile while he’s calling you a moron and ripped off every valuable you’ve got on your person. The guy is a cruel and terrifying as he is beautiful and, given the fandom’s consensus on how hot Kurama is, that’s saying something.

A wish: Let Mama Shiori know you’re a fox. Let her tell you that she has known all along, because she has spirit awareness. Let her see your four long silver tails and hear your yip yips. Rest your furry head in her lap and let her pet your head because you are her good boy who is a fox.

An oh-god-please-dont-ever-happen: Him getting old and dying especially him dying alone or dying early because of his demon soul in a human body merger situation. Fans always depict Kuwabara dying first, but what if Kurama’s more likely to die first??  Or him after Shiori passes. I’m not a fan of seeing a fox with a mourning heart.

5 words to best describe them: captivating, intelligent, precise, horrifying, inscrutable

My nickname for them: The First Love, My Heart, Foxboy, Undercover Furry

#saiyuri socializes #yyh #kurama #anonymous #thank you for the ask!