oliveofthenight

[oliveofthenight]

dude I used to think I had crushes every time I thought someone looked good cuz I had no idea that romantic attraction was more than just thinking they look good (aka aesthetic attraction)

aesthetic attraction: confusing aspecs since the beginning of time

#REAL AND FUCKING TRUE I SWEAR TO FUCK #aromantic

[oliveofthenight]

jason todd × masc/male reader. | hearts coming.

SUMMARY: a fic about comforting Jason while/after he has an emotional breakdown. WARNINGs: physical contact, && implied suicidal ideation. WORD COUNT: 2700+ NOTEs: second person && minor plot. this insert is more of a calm, gentle type. [no terms and he/him pronouns used to refer to the insert/reader.]

Somehow he ended up missing an apartment in some broken-down complex more than his past. Then again, it wasn't exactly the scenery that he dragged himself back over for.

Jason hates how weak he is sometimes. It's what got him killed; it's what's choking him up now.

That's what it seems like his old man is always so close to saying anyway. Too reckless and violent that Jason might as well not even be on the streets, with an eye kept on him at all times like he's a dog waiting to go feral. And maybe he's right.

He slams the door shut, and the sound rings out as his hand stays in a tight fist around the knob. He's alone again, and the only thing he can hear is himself.

The sniffles slipping out only make him wish he stayed dead longer. He gives himself a second to steady his breathing, taking in heavy breaths that only serve to send his heart into a racing fit.

He stares ahead, and there's nothing but darkness in the stuffed apartment. It almost seems out of place. It was abnormal not to find any figures sticking out among the shadows. By now, someone's would've called out, but either they're still watching or he's just imagining things again.

Finally, he slides down against the wood until he's cradled at the edge of the door. Make himself just a little less pathetic by doing it himself rather than letting his legs give out underneath.

Each breath doesn't even seem to matter as he ends up choking on it, and he only makes it harder for himself by wrapping one hand around the front of his neck, trying to muffle the sobs threatening to break out.

Through his helmet, the sounds that do manage to pass through the modulator distort in a way where he just hates himself more.

It shouldn't be this easy.

He's already faced Bruce so many times before; he should finally be able to handle one confrontation without breaking down afterwards. It's not enough that Jason has to endlessly plan out ways to be ahead of him; Bruce's voice alone is enough to break his composure.

It doesn't stop. Nothing stops, and so he gets busy calling himself a dumbass as his sight gets more blurry.

It isn't enough.

He takes in a deep breath just as he pulls his hand back. The two of them wrap around his helmet and throw the thing aside. He doesn't even flinch at how loudly it crashes onto the floor. If anything, he should've thrown it at himself and let the pain seep in so it could replace the sensation of just how tight his chest feels.

A hand climbs down and digs itself into the front of his shirt, and he wants to rip out his own heart right then and there.

Even with how hard they're shaking, he rubs leather gloves against his eyes as his palms dig in. His hands drag across his face and back. He wants to bury them in his eyes; they feel like they're burning anyway.

Eventually, they end up in his curls, tracing at the roots. They stay there as he takes in heavy breaths, but even that doesn't last long. He grabs at them, pulling his head forward into his knees while his body is tugged closer.

A familiar voice calls out from further inside. His chest gets that more tighter, but he still drags his head back up.

"Jason?"

And it's one of the few that he doesn't feel like immediately blocking out.

Another call follows, closer now while the building itself creaks under every nearing step. "You home?'

A switch gets flipped. The bulb flickers a couple times to life before staying lit.

From there, Jason keeps blinking away tears as his eyes get used to the sudden light. Just barely does it seep through to the entrance, around a corner where he finds your shadow coming in closer from a wall ahead.

He doesn't even bother to respond; he keeps to himself as the footsteps get more clear.

Then he looks back to the helmet, where his blurred reflection stares back at him. Before you're standing there in front of him, he quickly snatches it back up.

He shoves it back over his head, his hair still out of place and thus getting in the way of the eye holes, all the while he's biting down his own tongue.

Slowly, he pushes his back to the door to brace himself as he gets up.

And there he sees him, one of the few excuses he has to keep living, a main spearhead in convincing him to even deal with it anymore other than his sheer stubbornness. It's unhealthy as hell, he knows. Nothing about him has ever been.

His eyes catch yours through the helmet. His breathing breaks into short bursts again, following his rapid heart as he tries to hold back any noises threatening to climb out.

"You okay, baby?"

They begin to get watery again. He shuffles around in place, trying to cover himself with the leather of his clothes rubbing against each other. One of his hands come around to rub at the back of his neck, trying to relieve the ache building up.

He doesn't trust his voice enough for it not to crack in the moment, so he just nods. "Mhm."

Whatever the reason, you close the distance, and he's practically cornered at the door as he tries to stand tall. He shoves his hands away into pockets. When you're close enough to get a better look at him, he tries to make the shaking less visible, forcing himself to stay still as stone.

"You didn't call. I didn't think you'd be back so early." He wouldn't have been intelligible. "Did something happen?"

All he can do is shake his head, barely able to keep it up to look back at you.

"No."

Barely a second goes by, and as time skips by, so does his heart when you suddenly get closer. When a hand comes up to brush against the helmet, cradling a side, he instantly leans into the palm.

Maybe it's all worth it.

"Well, I'm glad you're back safe, at least."

And that alone was able to break open the walls. A sob breaks through, and before he can stop it, his heaving becomes all that more clear. He regrets coming back home at all. Even with his own shame tearing away at his act, it's the arms wrapping around him that's making it worst out of everything.

Your hand stays there against the rough metal and moves along with him as his head falls forward, forcing his gaze down onto his boots. The blood splattered across them from earlier on in the night seems to be drying over the leather and knotted laces.

The hand ends at the back of his helmet.

His cries only grow louder as he grabs at it, wanting to smash his own head right then and there.

Your other hand goes around one of his arms, gently trying to push them back down as his ball into fists.

You speak quickly: "Woah, hey. What's wrong?"

He puts his other hand over the eye holes, like that alone could stop the tears from falling, covering the white lens. He doesn't care if you can't see them; forcing you to listen to the sound alone is enough to make him wish he was in the ground.

"C'mon, baby, talk to me."

Choking on air, he can't even bring himself to say anything, but mumbled sentences broken up by his own hiccups. He doesn't even know what he's saying.

He doesn't move much in fear of hitting you by accident because of how erratic his movements are. Air is just barely coming through, and he manages to focus on your voice enough for it not to get carried away with every other sound.

"Just breathe; I got you."

Jason nearly collapses into your arms when they get a better grip around him, right underneath his own. His arms wrap around you just the same, tight, as he leans forward to bury his head into the side of your neck.

"No one's going to hurt you."

Gloves dig into the back of your shirt, grabbing a handful of the fabric as he trembles in place.

The sobbing only grows louder as his head brushes against yours, the sound distorting through the helmet.

His grip feels like he's close to just tearing the fabric right, relenting every little bit just to instantly grab it back up again so his hands can move. The knuckles still feel sore, and he doesn't want to take off the gloves anytime soon because he's getting sick of seeing the color red.

Your voice is quieter this time around, and he almost doesn't hear you over himself. "I got you."

His lids shut together tight, and he tries to take in a deep breath again, shuddering over you.

"I am– I'm gonna–" The words get caught up in a choked-out whine: "God. Gonna fucking stab him—"

He was either going to get cut off by himself again or by you. The latter comes in instead.

"Who are you talking about?"

Instead of responding, he tugs you harder against him. The contact itself is enough to calm the trembling a bit.

He's almost using you as a crutch at this point, as his legs keep trying to buckle under the weight. The two of you stand there in place, heavy breathing and whatever other sounds are managing to come through his strained throat, filling the otherwise dead quiet, small space.

A hand caresses down his back, and he doesn't waste a second before tightening his grip momentarily.

They're still coming in quick pants, but the beats are still slowing down.

He brushes the helmet against your jaw, needing to feel something—even the muffled sensation through the metal.

"Do you want to lie on the bed?"

Again, he doesn't bother talking; he just tries to pay attention solely to your voice and to keep his jaw from moving despite the shaky breaths pushing through.

His head gets pulled back.

And still nothing. He doesn't say anything as he looks back at you, the frozen expression over the helmet's ridges staring back at you. He doesn't jerk back, though; he keeps his hands where they are. They keep you there against him, like he can't bear to let go for even a little while.

Your hand grabs one of his, pulling them around and in between the both of you. As they intertwine, he nearly jerks away as his bruised skin stretches, but he doesn't.

He gets pulled aside, brought along into the hallway, and then brought into an equally small bedroom.

He thinks back on how much you two are paying for the place. The thought of using his cash for something other than weapons for once comes to mind. Maybe he could get you a more homey place, laying low, be damned.

The mattress isn't far from the door, taking up almost half of the room, so he's pushed forward to sit on the edge. You're in front of Jason for a moment, and he just spreads his legs apart so he can bring you in close again. You can feel his heart hammering against yours.

"Don't get any ideas."

He can't be bothered to try and give a retort in response; he just sighs and says, "I'm not going to do anything."

Your hand slips between the edges of the helmet, your fingers just barely tracing his jaw. It gets pushed up just slightly by it, and suddenly it feels that much harder to breathe for him again.

"Can we talk about it?"

He can't even look at you. Instead, his gaze is trained on that hand. A hand wraps around your wrist and pushes it back. He wants to be angry, have an excuse to snap at you, so you'll leave him alone on your own terms, but.

Instead, his throat feels dry. "I don't—no, I can't."

"You sure—"

"I'm sure."

Your mouth opens for just a moment before it shuts just as quickly. Your free hand brushes over his.

"C'mon." Jason doesn't know why he can't seem to get used to anything but the ache. Don't hurt him.

He has to stop himself from snatching the wrist again and just squeeze when it brushes over the helmet a second time, right over the bottom rim.

"Can I take this off, at least?"

A heavy sigh gets broken up by a hiccup.

With a nod, he pushes his head down and shuts his eyes, just as hair falls over them. It gets dropped right alongside his boots after you lean down a bit; the sound just barely registers.

He only opens them again when the bed creaks, an arm bumping into the side of his. Before he can do it himself, the curls are brushed back for him.

"Do you want—"

"You treat me like a kid sometimes." He snaps.

"I'm only asking you, Jason." Your shoulder nudges into his. "I'm not trying to. I just want you to be comfortable."

His voice comes out clear for the first time after awhile, still rough. "Sure you are."

He shuts himself up right after, trying to take in air through his nose, only to cough right after. You pat him on the back as he leans forward. For once, the first thought that comes to mind isn't to push it away; instead, he gets embarrassed with how he pushes back into the contact just so he can feel it more.

Whatever you were going to say before is left unfinished. He gets stuck listening to the silence and his own head.

He looks over the room in the dark to distract himself.

A couple boxes of whatever Jason brought in from a safe house are stacked together in a tower in a corner, and he almost feels bad about how much room they're taking up. Almost.

Light just barely bounces over the surfaces on the scattered posters on the walls, a window from behind the bed filtering in some from electronic billboards through the curtains.

Jason feels like his neck is going to break off, so his shoulders sound out a crack as he stretches backwards.

An arm is wrapped around him from the back, resting along the lone side of his body as he's closer to you.

"Is this okay?"

And then he rests his head on your shoulder, coming as close as he can before taking a deep breath.

"Yeah."

His gaze trails away just to follow up the wall the headboard is pressed against.

It's still dark, but still, the colors stick out like nothing. He doesn't know when you got it, but hanging right above is some rainbow flag with tape along the sides, like there wasn't a few empty spaces in it for nails.

And if the landlord complained about it, Red Hood could just pay him a visit.

His head bumps into yours.

"Been decorating while I'm gone?'

The shame bubbling up underneath, like another breakdown waiting to happen after everything he let you see, feels like it's melting away as your voice comes out low, right next to his ear. "Yeah. Like it?"

He clicks his tongue and then pushes closer.

"Looks tacky."

A kiss is pressed to his head, muffling your voice. "You would know what's tacky, wouldn't you?"

He pushes down the urge to just push you away. He can't think of a proper comeback anyway.

Everything felt better—not great, but better. Your arms wrap around him in a grip just as tight as his from earlier, and he just has to let himself get pulled further into the bed as you roll the two of you onto your sides.

His body is still developing bruises all around, but the ache doesn't matter much to him as he presses his back against you. Either way, his heart takes on an unsteady pace.

"I got you."

Words get caught up in his throat as he feels your breath against his neck.

Jason just barely forces out a, "Thanks."

#jason todd x reader #jason todd x male reader #dude thank you!! #It’s been so impossible for me to find male reader content for this man or even just masc reader #this was such a blessing #I love Jason Todd he’s so incredible #and deserves all the comfort in the world

[oliveofthenight]

AHHHHH IM SO EXCITED! Okay I’ve holdin this back for ages BUT, if I could request a romantic relationship absinthe imagine of our dearly fluffy and charming Nicodeme Savoy with a male or gender neutral reader, your choice of the flavoring, who tends to copy things that the people they like do. For example, they like Nico? Suddenly they catch notice of the bandana he wears and starts wearing one too. They find themselves slipping into a little cajun accent or repeating french words they’ve heard him speak. Any gestures they notice he does, or expressions he makes? They start to do it too. Assimilation via infatuation, if you will, for those of us that are neurodivergent and enjoy doing habits of those we love.

I've been digging around the back for a bit and got lost in the crates, my apologies, but I happen to have found a bottle of good ol' inspiration for this. Let me pour you out this imagine, my dear customer...

Nicodeme Savoy has an eye for a lot of things, which is surprising since his are often black and bandaged from many a savage fight. Nevertheless, imagine one evening he's allowed to relax. For once, Mr Sweet has left them all alone for the night with no outstanding duties to attend to. He can kick his feet up and sit back and watch as the Marigold's joint starts to fill up with the warm liquid gold of their regular, well-off patrons.

Suddenly, he stops, glass poised in the air, rim barely grazing his lips. He stops, he stares.

Y/N L/N is wearing his bandana.

Well, not exactly, because Nico is wearing it now, but it's so similar. It's almost an exact copy, as exact as someone could get it without dragging the poor scrap of fabric through what Nico had with his.

Now Nico is pleasantly surprised. He had never expected to influence any fashion trends, least of all one worn by a recent one-night stand. He has to admit, it looks good on Y/N.

However, the longer he stares at him, the more Nico starts to notice more things. Details to be sure, but familiar enough to catch his attention.

A small "cher" casualky dropped in conversation.

The prideful roll of Y/N's shoulders whenever he takes credit for something that may or may not be deserved.

The glint in his eyes Serafine had sworn only Nico had, hence why she would find him in a crowd of millions. He didn't even know it was possible to copy a stare so accurately.

Now Nico definitely knows something's up, but he doesn't react beyond an intense stare.

Y/N turns and catches him looking. He doesn't shy away. Instead, he gets the bartender to pour him a drink—Nico's signature drink—and raises a silent toast with a smirk. He holds the glass the same way. He drinks the same way.

Y/N knows what he's doing, and by god it's working.

Nicodeme is seeing a spitting image of himself—and call him narcissitic or self-absorbed, but he's never been so eager to give that teasing fling more than a single hurried night.

#OMGGGGGJFIEEIJEJDJSIAKDHFJDEOEKFFJ #LOVE #SO MUCH #SOO SO SO SO SO SO MUCH LOVE #THANK YOU #THANK YOUUUUUU #AUGHHHHHHH #The grip this cat has on me is unbelievable I SWEAR #gods he really would find it a major fucking ego boost huh #he doesn’t even need it #but he’s so pretty with it

[oliveofthenight]

A healed Azula having her first violent outburst in years after finding Ozai in his hiding spot in the Earth Kingdom. She has him pinned, aiming her hand that is popping with charged lightning right at his heart.

'Beg for my forgiveness.' She seethes as Zuko panics behind her.

Ozai remains calm.

Years have passed, long enough to realize what he did to them.

He does not deserve to even beg. He closes his eyes.

Azula's own eyes are overcome with tears. The lightning is at its zenith.

But she is not her father. She releases the lighting into the air with a curse.

#MMMMM REBLOGGING #SO I NEVER LOSE THIS #FOR WHEN ITS FINISHED #OMG I CANT WAIT #OMG THIS IS SO FUCKING COOL #HOLY SHIT #I CANT WAITTTT #AHHHHHH

[oliveofthenight]

Death (as a living being)

I’m actually surprised no one has talked about this before but I’d just like to share my thoughts about this because I thought this was a little interesting

So at this part and during the cave scene with Puss, Death emphasizes on the fact that he’s fond of the scent that is fear.

He mocks Puss almost the entire film, making these elaborate ‘illusions’ in Puss’s head. If he simply wanted Puss dead, he could have just killed him, but as he admitted it himself, he decided to ‘play with his food.’

He gets annoyed when Puss mentions the phrase, “I laugh in the face of death” and quotes him in the cave, saying Puss had never even noticed him because he laughs in the face of death. Puss laughs in his face, quite literally.

And obviously, he was annoyed by this. So what better way to get back at him than to quote him to his death? Death clearly wanted Puss to know the exact reasons he was cutting his life short and he made sure Puss knew it well; he struck him with his blade, immediately deeming the statement ‘never been touched by a blade’ as false and continued to haunt him when he tried to get more lives back in hopes of shaking Death off of him.

Death exerts an extra amount of effort into playing the role of ‘the big bad wolf’, raising his sickles and using them as hand gestures instead of his actual hands.

But no one has questioned his sudden shift in personality when he finds that Puss does in fact value his life and now sees Death as an equal rather than a concept that is below him.

Death looks VERY different from how he did the entire movie. But what else was different in this scene was his intentions. The moment his intentions changed, his creepy/scary complexion had completely faded away into something more gentle. Even his voice had grown soft towards the end of his sentence when he says, “Right?”

What am I getting at? Well, basically, judging from his last scene, I strongly believe that a lot of what we were able to infer about Death’s ‘personality’ from the entire movie was barely even half of how he truly is. The things he says like “I just love the smell of fear”, “go ahead, run, makes it more fun for me,” and “this is gonna be fun”, had mostly been the side of him that he showed to mortals who didn’t know their place in life. In fact, I believe in the cave of lost souls he almost oversells the idea of Death being Puss’s worst fear as he constantly repeats Puss’s quote and tells him, “but you’re not laughing now,” like that wasn’t something Puss already knew.

And regarding his rage when he yells, “why the hell did I play with my food” in spanish, it kinda just confirms that Death was playing a role and this may or may not be how he views fear or mortals in general.

The last scene was a sliver of what or how Death truly was; a softspoken creature who just wishes to be respected by mortals.

But that is just my interpretation of the movie. I very well may be completely wrong about this, but I just thought I’d share my views on this film and how Death was written.

#sorry I just #omg I love this so much #AND YOURE SO RIGHT #he’s a lot gentler I think than how he interacts with Puss in the movie #especially because in the bar #if you pause just right #after he says ‘everybody thinks they’ll be the one to defeat me but no one’s escaped me yet’ #his eyes crease #in such a way #that is shows remorse #sadness #clearly he doesn’t always have this sadistic nature crawling around #because why look like that at the thought of no one escaping you #if you didnt actually want that #you know? #theres so much more to himmmm #anyways I love him #thank you

[oliveofthenight]

So i decided to elaborate on that death asmr idea.....maybe make him tell some..."bedtime stories"? But with a death kind of catch

Like "bluebeard" seems like the kind of story he'd tell....

(Also not helping that he probably was there and saw the whole thing, smack dab in the front seat)

#i am in love with all of this #also I can’t stop laughing holy fuck I’m in tears #anyways I love the stupid wolf #but thats not really news

[oliveofthenight]

hey. wanna see me put my whole reigenussy into this chapter (WARNING: DEATH IS PISSED AND THERE'S A FIGHT. it gets VIOLENT AND BLOODY. anyway have fun)

ao3 | ko-fi | 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6

You instantly grapple at the claw around your throat, which is getting dangerously tight. Death only bares his teeth, growling, and in blind panic, you swing a fist at his face - he catches it in his other claw.

"Ignorant," Death says. "Naive little - "

You bring your knees up to your chest and spring your feet up in a bunny-kick. Your boots crack against the underside of Death's jaw. The moment his hold loosens around your throat, you brace your hands on the floor and flip yourself over, riding the momentum of your kick. 

You land on your feet in a crouch, watching as the wolf stays right where he is.

Slowly, he reaches up his sore jaw, looking down at you with bright, bright eyes.

"Oh, you're going to regret that."

You barely have time to blink before he's in front of you, the sudden drop in temperature that comes with his proximity near-suffocating. All you see is a flash of red, and then there's burning , stinging pain on your face as your neck snaps to the side and your body is thrown across the dark space you're in. You hit the ground headfirst, stars bursting in your vision, and tumble a few more feet to the side.

Your world spins. Your heart thumps in your chest. Your cheek is on fire, and when you reach a shaky hand up to it, you immediately flinch as your fingers touch gored flesh steadily pouring out blood.

The wolf rises to his full height, one of his claws still dripping with your blood as he stalks towards you.

"I'm done playing, peque," he says. "You've never seen me truly angry yet."

He's going to kill you.

You know that with unwavering certainty. Half of your face has been clawed open, you've been swatted away with barely any effort, and he's going to kill you.

You grab for the gun on your right hip as he lunges, clicking the safety off. You watch the wolf bound forward, his massive maw unhinging, sharp teeth looming over and under you, a death trap if it gets the chance to clamp closed. You aim the gun forward, straight into his throat.

You fire.

The resulting blast throws both of you in opposite directions. You land on your back and hurriedly scramble to your feet, thankful that lacrima guns don't have the same kickback as bullet-loaded guns, and your shoulders are intact. Death, across you, is a writhing shadow, slowly picking himself off the ground.

His lower jaw is missing. 

Half of his face is too - it's a lacrima gun , pure magic condensed into a crystal and used to fire what's essentially energy beams straight at your opponents. It'd take anyone's face off.

But Death steps forward, undeterred, teeth and tongue hanging from the intact parts of his head, viscera splattered all over the burnt remains of his poncho. You watch in horror and disgust as bone and muscle crawl over the missing lower part of his face, flesh and fur reforming in seconds. Death stretches his newly-healed lower jaw in a yawn and clacks it closed experimentally.

"That's the way, peque," he grins, and then chuckles, which grows into full-blown laughter. For every step he takes forward, you take one step back, gun aimed at him. His singular remaining eye is a red warning beacon fixated on you. "Go on. Try it. Shoot me again, I fucking dare you."

You fire, and he ducks this time, springing forward with the agility of the wolf that he is, forcing you to leap to the side, blasting shot after shot at him. He darts about, avoiding each one, and you grit your teeth and reach for your other lacrima gun. 

You realize as your jaw clenches that the burning pain on the side of your face is gone. Tentatively, you touch your injured cheek with the back of your hand, careful not to shoot yourself with your own gun. Instead of wet, uneven, exposed flesh, you touch skin. 

You're healed.

But before you can think what that means through, Death crouches back on his haunches, his face completely intact now. You jump back as he again advances, firing wildly at him. He leaps to the side, running in an arc around you, and you follow his trajectory, turning as you shoot - until he suddenly feints and ducks close to the ground as he leaps back in the opposite direction. You've already turned by the time you realize, and dodge the swipe of a claw too late. You raise your arm up instinctively, and a bite takes a chunk of your forearm out, earning a cry of pain from you.

You force yourself to hold onto your gun tighter as you draw back, your whole arm engulfed in agony. You're shaking, sweating, and you think you're going to throw up because motherfucker, it hurts. Your sleeve is torn and whatever's left is slowly being stained in blood.

Death prowls a few feet away from you, circling you as you try your best to keep him in your line of sight. He licks his lips, running his tongue over sharp, red-stained teeth, though it does nothing for the amount of blood splattered all over his mouth. Your blood. Again.

"What's the matter, mercenary?" he asks. "Not used to being the hunted?"

You flinch. You glance down at your arm and…though you're shaking, your arm is intact. Just like your cheek.

But whatever relief the realization that you can't actually die here gives you instantly drains from you when you look up, because Death bares his teeth, the grin full of hatred, of malice, of intent.

"Just 'cause you can't die here," he says. "Doesn't mean I can't make it hurt."

It's like the dark space around you has gotten even darker, a flat expanse of nothing but abyss, and the only thing you can see are his eyes. Angry - no, furious. Calling for your suffering.

"You're mortal, child. I've been around forever." He laughs. You realize you've frozen to your spot, all the hair in your body standing. "How long do you think you can outlast me?"

And he smiles, again, this time gloating because he knows you'll tire out. He knows the pain will be too much for you, sooner or later, and the fact that you can't even die to escape it and he can just keep going, is inevitable.

"Fucking hell," you mutter, because it's all you can say. "What big teeth you have."

"The better to devour you with, my dear."

The only part of him you can see in the oppressive darkness is the red streak of his eyes as he moves blindingly fast again. The blue glow of your gun's crystal doesn't do shit for you, so you follow his eyes as best as you can and fire, trying to see as much of him through the flicker and flash of your gun's blasts.

Death bounds across the ground, weaving in and out of the magic shot at him. Your feet are slow to follow your urge to move, but you eventually get them to stumble back and to the side, trying to maintain the distance between you. He shifts his weight back again in preparing to lunge, and you take advantage of the brief pause to shoot him right in the face -

He jumps high, changing his stance from all fours to angling his body so his hind legs will hit the ground first. You look up as he reaches the peak of his jump's arc, descending down towards you like the harbinger of doom that he is. You take aim and fire, blowing a hole right through his chest, but he barely reacts.

You jump back as he lands, and he snatches one of your legs with a claw, digging nails into your calves. You scream, barely able to process the pain before you're lifted off the ground and into the air, feet first.

You search for his eyes and aim your weapons at him. He takes both your hands into his other massive claws and clenches , crushing both your wrists in his grip. Your guns clatter to the ground, each firing off a blast that again barely fazes him.

You're upside down, disoriented, and you can feel your broken wrists trying to reset back into place, your gored leg more so, though Death's claws still sunk into it is making it hard for the healing to kick in. Tears pool at the edges of your eyes from the pain, and you grit your teeth hard to keep from crying. 

Death lifts you over his head, watching you like the prey animal that you are.

"You shouldn't have stuck your nose into magic business you couldn't counter," he says, sneering. "Do you have any idea what you've done?"

"What I've done? I didn't trap you here, that shitty fucking warlock did!" you scream. "I was trying to help people. Excuse me for trying to be decent! You're Death. You're supposed to be untouchable!"

"You know there's magic that keeps even me at bay," he says. "The responsibility falls on you, and all of you careless mortals with your dominion over the living, waking world. You never should have been given this much reign, you little worms never deserved it - "

"Take it up with the dick who caught us, asshole!"

"Watch your fucking mouth!"

"Brother."

You and Death freeze. If it were possible, the already chilly temperature around you drops even lower. As you exhale, your breath comes out misted, and you realize you can see it. That unnatural darkness around you has lifted.

Death remains right where he is, still holding you by the foot, but he looks reluctant to talk. When he does, he keeps his eyes on you, instead of whoever just interrupted both of you.

"Sister," he says.

"Have you run, brother?" the voice asks again. You try your best to turn towards it, but it's somewhere behind you. "The living world has felt your absence."

"I did not," Death hisses, turning to whoever's speaking behind you. "You know I would never."

"We had no explanation for your sudden disappearance. Forgive my trespass," the voice says. "And if your anger should hold against the mortal, please keep it whole at least until we finish speaking."

Your eyes widen at that. Leverage. You writhe in Death's grip a bit more in your effort to try and see who's talking. Death shakes you to get you to stop, and you do out of dizziness.

"Why?" he asks.

"We cannot sense you," the voice says. "But we can sense them."

 Death lets out a low, irritated growl.

Then, he drops you onto the ground. You're pretty sure you break your neck, but a few seconds later, you're picking yourself up, vision spinning and blurring while the wolf beside you angrily curses under his breath.

You turn to your unexpected savior. They're too far away. Whatever they are, you can only see a vague outline of their silhouette, formless in the same way you can only see the shape of things at night.

But you do see their eyes. They're a pale, but nonetheless bright, lilac, shining unnaturally like Death's.

Sister, he'd called her.

"...Fate?" you ask.

Lilac eyes glide towards your direction. "Destiny is not fond of overstepping their bounds," she says.

"There's more of you?" you ask, and then immediately slap a hand to your mouth in horror because why the fuck did you say that?

Death, beside you, barks, "Watch it!"

"At ease, little brother. It is mere curiosity." The creature turns her gaze back to Death. 

"Fine," he says, similarly turning his attention back to your new visitor. "You guys found me through them?"

"We look after mortals, not ourselves. Fear found them and through them found you," the stranger says. Tilts her head. "You've been bound."

"I know," Death grits out. "What's happening out there?"

"We are working to set a balance while you are indisposed," she says.  "But sooner or later, the scales will tip, little brother."

Death frowns, claws clenching and unclenching. You scuttle away to the side to avoid being wrung around in case he decides he's pissed enough at you to risk it all.

"Can you get me out, older sister?"

"I can't, little brother. You know I am bound by my responsibilities, no matter how much I favor you," she says. "I can seek you out. I can take on the form of whatever is dispossessed of lucidity around you. But help …there are rules, Muerte."

Death clicks his tongue, sitting down harshly, much like a disgruntled little sibling would. He brings a knee up to his chest to brace an elbow on it, nodding jerkily.

"Figured," he says. "What about the others?"

"Debating," his sister says. "Destiny remains neutral. Dominion is of the opinion to let this play out. Desire claims to have no stake but finds this amusing."

Death mutters a curse under his breath. His lilac-eyed sister sighs.

"As they say," she says, and says it with empathic care: "All is fair in love and war."

Death raises an eyebrow at that. He looks at the shape of his sibling curiously, and you understand, with the observant nature of your line of work, that it's one of those little things only siblings get. The nuances of tone and speech pattern foreign to others but is code to them. His sister is trying to say something, and you have no idea what it is, but Death does.

"...hijo de puta."

His sister chuckles. "We're all siblings, brother, do watch what you say."

"Yeah, well, if you see Dominion, tell him he can go fuck himself . Mierda! "

Your brow furrows. Clearly, whatever's going on is severe enough that Death's not only pissed, but worried.

"Um." You turn to his sister, except both of them immediately zone in on you, and you flinch under the weight of their stares. It suddenly registers that not once have you seen Death's sister blink. 

You shift uneasily.

"What…exactly is going on?" you ask.

"Matters beyond your understanding, brat," Death snaps.

"I know that, but out of the two of us, I'm the one in the more favorable position, aren't I?" you bite back, rising to your feet and straightening out your mangled cloak and shirt. In the corner of your vision, you see his sister's eyes crinkle as if in amusement, and you feel a rush of confidence flooding you.

"Are you, mercenary?" he mocks. "Because I seem to remember that not even five minutes ago, you were bleeding and crying helplessly."

"Yeah, and if you want any chance of contacting your siblings, it's in your best interest to keep me intact, puta!"

Death stands, towering over you menacingly again. "Why you - "

"They can't find you, but they can find me. I'm your lifeline to the rest of your family right now." You don't back down, your newfound assurance in your invincibility here and the importance of your presence furthering your backbone. Instead, you step closer to glare up at Death, standing on your toes as he similarly moves closer to glare down at you, and you're both nose-to-snout. 

"Getting conceited, are we?"

"Getting realistic, lobo," you grit out. "Because if we're getting you out of here and restoring balance to the world, we're going to have to work together. So shut up, and sit the fuck down, for GOD'S FUCKING SAKE!"

The entire space around you falls silent. 

You and Death stare each other down, neither willing to break away first. You don't need to, because his sister laughs, light and sweet, and the chill around you recedes to make room for something warmer. It's like sitting in front of a fireplace after a day in the cold outside.

"Then, I trust you are in good hands, brother," Lilac-eyes says. 

Death abruptly turns to her. "What? No - send someone else in here."

"While I have all the time in the world, you don't, and you know how disparate any measure of time for us is for the mortals. By the time the others have stopped arguing amongst themselves, it will have been too late. Take what help you can," she says. "Your anger is your weakest point, you would do well to see past it."

Death's ears flick back, and you hear him mutter something about a cat and 'It was only one time. Twice now, I guess.'

His sister only laughs again. She turns to you. "Goodbye, mercenary," she says, and then, turns to her brother. "Death."

Death sighs. He runs a paw over his face, before tiredly lifting it in a semblance of a wave. "Bye, Time."

And just like that, you're both alone again. You didn't blink, didn't move, but where there was a silhouette and a pair of eyes in the distance before, there is nothing now. It's just you and Death, in whatever dark space you've found yourselves in.

Death turns away, cursing your name and every little thing he can think of under his breath, walking away.

"Hey," you call out, but he lifts a claw in a shhh motion, though he doesn't look at you and keeps walking. 

"Shut up. Shut the fuck up. I don't want to talk to you right now."

He continues to walk away, disappearing into the darkness and leaving you in the silent arena alone. 

You sit down, burying your face in your hands and sighing.  God, what a fucking shitshow.

taglist (this was closed during the last chap so if anyone wanted to be tagged after chap 5 was posted, you might not be here. i'll try to add you to it):

@snail-noodle @karenbomi @hehicular-hanslaughter-lecter @scorpiolight-ships @padawansubscription @yumiburrito @allthenamesithinkofaretaken @shiromay @onry-0 @jade086 @olivenight17 @vampbloodbunny @shadow-wolf378 @fluffygreatness @basil-over-thyme @kittykatcreatster @crypticmushroom @charafrisk1 @bitchadonis @barnesmorningstar25 @briddy13 @leoneisdying @fuckthepatriarchs @kult-o @spiritofboredom @lyslvnchry @mooncutiepie @elasticelaine @livdem1human @lumiiiiiiiiii @nixeustheclamity @lennnnnnnnn @lunamaye @immunidune @my-brain-is-too-fried-rn @mythicalbinicorn @beardedsludgeherofriend @shadowywizardarcade @severedvigility @azurekisaragi @lilylilyyyyyy @colderpisces @jinxscatbomb @fawism @fuiinnojutsu @alastorsdom @kittymittychan @geanbean10 @ditzyysugr @g4ygr3ml1n

#YESSSSS #LETS FUCKING GOOOOO #holy fuck this was a good chapter #AND YES GETTING TO SEE TIME #you did such a great job at like describing how otherworldly time is and how a mortal might try to comprehend this #and we’ve hit that make or break it point with Death ohohooo that’s gonna be fun #there’s only one bed? incorrect tired broke #only one dimension that we can’t escape? inspired incredible I love it #ohhh til next time!

[oliveofthenight]

it happened (iii)

johnny ‘soap’ mactavish x f!reader 

summary: for weeks, one single thought has been creeping up on him—sneaking its way out into the daylight, prickling his skin and threading through his mind: he doesn’t know how to live without you. word count: 5.7k warnings: injured reader, but happy ending, promise. spice + smut. lovers to relationship.

part three of it happens | soap masterlist

8. 

He wishes the day ended differently. 

For weeks, one single thought has been creeping up on him—sneaking its way out into the daylight, prickling his skin and threading through his mind:

He doesn’t know how to live without you.

For a while, he envisions it’s been tucked away, festering in the back of his brain. Growing over time, slowly.

Likely somewhere between kissing you and stuffing your throat with his cock. Becoming more apparent in the small window when things turned from a quick fuck to something more gentle, something he wanted to prolong. 

There's a high chance it was when you stopped calling him Soap and called him Johnny. Not just when the two of you were alone, but out with others—shoulder close to his. 

But, truthfully, he’s been finding the thought more incessant when he’s lying next to you, sweat still clinging to his skin. The words sliding around his head, bouncing from one side to the other. Not wanting to move, to jolt it away, because your fingers are drawing a pattern on his stomach—something he’s come to like. Something he craves—just your touch. How it’s direct, purposeful, and wrapped in a personal touch. 

“I like you being around, even if I don’t show it." “I know you only keep m’around ‘cause ov’ my cock.” “I’d still keep you around even if your cock got chopped off by Ghost, Johnny. You’re a nice pillow.” “Cheers, hen.”

Now his cards are on the table—his feelings. All unwrapped in front of you, having thrown them at you like an angry present. The bow coming straight off, the paper disintegrating before the two of you. 

If he was thinking straight, he’d have delivered them better. Presented them in a kinder format. Instead, his heart had been in his throat, hammering and thumping as he wiped the tears from your cheek. The ones you’d refuse to say were spilled because of him. 

He didn’t blame you. He wasn’t sure if he’d have been willing either—but the adrenaline forced his hand. Made him run headfirst and care about it after. 

Just like he did on assignments, operations—missions. The same ones you glare at him for, not outwardly telling him what’s wrong, but it's clear from your face you're not impressed. 

You worry. And it’s why he worries. Because you rarely show any emotions when it comes to him, you are so hard to crack, so hard to see through. But, over time, you’ve allowed him in—and what he once recognised were unimpressed glances, he suddenly sees are secret distress. 

The two of you put the job first, the task. But as it approaches a year of that cabin and what transpired, the worry of losing you appears like a jack in the box. It shoots up, bouncing in front of him when you’re talking to him—when you’re letting him in. 

You could lose her. You’ll lose her. You’ll lose. 

It’s why sometimes he holds you a little closer, lets you groan against him as he keeps you pinned to him—sheets tangling around both of your legs. He savours it. Let the moment steep until the corners of your mouth rise less sarcastically, your breaths slowing, before you brush knuckles against his cheek. 

You want him to hold you, he can tell. You just won’t ask. Afraid, maybe. 

And so sometimes, he doesn’t give in to his wishes and instead respects yours. 

But, he should have taken his time today.

He would have done it, had he known how the day would end. He’d have taken his time. He wouldn’t have made it quick, rushed the time alone. He’d have spent longer touching you, making you keen against his hand and he wouldn’t have bottomed out in one quick thrust. 

His mouth would have spent time leaving marks on your skin, instead of setting a brutal pace that had the name Johnny kissing the air in bursts. Mostly, he’d have spent less time bruising his fingers into your hip bone—sinking his teeth into your shoulder—and more time staring into your eyes. 

“So fuckin’ pretty.” 

“You s–say that so often, it’s going to st–fuck–stop meaning something.” 

His hand had brushed over your collarbone, sliding up against your neck as your lips parted. “No, it won’t.”

He watched you smirk. Just lightly—just enough. Lips twitching around your impending pleasure that’s ready to wash over you. He liked you like this. Liked consuming you—claiming you. He also liked watching you squirm, writhing under him, the room dyed in the squelching noises coming from him fucking your cunt. 

The memories of the morning kept him entertained as they were dispatched. You sat far away, head turned, talking to Price. His eyes occasionally glanced your way, wondering if he should say something, anything. A ‘good luck’, a ‘look after yourself’. 

Now, he wishes he did. 

The whole thing went to shit the moment their boots hit the ground. Your radio messages fragmented, cracking—Ghost’s voice stern, trying to ascertain what it was you were saying. In and out. In and out. Those were the words Price had said. 

And you’d gone in, like planned. Alone while the others caused a distraction—you’re good. Quick. Talented. But, you’re also on the opposite side to where he was stationed—and you had failed to come out. 

In and out. In and out.

“LT—“

“Find her.” 

He nods, trying not to focus on the tone. The edge to Ghost’s voice and how it tinged with concern. He’d become softer, less Fort Knox and more regular prison walls since Graves—especially with you. Your dry sarcasm and focused energy likely made it easy for him. 

You made it easy for all of them to let you in. 

It’s all he thinks as he entered the building, sweeping the corridor, turning and turning, corner after corner. 

Then he sees you. 

Sees you break for reasons completely opposite to how he’d made you break this morning. 

He didn’t move to check the other body in the room. He knew they were dead, disposed of. No threat. He knew because of the way you were huddled into a corner, knowing you’d have done the job before you tended to yourself. 

You do that a lot. For as heroic as you say he is, you’re not that different. 

His hand clenches as the air is tinged with the horrid sounds of your breaths—all ragged, desperate—punching each one out into space. 

For a second, he just stares. Watching. Boots gelled to the floor unable to shift himself as he watched scarlet coat your fingers. His own worries building, anxiously swirling, rendering him fucking useless. He can’t lose you. Not now he has you. 

“J-Johnny.” 

He blinks, and then he moves. Your fractured voice yanked him from his frozen state, his heart attempting to break. 

He tries not to let it. 

It does all the same.

You broke right at the seams. 

Falling into the corner, panic setting in—bathing you, dousing you. Your breath is jagged, uneven—your thoughts jumbled, and your training all out the window.

You picture him, initially: Johnny. 

How crestfallen he’d look, how full of sorrow—likely even able to hear his heart descend to his feet. For that reason, you hope he’d leave you behind. Go on—not ruin the images of you he has by seeing you like this. 

Because if you look how you feel, you’re not a pretty sight, and this morning you'd been…

This morning was nice. Maybe too nice. Your hips rolled with his; your hand almost reached for his, wished to grasp it close, press it against your skin. 

Now, you wish you had. 

Wished you’d stolen a moment, had something to call back to as you tried to not bleed out across the dirt and dusty floor. 

All because of a knife.

One you’d not anticipated, one you hadn’t expected. 

Fool. You’re a fucking idiot. You can hear Ghost spit that you are; hear Price ask if you’d lost your mind. You guess you did—allowing yourself a moment to think of this morning. Of how full you’d felt; how empty you felt before. Now, you feel even less. 

Your hands shake, tremble. They clutch the slits of your skin together as your eyes flick up—hoping, praying, seeking. And then, there he is. The light from the world outside the room all haloed around his figure, making him look like an angel. You guess he is. 

He saved you, without knowing you needed to be saved. He was a rock, something to cling to when the sea battered you against the sand. He was… hope, in the dark and something entirely too good for you and—

It had been the very thing which infuriated you, to begin with. He was good—too good. They all did good things, but he did them without thought. They came naturally, being a hero—doing right for the cause. That and the fact he couldn’t meet your eye, couldn’t spit a response at you.

Now, all he did was talk, and you lapped up each word. 

“J-Johnny…”

His eyes fell, face dropping—shattering amongst the bullet casings and blood. 

Thick, horrid, throat-choking sobs dilute the rest of your words. Suffocating them as he slides to you on his knees, hands unsure where to go. The panic evident as you clutched it—held the weeping wound as best as you could. 

I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. 

“Let me see, lemme see… steamin’ Jesu—Yer gonna be alright—We just need a medic—look at me.” 

You flicked them up, meeting blue—all-Johnny-fucking-blue—his hand, rough and all coated in your blood as he grasps your cheek. 

Flashes of memories. Ones where he’s lying next to you or hovering above you, ones where he’s caging you against the wall and when he’s pressed you down against the washer. All of them rush you, overwhelm you…

And you want more of them. 

Your lips curl, opening—all cracked and sore—as you try to get yourself to say that. To say you want more of him, more of them—

“I need t’move y’, ‘kay? I gotta move y’, hen. Then can fix y’. Keep y’with me.” 

His other hand slides under your legs, preparing, staring into your soul as he tries to soothe it. He does. He always does. 

Has done since that first night, splinters in your thighs as you grasp onto him. The quieter moments, where the two of you simply lay breathing, no other sounds, allowing it to ferment and develop. 

You don’t tell him that enough. That he matters to you. 

There’s a lot that you don’t tell him, truthfully.

Secretly keeping it buried inside, afraid to lose—afraid to have something and then not. You’d done it once, loved and lost. It hurt. It broke you. The shards of yourself barely back in place before you ended up here, with a new family—new people to care about. To fall for. 

But, for him, you fell all the same.

You’d do it again, too. Over and over. You’d jump, leap and fly. 

“Y’not leaving me, lass. Y’hear me.”

You smile lazily—and it hurts to try. Head sliding into the space near his neck, your hand desperately clutching at your own stomach. 

“Arm round m’neck, hen.” You pause, afraid to taint the back of his head and helmet with blood till he stares—waiting, both patient and impatiently till you do, your eyes watching as blue and black swirl in his eyes. “Good girl, such a good girl. This’ll hurt, I’m sorry…” 

Don’t let me go. Don’t let go. Don’t go.

It should hurt. It prickles, and nicks. But it doesn’t make you burn as it should. Instead, you’re so fucking cold. 

“—I’m so sorry, so sorry—”

So damn cold it hurts. 

Bone-chillingly, so. 

“—Hold on, lass. Y’hear me.”

You nuzzle, smelling him—salt, sulphur and sweat. Hoping to capture as much of it as you can, just in case… your eyes unable to stay open, hand unable to remain on his neck, on your stomach—

Especially as you jolt, bounce—

Black.

You’re under his skin. 

Like exploded ink swirling with his blood. He sees that now. How you’ve spread and seeped into him—stained all of the parts of him. How you’ve bled beautifully across his heart, forever ruined. You don’t heal him, but you make it easier to smile, to breathe. 

And it’s enough. More than he really thought he’d have in this line of work.

Which is why he needs you to wake up. Needs your eyes to coat his skin. Desperate to hear your voice, your laugh. 

Soap brushes his hand against your cheek. It’s natural, normal almost—thankful your skin feels warm, and soft, even with the nicks and growing bruises. 

“Yer scared me, hen.” 

He says it to no one. 

You’re not awake, not in a coma either. You’re somewhere in between, not lost, but not found. There’s no way you can hear him, but he speaks to you all the same. 

It’s why he lets his fingers do a slow stroke of your cheek, unable to hide how calming he’s finding it as his shoulders sink into their usual place and his jaw loosens its iron grip on itself.  

“Dunna think I can live without yer. As… terrifyin’ as that is to admit.”

He drops his hand from your cheek to clutch your hand. Contemplating whether to climb in beside you, now there’s no medic hovering—no one else here, busying themselves. 

“Glad y’not awake, y’d be fumin’ with me for getting all emotional.” 

He moves, and stands. Cautiously easing himself down beside you, trying not to move you, trying to crush you. His hand slides up to your jaw and cheek, clutching your skin as he listens to the soft patter of your heart—happy he hears it, proving you’re alive. 

At one stage—one horrid stage—he hadn’t been sure you would be. So pale, so lifeless, the wound on your stomach continuing to leak scarlet over the evac floor as he dug his elbows down into his knees. 

They perform miracles, the medics. 

He knows that. Puts all his faith in them. Knows there were plenty of times he’d been in their hands…

But he couldn’t lose you. 

His grip on your jaw almost tightens, except he doesn’t want to hurt you, doesn’t want to leave any more marks on you the world hadn’t tried to paint. 

His own lashes were heavy, a calmness spreading from being close to you—just like he’d been yesterday morning. Yesterday when things were different, your body beside him, under him, against him—

“Hi…” you croak, eyes still closed.

Pausing, he doesn’t dare move, afraid he’s hallucinating it all—you, your voice. 

“…D-Don’t stop. Feels nice.” 

And he sighs in relief. His heart leaps, both up and down, bouncing in joy as he fights, pulling you close. His lips twitch, teeth pinching the inside of his cheek. 

“Hey, lass.” 

“You miss?” 

He nods, even if your eyes are closed. “I missed, hen. Fuckin’ Jesus I missed.” 

9. 

He’s begun making a habit of kissing your scar. 

Even if your body is adorned with little stories, here and there. Some silver, some pink and some he knows and some he's never asked about. It's the larger one which demands his attention.

Before your newly acquired one, he loved kissing your shoulder. It made your chest heavy, almost bloat. He'd been all concerned with it, as if somehow he was to blame—but, now that's quickly forgotten. It’s no longer deemed as kiss-worthy as the one which runs along your stomach. 

Not that you care. 

You like running your fingers through his hair when he’s kissing along your hip bone. Your cunt fluttering around nothing, desperately craving his fingers, tongue or cock. 

But, you wait—patiently. Having truly been able to master what that even means when you had been banned from overexerting yourself. Taking the simple things for granted like his chest being between your thighs and you being able to run your nails along his scalp.

You'd been allowed to kiss him, to have him close. Johnny had allowed that. Given into that, even if at first he'd been reluctant. Not wanting to hurt you, not knowing, because you were too afraid to tell him, that by not it would hurt far worse than a knife.

Plus, there's nothing quite like Johnny kissing you like you’re the only air he ever needs. It makes your toes curl, your thighs desperate to wrap and cage him close, not wanting him to be away from you.

But, it's easier to just hold him close than tell him he’s all you need, too. 

Now, though, you can bask in the moment when he descends down your collarbone, kissing the skin under your breasts before sliding down to your naval, kissing the healed scar and its tingly nerves. Usually, you watch his eyes flick up at you, bathing you in blue that makes it feel like you’re swimming. Your breath hitching, knowing that look—how it’s accompanied by a slow, taunting descent as the tip of his tongue makes a path down to your cunt. 

“Don’t tease,” you whisper, pleadingly. 

But he will. 

He gets some sick satisfaction from making you wait, from torturing you. You don’t blame him. You enjoy doing it back. Slow torturous kisses up his shaft followed by slow swirls of your tongue over his dripping head. 

“Like takin’ my time wit’ yer, lass.”

He savours you now. Likely has done for some time.

You're unsure when it changed. When it went from chest pressed down on a washing machine, fucking into you like he’s running out of time to this. Now, it’s locked doors and holding you close, pressing your spine against the inside laundry door, slowly filling you as he holds you up, close, with nowhere to go. 

As if you want to be anywhere but with him. 

You blame the injury. He doesn’t treat you like you’re fragile, but he doesn’t fuck you like your robust. Not since you bled over him, since he paled in front of your eyes and you stole all his cockiness. 

Now, it’s like he needs to remind himself you’re alive—and he does so by making you mewl, moan and whimper. Both of your previous coping mechanisms for stress and hate have now developed into something else entirely. You know you’ve sunk to your knees for him, taking all of him down your throat—tears springing to your lashes—just to remind him he had someone. To root him, fill him with a reason to come back to you, to find you, to let you in. 

If it wasn’t for Price, you wouldn't have known it was reciprocated, that same yearning, same need to keep hold of him. 

Price told you that you broke him—snapped Johnny in two. 

“Like a kicked puppy, that one. Half-surprised he didn’t piss a ring around y’bed. Wouldn’t even get himself looked at. Practically wore the floor out, turnin’ on the spot.”  “No he wasn’t.” He assures you he was. “Heal up, alright? Need you back with us.” 

That had been over a month ago. 

Now he’s lying between your legs, very much whole. Treating you—rewarding you for not giving up during sparring. Even if you’d wanted to. Even if all your muscles burned in anger at him, especially when his body was close—a grey t-shirt clinging to his muscles from sweat, looking every bit carved and god-like even in clothing. 

You hated it. How fit he was. 

How weak you were. 

He saw it, must have done—you did a piss poor job at hiding it. And so he blackmailed you—tempted you with the only thing he knew he could give you, and him alone. 

“Think of it like this, Hen. Y’get me on my back. I’ll make y’ bein’ on yours worth it later.” “I’ve got fingers, MacTavish.” “Aye, you do. But, your tongue can’t get tha’ hard to reach spot now can’it?”  His hand on your waist, on the good side—staring into your eyes. And fuck, you wanted to kiss him. Wanted to run your tongue passed his teeth.  “And, I kno’ y’love my mouth, lass.” 

He keeps his word. 

Beginning his promise in the shower, water and body wash sliding down your skin as he pins you to the tiles. No touching, just there—all within reach. Letting your eyes follow the suds as they slide down his deep-V.

Then you were on your back, wet towel on his floor, cool air brushing over your still damp skin. 

“Seems counterproductive, showering me, to get me filthy again.” 

“Maybe,” he grins, kissing your neck, the tip of his tongue drawing circles. “But, I’ll never complain about gettin’ and keepin’ yer naked, hen. You’re fuckin’ beautiful.” 

He pulls you from the memory, the one which happened mere minutes ago, as he slides the flat of his tongue against your core. It makes you almost jolt—hiss, moan. His hand pins your good side to the bed. 

“Keep still, lass. Don’t want y’to exert yourself.”

“You cocky pri—“

He buries your words by prodding your cunt with his fingers, tongue swirling your bundle of nerves as you grasp the sheets for leverage.  

You swear he smirks. Can feel it against you as he circles his tongue over you, lapping, teasing, and tasting. Likely fuelled by your desperate whines, the ones he pulls from you over and over again.

He hums, and vibrates his mouth against you as he curls his fingers inside of you—hands clenching around his hair, doing your best to keep your back on the bed. 

He has you at his mercy. Dangling you over the edge, almost allowing you to tip over, coat his tongue and palm in your pleasure.

But, Johnny is an expert. He knows you, what has you whimpering and moaning—and how to keep you hanging. He’s studied what pressure to apply, how to twist his tongue against your clit, until you’re a quivering mess, barely clinging to reality as he pushes you close to ascending.

Your hips buck, but his grip on your hip is stronger.

“Yer taste heavenly.”

You’ll never grow used to his compliments.

The ones which fall from his mouth with ease. The ones which make you blush from your cheeks to your toes—something he must notice, even if he doesn’t acknowledge it. 

“Want y’ forever.” 

Your heart rises, doubles and flutters. “I’m all yours, Johnny.” 

You only know he’s heard you from how he pauses, before he continues his assault—and this time he doesn’t dangle you. He lets you fall, right over the fucking edge.

It hits you so fast it takes your breath away, unsure how you had enough to spit his name out—never mind it falling from your lips over and over again.

Johnny pecks the air, merging with whines to make a sound that was sinful, so rich—you’re sure the room would ring off it for hours. Your eyes flicker, glancing down, seeing him lift up, grin adorning his face.

“Yer tired, hen?”

You snort, trying to hide how your legs are trembling. “No.”

“Good girl.”

His eyes a thunderstorm out over a sea—and a fucking sight to behold.

10.

You used to fuck him because you didn’t like him. 

Now, you fuck him because you love him and you’re not sure what to do with it. 

The feelings knotting, amassing into a chunk in your chest. Your lips say as much when they crash against his, pulling him closer by his belt loops. 

“Need to feel you, Johnny.”

You don’t beg. But you do ask, now. Less action, and more words. Your fingers peeled his t-shirt first, allowing your hands to run over his skin, feel each muscle, the thrum of his pulse. The rest fall from both of you, littering the floor as you cling to him, as you palm his want in your hand and he coats his fingers in your desperation. 

There’s a heaviness to each movement. It wraps its fingers around each touch, each noise. It pollutes it, what this could be—something nice, normal. 

Instead, it reminds you of what you could lose. That you could board and watch the base vanish into the distance, not sure if you’d see it again. See him again. 

You’d tried to not let feelings bloom. You’d tried to keep it as pleasure, as stress relief—but you’d liked waking up beside him—loved that he was the person beside you when you’d opened your eyes after surgery. 

While the clinical stench hit you first, then the pain, it was he who quickly followed. Even now, even as you’ve tried to rewrite that moment, you know in your heart you’d wished he had been the first thing you’d felt. Only him. No pain, no smell, not even a noise: just Johnny. 

He must know. He has a second sense for things—for bubbling thoughts and moments being twisted. Or, he has a sense for you, at least. You think it because he’s on his knees on the cold floor, hooking your thighs onto his forearms as he devours you—and fuck does he do it well.

He takes you to the edge, lets you dangle, almost lets it swallow you before he pulls his lips back, blowing cool air along your soaked cunt. 

“Gotta make y’come back f’more.” 

Johnny says it like he doesn’t know. 

Like the idea that you’re in love with him isn’t possible, unfathomable, rather than something which is very much reality. 

Because you are in love with him. It’s a fact. Something concrete. Just the same as you are full of him, once he pushes you back on the bed and buries his cock to the hilt in you. 

It’s filthy—obscene—all the noises you let loose. The ones willing to escape, purposefully peeled from the words that cling to your tongue: I love you. I love you so much. 

His cock hits that spot which makes your legs feel weightless, and you kiss him again, hungrily, needily. His hand fists your hair, each thrust perfectly hitting that spot that made a tear fall from your lash at how good it was—how good he was.

“Fuck, Johnny—fuck.”

It’s the only words you let escape—all you can do. So fearful of those three words touching the air, escaping. 

I love you. 

Your teeth clamp down on your bottom lip as he presses his forehead to yours. His hips meeting yours, another wave of pleasure building and building, all set to crash down and cover you. 

You took it all the same. You’d take everything he’d give you. Your hands grasping him closer, clutching onto him as your throat burns—you’re so full of him, in every sense of the word. You can’t imagine it never being him, not just here, between your thighs but everywhere else he is. 

In your bed. 

In your head.

In your heart. 

His hand knots in yours, fingers on either side of yours as he clamps himself, palm to palm—secretly clamping you. 

And it’s too much. 

It’s so real, so beautiful. You want to deserve it, deserve him—

“Fuck.”

He angles himself, dragging his cock through your walls harder, faster. 

“I kno’, lass. Yer fuckin’ somethin’ else y’are, hen. Heavenly. Fuckin’ goddess-like.” 

Then he plunges you in blue, and stares past your eyes and into your soul. Likely seeing the words, the ones he should have, should be given willingly and not held back by nervous hands. 

“Let go, hen. Let go f’me.” 

And you do. You'd do everything for him.

So, it snaps, the knot in your stomach. The one you'd been clinging to. Your body becomes both tight and loose all at once as you let go, and come around his cock. His name rips from your throat as pleasure, all white-light and flaming-touch, tears through you and consumes you. 

It’s like lightning and fireworks, and everything else when your resolve cracks—his hips still pistoning, chasing his own as your aftershocks continue, as you flutter back down to him.

But, it’s his hand in yours, the one still clamps you here with him that you focus on when you hear him moan your name. 

Your hand remains with his even as he slides himself out of you, his frame falling limply next to you—right onto his side of the bed. The place you always leave free, whether it’s your own bed or his. The place your head is already turned, waiting expectantly for him. So used to all of this now, this routine. 

“When do y’have to go?” 

Your mouth twitches, a longing in your eyes and the heaviness from earlier, settling onto your bones. “I’ll miss you.”

“Aye?”

Smirking, you roll your eyes. Trying to keep hold of the moment for as long as you can. To keep a mental picture of him like this, happy, not fearing and nervous. 

“You’ve prepared me well.”

“Aye. Well. Y’let me.”

You kiss him. 

Not like you’d usually do, but one which says more than you think you can articulate. The movement of your lips is able to write the words your heart is desperate to sing. You keep hold of his hand, quite liking his palm against yours. You enjoy how your thumb can stroke the healed and silver scar on his hand, all from something boring like DIY and not combat. 

You don’t want to stop, hating it when you do. 

Each item of your clothing returns back into place, fixing your hair, and haphazardly wiping anything from your face—pleasure-filled tears or sweat. 

When you leave him, you’re thankful he doesn’t stop you. Doesn’t ask you to wait; doesn’t ask for another second. He knows, like you do, that operations wait for no one and those in the dark don’t wait for the sun to set. 

You do hear him call your name, more professional than he had moments ago. 

You turn, walking backwards staring at his head and how it peers around the doorway. “Y’come back in one piece.”

“For you?” you smirk, “I’ll consider it.”

11. 

Now, it's different. 

It began on a dusty floor, and it grew amongst the sand and sheets. 

Your head turns, staring up at him as he adjusts the strap on his vest. His brows pinched, strands of hair threatening to fall across his forehead—his hair so much longer across the entire space of his head. The same hair you ragged and ran your fingers through.

It’s nice to be beside him again. To be allowed to run with them as a squad—your smaller, less combative operations appeasing Price that you’re ready. 

You’re an important part of the team, y’hear me? We ain’t rushin’ it. 

Now, you were glad.

No ghostly pains, just ones from Simon’s stare at your commentary. No pangs or jolts, only when you hear Johnny recommend something dangerous, always involving himself. Even if you know he’ll come back. Even if he’s promised you he will. Your heart lurches each time you think of something nicking his skin, something embedding into his bones—something taking his eyes, smile and soul from you. 

“Yer good?” 

Smiling, you nod, “Aye.”

“Bugger aff wid ye’.”

You smirk, rolling your lips, sliding one hand between your top and vest, staring off at the others checking their gear as you hear him sigh. 

“Try n’ follow orders, lass,” he says in a low voice, “Don’t fancy gettin’ stuck in a dusty safehour wit’ yer. Can’t keep y’warm. Got a girlfriend, y’know.”

Sweeping your tongue across your bottom lip, you fight a grin. “That so? She must be a saint.”

“Aye, she’s somethin’ special, I’ll tell you.” 

“Has to be, to put up with you.”

He keeps his laugh low, but it lights you all the same. Kisses every inch of you, warming you from head to toe. Your skin is desperate to press against him, your muscles and bones calling for him. 

His fingers stretch, flex—ghosting between the gap which feels like miles. You can feel his head turning to look at you, likely watching you as you stare out at the sand—the two of you all kitted up, weighed down and raring to go.

And then he does it, lightly brushing his fingers against yours. It’s the most brazen he’s been—most the two of you have ever been. Even since the two of you became something real, something more than just a rumour and a lie. 

And it’s electrifying and grounding, making your lips twitch, eyes smiling the rest. 

You know he can tell, even from the side. He knows you too well by now, the same way you know him. The two of you have become so well versed in one another—knowing exactly what each muscle change in each face means.

“Didn’t have you down as unprofessional, MacTavish,” you whisper. Just loud enough for him to hear.

Your fingers hooking around his, holding his hand. Tightly. Meaningfully. 

“For you, I’m a lotta things, lass.”

“That so?” 

He smirks, tilting his head, as you raise your chin to look at him. “Good job I’m happy to be a lot of things for you too, then. Isn’t it?”

“Tha’ y’saying yer love me, lass?” 

You smile, staring ahead as you sigh. “No. You’ll know it when I say it. But, I do know you love me, MacTavish.”

“Aye. I do.” 

His fingers release yours, a breeze ghosting over the space they were. Your head is unable to turn, unable to stop your eyes from staring into his. 

“I’m not saying it now, got to give you something to come back to me for.” 

You watch it slowly, how it eclipses his entire face. It sparks his eyes, blasting you in a blue that should change the entire environment and not just you. Then, it lifts his cheeks, the corners of his lips, and then he grins—grins so wide he’s sure he could make you forget how to breathe. 

“Fair,” he says, raising his wrist, fingers moving along his wrist as you frown.

It takes a second—far too long for how intuitive you are. Your eyes catch sight of it, half-impressed he hasn’t lost it as he slides it from under his watch—that hairband. The one he stole. 

“But, yer should kno’. I’ll always come back t’you, hen, ‘cause I gotta give y’this back.” 

You nod, and your other hand—the one desperate to hold his—clutches the other strap of your vest, pressing your thighs together. The earlier moment now isn’t feeling enough, even if the bruises on your hip brushing against your trousers say otherwise. 

Turning your head, you look across at the others, them looking almost set, as you sigh. 

“I love,” you say in a whisper.

Not sure if the breeze stole it, whipped them and carried them away into some corner of the world. They were only two words, after all.

But, he presses his hand on the lower part of your spine—firm, and fingers spread. The two of you walking, hating that with each step you were close to feeling his hand fall from you until the next moment alone.

“I love, too.”

He says it with a dipped head, a soft look in his eye as he slides his hand along your back, around your hip before it’s gone—just left with blue, Johnny blue, the best fucking shade of all. 

it's completeeee. i know she was only three chapters, but i don't think I've been able to juggle my life to be this consistent with anything in a long time. so, i'm buzzing.

soap sunday will continue with a new mini-series. diff reader, etc. but thank you for making my sundays have purpose, and all being so kind about me, this and my work. i loves you.

#holy fucking hell #this was absolutely incredible #I had just gotten hooked on our favorite Soap man when you wrote the first part #and now this has all just been #holy shit #dude your writing skills are unparalleled #this is some of the best johnny content I’ve seen as I’ve gotten obsessed with the scotsman #thank you #definitely coming back to re read this shit

[oliveofthenight]

Hi! This is going to officially be my first request ever.

What about a Death/Meurte fanfic of interactions between Death and a ferryman!reader like the ferryman who brings souls to the underworld on their boat. So it can be like random interactions or a interaction where death is bringing a soul to the reader to bring to the underworld where they chat a bit. for an idea, maybe some deep philosophical chitchat about death and some connection between the two? like as if they are close friends and the reader reassures Meurte about his “cat” problem if you catch my drift ;))

extra: I’d like to imagine the reader to be a wise person who is good with advice but has a dry sense of humour and a load of sarcasm and teasing. so basically a really zen person. if you want to take reader’s personality into your own hands that also totally chill! By the way, I’d like either a genderfluid reader or female reader please <33

I like your works :)))) ❤️

note:

Hehe, this sounds pretty good! I made the reader genderfluid in this, meaning that their identity and pronouns are written differently from time to time. Thank you for liking my works! And remember, if this one isn't exactly to your taste, I've got other stories with Death in my masterlist! There's also more dialogue in this one. Hopefully you end up enjoying it, thank you! xx

(Puss in boots: The Last Wish | Death x ferry(man)!reader) | Masterlist | Request list

Warnings:

None

A little boat on the lake. This is where you spent most of your time. You'd push your oar through the water and make sure that your boat was in motion. Sometimes, you'd even stop to check and make sure that your boat was in a good condition. Who were you kidding— Your boat was always in perfect condition. It came with the job! Though you still ended up taking breaks from your boat sometimes to stand on proper land. Your legs felt weird when you spent too much time in the the boat.

The environment around you lacked life just as it did any light, but luckily, you had been gifted with an ability. It was your eyes that had been gifted with a blessing. They lit up with a golden colour whenever you used your ability, your path-finding abilities, and each time you activated it, a cloud of golden dust would leave a trail after your eye's movements. To most, it looked magical. To you, it was a nice way to entertain and loosen anybody up.

One that would never loosen up was death itself. He was the one that brought your travellers to you. Because who would the ferryman be, if it were not for death existing? You were each other's ying and yang. He brought you travellers, and you led them into their next life.

Your travellers came in all shapes and sizes, colours and identities. Regardless of their differences, they shared the same value. They were people who were in need of your help.

Sometimes, some of the travellers would recognise who you were, wether it be because of tales or media was unclear, but those who recognised you would look at you with fear. Those who recognised you became scared, because they hadn't been buried with an ''obolus coin'' after they had died. They would start begging you to let them on your boat, saying that they lacked the coin you wanted. It was uncomfortable seeing them beg like that. They really should start updating the tales about you (the ferryman) in the overworld. You stopped forcing people to pay you coins ages ago. You had previously wanted coins, but only because you desired to have a collection of them, not because you actually required them. You let anyone on your boat, with or without a coin. Mortals were just a bit slow when it came to updating legends about the undead.

You moved slowly towards land again. Your eyes lit up without you activating them, meaning that Death was nearby.

Your attention was brought over to the sound of a whistle. The whistle bounced off the walls in the entrance to your lake, and you stepped on to land quickly. Death was here.

He walked out of the cave, dragging someone by their hand. He looked down from the entrance, spotted your boat and appeared to say something to the person behind him. You waved at him, resting and balancing your weight on to your tall oar.

He walked down the small hill towards you. His crimson eyes seemed to glow even brighter the closer he got.

''Back already?'' You started, ''Did you miss me that much?'' You asked, a poor attempt at humour. You shut up once the attention was brought back to the figure behind him,

''I don't want to leave you.''

Oh. The voice... it was young. It belonged to a small child. You felt your smile drop.

The wolf sighed, letting go of the child's hand and getting on his knee to talk to them. ''Look,'' He started, ''I know this might be scary... but I need you to be brave for me, okay? Your cat is waiting for you on the other side. Which is why I need you,'' He glanced at you, ''to follow the cloaked person here. Alright?''

The child held a teddy bear with a hand close to their chest. ''You really think that— that my Star is over there?'' The child asked, rubbing their teary eyes innocently.

''I promise you, he is.'' Death reassured.

The child looked over at you, and you forced a little welcoming smile on to your face. ''Hello, little one.''

''Hi.'' They responded weakly, hiding behind Death once he stood up. They grabbed on to the bottom of Death's cloak, seeking comfort.

''They really like you, huh?'' You asked.

''When they're as little as this, most do.'' The wolf responded, placing a comforting hand on to the child's head.

''Yeah... Hey, little one,'' You started, earning the child's attention, ''How about you go play with your teddy bear for a minute. Me and the gray wolf here need to talk a bit.'' You pointed at death, noticing his eyebrows scrunch together when you referred to him as the gray wolf.

''His name is Death!'' The child corrected.

''Of course. Thank you for correcting me. Do you like his name?''

''Yeah...''

Death watched the interaction between you two.

''I like Death's name too. But do you know what I would like?''

''What?''

''I wanna know your name, so that I can like your name too!''

They smiled a bit. ''It's Lexi.''

''Well Lexi, that's a very pretty name. Now, do you think you could go play over there for me a bit?''

They nodded, ''Okay!''

After they had left, you'd turned to look at your wolf. He crossed his arms.

''About me missing you, really?''

You huffed. ''Well, was I wrong?''

''As wrong as it is to call me life.''

''I wouldn't mind. Life suits you. Really fits your aesthetic, you know?''

He snickered. ''Right.''

''But hey, how are you doing?'' You poked him with your elbow as you asked.

''A great question, '' He admitted, ''I suppose I'd say a bit unusual. Frustrated.''

''You're frustrated?'' You repeated.

''Yep.'' He said, popping the 'p' letter.

''How come?''

A coughing noise came from the distance. The sound caused both of your heads to look at the direction of where it came from.

''You alright there, Lexi?'' You called out into the dark.

''Yeah, I'm okay!'' They shouted back.

You had to bring them to your boat soon. Coughing within your area was never a good sign. Though, you had a time for a small chat with Death until the situation actually became bad.

You looked over at Death again. ''About that frustration you were talking about?''

He sighed. ''It's el gato.''

''The cat?''

''Yes, the orange one.''

''No way, you're talking about the one that had nine lives?''

''Exactly.''

You scratched your chin in thought. ''Right, he's on his last life.''

''And I'm here to hunt him while he is.'' The wolf explained.

''You'll never give up on that, will you?'' You asked.

''It's what comes with being death.'' He responded.

''You're right,'' You chuckled, ''and that's exactly why you'll be fine.''

''Yes, but, bringing Lexi here. It... got me,'' he tilted his head to the side, ''Upset.''

''It's her age that bothers you, isn't it?'' You guessed. You knew he disliked bringing children down to you, just as much as you did.

Based on how he looked to the side, you were right. He started explaining himself,

''That cat. He's an insult, a joke. I've watched him spend his time do nothing but act reckless. And yet, instead of collecting him, I'm right here, bringing a child with me.''

You felt his words. ''I hear you, but unfortunately, life acts like my lake sometimes. It's unpredictable, it's blind. Some people get different fates just because they do. Just like how ''el gato'' ended up with 9 lives instead of someone who didn't, like Lexi.''

''Do you have to do that?''

''Do what?''

''Sound like that. So correct.''

''That's what friends are for, isn't it?''

You'd managed to make the both of you smile weakly with the last comment.

''You're gonna get him, Death. You always do.'' You said, putting a comforting hand on his shoulder.

''You're always the man I can rely on.'' He stated.

''Hey, I am your woman for everything. Well— Mostly boats and rides.'' You joked.

You looked down when you noticed a small hand pull at your cloak. ''Can we go now mister? I'm a bit bored.'' The child, who had walked up to you in silence, admitted.

''Of course.'' You said. They coughed a bit.

''Am I allowed to pick you up?'' You asked.

They grabbed up at you, meaning yes.

''Up we go!'' You said, earning a small ''wee'' from them.

''You got this as usual, yeah?'' Death asked.

You nodded.

''Good.'' He added, ''Lexi, you're gonna be fine, okay?''

''I will Death!! I'll say hi to Star for you.''

His eyes warmed up. ''That sounds nice.''

You looked at both of them. ''Alright, we're gonna get going.''

''I'll see you soon.'' Death said.

''I'll see you soon, too. And bring that cat next time, yeah?''

He shook his head, smiling. ''What did you expect?''

''Nothing less,'' You admitted. ''Goodbye, Death.''

And he was gone.

''Where did he go?'' Lexi asked.

''To get some dog biscuits, maybe.''

You placed them in the boat.

Lexi laughed. ''Wolves don't eat dog biscuits!''

''Not really, but hey, wanna see something cool?'' You offered.

''Yeah!''

Your eyes turned gold, and they looked at you in awe.

''What do you think?''

They hugged their stuffed teddy bear. '' Your eyes are so pretty. Like Death's eyes!''

''Yeah, his eyes are pretty.'' You admitted. ''Now, are you ready? We're gonna go and meet Star.''

The child smiled. ''I can't wait. Teddy and I have missed him so much! I just wished my papa and mama could be here too.''

You looked at them with guilt for a moment, but quickly turned positive again. ''I'm sure your mama and papa would have loved to see Star too. You wanna tell me stories about you and your cat?''

You started to move the boat.

''Can I?'' They asked.

''Of course. I wouldn't be asking if you couldn't.''

''But mister ferryman, I have so many stories!''

''We have time.'' You reassured.

You spent every second you could listening to Lexi's stories. Hours later, when you had finally reached their destination, your ties with them were cut. You were forced to leave them behind.

It wasn't long before you had to paddle back to land. And this time, Death had waited there for you without anyone to hold his hand. You could only assume that he was here to inform you about the troubling cat in his life again. Perhaps, he'd finally inform you about having given up the chase?

#please #this is so cute #and I love this idea #and this is so sweet #ALSO YOUR WRITING IS JUST REALLY GOOD LIKE AUGH #This is killing me /pos #hopefully there’s a continuation

[oliveofthenight]

[SFW] A Date With Death || Death x GN!Reader

some gn!reader x death/muerte fluff involving one of your first dates with the mysterious wolf. its good for the soul.

summary: you managed to drag death to a local carnival. although he is initially hesitant towards the idea, the two of you manage to have a good time together.

Needless to say, Death is not amused by the idea. At all.

He's learned to humor your strange requests every now and then, but nothing like this. He's not necessarily a fan of the public eye.

Still, you've been looking forward to spending time with him for a while now. He couldn't possibly say no to that, right?

Rather on edge at the beginning of your date—after all, he's Death, he doesn't know how to enjoy himself. But as time goes on, he'll learn to calm himself down, maybe even take a breather. That isn't to say he won't need your help getting to that point, though.

Very protective of you during the entire date. He'll place a lone paw on your shoulders to keep you next to him, and if you're too embarrassed about it, he'll offer to hold your hand the entire date instead. Anything to keep you close enough to him.

The first sign of trouble that shows, he'll be prepared for anything. Death has no qualms about hurting someone, should they try and hurt you. After all, your safety is of utmost importance to him. 

You're gonna have to do some hard convincing for him to try some of the food there. Not only is he a wolf, so his tastes would naturally be different than yours, but he's practically immortal. As such, he doesn't really see the need in eating himself.

Likes to show off. Really likes to show off. There's a high-striker? An easy opportunity to flex his strength. Ring toss? Anything to impress you. Whack-a-Mole? Certainly not his favorite, but he'll certainly try his damnedest if it means you'll be proud of him.

Speaking of which, he loves your attention. You might be on a date with him, but he wants your eyes on him the entire time.

When you call him out on it, he'll try and brush it off as just his way of worrying for you, but you can see his tail wagging softly underneath his poncho. Best not to bring it up, though.

A kissing booth? Say no more. Even in the privacy of closed spaces, his kisses are always gentle, yet carry a hint of intensity. Loves the touch of your skin against his lips more than anything.

Any prizes you win, he'll offer to carry them for you, no matter how big it is. And if he wins anything, he'll give it to you as a gift. He doesn't need it, but he likes seeing you happy. So a win is a win.

In a rare instance where he does lose a carnival game, he might sulk about it afterward. Won't take long for him to pick himself back up, but he doesn't like losing. Especially not in front of you.

But all in all, you can say you thoroughly enjoyed yourself today. You can ask Death for his opinion, but at most, he'll just say "...estuvo bien," but you can tell by the subtle wagging of his tail that he had his share of fun too. Just in his own, special way.

As you walk home and recount the fun you had today, he'll absentmindedly place his poncho over you to keep you warm.

He won't realize what he's done until you point it out to him, to which he'll unabashedly tell you not to worry too much about it, before putting a hand around your shoulder, as he pulls you closer.

#please this is so adorable for absolutely no reason #this is so lovely thank you

[oliveofthenight]

#ahahahaaaaa hello???

[oliveofthenight]

"Sleep Perrito…", says Lobo.

"I can't!", exclaims the puppy.

When it comes to raising, even Death has its limits.

[its a little sketch, and I plan to do more of this cute couple because I love that the fandom has developed this idea so much]

#please this is so adorable #I love it #I love any Death and Perrito content #but this is just truly so wholesome omg #thank you #puss in boots #death the wolf

[oliveofthenight]

MISSION FROM GOD TO FILL THIS TAG, GOD BLESS. THIS IS A SERIES NOW I GUESS

PART ONE

also this is on ao3 for easier archival

The nice thing about being entrapped into such an outlandish job such as capturing Death is that your clients hadn't paid you beforehand. They barely thought about reimbursement for your exploitation, really. They were more smug about the fact that they had leverage on you and eagerly sicced you on the personification of death.

But, while you went penniless from the encounter, you had no binding contract, magical or otherwise, which means that now that you have no obligation to do anything for them, you can sail halfway across the ocean with them none the wiser.

Duloc used to be one of the biggest kingdoms this side of the hemisphere. Ever since its ruler's untimely demise, however (eaten by a dragon, or so the rumors say), the resulting power vacuum had thrown the whole place into chaos with lesser aristocracy staking claims here and there, lobbying assassinations at each other while everyone else tried to stay out of the way.

But it's been years since Lord Farquaad took the slip n' slide down a giant lizard's throat. The kingdom has mostly stabilized, with sovereign villages here and there, while the fighting mostly took place on aristocratic lands. And where there's a semi-safe village and a shitton of espionage, there's an open job market for people like you.

You find yourself the cheapest inn available, ditch your usual all-black attire for locally-made clothes (a lot harder to track where you're from when your stuff's locally sourced - you are not getting compromised by a shirt tag), and start hitting the seediest bars you can find. In a land with this much unrest, there's plenty.

Predictably, you're not the only mercenary on the hunt for a job. Duloc's mostly merc country now, and the barmaid helpfully tells you where to frequent and who to talk to. There are even formal guilds here, though until you get a better feel for the land and the political climate, you think you'll go solo.

Your first few weeks aren't too bad. There's jobs from big wigs and commoners alike - from farmers needing wolves chased off their property to jealous lovers with too much money putting a hit on some poor schmuck. The most challenging thing you have to do is going to the mountains to bring a pair of brothers home after their camping trip goes awry, and their worried family puts a job out to find them when they don't come home. Turns out they got scared by some deer and ran deeper into the woods, getting lost in the process.

It's nothing you're not used to. At least no one's given you an assassination job, but you're new to town. Everyone's still getting a feel for your presence too - par for the course.

Three months into your stay in Poisonapple, Duloc, a hysterical parent barges into your new favorite bar, already drunk out of his mind and begging people to help him. Muffet, the barmaid, winces and mutters, "He's still at it?"

"He's done this before?" you ask.

"He was here yesterday," she says. "Poor Elrick's gotten tangled up with some rich family up north. I heard they got him tricked into pricking his finger on a cursed spindle."

"Oooh." You suck in a breath through your teeth. "True love's kiss not work out?"

"If his love even knows what's happened to him." Muffet shakes her head. "His father's been asking people to find some way to undo it, but - " She looks around, then leans closer as she whispers. "You ask me, I think Elrick's love's been locked away in some tall tower to keep 'er away from trouble. Weeks' worth of journey and the boy'll be bones by the time anyone comes back."

"Royal types do tend to do that, don't they?" you mutter. "Thought that solution fell out of popularity after Fairy Godmother herself kicked the bubble."

"Eh, where there's a vacancy in the market, there's a thousand other people waiting to fill it," Muffet says. "Competitors just had to take over the niche."

"Yikes." You knock back your drink, turning around in your seat to watch the poor old man plead, hands wringing as he begs for someone, anyone, to save his son.

You'd give it a shot, but like Muffet said, intel gathering would take days alone. The human body isn't designed to be unconscious with no food or water for that long. You don't even know how long Elrick's been knocked out, how long he has left.

"Can't they get someone else to do a counterspell?" you ask Muffet. "Like Sleeping Beauty?"

"Fae are hard to find around these parts. Witches too. Lord Farquaad chased everyone magical off the land a few years ago and very few have decided to come back since. The constant fighting between them aristocrats ain't helping."

"Yeah," you say. "Guess it'd be easier to find a witch and buy time than getting that true love's kiss, though."

Elrick's father suddenly turns to you. You freeze, and watch in horror as the man begins to stumble towards you.

"You - you know how to help my son?" he asks. "Please - "

"Uhhhh." You turn to Muffet, who wipes down the counter and dutifully keeps her gaze away, minding her own business. You're all for minding your own business, encourage it in fact, but come on. Traitor.

"Please," the old man says. "He's only sixteen - "

Fuck. Of course he is. Or course it has to be some young fucking kid.

"I don't really know, I was just…throwing ideas out," you say, tugging on the collar of your shirt. "See what stuck."

"B-but you're a witch, aren't you?" The old man eyes the red of your cloak, a new piece you'd gotten to replace your older one. While people in Duloc dressed much more colorfully than from your old town, the colors you now don make it so easy to identify you. 

People know what your look like because they've been keeping an eye on you. You have a red cloak. You have two guns holstered on your belt at all times. You have a spellbook you carry in a satchel everywhere.

"I'm not very good at it," you admit.

"At least try."

"I could make it worse. I don't know how to use magic," you say. "Is it really worth the risk?"

The old man pauses, his brows furrowing, before he nods. "Anything," he says. "I just need someone to help."

"Look," you say. "Messing around with magic I barely know is a recipe for disaster. If I mess up, I'm not just gonna be trying to break a curse, I'm gonna have to drag your son back from the jaws of death. Does that sound any better?"

"Then just drag him back, witch," the old man insists. "Rally against death if you have to."

Your eye twitches. This is why you hate talking to people. This is why all your work is through written correspondence and why you talk sparsely. People always forget to suggest and go straight for commands. Where are the manners?

You turn around, mouth clamped shut, tapping a nail against the grain of the counter while the old man shouts behind you. A few people later come to drag him out.

You ask Muffet for another drink with the biggest glass she has. She gives you a raised eyebrow as she slides one twice the size of your forearm at you.

Whatever. You need to get a little reckless, burn off some energy. It's fine. Just as long as the person you're now supposed to rally against doesn't show -

"That could have gone better."

Son of a bitch.

You slam the glass onto the counter a little harder than you should. In the corner of your eye, Death flashes a smile.

"What can I do for you this evening, señor?" you ask, fingers twitching. 

"What was your last command? Rally against Death?" He turns and leans am elbow on the counter, resting his face on one paw. "How are you gonna do that, peque?"

"I am trying - " your hands itch. " - not to."

"Can you actually fight your curse?" he asks.

You resist the urge to bang your head against the counter. As much as you're trying to control yourself, he's not making it easy when every word that comes out of his mouth makes you want to maul him.

He snickers. Your nails scratch against the grain of the counter as you turn back to him.

"Oh? Something's happening." Death leans over, hunching down to your height so you're nearly nose-to-snout, red eyes tracking every twitch and tic of your face. "What are you gonna do, peque? Bite me?"

You bite him.

"Son of a bitch!"

In your defense, he'd suggested it, and he was the one who got the brilliant idea of sticking his nose within biting range. You get a mouthful of freezing fur and snout, and then he's pulling you off of him like a leech. You snarl, grabbing fistfuls of silver fur to hold on, but he's much stronger - and he pulls you off with a comical pop!

He punts you across the room. You tuck your knees in and roll, landing on your hands and feet. "What the fuck is wrong with you? Mierda!"

You spit out the fur in your mouth - it tastes like ice chips for whatever reason. What the hell. "Hey, you asked for it. Gift of obedience, remember?"

You stand and watch him actually pause and consider it, before he glares, remembering he'd phrased it as a question and not a command. He reaches up to rub his snout.

"You're lucky you've got a while to go." He glances over your head. "Otherwise, I'd make you regret that."

"Hey, I was told to rally against Death. Can't hold that against me, can you?" One of your hands is already itching towards your gun. You look to your hip in distaste, your fingers twitching again.

"Don't."

Despite how annoying he is, you visibly sag with relief, sighing as the uncomfortable urge to just maim disappears. Your hand drops. You straighten and smooth out your cloak.

"That's way better," you mutter.

When you turn back to Death, he has his head tilted, his now-lopsided hood revealing the end of an ear. That's actually kinda cute, if he was, you know, not built like a brick shithouse and has rows of needles in his mouth.

"What?" you ask.

"I could just tell you never to attack me again," he says. Your hackles raise. "But that'd be less funny."

You raise an eyebrow. "What am I, entertainment TV?"

He snickers.

"Asshole."

"Brat."

You sneer, before marching back to the counter to drop a few pieces of silver onto it. You have no idea where Muffet's gone. Out back for a smoke break, probably, since you were the only customer left by the time Death showed up.

"Might wanna keep away from these parts, old man. Some of the folk up north are getting restless and desperate," you say. "My previous clients weren't the first people to think about chaining Death. There's always people who want more power."

"I know, peque. I've been here longer than you," he says with a chuckle. "You keep your eye on not getting turned into a dance monkey again."

You turn and flip him off. He laughs, and the candles in the room flicker, bathing everything in darkness for a second.

When the lights steady, he's gone.

#puss in boots death x reader #for me cause thjs this is good #need to be able to reread this

[oliveofthenight]

Okay but, think about this: a spin off with Death's live reaction to all 9 of Puss' deaths - in documentary format with Death narrating the whole thing. (I just wanna know what Death was thinking/doing when The Shellfish happened.)

Please please make this happen, DreamWorks, IT IS A NEED. 🥺

#puss in boots the last wish #I need this #but in an Emperor’s New Groove fashion #he freeze frames certain spots to take a marker and is just like #‘give me a second I just need to *furiously scribbles skulls and bones around Puss*’ #‘alright we can continue that was for my sanity’ #and I need there to be cutaways of him just pacing and angrily ranting in spanish #‘YOU HAD THE CHANCE TO PUT IT DOWN AND YOU KEPT EATING YOU IDIOT CAT ARGH IM ABOUT TO GO ON ANOTHER HUNT FOR YOU JUST FOR THAT’ #but in spanish

[oliveofthenight]

Alright let’s do this! And I’m doing pointedly the Ur’s because they are far too overlooked and its a crime.

Bofur: Listen I think before the journey, he smelled a lot like coal and soot, he was a miner after all, and all that shit gets everywhere and never truly like leaves. But during and afterwards, it’s still got that earthy smell, but the coal isn’t as prominent. It’s lighter. More of campfire herbs, and leather. Something that smells more like the earth rather than rock. But if you get real close to him, like nose directly on like his hat or skin, you can still find that soot-y kind of smell.

Bifur: I don’t know how to describe it but I feel like somehow he just has a very clean scent? Like rushing river water, that specific smell that a river or lake has you know? That and like wood, specifically after the journey I like to think he has set up a little toy shop, so he smells like paintchip and carved wood.

Bombur: this man, I would argue smells the best. Because he just smells like whatever he last cooked or baked. Whether it’s stew, or pastries, or cooked beef or whatever else, the scent just sticks to his clothes. And I swear he does it on purpose because its those food smells that make you so hungry so he has an excuse to cook for you and also an excuse to eat too.

Gandalf: Old Toby, obviously. But if you can sniff beyond that, you’d find something a lot sharper like citrus or mint.

Nori: I don’t think this guy’s scent ever stays the same. And it’s all a jumbled mess cause he’s always out and about, he carries the smell of all the activities of an entire market. And oddly enough I think he smells like candlewax? I can’t explain it, but I think he would. That and beer/mead, you can’t tell me taverns aren’t the best place to swindle people out of their money.

Dori: Like Bofur I think he also has a very earthy smell, but given his relation to the line of Durin it’s more along the lines of tea leaves and winestores. He smells a lot more like dirt along the journey without the ability to properly bathe himself, something I’m sure he abhors, but afterwards? It becomes something akin to heavy incense, and that smell of tea leaves comes back. I’d wager he’d wear some perfume too, maybe jasmine or something similar.

Bilbo: I like to think he and all Hobbits have very soft smells, of herbs and paper and fruit. The hardest smell you’d find on them is Old Toby or dirt from their gardens. This is a scent he loses very gradually over the journey, and it drives him crazy. His scent gets sharper and stronger the more he hangs around the company, and when they reach Erebor, everything happens, he leaves smelling of stone and rock. And he can’t quite bring himself to wash the smell out of his clothes afterwards when he realizes this.

Thorin: I think he smells like wet rock. I don’t know why, but wet rock and metal. Like the scent alone nearly has to prove he’s the rightful king under the mountain. Something undeniably strong, sharp, and smells of their home. Though like Bofur especially before the journey he also smells like soot and brimstone from all his time in the forges.

I might add more as I think of them.

Calling all The Hobbit lovers!

Everyone I need some help! So you know how in stories people always describe their love interests smell, like fresh linen and strawberries or smoke, clove and oranges, well I want to hear what smell you would associate with Fili and Kili? (And the rest of the company or that matter) would they smell sharp like a citrus? Soft like lavender? What?

I want to see what different people think and how they interpret the characters!

Reblog and tell me what you think they and any others in the hobbit (dwarf, hobbit and elf alike) would smell like!

#the hobbit #bofur #bombur #bifur #gandalf #bilbo #thorin #nori #dori #smells

[oliveofthenight]

Me: *sees that you favor Bofur*

Also me: “Finally somebody gets it!”

I’m legit so happy that I’m not the only one simping for him^^ so glad that someone else see that he is 100% husband material

| Author's note: Bofur deserves all the good things in the world, I'm sad to see that there are not many posts on this platform and on AO3 that have him as a love interest. So, that's why I always try to write something about him!

Here is a short imagine of what I imagine husband Bofur would be like, please enjoy!

MY DWARF HUSBAND: BOFUR

Imagine being married to Bofur, he enjoys spending time with you whenever he gets off work. The hatted miner always tries to make you laugh, he is not a great cook (unlike his brother) but he still wakes up earlier than you to make you breakfast every morning. Here's a short drabble of your mornings with your dwarf husband. Pairings: Bofur x fem!reader

You sigh sleepily and shift to your side, the sun threatening to wake you from your slumber as it shines past the window, the curtains surrender to the sunrays and let the light beam through the room. The body pressed to you shifts as it begins to rise, a grumble and huff escapes your partner's lips as he awakes for the day, "Hm,"

The calloused hands grasping your waist twitch, rubbing soft circles on your skin, "Morning, amralime," His hot breath against the curve of your neck and shoulder, you furrow your brows and shift closer to your partner's warmth, "...morning," you whisper, still half-way asleep. Bofur chuckles and plants a soft kiss on your neck, his hands slip away from your waist and so does his radiating warmth, you huff, clearly displeased but remain in your spot.

Bofur raises the sheets and sits on his side of the bed, his hair a mess and his moustache dishevelled, he rubs the sleep away and sighs before he rises and puts on his slippers. He toddles his way to the door, quietly, and before he leaves the room he takes a look at your sleeping form: you are buried under the sheets, some of your locks on the pillow, he knows for a fact that there's some drool falling down the side of your mouth and that the sheets have marked the left side of your face–he can't help but think that you are beautiful...With a soft smile and a twinkle in his dark eyes, he leaves the room and heads to the kitchen.

"KAKHF!"

Clutter and banging echo through the apartment and your eyes snap open, with a gasp you push the sheets of your body and practically fall off the bed, your eyes scan your room, not a sign of your dwarf. You rise to your feet and hurriedly walk to your dresser, grab your dressing gown and slippers before you hastily make your way to the kitchen, "Darling?"

The kitchen is a mess, there's flour everywhere, most of the cabinets are opened and from the corner of your eyes you see a chair in the pantry, there are some egg shells broken by the sink and some leftover milk spilt by the wooden table. Your dwarf, oblivious to your appearance, curses to himself as he fries some sausages on the stove. From what you can see, his hair is a mess, his plaits dishevelled as you step closer, you take in his appearance: his goatee and part of his cheek are covered with flour. His shirt is partly opened and he is wearing your apron over it; it's bright pink and has a teddy bear woven in the front.

You cough back a snort and smile as you observe him, he raises a finger to his lips and sucks it, another huff escapes his lips, "Have you burnt your finger, Bo?" The said miner flinches and hastily turns to you, his head turned to the side, his dark eyes widen for an instant before they soften and that smile curves on his lips, "Good morning, ghivashel, slept well?" You hum and step closer, his smile turns into a grin before he turns to tend to the stove, "I'm glad, I bet ye even had drool pouring down yer chin!"

Once you are close enough, you slap his shoulder and he chuckles, you smile and roll your eyes. While he tends to the stove, you skim the unopened cabinets and search for the cutlery: you grab two knives, forks and two cups. "Do you want some tea, love?" Though you know his answer, no, you still ask him. Your dwarf clicks his tongue and shakes his head, he tilts the pan and flips the sausages, you nod (even if he can't see you) and prepare some tea for you before you prepare his coffee.

The two of you perform your morning routine, Bofur prepares breakfast and you set the table. While having breakfast, the two of you do some small talk, talk about your plans for the day, joke, laugh and enjoy the other's company. When the clock strikes 9, Bofur raises from his seat and begins getting ready whilst you clean the dishes, you hum a merry tune and clean the kitchen counter. Before he leaves, your dwarf plants a big fat kiss onto your lips and after a quick make-out session where you are both left wanting more, your husband reluctantly leaves you home and heads to work. Sometime later you do the same. This is your typical morning with your hatted miner, you couldn't ask for more.

#this is so cute and I love it so much #omg 💖😭 #THANK YOU FOR FEEDING THE BOFUR SIMPS #WE USUALLY GET SO LITTLE #truly we have won today

[oliveofthenight]

If it’s alright, I would like to leave a request

Interaction: Romantic

Pairings: dwarfs x reader

Summary: Dwarf wants to put a courting braid in to his sweethearts hair but there’s one tiny problem…Their Ones hair is too short to be properly braided. What shall they do?

| Author's note: Thanks so much for your request and sorry for the delay! Hope this is what you asked for. Would you be interested in a Part 2?

TO BRAID SHORT HAIR

Imagine having short hair (from pixie hair cut to chin length) and having a dwarf boyfriend, though he loves your short hair and thinks it compliments your features perfectly he is confused: where does he put his courting braid? This is them coming up with the most amusing alternatives to officially make you theirs. Pairings: Dwalin x fem!reader, Fili x fem!reader & Thorin x fem!reader

DWALIN:

He loves your hair, he really does. Especially when the two of you are laying in bed, your head in his chest whilst he runs his calloused hands through your short locks. The two of you fancied each other during the journey and soon after he asked you to be his, without having a courting bead, to which you agreed. Now that Erebor had been reclaimed, your dwarf was always frowning and huffing whenever he sets his eyes on your hair.

At first, you hadn’t given it much thought, you knew what hair meant to dwarves, so it wasn’t unusual to have some of the dwarrow at Erebor stare at your locks for a couple of seconds before they glanced away. However, knowing how much your dwarf liked your hair, you couldn’t help but feel self-conscious–had he grown tired of you because of your hair? You always dropped those thoughts but as time went on you couldn’t help but begin thinking that it was true.

One day, whilst Dwalin was getting ready to go to work you decided to speak up in the matter. You shift on the bed, your head in your hand as you look at Dwalin’s broad back, your eyes travel through the many scars and bruises that decorated your lover’s backside, “I think I’m going to let my hair grow back,” 

The dwarf freezes and slowly turns to look at you, one of his boots in his hand, “Are you?” He stares at you from underneath his brows, his expression unreadable as he stares at you. “Maybe, it’s been a while,” You run your free hand through your locks, “Wouldn’t you like it?” You watch, uncertain, at your lover’s back, he huffs and resumes his actions, his voice comes out in a grunt as he puts his boot on, “I like yer hair how it is, luv. But it’s yer hair, do whatever pleases ye.” 

You frown at his words and open your mouth to interrogate his behaviour this past few weeks when his mouth covers yours, you immediately close your eyes, enjoying the feeling of his mouth on yours. Dwalin kisses you lazily, slowly, his hand raises to your cheek, rubbing small circles with his calloused thumb, he smiles when he hears you sigh, “Gotta go now, luv.”

He pulls away and gives your lips one last kiss, he grabs something from his pocket and hands it to you, you raise a brow and raise your gaze to look at him, he grunts and nods at the object in your hands. Curious, you open your palm and gasp, your free hand covers your mouth and mist clouds your eyes, you blink the happy tears away and giggle happily at the two earrings in your hands–Dwalin has transformed his beads into earrings! 

“Do ye like ‘em?” He whispers, you look at him, he kneels on one knee, his eyes twinkling. You laugh and nod eagerly before you throw yourself into his arms, he holds you close and inhales your scent, a chuckle leaving his lips, “‘m glad.”

You never take your earrings off, proud of your dwarf’s work.

FILI:

Although he doesn't completely understand the reason why you would cut your hair, he has to admit that he loves the way it looks on you, it makes your facial features pop. The two of you became close during the journey, however, it wasn't until years later that Fili finally confessed his feelings for you (you two had been mutually pinning each other for 4 years!) His favourite time of the day is whenever the two of you cuddle by the fire whilst reading a book, he loves how you run your fingers through his long locks but: he adores running his fingers through yours! He loves pampering you after a long day at work: he brushes your hair and massages your scalp before he plants a sweet kiss on your forehead.

You knew that Fili was up to something when he one day says, "Don't let your hair grow back, amralime," Confused you ask him why but he dismisses your question with a sweet kiss on your forehead. A couple of days later you feel his hand on your hair, he runs his fingers through your locks before he hums and pulls away, you raise your brow to him, both confused and amused, he waves you off before planting a sweet kiss on your lips.

"You've been acting weird lately," Fili freezes, his eyes widen and so does your smile, your dwarf huffs and shakes his head, before he turns around and you are, once again, facing his back as he washes the dishes.

From the tone in his voice, you know that he is trying hard to suppress a smile; "I have no idea what you are on about."

This kind of interaction goes on for a couple of days, you questioning Fili and him dismissing you. One day, you get enough of it and decide to corner him, as soon as he crosses the front door you tackle him; he oomps as he hits the ground, his hands automatically wrap around your waist as his back collides with the ground, after a few seconds his laughter echoes through the living room.

"Armalime, what was that?" He whispers into your ear, his hot breath sends shivers down your spine, you feel his thumbs caressing your hips and for a couple of minutes you forget your original plan; with your head on the crook of his neck you huff and pull away.

"You are hiding something, love, and you are not leaving until you tell me."

Fili raises a brow and the side of his lips curves upwards, his moustache braids twinkling underneath the soft lighting of the room, his eyes shine as he stares at you before he huffs and shakes his head fondly, "Fine,"

He drops his hand from one side of your hips and reaches into his pocket, "This was supposed to be a surprise but..."

You gasp, your eyes cloud with mist and you cover your mouth with both hands as you stare at the object in his hand; there's a golden neckpiece with blue and grey beads decorating it-Fili, your dwarf, has transformed his courting beads into a silver-chain due to your length of hair. You giggle and tackle your dwarf once again, he chuckles and kisses the side of your forehead before he whispers: "Let me court you, my love."

THORIN:

The two of you became close during the journey, though he was very rude to you at first he ended up warming to you after seeing that you were capable of defending yourself. He was both thankful and enamoured with your fighting skills and it didn't take long before he properly asked you to become his. He loves your hair, he really does, but he sometimes stares at it with sad eyes, which makes you feel self-conscious because you love your pixie haircut; of course, you understand what hair means to dwarves and with you being the soon-to-be Queen consort of the dwarven kingdom you can't help but think about growing your hair out.

One day, whilst laying in bed, your head on Thorin's chest, his arm on your waist, you state, "I'm going to grow my hair out," the dwarf king freezes and turns to look at you with wide eyes, his mouth opens and closes slightly; making him look like a fish. You giggle and shift to have a better look at him, you raise a hand to his face and stroke his face slowly, a soft smile on your face, "I'm going to be your queen and it's going to be expected of me to wear your beads."

Though he doesn't answer, his eyes twinkle with an unreadable emotion to you, you raise a brow and huff before you lean in and give him a soft kiss. He doesn't say it, but your words make him feel nothing but guilt, if only he hadn't stared at your hair with sorrow: you wouldn't be having all these thoughts...

For the next couple of weeks, your dwarf avoids you: he wakes up earlier than you and comes home when you are fast asleep, whenever there's a meeting he sits the farthest away from you...even Kili started to notice the distance that his uncle had been putting in his relationship with you. Two months later, you decide to speak up about your concerns when he is about to leave, "Have you grown tired of me?"

Your voice cracks nearly at the end, you bite your trembling lower lip and close your eyes when they begin to cloud with unshed tears, you are not facing him–your back to him. Thorin intakes a breath of air, and slowly turns to face you, he can't see your face but he doesn't need to: he knows you are on the verge of tears.

"Why would you say that?" The dwarven king feels his heart drop, his eyes widen at the words you say and he practically runs to your side, his eyes shine in the dim light–making them appear darker, almost black. You open your eyes and gasp, you raise a hand to rub the tears away, and with a shrug, you whisper, "You have been avoiding me lately, I can't think of another reason why..." you hiccup the last words of the sentence. Thorin frowns and raises a hand to your face, he caresses your cheek too gently, he leans in and kisses your tears away.

"I would never leave you, because, I will never grow tired of you, ghivashel." He whispers, his forehead on yours, his finger caressing your cheek as he closes his eyes, "I apologise for making you think that, I have been busy...creating something that will suit you,"

Your eyes snap wide open, and you stare at your lover, you sniffle and pull away from his warm embrace, "Have you?" Thorin nods, his eyes open and he gazes at you–his eyes shining–he lowers the hand caressing your cheek to the side of your neck, you shiver at the contact earning a chuckle from the dwarven king. "Wait here, love."

With your brows furrowed you nod and watch as he pulls away, he kisses your hair before he leaves the room–what was he up to? Soon enough, he comes back, a small smile on his face, his eyes are their usual colour of blue, "This is the reason why I have been distant from you," You shift to have a better look at him, sitting down you watch as he pulls a shiny object from behind him, you gape at the silver tiara in his hand; in it, you recognise your name, written in his native tongue, along with the runes for "love" and "treasure". "Oh, Thorin..."

Your dwarf had transformed his beads into a tiara for you, he had distanced himself to ask Balin for advice on what to do...Thorin loved the way your hair looked on you so he decided to adapt his beads so you wouldn't have to modify your appearance to please others.

#this is so lovely #and as someone who like pretty much is growing out a buzzcut I appreciate very much #hopefully there will be a part two! I’d love to see Bofur’s reaction