#;;death will evade me tonight

[netherfeildren]

Someone's Wife in the Boat of Someone's Husband .1

Series Masterlist : Moodboard

(Joel Miller x F!Reader)

Summary: What do you do when you meet a woman, have a child, get married, and then find the love of your life?

-OR- 

A Joel infidelity AU

Content Warnings: Discussions of alcoholism and parent death.

Rating: Explicit 18+

A/N: Hi, everyone. Welcome to the new story. 

Disclaimer to begin with. Joel is married in this, but it is, and always has been, a marriage of convenience. There has never been any sort of emotional or physical intimacy between him and his wife apart from when Sarah was conceived. 

Like always, I promise there will be a happy ending, and that there will be lots of other fun :) stuff to make up for the occasional tears. 

I appreciate you all so much. Happy (lol I guess) reading. xx 

Art is The pain that keeps on giving, Noelia Towers, (2018-2019). Title of the story comes from this film.

Word Count: 6.8K

Read on AO3

.1

Life changes in the instant. The ordinary instant.

Joan Didion, The Year of Magical Thinking 

The first time you’d fucked, it was like you’d never been touched by a man before. The first time he’d looked at you, like you’d never been seen, in the entirety of your existence, prior to that moment. Every other time after that, every touch, every look, was the same – a rebirth of sorts. And a devastation. Something not to be understood or conceptualized, only experienced. 

Taking that into account, it’s no surprise that things unfolded as they did – ended as they did. 

-

“Please, please, come with us,” Gerri drags the vowels out and hits you with the puppy dog eyes. You shake your head at her, smiling, packing up your supplies from tonight’s lesson. “It’s going to be so fun, I promise. Tommy’s sister-in-law hates my guts, I know, what-fucking-ever, but my sister and her girlfriend will be there, and my best friend’s planning on coming too. And there’s an extra bedroom, it’ll be perfect, I swear.”

“Yeah, I remember the sister-in-law from Easter.” Of course you remember her from that day. Gerri had invited you to their family barbecue, and the woman had pitched a fit that Tommy’s girlfriend, somehow posed as an insult, had dared invite someone without asking her permission first. It was also the first time you’d met him. And he was, by far and large, the reason you’d stayed away and evaded all subsequent invitations since then. Even if his wife had unapologetically said to your face that she found it crazy that people still party crashed, no matter that that hadn’t been what you’d meant to do, hadn’t known you were party crashing. She’d also thrown away the bunny cake you’d stayed up the entire night before making. No gluten in the house or something, even though the hamburger and hot dog buns had all been regular. 

“Oh my fucking God, Easter. Don’t even remind me. I know, I know.” She gives you a pointed look and you huff a laugh at her. “But that was months ago. Her and Joel were on the outs then, or… had just gotten back together… I can’t ever keep up. And well… they’re still on the outs now–” She scrunches up her face into the cutest little frown. You love Gerri so much. From the first moment she’d shown up for your Tuesday night ceramics class at the community college, she’d immediately decided that not only were you going to propel her into the upper echelons of the great sculptors of the world, the greater Austin area – her words, not yours, but she’d also immediately decided that you were going to be friends, and no, you did not have a choice in the matter. 

“But they’re always on the outs. And things haven’t been as bad recently – according to Tommy. But honestly the fuck does he know about all that anyways. My poor baby is so clueless – but still, please, please please,” she begs, pouts your name over and over again. “Please, come with us?” She brings her clasped hands up under her chin in a pleading gesture, hits you with the puppy dog eyes again. 

You were so grateful for her. Despite your recalcitrance, it’d always been hard for you to make friends. A byproduct of who your mother was, being an only child, a largely solitary upbringing, et cetera, et cetera. You’d needed Gerri’s tenacious spark and kindness to pull you out of your shell. She wanted you to join her, her boyfriend Tommy, and their friends and family at a house they’d rented on Lake Austin for the weekend as a sort of end of summer farewell. And you did – you wanted to go, bunny cake murdering sister-in-law and all, but there was the issue of him.

You were… there was not a single phrase for what it was your mind turned into when that man and his name and his face invaded your psyche. So you’d done your best to avoid him in your mind and in real life, at all costs. He was – he was not something you were capable of considering. 

“I’m not sure if I can, Ger–” you say slowly, wracking your brain for an excuse. “There was– one of the other teachers at the elementary school–” Your day job, when you weren’t teaching night class ceramics, was as an elementary school art teacher, “Asked if I’d cover for them on Friday – summer school.” Stupid excuse, you roll your eyes at yourself. 

“Oh, shut up. The summer camp classes end early – you told me that last time! You could drive up after.” She sidles up to you now, rests her curly haired head on your shoulder. “Please, you’ve said no to everything I’ve invited you to since Easter. You aren’t avoiding me because of the shitshow that was, are you?” 

“No, of course not.” Yes, yes you were. Just not for the reason she thought. “I would just hate to impose–”

“You wouldn’t! I swear you wouldn’t be!”

“You all already have your plan, and I–”

“No! No. My sister’s the one renting the house, and she said I could invite whoever I wanted. So, no one can say anything,” she sticks her tongue out, rolling her eyes. “And Joel said I should invite you too. I’m pretty sure he still feels badly about last time also.” Fucking hell, you did not want him feeling bad for you. At all. Ever. You did not want him ever thinking about you ever, ever, ever. 

-

You stand over the kitchen trash bin, staring at your destroyed cake. Your grandmother used to make it every Easter. Four separate cake loaves all cut into the shapes for a face, two big pointy ears, and a cute little bow tie, with a pineapple filling, and all covered in little flakes of coconut and your homemade vanilla frosting. You used jelly beans to make the eyes and nose and dark frosting out of a piping bag for the whiskers and mouth. It was your favorite cake, one of your favorite memories, one of the only good ones. 

“Fucking Christ, she did not throw it away. Please, don’t tell me that’s the cake you brought.” Large hand gently placed between the wings of your shoulder blades to peer around you, not touching, but still there, still very close, and yes, that’s it, you’ve gotta get the fuck out of there now, away from this man.

“Oh, no. It’s okay – I– I mean– I should’ve asked before. I didn’t know you all were gluten free. I should’ve asked…”

“What? Glu–” he frowns. You knew his wife, Eva, had made that up. You step away from him, from his large warm palm that feels like it’s burning through your clothes and skin. He was really, really and truly the most unfairly gorgeous man you’d ever seen. He fucking terrified you. “Oh, yeah. The gluten.” He went along with the lie, passing the offending palm over his mouth, the wiry scruff of his beard rasping softly against what you imagined to be work roughened skin. He’d said he was a contractor. 

Gerri had invited you to her boyfriend's brother’s house for the Easter holiday. It was the first invitation to something you’d gotten since you’d moved to Austin six months ago, and you’d been so, so happy that she’d asked, had felt so sad you’d not have anyone to share your cake with. You’d planned to take it to work with you to leave in the teacher’s lounge for everyone to share. The thought had made the back of your eyes pinch, for some reason. 

“It’s alright. I actually need to head out. Could you let Gerri know? I– I’m–” you couldn’t think of a lie, and he was staring at you like he knew you had no real excuse – like he knew you were uncomfortable and out of place and were just looking for an excuse to leave. Embarrassment burned in your cheeks. 

“Don’t go, please. Stay for a while longer. I’m – fuck– I apologize about the cake–”

“No, no– really it’s–” you held out a staying hand, but he’d cut off your false appeasement.

“Please, stay.” He’d taken a step forward, closer to your retreating form, and you’d felt almost faint, dizzy at the image of him stepping closer to you. He was so tall, huge really, broad chest, thick arms, dark, lush curls and a scruffy jaw, a peek of chest hair covering the tantalizing golden skin at the opened button of his shirt. Sexy, deep Southern twang. The loveliest, warmest eyes you think you’d ever probably seen. You were going to try and mix the exact color of them when you got home, even though you knew you shouldn’t. You hadn’t been interested in a man in months, maybe longer, couldn’t remember the last time you’d had a crush, an anything on anyone, and now this man. Suddenly, blindingly, out of fucking nowhere – so damn attractive. Your eyes had fluttered shut for a second and you’d swallowed, trying to regain your balance – you’d known him for all of two hours and he already made you feel unbalanced. You needed to leave.

“Really, Joel,” his name on your tongue almost had a taste, “It’s okay.”

-

“He– He did?” you stutter. “He shouldn’t feel bad – he has nothing to feel bad about, it was nothing.” Lie – lie, lie, lie. Meeting him that day had been – it had been everything. You’d thought about it, him, for months afterwards. The sight of him with his three year old daughter, Sarah, the sweetest little thing you’d ever seen. Helping her hunt for the Easter eggs he’d hidden around their backyard, letting her crack the bright confetti filled shells over his head. His excitement for her when she’d finally found the basket he’d made up for her. He was a good father. 

“Yeah, and Tommy said he’d like to see you again too. And I told my sister about you, and she thinks all my pottery’s fucking amazing, by the way, and she wants to meet you too, and she’s even thinking of enrolling in the class next semester so really, really you’re obligated to come.” Fucking menace – she smiles sweetly. 

“Oh, fine. Fine, fine. I’ll come.” You’re putting away the last of your tools. “I’ll drive up Friday afternoon when I’m done at the school.” 

Immediate hopping squeals, and this is why you love her. She’s so happy, so open and silly, friendly and funny. All the things opposite to your restrained quiet, shy to the point of aggravation, sometimes. You didn’t want your constant refusals to alienate her. You could see him again, it would be fine. You’d met him once for Christ’s sake. It meant nothing. It had probably been nothing that day, heat exhaustion or a stomach ache or something. Nothing to fawn and stress over. You’d just be polite, cordial, keep your distance – especially from his wife. You did not, did not want to provoke her greater dislike. You’d keep your unwanted baking to yourself this time. It would all be fine. You wanted these people to like you, if you were being honest. A little desperately. Gerri and Tommy, her sister you hadn’t yet met – you wanted to be part of their group, one of their friends. They were all so kind, welcoming and fun, you couldn’t ruin this for yourself. 

Gerri had spilled the beans on the marriage over one afternoon of too many Mexican martini’s, an Austin specialty, and chips and salsa. They’d gotten married three years ago after Eva had gotten unexpectedly pregnant. Joel was traditional, he’d asked and eventually she’d agreed. They were both older than you, he’d just turned forty recently, and you guessed it’d made sense for them, at the time, but she’d left them soon after Sarah had been born. The marriage, the baby, hadn’t been in her plans, too much for her, Gerri said. They’d been separated for about a year and a half until she’d come back. They seemed to be trying to work it out now. Gerri claimed they were both miserable. You’d only met them the once – well, you’d seen Joel a few weeks ago, from a distance, when Tommy’d come to drop something off for Gerri before class, sitting in their truck. You don’t think he’d seen you – but you thought that their misery was very obviously apparent in that way that was easily recognizable to someone who, at one point, had existed in a house made only of misery. It breaks your heart for them all, in different ways, to recognize that singular brand of dissatisfaction that comes with living in a home where no happiness resided with you. 

But the reality of his marriage made you all the more terrified of him. To ever see him again. You wanted no part of that. Didn’t even want to exist in the same vicinity as someone who was experiencing something of that nature. You’d had enough of unhappy marriages and painful households in your own childhood. You never wanted to deal with that again. 

-

You’d read once that infidelity was a hereditary trait. Studies had shown that if you’d had a parent or even a sibling, someone in your household during your development, who’d been unfaithful, you were then more likely to also be unfaithful yourself. Something about that sort of childhood trauma inciting a propensity in the offspring to find it difficult to later on trust romantic partners, to incite trust themselves. Trust issues, emotional unavailability, baggage, blah, blah. Sometimes nature versus nurture was a real bitch, in your opinion. 

But as much as you wanted to call bullshit, the thought, the possibility of that being true, filled you with such an intense fear — debilitating, paralyzing, life altering. You found yourself with an immense inability to trust yourself, more than anything. Your greatest fear, the thing that scared you the most in all the world, was that you would be the perpetrator, that you would be the one to commit that sin. That you’d lose control, self awareness, morality, yourself. It wasn’t something your mind could even come to terms with, the possibility of hurting another person that way, betraying them in that manner. It seemed like the worst possible thing in the entire world that you could ever do to someone. After all, you’d watched your mother do it to your father, over and over again, your entire life, up until the point that she’d up and left the both of you. For many years, after her fateful abandoning, you’d watched him drink himself into a stupor and then into a grave. Years of waiting for her to come back, in love with a ghost or a figment of his imagination, for the woman he’d made her out to be, within the ever forgiving and naive confines of his love, had never existed. Something you could see, even through the lenses of your child eyes. 

She was an eternally flawed woman. Selfish, vain, manipulative, deceitful, but there was good in her too. She was eccentric and beautiful, and she could be kind, so funny, and immensely intelligent, her mind and wit, always sharp as a whip. It was, you thought, what made her so talented at deceiving others, at getting her way. She outsmarted everyone she came into contact with. But she was also weak and self serving, had never met anyone, in all her life, who she loved more than she loved herself. Not even you. Sometimes, you thought, especially not you. For you were the living reminder of all she’d lost and been forced to give up. It was a difficult, complicated, painful relationship you had with her, even now, all these years later. 

After she’d left, she’d kept in contact with you sparingly. The occasional call or birthday card. It had taken her three years to feel like seeing you again after she’d left when you were ten. The pains and awkwardness of puberty long started, endured on your own, before she’d even had the foresight to remember she had a daughter who might need her. It was an exceedingly painful and lonely time for a young girl to survive on her own, but you bore it, as you did the entirety of the fallout that came with her leaving. 

Your father was another story entirely. He’d fallen to pieces, completely, the day she’d left and had never had the strength of will to ever pull himself together again. It was a strange sort of existence the two of you had lived in those years, keeping each other company. Physically, he was there, but he was never present, never sentient. He drowned, for years and years, in a sea of pain and liquor, and he never resurfaced. You watched him sink, a young girl incapable of comprehending or acting in a way that could’ve helped him, as much as you wanted to or even tried, all of it was futile. Eventually he hit the bottom of the ocean and died there, and you were left more alone than ever. 

You remember there’d only been four people, in total, at his funeral. You and two men from the shithole bar he liked to lose himself at every week and the priest. It was a terribly painful thing to live through on your own. Humiliating in a very specific and acute way, for some reason. To know that this sad, pathetic specimen of a human being had had a hand in creating you, to know that he was your father and that you loved him, despite his weakness, his vices, his lack of care for you, you loved him. And you felt interminably sorry for the creature he’d been turned into at the hands of an uncaring and poisonous love. You hadn’t been able to tell her for ten months, after he’d been dead in the ground, that he’d passed. She’d not called, didn’t like giving you her number, said she was too busy to have to worry about you calling her at all hours of the day, as if you’d asked her for a single thing in the decade since she’d left. 

And you loved your mother, even after it all, you did, but it was a poignantly devastating moment, the day you realized she was not just your mother, but her own person, as well. The day that childlike naivety, unconscious self centeredness, was cast away to realize that she was savagely flawed and human, and that she did bad things that hurt good people. And still, and still she was your mother and you loved her. Your greatest influence, the hand that shaped you, and you loved her despite everything. It was only that, after the rose tinted glasses had been ripped away, and she was only then herself, nothing more – pedestal forsaken – she was just a flawed woman who sometimes made mistakes, made the wrong choices, hurt you and your father and fractured your family. That was a hard thing to come to terms with as a young girl. 

You realized now, with the lifetime of experience she’d inherited to you, that motherhood built a pedestal and a grave, all at once, over and over again. A woman could vacillate between being the Madonna and the whore, and the cycle was inescapable and destructive and enticing, all at the same time. It was something that one could try to avoid or run away from, but many times, it caught up to most, hooked its claws in you and dragged you away from the things you would’ve wanted or done otherwise. You realized this was what had happened to her. She’d never been built for motherhood, for the responsibility of raising a child, so she’d desecrated the altar of it, taken a sledgehammer to it and freed herself in the only way she saw she could, collateral damage be damned.

And so you’d isolated yourself, for the thought of doing the same thing to someone that you might have loved or someone that loved you, was soul destroying. And that was the saddest part of this whole overly cliché tragedy – that you were sure that, at a certain point in her life, she’d loved your father, as well. Perhaps not enough, not enough to change who she was, what she really wanted, but she had loved him in her own way, nevertheless.

Parallel to the tragedy was the ironic reality that in some very safely guarded part of you, you longed so, so desperately for your own chance at a happy family, love, children. How could you not? When you’d never experienced it for yourself during your own childhood. Always having to make your own meals, get yourself ready for school, alone at ten years old, walking to the bus unaccompanied, no one ever waiting for you, expecting you, watching over you. Alone, alone, always alone. How could you not want to build your own normal, loving, happy family for yourself? You wanted it very badly. 

But there was also no part of you that felt, in the most vital ways, capable of showing your underbelly in such a vulnerable way. You had always been too sensitive, a weeper from a long line of weepers, and the second thing you were most terrified of, after turning into your own mother, was being left again, abandoned to another derelict and lonely childhood. So your aloneness suited you, for now. At least, in terms of your romantic life. Your isolation kept you safe, guarded from those that would savage the sensitive and salted battleground that was your heart.

 That, however, did not mean that you were immune to wanting, to the disease of yearning, of desire, and so you found it most unfortunate, cosmically laughable and cruel, that it would be this man, this married,  beautiful, entirely unattainable man, that would have reminded you of that desire again, after it had lain dormant for so long: Joel. 

-

Joel tried to think of you only in the moments when he was feeling particularly strong. It was a challenge he’d set for himself from that day, all those months ago, when you’d appeared at his house on Easter. Like a fucking angel or a creature out of a fairy book. Soft and luminous and so fucking pretty. No, Joel tried very, very hard not to think of you. 

He failed often, though. He’d not forgotten you since that day. Had tried to fish, as subtly as possible, through Tommy, for information. See if he’d heard anything about you from Gerri. Any new details or gossip about the pretty little art teacher. Tommy was a terrible goddamn gossip, like a clucking hen. And Joel knew, he knew empirically, that thinking of you was wrong. That he had a wife that he needed to be respectful of, even if she was never respectful of him, fucking her coworker – or had been… still was — he couldn’t keep track anymore – didn’t really care, if he was being honest. But you, you were the one small, private thing he kept for himself. The thought of you, the image of you in his mind, you were only for his moments of great necessity. You’d been so sweet that afternoon, walking into his home with your bunny cake. That fucking cake haunted him – the look in your eyes as he watched you stand over the trashcan staring at it. He’d been so scared you’d start crying, that he’d have to comfort you, that he’d be able to take you into his arms. He’d been terrified of what would become of him if he’d gotten the opportunity to feel you like that. But no, you’d left. Made up some weak excuse he knew you could see he didn’t buy, and had quietly left, not even saying goodbye to the others. He’d had a terrible one-sided argument with Eva that night. Told her she’d been unnecessarily rude and cruel, doing that to a complete stranger who was just trying to be nice. She hadn’t batted a single eyelash, all his frustration going in one ear and out the other. 

He could, to a certain degree, understand where her behavior came from. He knew she was unhappy, he knew she hated their life together. That it was nothing like what she’d ever envisioned for herself, and so she acted out sometimes. At his age, he found now, that you couldn’t ever really fault a person for not being what they’d never been meant to be. He understood this, had accepted that his marriage would never be of the happy or intimate sort. That Eva had never wanted to be a mother, but had felt trapped by circumstance. He dealt with it. Or ignored it. Avoided looking directly at the ugly reality of it, more like. He had Sarah and work and Tommy, and now that his brother was with Gerri things had gotten a little better, happier for the family. She was a good addition – kind and spunky. She was good for his brother, and he was happy for them. 

But the day he’d met you – it had made a savage claw of want gouge through his entrails. He’d not remembered the last time he’d wanted something the way he did when he watched you walk out into the backyard long hair shimmering in the sun, and a nervous flush sweeping over the apples of your cheeks. And even if he’d been unattached, free to pursue you like he liked to dream about sometimes, you were so young – much too young and pretty for an old, washed up, has-been like him. But he could imagine it, like he’d said, only when he was feeling particularly strong. Or maybe particularly weak. He couldn’t keep track of which was safer anymore. When the years and work and responsibilities and grief and loneliness surged up too high and overwhelming for him to bear, he liked to think of you in that little yellow sundress. Wonder what it’d be like to be a younger man, to have met you first. A bad, selfish, terrible thought to have. But just in the quiet privacy of his mind, when he needed a small something to make him feel just a little better – he liked to think of you. 

The only other time he’d seen you, once when Tommy’d had to drop something for Gerri at the college, he’d insisted on tagging along. Hoping he’d maybe be lucky enough to get a glimpse of you, and oh, he’d been so, so rewarded. You’d been carrying a stack of supplies from your car into the building, one of those spiky things women wore twisted in your hair to keep it up, wisps of your long, heavy locks escaping the knot, and a little, red, spaghetti strapped top. The thin of it on your shoulder had slipped off the delicate wing of your clavicle as you balanced everything you’d carried in your arms and tried to kick your car door closed at the same time. It’d taken everything in him, all the self control he possessed, not to sprint over to you and offer to help you, to fall to his knees at your feet. You’d blown a strand of your hair out of your face, the cutest expression of frustration scrunching your brow. His gut had twisted almost painfully with yearning. He hadn’t even known he was capable of fucking yearning, but he sure as hell did now. He felt it sharply, piercingly, like a knife to the gut. He’d met you once for Christ’s sake, seen you in person only twice, but you plagued him, you plagued him. 

He knew it was probably partially a symptom of how alone he was. Lonely to his very core. His marriage had never been a real one, no closeness, no intimacy. A byproduct born of one drunken night, and Joel’s need to do the right thing, give his child a stable home with two parents and all the love he could give her. And Sarah, Sarah was the greatest gift that he’d ever been given. This perfect little person that he still, three years later, could not believe had come from a piece of him. 

He’d told Eva that he’d do whatever she wanted, would accept whatever she’d chosen when she’d first realized she was pregnant. She’d refused the alternative route vehemently, and so he’d never suggested it again. If he was being honest, he’d been happy when he’d found out, in some small way. The situation wasn’t ideal, of course, they’d been veritable strangers at that point, but he’d been thirty seven, at the time, and he liked the idea of children. Eva was attractive and intelligent. He’d proposed immediately, gone out and gotten a ring and gotten down on one knee. He’d naively thought that perhaps, eventually, with time, they might grow closer. That idea was squashed quickly. She’d made it clear that she’d never wanted to marry him, but she also didn’t want to go at it alone, knew he was responsible and reliable, and so she’d accepted. And perhaps, he should have tried harder to win her over afterwards, but if he was being as honest as he could be, he wasn’t very interested either, didn’t really mind the lack of intimacy with her. They just weren’t a good match.

She’d left a few months after she’d given birth. Ran off with some guy she’d met – only a note left saying she couldn’t do it anymore. He hadn’t tried to go after her, hadn’t tried to bring her back or look for her. A better man probably would have, would have fought for his wife, for the mother of his child. But he’d never loved her, not even close, and so he’d taken care of his baby girl, had tried to be everything she needed and worked as hard as he could so that she’d never want for anything. Eva had come back after about a year and a half – her affair had run its course, and she’d said she wanted to try again with Sarah, that she’d made a mistake, wanted to be part of her daughter’s life. Of course he’d let her come back. He wanted Sarah to have a mother that was present, to have everything a child should have. And afterall, it was no hardship for him personally. She didn’t want a relationship with him, only Sarah. And so they’d settled into this strange agreement of co-parents slash roommates who just happened to be married. Eva liked to keep pretenses up, so they did the occasional family thing together. Especially now that Tommy was with Gerri, she liked to pretend at the double date thing, occasionally. Even though Eva couldn’t stand the poor girl. It was a pieced together sort of life, but it was better than what some had, and Sarah had her mother. He couldn’t complain.

But he did like to imagine a sort of alternative sometimes – something different, less lonely. He could tell she was going to leave again soon, more unsatisfied and frustrated and restless than ever. He couldn’t even find it in himself to resent her for it, it only hurt him for Sarah’s sake, for he didn’t think she’d be coming back this time. 

-

It hadn’t been such a bad idea to come after all, you think, as you lounge on the dock by the lake. The sun is strong but not burning – warm and soothing. It feels like there are ghost fingers stroking all along the bare skin of your arms and legs. Gerri had made a pitcher of sangria and you were slightly tipsy off it now. A light weight, through and through. 

The house they’d rented was gorgeous. All exposed wood and big glass windows right on the lakefront. Gerri’s sister was a doctor – a spine surgeon or something really fancy. She’d rented the house and invited all of you – no chance for Joel’s wife to be pissed off that you’d tagged along. 

There were large boxes of the loveliest white hydrangeas along one side of the dock. The sweet scent of them drifting around you as you lounged on the chair you’d planted yourself in with your sangria. Yes, this was a good idea. You’d managed to evade Joel and his wife in the hours you’d been here. Gerri and Tommy were great as always and her sister and her partner were so nice. You’d talked about the pottery class, she wanted to pick up a new hobby, trying out the whole work-life-balance thing, and she’d thought pottery’d be a good fit for her. She was planning on signing up for the next semester. 

You’re slightly dozing now. The warm sun and sweet alcohol making you languorous and drowsy and all fizzy on the inside. You think you might be able to hear the breeze sliding through each individual blade of grass on the bank, whistling over the surface of the water, and you can’t stop picturing his arms in your mind, but you’re pretending to ignore that, or pretending the bulging, mouth-watering muscles, prominent veins running under the surface of his tan skin, dusted with a light coating of golden brown hair belonged to someone who was not him. He has the largest hands you’ve ever seen, and you wonder what one of them wrapped around your throat would feel like. Bad, inappropriate thoughts. 

You have one arm slung above your head, resting at the crown of your scalp to partially shield the sensitive skin there from the strong sun when you feel a sudden piercing pain, right to the center of your palm. You shriek, jolting violently, glass of sangria falling and shattering on the deck and stumbling up out of your chair, sending it flying back topside. A wasp buzzes menacingly around you, and you shriek again, cracked and painful. The thing had stung you right in the center of your tender palm. You hear the quick paced steps of someone approaching, too distracted trying to evade the horrible thing when you hear Joel’s voice. “Stay still, it’s okay. I’ll get it.”

Your hand really, really hurts. You stop your swatting and feel the back of your eyes pinch, hot tears pooling in the corners. Not only is the sting incredibly painful, but you really hate bees, wasps, all the ugly mean things that buzz and sting. You can feel the slight tremble of your frame begin to take over as you try to patiently wait for him to get rid of it. 

He comes closer, “It’s okay, he’s gone. Did it get you? C’mere, lemme see.”

You clutch the injured hand to your chest, try and scoot away from him shaking your head, but you get too near to the edge, and his hand shoots out to cup your elbow, other hand coming to circle your waist and turn you so you’re standing in the center, and he’s closer to the edge. 

“No, no, it’s okay. It got you, lemme see it–” he gently circles his big rough palm on the thin of your wrist, and now you’re really shaking.

“It’s o–okay,” you hitch, you feel a tear slide down your cheek. Fucking embarrassing. “I’m okay, really. It’s nothing.” You try and pull your limb out of his grasp, but he pulls you closer. He says your name then, not necessarily sharply, but in the way of a rubber band snapping against your skin, a slightly jarring crack followed by a tingle, something that reverberates through your entire body.

Then gentle: “Just come here,” and coaxing. How could anyone ever say no to a voice like that. So deep, so patient. “Lemme see, it’s okay. No, don’t be scared. Lemme see, open your hand for me, sweetheart. I’ll be gentle, it’s okay,” his soothing voice over and over. Coaxing you into capitulation, into following his orders. He smooths his rough thumb gently, gently over the sides of your palm, coaxing your fingers to uncurl and let him see the hurt. “Oh, it’s alright. None of that trembling, sweet girl.” And then he brings your hand up to his hot, wet mouth and presses his lips to the wound, gently sucking. You can feel the wet of his tongue pass over it once, slowly sucking the venom out of your palm. You feel everything below your belly button go hot and liquid at the feel of his tongue on your skin. Oh, God, you want to feel that mouth everywhere, between your legs. 

You think you let a jagged whimper claw its way out your throat, for his eyes flit to yours, a flash of heat igniting them. He pulls his mouth away, turns to spit, thumb gently brushing over the tender inside of your wrist. He says your name so softly. “That’s better. You’re okay. No tears.” 

His large hands completely engulf yours. His fingers are thick and long, his nails clipped short and neat. Beautiful, masculine hands. Working hands. He doesn’t wear a ring. “We can get a clove of garlic on this,” he’s still cradling your limb, “Heard that’s good for stings.”

This is bad, bad, bad, bad. Not part of your plan to stay away from him at all. He’s staring at your cradled hand, his gaze trained on the way his own palm dwarfs yours. You feel his touch tighten for just a second, he brings his eyes back to yours, and you watch as a swallow passes through the strong column of his throat. 

He called you sweetheart. 

There are so many reasons why you know he’s dangerous to you, why you should stay away from him: his kindness, how competent he is — the way it seems like, no matter what in life could ever present itself to him, he’d be able to take it in, take care of it, fix it. He could handle anything. How fucking gorgeous he is, his hands, his face, his body, the dark curls, the slightest hint of silver threads beginning to appear through them, the deep dark eyes, but most of all, more than any other reason, the way he says your name — like the worst thing you’ve ever heard in your entire life, and also the loveliest. So soft and deep and soothing. A voice that could get a person to do anything, capitulate to anything, commit any crime. 

And what was it about wanting something you should not want, could never have, that made you want it all the more? Rebellion of the highest order calls your name. 

“Thank you,” you say quietly. He still has you clutched in his grasp, is staring at you almost in shock. You try to pull away and his grip tightens for one second, like he can’t bear the thought of letting you go, and then releases you, lets you pull your injured hand back into your chest. 

“Alright?”

And you’re so disoriented by him, by his touch that you instinctively reply: “Yes. Are you?”

 He looks confused for a second, shakes his head a little and then laughs, “Yeah – yeah, I’m okay, sweetheart.” He shouldn’t be calling you that, but it sounds so lovely coming out of his mouth. You’ll tell him to stop next time. It’s okay. Next time he says it you’ll tell him not to call you that anymore. Embarrassment burns your cheeks. 

You shake your head, “Sorry, I–”

“It’s alright. No need to apologize. Let’s get you inside. Get somethin’ on that hand.”

You take a step back from him, and he matches it with one step of his own forward, like he isn’t planning on letting you run away. It makes the speed of your heart kick up a notch, a hummingbird fluttering within the confines of your chest. “No, really, it’s okay. I’ll ice it or something. I’m fine, honestly. Thank you for– for your help.” You feel like you’re blinking a hundred times a minute, the sun suddenly scorching, when just a moment ago it had been soft and warm. 

You need to get away from him.

“Rubbin’ a garlic clove on it’s good for stings. There’s some in the kitchen, I’ll get it for you.” He reaches a hand out as if to take hold of you again, and you take two more steps away. This time he does not follow, you see the muscle of his jaw flutter. 

“Really, Joel. It’s okay.” You feel like you’ve said these words to him before, like all your short acquaintanceship has consisted of, is you apologizing and running away, bowing out before it gets too scary or complicated or threatening. He probably thinks you’re an idiot. “Th– thank you for your help. I’m just gonna –” you hitch your thumb back towards the house, “I’m just going to go back inside. Sorry.” 

He only nods, frozen on the dock as you walk away from him.

Chapter .2

Netherfeildren Masterlist

#someone's fic #joel miller #the last of us #joel miller the last of us #joel miller x you #joel miller x reader #joel miller/reader #joel miller/you #joel miller imagine #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller fic #joel miller angst #the last of us fanfiction #the last of us fic #pedro pascal characters #pedro pascal #pedro pascal fanfiction

[slasherbvnnie]

Omg- I would love a continuation whenever you get a chance! Maybe size kink within the smut section or even them getting caught or almost getting caught?

This part 2 is brought to you by learning Stu is a foot and three inches taller than me. I hope you enjoy this, I did my best with the smut. I'm still trying to work on smut, but I think I did a good job with this one.

Dirty Little Secret | Part 2

Part 1

Context: Stu and reader are in a secret relationship behind Tatum's back. Modern Scream Au. All characters 18+

Word Count: 1186

Every other night was always new. Whether it be because you were thinking of a new lie to tell your friends why you couldn’t meet with them or if it was because your heart was racing as Stu climbed up into your window.

Tonight, he chose to once again climb up through your window, which he did even after asking him to come in like a normal person. The reason why he did it was because of the exhilaration he got from sneaking in, not only because he was trying to evade your parents, but because your house was only two houses away from Tatum’s.

It was risky, especially with his car parked not too far away, but both of you loved the thought of potentially getting caught.

You heard the thumps of him climbing up, looking out your window and rolling your eyes. “You know, I’m glad your parents have money, you might be owing me a new wall,” you said as he smirked. “Oh will I,” he asked as you nodded, kissing his cheek as he threw his leg over the windowsill and climbed in. “Tate’s having a little sleepover with Sid tonight, so I figured we could have a little party of our own tonight,” he said as he put his hands on your waist, leaning down and kissing your neck as you smiled. “I’d love that, you haven’t come to see me in a few days,” you pouted as he chuckled against your skin.

“So the other day in that empty lab room meant nothing to you?” He questioned as you hummed, “no, but I do prefer when we can go longer than just a quickie,” you said, moaning softly as he bit down on your neck.

“Then I’ll take my sweet time with you today, sweetheart,” he promised as he pulled you towards your bed.

He smiled, beginning to undress you from your clothes, leaving kisses and hickies in his wake. “So pretty, so fucking gorgeous,” he said as he groped your chest. He smirked, kissing down your body before he got to your panties. He moved his hands off of your chest and instead pulled off your underwear, lifting your thighs to rest on his shoulders and planting little kisses on your inner thighs. You bit down on your bottom lip, letting out a needy whine. “Hurry up already,” you huffed out.

“What happened to not wanting a quickie,” he teased, laughing when you pouted down at him. He flicked his tongue against your clit, moaning at your taste. You whimpered, one hand curling into his hair as the other grasped at your bedsheets. He moved slightly to have his mouth on you, sucking on your clit as his right hand began to play with you. His middle finger teased your entrance, you could feel his smirk against you when you moaned as he slipped his finger inside of you, your grip on his hair getting tighter and holding him in place.

“Fuck,” you moaned out, whimpering when Stu added a second finger. You felt his mouth leave your clit with a little pop from releasing the suction, arching your back when his tongue joined his fingers. You attempted to squirm away from all the pleasure, but his free arm wrapped around you and pulled you back down onto his tongue. “Please, Stu, I need you,” you whined out, feeling happy when you heard him groan. “Don’t say that unless you want me to ruin you,” he murmured against your core as you whined.

“I want you to ruin me, Stu, please. I need you to ruin me,” you pleaded, smiling when he pulled away from your cunt and instead rose to plant a hard kiss on you. “You’re going to be the death of me,” he chuckled against your lips, holding your face as he kissed you again. He groped your breast with his other hand, taking the chance of you moaning to slip his tongue into your mouth.

You didn’t fight him, simply letting him do what he wanted with you. Even though you enjoyed teasing him sometimes, you both enjoyed when you gave him full freedom and let him use you as a toy.

“Such a good girl for me, yeah? Let’s see how much of a slut I can make you into,” he hummed, pulling away from you. He pulled off his jeans, quickly getting out of his shirt and underwear before grabbing you and getting off the bed. “Let’s try something new,” he said as he took you over to the window, your legs wrapping around his waist and connecting your ankles behind the small of his back. “Stu, but-“ “what? Afraid tate will see?” He asked with a smirk as you pouted, “Oh come on baby, who fucking cares. I want your neighbors to see how fucking hot that ass looks, especially when I’m fucking that pretty pussy of yours,” he said, kissing your neck again.

He pulled down the window, not wanting you to fall out mid fuck, pressing you against the glass after. He held onto you tightly, pushing inside of you, the two of you moaning as he pushed all the way inside. “Fuck, look at that, barely fucking fit inside,” he groaned, looking down at where the two of you connected. You grew wetter at his comment, moaning as you looked down and he thrusted all the way in.

You clung onto him, clawing at his back as he took no mercy on you. Stu knew exactly how you liked it by now, wasting no time to get the both of you off, not when he knew how many rounds you two could last together.

Your climax was beginning to build until you heard your phone ring, the two of you huffing as you looked over and saw Tatum’s id call. “Fuck, stu, hand it to me,” you requested, Stu rolling his eyes as he reached over and handed the phone to you. You thought he would stop, but was only met with him thrusting even harder into you.

“Holy shit, are you getting fucking plowed right now?” Tate asked as you blushed, “Tate! What are you doing outside,” you asked, trying not to moan and doing your best to not notice Stu’s shit-eating smirk at hearing your question. “Me and Sid made some cookies, came to give you some but it seems like you found something better,” she said as you whined. “Just leave them at the door okay!” You said before hanging up, moaning as Stu pushed even harder against you.

You moved your head to the crook of his neck, moaning into the crevice before hearing a loud exclamation from outside. You looked to Stu, blushing when you realized he was staring out the window down at whoever was yelling outside. “Fuck,” you huffed out, whimpering when Stu didn’t stop, instead quickening his pace. “S-Stu, Tate’s-“ “Getting a show along with Sid, come on, let’s at least get off before getting into a fight,” he laughed, kissing your neck as he continued to thrust inside of you.

#stu macher smut #stu macher brainrot #stu macher x reader #stu macher #scream 1996 #scream1996 #scream #scream x reader #scream au #ghostface x reader #ghostface

[giorno-plays-piano]

House of Chains

Part IV

Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x mage!reader

Warnings: noncon, smut, yandere, obsession, canon-typical violence, chase scenes, death of minor characters.

Words: 1.5k

Summary: In return for help to come back to your home world, you have been faithfully supporting the Greens to put Aegon on the throne. But when your promise is fulfilled, neither Otto nor Aemond are keen on letting you go.

Part I

Part II

Part III

_________

You lie on your bed in silence, disheveled Aemond right next to you, shoulders touching, as you both stare at the high ceiling, unable to sleep. It hurts there, between your thighs, although not as bad as you expected. He had prepared you in the end.

It wasn't that painful. Physically, that is. Aemond really isn't a hero-lover, but he was surprisingly attentive, at least not seeking to injure you as a sort of revenge. He kissed you and whispered words of comfort, his large, calloused hand brushing your hair away from your forehead, and it made you feel like a little girl when he craddled your head. Then you cried, and he stopped right away, and you asked him not to. You asked him to do that again through tears, and in that moment, you finally saw his handsome face twisted in regret.

It hurt you the most.

You make yourself unclech your jaw and take a deep breath as you blink, returning to reality. Luckily, your power continues to recover, and it's almost enough to cast a sleeping spell. But what then? How do you evade all those guards behind your doors? Otto must have tripled them in hopes of detaining you, and you can't use invisibility incantation and keep it until you leave the castle. It would take you a day to recover enough magic, and by then, God knows what the Greens would do to you. Besides, just because you become invisible, it doesn't mean you will just slip through the gate like a ghost with no one noticing.

Slip through the gates. Or, perhaps, through the castle walls. There is a spell for that, too, and you don't need much magic if you can concentrate properly. Why take the corridor if you can make yourself slip directly through the stone floors and keep going until you are in the dungeons? The third level has enough empty cells for you to hide and wait out until your magic is replenished, and neither Otto nor Aemond will ever think of the dungeons as your hiding place.

Fantastic. You couldn't have thought of a more perfect plan, you think as you grin to yourself. Now, the only difficulty would be to concentrate on the incantation and not make yourself stuck in the stone floor, which would instantly kill you...

"What was your happiest day in this world?" Aemond asks quietly, his head turned to you, and you flinch.

You have almost forgotten that he is still awake. Aemond has been having insomnia even before you came to this place, but you doubt he'd fall asleep under these circumstances, anyway.

Furrowing your brows, you try to focus on his question.

"The night when Tyrells came," you mutter, gazing at the milky canopy above your head. "We held a welcoming ceremony for them."

Aemond shifts slightly, his face unreadable in the dark. "Yes?"

"It was my first time seeing your people dancing, and I thought it was lovely. The way you dressed the room in green and gold... and lit candles everywhere. The musicians with their flutes and tamburines, people laughing... I loved every second of it," you speak softly even when it feels like you're suffocating yourself with words. "I remember wanting to dance so badly, but no one would ask me out. Haha, of course, why would they when your grandfather looked like he'd kill anyone who says a word to me?"

You force yourself to swallow a lump in your throat, your eyes growing suspiciously wet as you keep staring up, afraid to turn your head towards the man you have to share your bed with tonight.

"And then... and then you saw me distressed and took me to dance."

Unfortunately, regardless of your resolve, you can't stop yourself from crying. You don't even know why you are telling him this. What will he understand? He is a Targaryen prince itching to sit on the Iron Throne. Your words won't change anything.

As you curl into a tight ball, hiding your face in your knees, Aemond is right beside you, his arm sneaking in to hug you by the waist from behind, pressing himself to your back. If you weren't trembling from wailing, you'd feel him shaking a little, too.

_________

By the time you cast a spell on him, you have already worked out a plan. Picking up your clothes from the floor, you wince in pain, your womanhood aching, and force yourself to keep moving. You can't risk anyone walking in your chamber when you can't defend yourself. Besides, the earlier you move down the dungeons, the more the chance everyone will be asleep: you don't want to think what's going to happen is some maid sees you emerging through the ceiling.

You look back at peacefully sleeping Aemond on your bed. You hold a knife in your hand, and for a second, you think of slashing his throat in revenge for what he's done to you. This is how those who offend a mage pay in your world, and you know no one from the Tower would question your choice.

But Aemond stirrs slightly, his long, milky white hair shifting to the side, revealing his serene face, and in this very moment, he looks like a boy again, harmless and pure. He curls into himself just like you did not so long ago, and you feel it with all your being: killing him won't diminish your pain. If anything, it will only make it worse because there is still a small part of you hoping Aemond is not a power-crazed monster who's following in Otto's footsteps. Maybe he'll understand. Maybe one day he'll make a different choice.

You grab your carefully assembled sac and begin chanting.

____________

You are able to escape only three days after. It takes you a long, long time to recover your magic to the maximum in the dungeons smelling of blood and rot below Red Keep. Ironically, it is the only place in the whole castle where you were able to fall asleep. Choosing the farthest cell that has been empy for a while, you dream in the dark, seeing faces of those you murdered for the Greens' sake.

But hiding in the dungeons is worth it: you are able to maintain the invisibility spell nearly until reaching Flea Bottom, itching to leave the city before Otto catches you. The number of guards you see on the street has grown three times under the pretense of searching for supporters of Rhaenyra - which might as well be true - but you know he searches for you with even more vigor.

You prefer not to think of Aemond. Hopefully, he didn't take Vhagar and fly right to Dragonstone as some sort of suicide mission just to find you.

Not that what you are doing can be called something else.

When you arrive to the island, masked as one of Kingsguard who swore loaylty to Rhaenyra and left King's Landing in secret, you are more than half-drained: changing your appearance isn't easy, especially so drastically. Neither do you enjoy wearing armor and a heavy sword while pretending to laugh at dumb soldiers' jokes and then keep a gloomy facade because of the war looming dangerously close. You are concerned, yes, but for a different reason.

By the time you are marching to the castle, you have enough magic to keep an invisibility spell for half an hour at best and a little more for a small shield against dragon's breath if something goes wrong. But that's all you have left, and if something truly goes wrong, you will most likely be eaten by an angry dragon.

Should have brought some poison, you think with bitterness as you blend in with other white cloaks before you chant an invisibility spell, trying to navigate an unknown castle that you immediately hate as much as the Red Keep with its stony walls and cold winds blowing throw every crack and crevice. Were it up to you, you would burn this place.

Perhaps Aemond will. The thought immediately sours your already foul mood.

Here they are, the fancy chambers of Targaryens on the top floor. Rhaenyra's and Daemon's ones are empty, likely because they are holding a council with everyone they were able to summon at such short notice, but it's not them you are seeking. Not right now, at least.

Lucerys is the first one you catch, returning to his chambers. It isn't hard to get inside his room right after him, and there are no guards who follow. How absurd, you snort, cocking an eyebrow at the boy. Do they truly think Dragonstone is so impenetrable anyone is safe here? Have the assassins go extinct, perhaps? Or do they believe in their dragons that much? Otto has Ser Christon follow Aemond like a loyal dog, and many kingsguards trail Aegon to keep him on a tight leash. Unlike them, Helaena doesn't have a dozen of escort knights, but maids are always with her, and you know how many of them are not what they seem.

How utterly, utterly foolish, you conclude as you unsheathe your dagger, closing the distance between the bastard prince and you. Indeed, Rhaenyra's greatest flaw is her entitlement to everything, including the safety of her kin.

_______

Part V

Tags: @heavenly1927 @yazzzmints @devils-blackrose @lost-and-founds @kennafild

#yandere #aemond targaryen x reader #aemond #aemond x reader #aemond targaryen #hotd #the house of the dragon #house of the dragon

[imagine-darksiders]

Cold Hands, Warm Heart.

Chapter 23 - Evading Sunrise.

Summary: Who better to know what a human needs than one who used to be human themselves?

[I'm still alive! Woo! Just overwrought! I'm playing in a sold-out show from Jan 16th and rehearsals have been 1900 to 2300 every night, bar the weekend, so my writing time is greatly diminished. I've also recently come into the family business, which isn't what I thought I'd be doing with my life, but hey-ho, I haven't got any other option, so I'm also bogged down with learning that whole setup. These little moments where I can write and read all your kind, encouraging comments are becoming more and more precious to me. xxx]

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

There is a kindness that the Universe could easily grant you, were it so inclined. Just a small thing, effortless even, hardly a difficult feat for the Powers that be, if They had so much as a shred of empathy.

The Universe has taken much from you, and were it a little kinder, it would take one last thing.

… It would take your ability to dream.

Death knows all too well that for as long as humans have been unwitting players on the cosmic chess board, they’ve been left to stand utterly alone, un-helped and unacknowledged by an indifferent Creator.

Why should you be the exception?

Why should you be granted a tiny mercy by the very Being who gave you a mind to dream with in the first place?

It just seems an unnecessary cruelty, the Horseman supposes, that your own biology should stand in the way of your respite.

It’s been several, long hours since you rolled over and eloped into the un-waking world, and Death has only moved as far as the door, leaning his weight back against the bone-dry wood with an air of resignation that his journey is to be paused until sunrise, at the very earliest. No matter… There’s little sense facing the Chancellor’s dreaded ‘Champion’ in the dark, after all.

You might have smirked and called him paranoid about the rigid stance he’s taken in front of the room’s only entrance, but the soft yet not-so-silent footfalls that keep approaching the door reaffirm his decision.

He doesn’t know if it’s the Blademaster sniffing about or some other undead who has come to gawk at the living, breathing human in their midst, but there’s something undoubtedly amusing about feeling wood push against his spine for a few seconds before the presence on the other side meets the resistance of a Horseman’s immoveable body weight.

What follows is the distinct sound of those same footsteps hurrying off down the corridor, making every attempt to be stealthy, but failing miserably.

It would be less amusing if any of their attempts were to wake you up. In fact, the only reason Death hasn’t ripped the door open and threatened to skewer the nosy stranger is currently sound asleep just a few feet away from whatever ruckus that would cause.

Or you were sound asleep. At least until a few minutes ago.

Death’s forefingers tap aimlessly against his bicep as he frowns down at your face. You’ve scrunched your features up into a tight grimace, nose wrinkling and the corners of your mouth twisted south towards your chin.

You’re still asleep. Just not soundly.

The pitiable whimpers you’ve been uttering for a while now indicate a troubled mind, though the Horseman can’t say he’s surprised. It’s disappointing, to be sure. He’d have thought you’d be far too exhausted to be plagued by dreams tonight, yet evidently, you’re not that fortunate. Which is a crying shame, because while Death doesn’t believe in luck per-se, he thinks that if such a thing were to exist, you’re more than overdue.

“Hmm, mnn,” you murmur through closed lips, tossing your head to the right.

Above you on the headboard, Dust retrieves his beak from under an ebony wing and cocks a gaze at you, crooning out a soft, inquiring noise from his throat.

“Shhh,” Death breathes, earning a sleepy glare from the crow, though he does at least fall silent, contenting himself to simply watch as you throw a hand out to one side and clench your fist around an invisible force.

“….Mmn, eye…,” you mutter through slightly parted lips.

‘Eye?’ Death’s brow knots under his mask, yet he isn’t left wondering for long.

“… Eideard?” you suddenly croak, “… C’m’back!”

Ah… So that’s where your head is at.

Lowering his eyes to the ratty blanket, Death releases a sigh that’s been building in his chest for a few minutes now.

Your legs have been steadily working to kick the covers off the bed, never settling, as if you’re trying to run from something.

The clack of a beak draws the Horseman’s gaze once again to Dust, who now has a rather expectant look aimed his way.

Death can’t help but be reminded of that night in Tri Stone, when he’d remained stolidly outside on the bench whilst you stifled your sobs in the Makers’ Forge.

He recalls that Dust had been rather scathing about his inaction. The Horseman hadn’t cared for the bird’s judgement then, and he’s even less appreciative now.

What is he supposed to do? Wake you? At least if you’re dreaming, you’re getting some rest.

Sleep, he’s learned, is something that’s essential to a human’s sustained survival.

Not for the first time, he considers the benefits of having an empty chest, hardened and calcified through centuries of existing in an indifferent universe.

It means he has nothing to steel when you suddenly fling yourself over onto your side with your mouth hanging open, releasing a short, hitching sob that catches in your throat, and an arm that stretches out towards something unseen by the Horseman, your fingers spreading rigidly until they quake with the strain.

… The gentling of Death’s expression goes unnoticed, even by him.

He’s nearly shocked when his boot slides forwards ever so slightly, scraping across the floorboards as if to carry him away from the door and towards you.

Pausing, he cocks a brow down at his own leg, half expecting it to explain itself.

What he doesn’t expect – but perhaps should have – is the loud and jarring gasp that suddenly floods into the little human on the bed with the frantic desperation of one who’s been underwater for far too long, and you’ve only just managed to reach the surface to take a breath before your lungs collapse.

Death’s eyes flick towards you just in time to witness your silhouette lurching up off the mattress, a garbled shout tumbling from your lips as you clutch feverishly at your chest.

“Karn!?” you blurt out, whipping your head back and forth to search through the darkness of Draven’s quarters for a maker who isn’t there.

It would be easy for Death to remain still and silent, to wait until whatever grasp your nightmare still has on you to finally slip loose on its own… He needn’t step in.

It would be easy…

“…Hhh…” Grousing silently to himself, the Horseman pushes away from the door and takes a decisive step towards you before he can begin to overthink his actions.

“Y/n,” he mutters, not loud enough to be startling, but just loud enough to catch your attention.

Even still, you flinch, whirling your torso in his direction and letting your hazy eyes land on the pale, ghostly mask looming above you in the dark.

For several seconds, you merely stare up at Death, the hand on your chest crumpling your shirt as you gather the flimsy fabric into a tight fist.

Death doesn’t elect to break the silence again. After another moment or two of watching you gulp down another lungful of stale air, his patience pays off, and you swallow thickly, croaking, “Death?”

The Horseman’s chin dips down. “Yes.”

“Is… Karn here?” Your voice sounds so fragile, poisoned by a grain of hope.

Going very still, Death allows a beat to pass, giving himself time to think of an answer.

Perhaps… you think you’re still in a dream.

Quietly, he offers a concise response, one that hopefully doesn’t cause you any more distress whilst bringing you further out of the idea that this isn’t real. “Karn…” he begins, “…remained in the Forge Lands.”

He watches you physically deflate. Not from relief though. Relief doesn’t douse the sleepy kindling of hope that had momentarily lit the contours of your face.

Solemn, a little more awake, you slowly ask, “Is… Eideard…. Is he…?”

“… Gone,” is Death’s only reply.

A breath shudders out of you as you let your gaze drift down to your fingers, twining over themselves in twists and knots. “Oh…” you breathe, “I… thought I…” But your sentence trails off before you can finish it.

So, Death says it for you. “You thought you saw him,” he ventures, “In a dream.”

And with that, whatever strings have been holding you taut are promptly cut, sending you flopping back onto Draven’s mattress with a sorrowful ‘whump,’ still very much awake and positively quaking hard enough to cause the wooden bed frame to shudder in tandem.

That’s the thing about dreams, Death supposes, after a point, they’re the perfect nesting ground for ghosts.

His brother, Strife, would confide in him, many eons ago, that he could still see the faces of their fallen brethren behind his eyelids whenever he tried to rest. Death had only told him that it would pass, if given the time to. He hadn’t the gall to tell Strife that he too could see those same, hateful eyes and blood-filled mouths just as clearly.  

Eideard isn’t the only person you’ve lost. He’s said it before, but it bears repeating; you’ve also lost your family, your friends and every other human on Earth.

Your dreams, much like Death’s, are full of ghosts.

Drawing your hands up towards your face, you press the heel of each palm to your eyelids and grind down hard until a kaleidoscope of colour sparks to life across your vision, not unlike fireworks blooming across a cold, November sky.

Shakily, you blow out a dry, unsteady whoosh of air and groan, “Fuck…”

Death purses his lips, privately concurring with your brief assessment of the situation.

Then, in a motion that’s steeped in tiredness, you drag your focus back over to the Horseman, rolling your head to the side and adding, “You’re still here…”

“Yes, I’m still here,” he utters, quiet as a breath, only to balk at the dulcet quality in his tone. Clearing his throat to rid it of the uninvited tenderness, he promptly tacks on, “I told you; someone has to keep an eye on Dust.”

Damp-cheeked, you crane your neck back to send an upside-down glance at the crow roosting on the headboard above you.

A single, glossy eyeball stares back.

You’re fairly confident that Dust hasn’t done a damn thing to warrant any of Death’s baseless assumptions.

With your gaze still locked on the bird, you sigh, “You two can go, if you want to…”

At that, the Horseman knows he’s going to refuse before he even gives you a verbal response.

This isn’t the first time you’ve offered him an ‘out,’ a convenient excuse for him to duck from the room and escape the burden of bearing witness to your downward spiral.

You’re asking, in as quiet a hint as you can manage, for the privacy to cry without an audience.

… If it weren’t for the mysterious footsteps padding about outside…

“It would be in your best interest for me to stay,” he offers, earning a weary sigh from your side of the room, as if you’ve by now figured it would never be that easy to get rid of him.

Already, his keen eyes have picked out the slightest gleam of tears gathering behind your lashes. The next breath you try to draw in sticks to the back of your throat, yet before your face can crumple completely, you roll yourself over onto your opposite side, facing the wall – deliberately angling your body away from the Horseman, who watches on in silence as you hike your shoulders up towards your ears.

Drawing his brows together underneath the mask, Death glides silently closer to your bed and peers down at the human-shaped lump quivering under the covers.

 All is quiet for a time, until at last…

“… I’m sorry.” Your words seep out of you in a thick, watery whisper. “You didn’t sign up for this.”

‘You didn’t sign up for me,’ goes unspoken, but somehow the idea still hangs between you both like cold, falling snow.

It seems an odd thing to say, Death muses, considering that in a sense, he did sign up for this. Hell, he all but stamped his signature on that contract when he carried you through the portal to the Crowfather’s realm.

“Well… Neither did you…” he returns truthfully as he turns around and sinks onto the mattress at the foot of the bed, draping each forearm over a knee. The old wood doesn’t even creak as he settles down, nor does the straw bend beneath his illogical weight, much like the desert sand hadn’t swallowed him up to his calves as it had yours.

He hears the blanket rustle behind him as you twist your neck around to spare him a glance over your shoulder. If you’re at all shocked to find him suddenly sitting so close to you, you’re either too tired or too polite to say a word about it.

So, you turn back to the wall without comment, and although you attempt to bring a hand up to press a sweat-slicked palm across your mouth, such a meagre covering of skin isn’t enough to contain the grief that starts to pour out of you.

But just as you’d offered Death the unquestioned freedom to seek vicinity to you, the Horseman doesn’t try to interrupt or diminish this sombre moment with talk or awkward attempts at comfort.

It stirs a memory in him, of a much younger Nephilim, trudging through a silent, windswept battlefield alongside the only other three who had escaped the Battle for Eden. Not a word was said between them as they left the dead behind, but Death had offered them proximity as well. They said nothing of it, they hadn’t even accused him of hovering. There was an unspoken understanding, in that instant, one that passed silently between all four of them; Death would be there if they needed him.

With a slow blink, the memory fades, and he’s left frowning gently at the dull, rotten wood of the wall adjacent to your bed.

You’re an intelligent human… He wonders if you’ll be able to infer what he’s doing by sitting at the edge of your bed. Death may be many things, but he is not cheerful by nature, and cannot thusly cause cheer in others. He can only sit. And wait. Listening, watching, offering freedom from interference, both from himself and others who would seek to disturb you now when you need to grieve.

Dust, predictably, affords your need for privacy about as much consideration as could be expected from a bird. That is, none whatsoever.

A sleepy caw is all the warning both you and Death receive before the crow hops down off the headboard and lands on your pillow with a soft rustle of feathers.

Of course, you flinch, but Dust – undeterred – simply invites himself into the space between you and the wall, strutting surefootedly over the rumpled blankets until he reaches your chest.

Exasperated, Death opens his mouth and is about to openly scold the crow when Dust turns himself about until the tip of his sharp, grey beak is pointed down at your sombre face.

If you’re at all worried about having it so close to your eyeballs, you don’t show it, though Death knows the corvid well enough to recognise that Dust would never hurt his new human friend who coddles and praises him like it’s going out of fashion.

Birds…

“H-hey,” you warble miserably, swiping at your eyes with the back of a wrist and trying to pluck up the willpower to give a tear-blurred Dust your most convincing smile, “Hey, boy. Sorry, did I wake you up?”

In response, the crow cocks his head at you, and follows up with a gentle croon that raises the small, downy feathers on his throat. Then, without bothering to give any sort of warning as to his intentions, Dust gives his beak a single clack and stretches out his neck, gathering up a few strands of hair around your forehead and dragging them through his beak as if to smooth them into place.

Death almost slaps a palm to his mask.

You can’t help yourself. A wet giggle blurts out of you, momentarily disrupting Dust’s ministrations. He croaks down at you flatly before returning to his task of taking your hair and grooming it with a gentle beak.

“Dust!” you blubber out another laugh, reaching up to try and dissuade the crow by pushing your hand into his feathered breast. For your trouble, he pulls away and administers a soft nip to your knuckle, barely strong enough for you to feel it.

Offering him a watery smile, you prop yourself up onto an elbow, and in one, smooth motion, you raise your free arm and scoop the bird against your chest, burying your nose into the ebony plumage right between his wings. He’s large, far larger than any crow you’ve ever seen on Earth, so it’s more akin to hugging a small dog than any kind of corvid….

Wow… You miss dogs…

As if he can sense your sudden spike of anguish for a species who was likely wiped out alongside your own, the crow nuzzles his head under your chin, tailfeathers flicking back and forth several times as he contents himself with his new position.

Death’s brows shoot up his forehead at the display, wondering how he could have missed the moment you and his crow forged this bond without him even noticing. Was it during the brief few hours when Absalom pulled him into the Tree of Life?

Or perhaps it was always there, and he just hasn’t been paying attention.

“Of all the crows I could have been saddled with,” he gripes under his breath, aiming a half-hearted scowl at the little he can see of Dust’s beak poking out over your shoulder, “It would be the one without a single ounce of pride.”

“Oh, leave him alone,” you sniff, your voice muffled by sleek, black feathers, “He’s trying to cheer me up.”

The Horseman grumbles something to himself, then raises his voice to huff, “He has to be good for something, I suppose.”

When you don’t reply beyond giving a click of your tongue, Death hesitates, his eyes roaming in every direction except for your face as he clears his throat and asks, “Is it… ah, working?”

There’s a speculative pause, interspersed with the odd sniffle as you take a moment to calm yourself down and recover from the embarrassment of once again crying in front of the sepulchral Death.

At last, you take in a deep, weary breath and pull your nose from Dust’s back, gazing warmly down at the crow. “Yeah,” you decide with a small nod as he pulls his beak from under your chin and peers back at you, “Yeah, it’s working.”

If only a little, but sometimes a little is just enough.

Dust’s head swings around to peer at Death over your shoulder, smugger than a bird has any business being.

The heartache of waking up to a world without Eideard in it is just as fresh as the heartache you feel when you open your eyes and remember your world is gone. That sort of grief, unquantifiable, is hard to shift by the efforts of one, friendly crow, no matter how noble his intentions.

But for Dust’s sake, you try to shoulder the sorrow a touch more easily, even going so far as to sit up properly, still holding the bird to your chest and giving him a gentle squeeze. It’s a word of thanks, silent but poignant. Slowly, you place the crow down on the mattress beside you.

This time it’s your turn to clear your throat. Scrubbing tiredly at your eyes, you untuck your legs from the scratchy blanket and roll them over the side of the bed, pulling yourself forwards until you’re sitting beside Death, hands clasped daintily in your lap.

Amber eyes flick sideways and find in the gloom that your cheeks are still damp and blotchy from shedding so many tears.

Behind you, Dust flutters back up onto the headboard, head held high and proud, pleased with himself for a job well-done, and feeling he’s absolutely deserved another nap.

You breathe a sigh, holding it in your lungs and then blowing it all out again, glad to hear that it’s devoid of further tremors. “So… I don’t suppose we can pretend you didn’t hear any of that?”

Death half turns his torso towards you and replies, “Any of what?”

Without thought, you smile appreciatively and lean across the bed, giving the Horseman’s thigh a companionable pat. “Good man.”

It seems as soon as you touch him, you’re pulling away again, the moment passing too quickly for you to feel the way his leg jumps underneath your palm.

Death’s eyes are wide beneath his mask and affixed to the spot on his thigh you’d just touched without ceremony, without a single remark, like it was an entirely normal thing to do.

Certainly, you’ve touched Death before, and he’s touched you out of necessity, mostly. But here, in this dingy room belonging to an undead, the Nephilim takes particular note of the casual gesture, and he’s once again reminded of who and what he is, and what an outlier you are to touch the Reaper without fear.

Is that all it takes? Pretending he hadn’t heard you pour your grief out onto a stranger’s pillow makes him a good man?

Is that… how you see him…?

No. It was just another throwaway comment, meant to lighten the solemn mood that had taken hold of the room.

For a distracted moment, Death wonders if he can really feel the warmth of your skin through the leather of his trousers, or if it’s just a figment of his imagination. Whatever it is, it robs him of any witty remarks that might slip out to disrupt this tender moment.

A good man…

“You should try going back to sleep,” he offers absently, tearing his eyes off his leg to look down at you. The imagined warmth in his thigh has travelled to his chest, which is odd, given that you didn’t lay your hand anywhere near it.

Heaving a sigh, you ask, “How long do you think until sunrise?”

“Mm, at least another several Earth hours,” he says, “Plenty of time still to rest.”

Your fingers clench into fists around the blanket beneath you. “Plenty of time to dream…”

The old Nephilim’s mask turns to face you properly, eyes of liquid gold and sunset orange illuminating the darkness of his sockets. “Dreams cannot hurt you,” he says with conviction, partly because he knows they can’t, and partly because nothing, not even a nightmare could hurt you with a Horseman keeping watch.

“But they can make you sad…” you point out.

Hesitating, he has to take a second to remember that sadness can be potent enough to hurt a human. “I suppose they can,” he concedes reluctantly.

“That hurts, sometimes,” you whisper, drawing your knees up onto the bed and folding your arms around them, clinging tightly, eyes downcast to the floor, “Waking up and realising the people in them aren’t here anymore.”

Shifting his weight to prop a hand on one knee, he leans forwards so that he can meet your faraway gaze. “That pain will fade, given time,” he offers, echoing a conversation eons past.

After a second, your eyes slide sideways and align with his, and he can’t deny the glimmer of triumph that raises his chin at the sight of your gentle smile.

“I hope you’re right, Death,” you reply, “I really do.”

“You’ll find I’m not often wrong twice in as many days.” He’s referring to his… miscalculation with the heart stones and the Guardian, of course.

Did that really only happen yesterday?

“Cocky,” you snort, swiping a finger under the still damp corner of your eye, “Nice to know great, big Horsemen can make mistakes too though.”

“Is it?” he scoffs. He’d have thought it’d be daunting that the Nephilim whose charge you find yourself under isn’t actually as infallible as he’d like to claim.

“Yeah,” you hum, giving him a thoughtful look, “I guess to err isn’t just human, after all.”

Death waits, bracing himself to balk, to feel a spike of offence run through his veins at being told he shares a – rather undesirable – quality with humans. He waits, and feels-

… Nothing. No contempt. No disdain or disappointment. Maybe just a touch of surprise.

“I’m gonna miss them,” you murmur, derailing the Horseman’s train of thought.

“The makers?”

“Everyone,” you stress, “The makers, Blackroot, Warden…”

Coughing lightly into a fist, Death has to peel his eyes away to avoid looking at you when he says, “I’m sure they’ll be…. of a similar mindset.” Honesty, vulnerability, words that have real significance don’t come so easily to the Horseman. If they did, he’d tell you that those makers are going to miss you more than you could possibly know.

Chewing on your lip, you idly kick an ankle against the side of the bed and ask, “Do you think I’ll ever see them again?”

In response, Death huffs out a short, soft laugh, tipping his head back to look at the ceiling. “Do I think you’ll see them again?” he echoes, “Y/n, I’m almost certain of it.”

“… Wait. Seriously?”

“Don’t I seem serious?” he blinks languidly.

“Yeah, it’s just… that sounded like optimism. And coming from you, that’s… I mean…” Squinting through the dark at him, you fold your hands in your lap and ask, “Are you feeling all right?”

The Horseman’s lips quirk up, though his voice retains a gruff and unimpressed melody as his shoulders jump with a brusque harrumph. “You must be feeling better if you’re already poking fun,” he grouses, assessing the miniscule glow of humour tucked around the corners of your mouth.

“I am, actually,” you shrug, flicking a glance over his mask and tipping your head with a knowing smile, “Maybe Dust isn’t the only one who’s good at cheering me-“

Three, gentle knocks on a nearby surface of wood break through your sentence like hammer blows ringing off an anvil.

From one blink to the next, the Horseman is inexplicably on his feet, flinging a strong, sinewy arm out in front of you, all at once alert and suspicious, whilst behind him, you scramble off the bed with far less grace, fighting to find stability for a moment before you square your feet and send a wary glance over his appendage at the room’s entrance.

“Hello?” you call, swiping furiously at your cheeks to rid them of what little trace of tears might still cling to your skin.

Death doesn’t turn to face you, but you’d be hard-pressed to miss the disgruntled sigh that slips out from under his mask at your tactical blunder.

You’ve all but announced that you – a human, need you be reminded – are in here.

A voice from outside calls out, muffled behind the thick layer of wood. “… Lady - Ah, I mean, Y/n?”

The tension doesn’t seem to drain out of Death nearly as fast as it drains out of you.

Draven.

Before the Horseman can stop you, you’ve already ducked underneath his arm, reaching up to distractedly smooth down your bedhead as you call out, “Oh, Draven, uh, coming!”

You hear your name uttered in a growl behind you, but you wave off the ornery Nephilim with a flap of your hand, twisting about to face him as you make for the door, hissing, “It’s his room, Death. If he wants to come in here, he has every right to.”

Realising your hand is reaching to pull the door open, Death surges forward, intent on getting to it before you – ‘just in case,’ a voice at the back of his head whispers – but he doesn’t make it halfway to you when you grab the brass handle and tug the rotting wood towards you, letting dull, green light spill into the quarters and creep up the opposite wall.

A familiar silhouette looms in the doorway, framing the space with broad shoulders and a tattered shroud that’s been pulled low to half cover a skeletal, ghoulish face. From your angle, standing at least a foot and a half shorter than the figure, you can see up underneath his hood.

You regret your haste to open the door, simply because you aren’t at all ready to witness the grim and ghastly visage of the Blademaster this early in the morning, but you stamp down on the temptation to reel back, and instead school your expression into a friendly smile. “Hi, uh, again.”

Draven’s luminous, blue eyes flare brightly as soon as they land on your face. There’s something held between each of his hands, though you hardly spare them a glance because, ever the gentleman, he’s already halfway into a low, sweeping bow when he suddenly stops short, bent so that he’s staring you directly in the eye.

It’s decidedly unnerving to have so much scrutiny on you, especially when the undead’s jaw suddenly locks up tight and his browbone snaps together as if you’ve offended him somehow without even saying a word.

“Uh-“ you start to say, only to find yourself interrupted when Draven rises to his full height again, unfolding at the waist and aiming a frigid glare over the top of your head. Coincidentally, an icy presence appears at your spine, pressing in close enough that you notice the hairs on the back of your neck start to prickle.

 A growl rolls out through the gaps in the undead’s hollow cheeks. “Y/n,” he addresses you, his voice hard as stone, “Has this devil done you a discourtesy?”

“W…What?” you blurt.

Ferocity bleeds from his lipless mouth as he glares at the Horseman who drapes you in shadow, pale blue eyes aiming to douse the liquid fire hanging ominously in the darkness behind you.

“Her eyes are scarlet with salt,” he accuses.

Raising a hand to your face, you prod tenderly at the raw skin beneath your eyes and realise with a sinking sense of shame that you must still look like even more of a mess than you did when the Blademaster first saw you. “Oh, no. No, Draven, it’s fine,” you sigh, dragging a hand down your face, “Just… Look, it’s just been a rough night.”

The undead’s glower lifts the moment he rips his eyes off Death and returns it to you, his forehead puckering with concern. “But, you’re-“

“- I’m all right,” you reiterate, crooking one corner of your lips into a tight smile that all but pleads for him to drop the matter. You’re mortified enough.

The look on your face must be adequately pitiable, for Draven’s stance relaxes by a fraction, and as his arms slump from their guarded poise, you hear something clunk woodenly by his waist, rousing your curiosity and tempting you to lower your gaze to his hands.

If you thought you weren’t ready to see the Blademaster at your door, you’re doubly unprepared to see what he’s carrying.

Clearing your throat, you bob your chin at his hands and ask, “What’ve you got there?”

“Hmm?” Begrudgingly peeling away from the Horseman, Draven follows your line of sight, blinking down at a little wooden bowl and cup he’s clutching in each hand. Suddenly very sheepish, the undead ducks further into his green hood, “Forgive me, I was going to leave these by the door, but… then I heard voices.”

“And what were you doing skulking about so close to the door that you could hear us talk?” Death asks, hardly bothering to hide his accusatory tone.

You turn to give him a quick, pointed glare over your shoulder, one that he ignores.

“Just as I said, Horseman,” Draven retorts, “I thought the lady might be hungry, so…” He offers out the cup and bowl for you to see, giving you an apologetic look. “I’d have left it outside for you to find when you emerged, I… didn’t want to disturb you while you slept.”

Before you can reply, a voice at your back pipes up.

“You were going to leave it outside?” Death scoffs, “Where anyone could have tampered with it?”

Ignoring the Horseman, you peer down into the proffered crockery, your stomach gurgling eagerly as a waft of steam drifts from the bowl and rises into your nostrils. Never before would you have thought you’d be so excited about something so beige.

A simple, brown stew is balanced on one of Draven’s large palms, lumps of what you presume is meat bob about near the surface, and a single slice of fluffy, white bread floats at the centre, drawing a rather embarrassing flood of saliva to the front of your mouth. In his other hand, the small wooden cup is clasped like a chalice of ambrosia, though the only thing that wets its interior is crisp, clear water.

In your eyes, he may as well be holding out a gourmet dish that only the wealthiest of men would deign to touch.

“Draven,” you breathe in awe, reluctantly dragging your gaze off the food and peering up into the undead’s hollow face, “What’s all this for?”

Puzzled, he tilts his head at you, as thought the answer should be entirely obvious.

“It’s… for you,” he says, pressing the bowl and cup closer to your wringing hands, “I assumed you’d want to eat when you awoke. It’s not much, just some pottage I scrounged up.”

You begin to reach out, unfurling your fingers to take the unexpected gift when all of a sudden, chilly fingers wrap around your wrist, and before you can utter a sound, Death tugs you tidily back into the room, taking your place in the doorway, and peering down at the undead. “Where did you get it?” he asks, ignoring the disgruntled huff you aim at the back of his head, “Is this safe for human consumption?”

Draven’s lipless mouth pulls into a sneer. “Do you think me a fool?” he accuses.

“I think you an undead who we’ve only just met,” the Horseman replies coolly.

The Blademaster leans back on a heel, appraising Death with an expression that borders on impressed. “A fair point,” he concedes. Seconds later, Draven yields a nod. “It’s safe, Death. Believe it or not, the King entertains more than just the dead in his court, some of whom still rely on sustenance to get them through the day. Supplies are not as scarce as they would seem at first glance, and I may be far-removed from humanity, but I still remember my way around a cooking pot.”

Then, wordlessly, he holds the bowl and cup out towards the Horseman, tipping his head to one side with an expectant gleam in his fearsome, blue eyes.

Death’s attention flits between Draven and his handful several times, squinting dubiously at the dull, brown slop. For a few uncomfortable seconds, the Horseman subjects your potential meal to a good, long glare, and then at last, to your relief, you watch him raise his hands and grasp the edge of the bowl between his thumb and forefinger, doing the same with the cup.

He doesn’t take them immediately, too busy giving the undead a threatening growl. “If she eats this and something happens-“

“-I’ll be meeting the business end of your scythe?” Draven guesses, quirking a brow bone as he relinquishes the crockery and drops his arms to his sides again.

Death’s eyes narrow to thin lines of fire, prompting the undead to let out a chuckle and raise his hands up in mock defeat. “I understand, Horseman, I understand. I’d be overprotective as well if I had a lady like her under my care.”

Half hidden behind the Nephilim, you suck a breath in through your teeth as your grim companion bristles like a cornered cat, almost doubling in size with the amount of indignation that swells his shoulders. You’ve only known him a week or so, but in that time, you’ve already learned that being accused of caring is pretty low on the list of Things Death likes to Hear.

And sure enough…

“I am not overprotective,” the Horseman seethes, but with such an air of petulance that whatever threat his tone might have been trying to imply is completely undermined. Not to mention there’s something curiously un-threatening about the sight of him clutching a bowl of stew that - not thirty seconds ago - he was giving the stink-eye.

Even Draven doesn’t seem all that worried as he casts a knowing look at you around Death’s shoulder, his ghoulish features scrunching into a wink.

“No?” he asks, cocking his head to one side and sliding his gaze back to the wall of Nephilim standing before him, “Well, in that case, when the sun rises, I’m sure you won’t mind if I treat the lady to that tour I offered her.”

He’s chancing his arm, and he damn well knows it. And because he knows it, he’s already watching for the precise moment when Death recognises that he’s just stepped right into a verbal trap.

Unseen by the human in their midst, Death’s narrow eyes are now almost indiscernible within the congealing darkness of his sockets, and it’s only thanks to their preternatural, fiery glow that Draven can tell they’re open at all. They float inside the pitch-black pits that have been carved out of an ivory mask, unnatural and eerie, like two strips of flame streaking through the night sky.

If someone were to strike a match in the air between he and Death, Draven is almost certain the spark would set off an explosion that could blow the Eternal Throne clear through the stratosphere.

Two options lay out before the ancient Nephilim: Allow yo u to go with Draven in the morning, proving the smug undead wrong in his judgement of Death’s character. Or refuse the offer on your behalf and prove him right.

Begrudgingly, Death concedes that the undead’s tactics have successfully tripped him up. Rare as it is, it’s somewhat refreshing to be kept on his toes. Not that he’s in any way pleased to be cornered like this… Not least because he has a reputation he’d like to keep intact.

“She’ll consider it,” he says shortly.

There. It’s neither a yes or a no, and vague enough that Draven’s expectant gaze darkens with disappointment. Death is tempted to smirk triumphantly. Just because he stepped into the trap doesn’t mean he won’t know how to get out of it. He’s almost offended that the undead thought it would be so easy.

But the acquiescing look on Draven’s face doesn’t linger for more than a blink before it’s gone.

“I hope she does,” he hums, leaning sideways once more so that he can send you another secretive smile around the Horseman’s bulk, a smile that you find yourself readily reflecting. It feels like there’s a connection there somehow, between you and Draven. Human and ex-human. It’s something that Death isn’t privy to because he isn’t and never was human.

You wonder… Hell, you dare to hope that Draven might just… get you. There’s common ground in your humanity. The soul that sits lonely in your heart reaches out for the tiniest promise of companionship, softening you to the undead in a way you hadn’t anticipated. Right now, as you share amusement at the Grim Reaper’s expense, you find Draven just that bit more bearable to look at. Even the swords and broken blades that jut from his person like morbid adornments don’t seem so gruesome.

“I will consider it,” you promise, prompting Death to heave a disgruntled sigh whilst you breeze over his complaint, “Thank you, Draven. Really. This…” This act of immense kindness, though it might have seemed so mundane if it happened on Earth, has done wonders to warm your heart after feeling your very soul freeze over after your nightmare. But how could you possibly put into words the comfort he’s brought you? Rather than overthink it, you merely give your head a tiny shake of disbelief and let out a soft laugh, “This means… so much to me.”

Laying a hand across his concave chest, the undead dips his torso into a shallow bow and replies, “For you, it was no trouble at all.”

To your own surprise, the chivalrous little display turns you shy, and you start to fiddle with the hem of your shirt absentmindedly, avoiding his searching eyes as you smile down at the floor near Death’s boots.

Clicking his tongue, the Horseman shifts to stand sideways in the entrance, sweeping an unimpressed glance between you and Draven.

You may have averted your gaze, but the undead certainly hasn’t.

From head to toe, you’re all but poured over like a scroll of parchment in an angel’s library. Shameless in his observation, Draven’s cadaverous eyes carve tracks across your face and roam down the length of your body, whilst Death goes mostly ignored.

The Horseman is no fool. Though the very notions of romance and attraction have forever eluded him, he’s old and worldly enough to have at least encountered both in some way, shape or form. Besides, even a dunce would have to be trying exceptionally hard to miss what’s right in front of his nose.

You’ve caught the Blademaster’s eye.

And there’s the rub. Demons, he can put his scythe to, corrupted constructs and bloodthirsty bugs can be slain to keep you out of their gullets. Even Karn and his, at times, glaring attachment to you were innocent enough, as if the youngling was more starved for meaningful friendship than companionship. But an amorous undead? Death doesn’t have any protocol for manoeuvring around that particular minefield.

Once again, if there is such a thing as luck, the Horseman would be cursing his own. Isn’t it just typical that in such a vast and limitless Universe, his path would somehow carry you right to the Blademaster – the only other sod in Creation who shares your origins? Musing on that, Death can’t help but wonder if there truly is some unseen, omniscient hand guiding you along your journey.

Whoever the puppet master is, they’ve got a sick sense of humour.

Draven was Human – famously unpredictable species, a stereotype you continue to substantiate – but more to the point, he’s an unknown, and Death doesn’t especially like dealing with unknowns.

“Well then,” he announces abruptly, causing you to jump and reminding him that he’s allowed the undead to linger for a few moments too long, “If there’s nothing else…”

The skin around Draven’s jaw stretches as he opens it until the holes in his cheeks are thin and long, but before he can utter a word, Death says, “Wonderful,” and with a deft swing of his elbow, he bumps the door closed, giving the bottom of the wood a kick on its way to make sure it slams firmly shut. The room is once more plunged into that grimy, too-green gloom.

“Oh, that’s real nice, Death,” you snap, “The poor guy gives me a meal and lets me sleep in his bed, and you slam his own door shut in his face.”

“… That’s it,” he grumbles, turning to face you and pressing the bowl and cup into your hands, careful not to spill its contents as you splutter out a weak protest and fumble awkwardly with the woodware, “Tomorrow, you’re coming with me to the Champion’s arena. Not-!” he quickly snaps when you open your mouth to speak, “- to fight. You’re to watch from the sidelines.”

Looking down at you through the dark, he can tell you’re torn between continuing to berate him and diving into your newly acquired meal. Your eyes flit back and forth between him, the bowl, and the door, through which you can already hear the fading footfalls of your gracious host.

You’ve bulled yourself up at Draven’s expense, lips twisting into an unhappy frown, but it isn’t to last. Not with how desperate you are to fill your belly with something warm and cooked. Venting out a huff, you begrudgingly expel all the hot air from your lungs and lower yourself down onto the edge of the bed, lifting the stew to your lips to blow at the steam that drifts from it. “How do you know I’m not considering Draven’s tour?” you challenge.

It’s a good thing you’re pointedly ignoring the Horseman in favour of tipping back the bowl, because the look he shoots you is venomous enough that it would have stung had you caught it head-on.

“Just... Just eat the damn stew,” is all he bites out.

Well… You’re only too happy to oblige to that request.

You try not to wolf down the whole thing in one go, but as soon as the thin, watery gravy touches your lips and washes onto your tongue, you’re almost bowled over by the sheer influx of taste. At this point, after surviving on little else but water and the strange jerky Thane gave you, you could have eaten a rice cracker and called it filet mignon. Several bursts of flavour warm the inside of your cheeks and seep over and under your tongue. A piece of meat slides between your teeth as you slurp it up and you bite down on it hard, finding the strip tough and chewy, but oh so mouth-watering.

You spare the briefest of thoughts to its creature of origin, though the moment soon passes when you swallow, letting out a groan that might have been embarrassing if you weren’t so sure you’re justified in making such a sound. Privately, you make a mental note to thank Draven profusely in the morning, though whether that’s before or after you apologise to him for Death’s behaviour, you haven’t yet decided.

“Holy-“ Pausing, you lower the bowl and sweep a finger over the corners of your mouth, delicately removing the gravy gathered there, “-Shit, this is good.”

He almost asks if it tastes strange or off in any way, but with the Blademaster's words still ringing in his ears, Death stuffs them down with the rest of his wounded ego and begins to grumble nonsensically to himself. In fact, he's so busy muttering under his breath and glowering at the door that he doesn’t even pause to throw a withering glare at Dust when the crow hops onto the bed again and struts up to you with the confidence of a bird who knows you’re a pushover.

Only too happy to reinforce that confidence, you deftly scoop a chunk of meat into your palm and offer it out for the bird to peck at.

“Overprotective…” Death scoffs heatedly, “The nerve of that…” His mask abruptly whips around towards you, giving you pause with your cheeks full of stew. “Do you feel I’ve been overprotective?”

Putting aside the fact that you’ve never seen Death get this riled about a jibe before…

Swallowing thickly, you draw out an unconvincing, “No?”

The strange glow of his irises flicker for a second – a twitch of an eyelid? “Well, if I seem that way, it’s only because you’re so damnably adept at getting yourself into trouble,” he complains, crossing his arms and leaning back against the wall with a decisive thump, “And frankly, I’d rather avoid having an angry group of makers hunt me to the ends of the Universe if something were to happen to you under my watch.”

It’s not just a lie meant to preserve his pride. Not entirely…

“They wouldn’t do that,” you tut, bemused, tilting the bowl and taking another, long slurp of the stew, manners be damned. You never thought you’d eat a cooked meal again.

His chest rumbles moodily. “They would.”

A wordless peace lingers in the air between you then, disturbed only by the sound of you chewing through toughened meat and the gentle sloshing of stew as your fingers chase the pieces around their bowl. You pretend not to notice the quick, attentive glances being sent your way.

Dust throws his feathered head up towards the ceiling, his beak wide open around the hunk of meat you offered him. In a rather unappetising display, the crow gulps it down with a few bobs of his neck.

“Nice,” you grunt, pulling a face.

You don’t put your bowl down until every last piece of the stew is gone, and even then you have to fight back an urge to lick the interior clean, mindful that present company might find that habit a bit too uncivilised not to comment on. Even with the Earth and its civilisation far behind you, you can’t let go of table-manners. It would be laughable if the reminder of your lonely humanness didn’t carry so many undertones of despair.

Breathing a soft, satisfied sigh, you bend down and drop the bowl on the floor with a clunk, instantly exchanging it for the cup of water before you sit up again to watch Death glower at the doorway as though he hopes it’ll burst into flames.

There’s a rigidity to him that doesn’t suit the late hour and the warmth in your belly.

Casting your mind about for a way to free him from whatever monologue he must have rattling away in that enigmatic head of his, you take a swig of the water, regarding the Horseman ponderously over the rim of the cup.

“So,” you say, smacking your lips as the lukewarm liquid slides down your throat, “What do you think the chances are that Vulgrim’s delivered my message?”

Luminous eyes blink slowly, roving from the door to land on your face.

He visibly hesitates, then asks, “What would help you go back to sleep faster?”

Your deadpan stare is ruined by an unseemly snort and flutter of your lips. “Just humour me, wise guy.”

“Very well…” Death grunts, “Chances are slim.”

“… Don’t know why I bother.”

Despite your tone, you’re secretly pleased when his broad shoulders slacken as he chuckles, unfolding his arms and resting each hand casually on his hips instead. “Given how often you’ve surprised me so far,” he sighs with an air of begrudging acceptance, “I suppose it wouldn’t be so shocking to learn you’ve actually convinced the demon to go through with your favour.”

“I surprise you?” you smile.

 “At every turn.”

“Aw~”

“That’s not a compliment.”

“Oh.”

It is. It absolutely is. But he’ll be damned if he lets you know what a luxury surprises are for a being who was confident the Universe had nothing new to throw at him. He’s already far too soft on you as it is. Paying you compliments paves a slippery slope towards irrefutable fondness.

Dust would be insufferable.

“Now then,” he coughs gruffly, more to disrupt his own thoughts than to get your attention, “You should… try and get some more rest. I’ll wake you at sunrise.”

All at once, what little levity had been draped around your shoulders sloughs away. He’s right. You should try and sleep a little longer. Moments like these, moments where you can stop to catch your breath, could well be few and far between in the coming days.

“Death? Will you…?” Your voice catches and you don’t finish your sentence aloud, working your jaw up and down wordlessly as a sudden but subtle wave of shame washes over you like an ebbing tide. ‘Stay’ is on the tip of your tongue. But you realise it’s a silly question to ask, even if a very small, very vulnerable part of you desperately wants to seek reassurance from the dour Horseman sharing this space with you. Death has given no indication that he plans to stray far from your side.

Bottom line? You’re afraid to fall asleep again, much as your overwrought mind craves a few more hours of unconscious bliss, and your arms feel heavy as lead when you lower the cup to the floor, setting it down beside the bowl.

If you sleep, you might dream, after all.

And your dreams are full of ghosts.

Fingers twist searchingly into the blanket you’re sitting on, squeezing and clenching until they ache. It grounds you, at least a bit.

You don’t really notice that Death’s mask is tilted to one side, watching your hands closely until he shifts, easing himself through the gloom until he’s only a step away from the bed. It’s sometimes convenient to forget what he is, when your heart misses home so badly that it wants to find humanity in everything around you, including Death. It’s easy to forget that he’s older than you could probably comprehend, that he’s wise enough to hear a human’s unfinished plea and be able to predict how it ends.

“I'm not going anywhere,” he assures you.

Relief unwinds your hands from the fists you’ve curled them into, like roses blooming from the bud.

Soon, you’ll be awake, and the tragedies of yesterday will be saddled to your back alongside all the rest, but you’ll carry them with you as best you can. You don’t have a choice, after all. You followed Death to the Land of the Dead.

When the sun rises, you’ll rise with it and face the consequences of your choice.

#I live #Darksiders #fluff #soft Death #jealousy #Draven x Reader #attraction #GOD it's late #But it feels good to post this #I'm still here

[wordsinhaled]

i started writing this post ages ago and it’s been languishing in my drafts, sorry @teejaystumbles ! i mentioned bard!hob like EONS ago so i’m throwing this post out in the wild finally

what about, like... (no, i promise this isn't a witcher au) bard!hob canon divergent dreamling??? like. everything is the same except when dream and death enter the white horse in 1389 hob is performing a song about evading death, for a small crowd. dream is intrigued not because hob is particularly good but because as we all know, dream's a sucker for art and music. he buys hob a drink after his performance and invites him to sit together and by the end of their conversation, he's betting with his sister that hob will run out of things to sing about in 100 years

dream isn’t hob’s inspiration in the same way that he inspires shaxberd. hob isn’t a great talent vocally or musically. but there’s a light and warmth in his eyes and a deftness to his fingers on lutestrings, an earnest relatability in his tone, and a contagious enthusiasm when he talks to dream about his hopes, his dreams. and dream is intrigued

thinking about how their centennial meetings would be almost the same, but slightly different. hob reserves rooms for them when dream comes to the white horse so he can perform for dream privately. he still thinks dream is a lord, and deserving of special attention (and even if he weren’t a lord, he’s ethereal and gorgeous and the subject of more than a few of hob’s bawdier verses, which hob writes only for himself)

and the Tension??? the tension would be unreal???

thinking about 1689 hob, bedraggled and penniless, and maybe dream finding him busking on the street outside the white horse for coin, because the inns won’t let him in. he brings hob inside with him where it’s warm and dry and buys him a meal, and hob lays his instrument on the table between them and says, “it’s all i have left. i’m sorry, old stranger, i’ve no rooms for us this evening—” dream gets their room, and for the first time he says when they’re upstairs, “there is no need to sing for me tonight, hob gadling,” and he helps hob bathe and makes sure he is dressed in fine clothes again. hob looks lost and grateful and not a little in love and maybe he tries to kiss dream - after all he’s been pining for 300 years. but dream lays a hand on his cheek and says, “if you still feel the same in one hundred years, let us revisit this, hm?”

so of course 1789 is… 1789. the tension is there a thousandfold. by this time hob’s writing poetry and plays and he’s part owner of a bookshop. he’s been writing letters to dream as well. he hands them to dream, tied up in a red ribbon. “i still feel the same,” he says. “do you?” dream thinks he does. but then for the first time they have a conversation, outside of a performance; a real conversation. when it comes out what hob’s been doing, the kind of material hob’s bookshop sells and where he invests his money, dream turns on his heel and leaves

thinking about 1889, hob earnest and rueful, wondering if dream will attend their meeting this year. he’s taken a chance and hasn’t written anything. he wants to talk, to fix things. “old stranger,” he says when they’re seated by the fire in the rooms hob has rented for them. “i have changed. i hope that as you learn more of what i have done this past century i might raise myself in your estimation. but my feelings for you have only grown.” and maybe this is the year of their first real kiss, the year they go to bed together, and hob wakes up the next morning alone, fine sand under his fingernails and the taste of dream still on his tongue

and perhaps soon after dream goes missing hob hears whispers of it from some of the more eccentric patrons of his bookshop, and he goes and rescues dream. he dusts off his musicianship and gets himself in as an entertainer at one of burgess’ lavish parties as a cover

and then dream is free and they live happily ever after, the end, right?

cue modern day hob, teaching a course on the history of story and ballad, looking at old lyrics from the 15th century, asking dream, “remember when i sang this for you? god, i was bloody awful, don’t know what you saw in me…”

#the sandman #dreamling

[punkflower11]

Choose Your Own Adventure: Miles Morales - Part 3

Prev | Master List

————

“Okay, so what’s our story?”

Situated side by side, Hobie and Miles glared at the piece of wood before them; the only thing separating the pair and doom. Behind it, the single greatest trial either would ever encounter lay, patiently waiting.

Miles had dreaded this moment for weeks. But not even spider-man could evade the fate. 

Dinner. With his parents.

How ominous.

First, having Hobie and his Dad sit together in one room was definitely a mistake. Chances that the two would hit it off were so slim that you had to mentally squint just to imagine it. And unfortunately for Miles, the universe wasn't planning to break the laws of space and time any time soon.

There was no way he surviving tonight. It just wasn't possible.

Not to distract from his impending death, but Miles was slowly coming to the realization that he was also about to out himself to his parents, the funny part being that he didn't like Hobie. Ish.

See, that there was another thing.

Miles may have had a thing for Hobie back a few months shortly after the two had first met. Initially, he had thought the punk to be little more than disruptive, reckless, and frankly, a pain in the ass.

He loved every bit of it.

Enamored his distinct personality, Miles had became drawn to the other like a moth to flame (and in some ways that he'd rather not think about).

However the feelings had vanished almost as quickly as they arrived. With time, the clarity between his various affections for Hobie became blurred.

Sure there were times that Miles feelings for the other were a little less than platonic, but there were also others when he was certain that it felt like normal friendship and nothing more.

Either way, this was not something Miles was planning to poke around with, least of all tonight. Did Miles realize that he was probably sabotaging himself by asking Hobie, of all people to help him out?

Yeah. He did.

But it was fine. He was probably just overthinking it, and everything had actually been completely normal. Besides, everyone becomes helplessly infatuated with their best friend at some point, right?

…Right?

Yeah, Miles was beginning to panic.

“You're just asking me this now? That’s some pretty shite time management.”

“Well we need something, unless you just want to waltz in there unprepared!” Miles whisper-shouts.

He couldn’t just explain to his family that he had met his boyfriend while traveling through an alternate dimension whilst fighting multiples of his alter ego. If they hadn’t had a heart attack once they met Hobie then they'd definitely have after one hearing that.

And no, Miles hadn’t told his parents that he was Spider-Man. His dad was alive and that was all Miles could really ask for, no need to complicate things further. 

Miles knew what really awaited the punk at the event innocently disguised at a dinner. Spoiler alert: it wasn't just free food. In reality, it was a glorified interrogation; a setting in which his parents could finally lay into his mysterious 'Girlfriend', and in a seemly domestic environment. It was too perfect.

He felt slightly guilty subjecting an unsuspecting Hobie to the absolute shitstorm that awaited him beyond the door, but he also knew that the sooner they got the over with, the faster both their souls could be put to rest. Miles just hoped that Hobie was strong enough to make it through the night in one piece.

“Hey, what was that thing we talked about on the way?”

“You mean Miguel's ass?”

"The other thing."

"Don't piss yourself, I remember."

“Oh yeah? Then humor me.”

“'Don’t call your parents by their first names. Absolutely no swearing, which is not limited to', as you put it, 'sneaky British expressions.'" He recites.

“Fantastic. I should probably also warn you about-" Miles was cut off by Hobie's fist colliding with the door.

“Hobie!” The teen waves him off.

“You worry too much. Relax babe, we’ll be fine”.

The door swung open to reveal Miles’ father, who's gaze fell upon Hobie who was adorned in leather and numerous pieces jewellery.

“Who's this punk?” he asks, distaste evident in his tone. Welp. Now or never.

“He’s my boyfriend. Hobie.” The following silence is palpable. Miles can feel his insides turning.

“He's your what?” a stunned Jefferson parrots.

"Boyfriend. His name is Hobie."

"Hiya." Hobie waves.

“Is that you Miles?” A voice pips up from behind the officer’s shoulder. 

“Hey mom,” Miles gestures awkwardly to the teen at his right. “This is Hobie.” He watches his mother pause as she takes in the sight.

“It’s nice to meet you, come on in!” She pushes past Jefferson, ushering the teen inside. "You''ll have to excuse my husband. Miles left out a few details about you so he's just a little surprised."

Well wasn't that the understatement of the year.

To be fair, Miles had told his parents a perfectly normal amount of information about his 'girlfriend' he could manage without giving himself away. What was he supposed to tell them? Hey, so I'm actually dating an anarchist who wants abolish the police. Like you Dad. Yeah no.

In hindsight, it probably made all the difference but it was too late to change things now. Similar thoughts continued to circulate through his mind as the false lovers stepped inside the residence.

“Mom. I am begging you. Don't scare him off."

Miles wasn't sure of how much energy it took to genuinely frighten Hobie, but he figured that it was better to be safe than sorry.

“Miha. You have nothing to be worried about. He'll be fine, we won't hurt him too badly,” She tossed a casual wink in Miles' direction before returning to the kitchen.

Meanwhile, Hobie was busy looking at the wall to their left occupied by various picture frames. Expression softening, Miles moved to join him but half way through was confronted by his Rio who at present was carrying a large red tray.

“Here, take this to the table,” She orders him, pushing the dish into his arms. “And you,” Her eyes find Hobie. “Comes and help me flip the plantain.” The teen gives Miles a playful salute before joining Rio in the kitchen. Grumbling, Miles beings the trip to the dining table where he finds his is dad already seated.

“Mom, he just got here. Can't you give us a little space?” He calls out to her, exasperatedly setting down the dish onto the table.

“I don’t mind!" pipes Hobie from the stove just as Rio comes out to join Miles in setting the table.

“Hear that Miles? He doesn't mind.” She pats him on the shoulder before lowering her tone. "Also I'm not sure if you've noticed, but I wouldn't call Hobie a girl." She tells him wryly. Slightly panicking, Miles begins to laugh awkwardly.

"Ha. Yeah-no, I wouldn't either." Rio raises an eyebrow.

"Have anything you wanna tell me?"

Miles stiles. Hopefully never, his mind supplies, unhelpful.

At his silence, Rio shakes her head, expression fond. "No-we don't really have talk about it. But in case you’ve forgotten, I'm proud of you. Always.” A sudden wave of relief crashes over Miles. At hearing the sentiment he feels something warm swell in his chest.

"Thanks Mom, I appreciate it. Really."

"I would hope so. Now go join your Dad, he's been waiting patiently." True to her word, there he is situated at the diner table, glaring at Hobie from afar.

No doubt the man was already very concerned as to what Miles was seeing in such a person, but also that Hobie quite literally looked like he was about to jump him. He certainly had the build for it.

Hobie’s appearance wasn't very encouraging either. While Jefferson appreciated a strong display of personal expression, he wasn't so sure that he was as enthusiastic about someone who's personal expression screamed yo let's flip over that car.

In short, Jefferson thought that Hobie looked like trouble, and for his own piece of mind needed to make sure that his son wasn't seeing some sort of radical anarchist.

Where was Miles picking up all of these bad influences anyway? That girl Gwanda had already given him a bad vibe, but Hobie was a whole new level of shady.

"Hi." Miles smiles nervously. Jefferson inhales sharply.

"Look, anytime you'd like clear the air-" the cop is cut off by Rio and Hobie emerging from the kitchen carrying several pots.

"Jeff move your phone so I can put down the stew."

"Can't you just put it over there I'm trying to have a conversation with my-" The deathly look he got from his partner made any protests he had die in his throat.

He could reason with Miles later, but to do that he had to survive dinner first.

Soon, the four were seated comfortably at the table. Hobie next to Miles, Miles next to Jefferson, and Rio at the opposite end.

"Pass the beans, would you Miles?" Miles drops his fork and lifts the dish into his mom's reach. Meanwhile at the other end of the table, Jefferson clears his throat.

"So, Hobie," He addresses the teen. "How are..."

#across the spiderverse #punkflower #choose your own adventure #updates daily! #polls

[lucid-heart]

lifeblood

Arlecchino x F!Reader 🔞

🩸vampire!arlecchino says your blood tastes the sweetest when you're filled with adrenaline 🩸

WC: 700words+

masterlist • read on ao3 • request

A/N: I think some of y'all with appreciate this 🫡

Her hands are ice cold against your bare skin, the life long leeched from her blackened fingertips. The dark decay has spread up her wrists and bleeds in inky threads up her forearm. There's a beauty in death that you had not seen until you met her. And though her hands are freezing, her touch is burning hot.

Arlecchino exhales against the nape of neck, though she does not need to breathe. She does it purely to watch the shiver roll down your spine as you squirm in her grasp.

Each stroke, each breath, the anticipation builds. She's hungry.

And you are but a morsel to the monster.

But she likes to toy with her food, if the hand trailing down your stomach has anything to say.

"Cold?" she murmurs, with a touch of cruel amusement to her tone.

"Ah... your hands..."

It's an odd sensation. The heat of your body, searing at the feeling of her, has begun to warm her fingers. Her nails drag across your abdomen and she delights in the way your squirm.

You lean back in her lap and try to keep your own hands still. She has been quite clear that she will be the one to touch you. It isn't easy. Especially when she's moving so achingly slow.

"My hands. Ah, yes." She lightly taps your thigh. "Don't worry. I'll find somewhere warm to put them."

You have to bite back your moan.

Arlecchino lightly kisses the back of your neck as her fingers dip between your legs. But she doesn't reach where you need her. Instead she circles around you, toying with your need.

"Arlecchino-" you close your eyes and groan.

Her lips continue on your neck, shifting around until she reaches the quickened pulse of your heart. You can feel the ghost of her fangs test against you before she leans back again. What a cruel, cruel tease. Withholding her bite just out of reach when you so desperately want it from her.

"Patience," she exhales against your ear. "And you will be rewarded."

You know it's true. She wants a taste just as much as you do. But she says the blood is sweeter when it's filled with adrenaline. A hunt one day, she has proposed. Where she will chase you down and devour you on the spot. But tonight she settles for driving you crazy on her lap. And you are still very clearly prey to the predator.

She experimentally presses a finger to you and heat rushes all over your body. Like electricity, burning. You moan and shift, chasing her for more. She evades you carefully, other hand coming to grasp your waist. She holds you firmly still and chuckles.

It's only when you've settled once again does she dive back in for more. You're soaked against her digits, allowing her to easily slide a finger inside you. Then another, pressing deep into your warm pussy. You whine and groan, grabbing her wrist to try and encourage her.

Usually that would earn you a warning but tonight she must be in a good mood. She only teasingly nips at your neck before she starts to thrust inside you.

"F-Fuck! Arlecchino!" You hold onto her tightly.

"Mmhmm. That's it. That's my girl," she rasps into your ear. "You feel so good, nice and warm for me."

She's rough when she fucks you, ramping up from hardly a touch to completely overwhelming in moments. Each stroke reaches deep inside you, dragging moan after moan from your lips. It would be so easy to beg her, to scream her name, to whimper and ask her for everything. But she's wrapped around you and giving it to you already.

"So close already? You can do it for me, can't you?"

"Y-Yes! Yes, I'm so-!" You break off as she kisses your throat hungrily. "Oh, fuck-!"

She doubles her efforts and drives you off the edge. You come with her name on your lips, screaming long enough the other Harbingers will surely hear and know what is happening. But you hardly care, not when she's inside you like this.

Arlecchino's teeth sink into your neck at the same time. She holds you tightly as you come, drinking that sweet high right from your lifeblood. Exactly what she wanted.

Her fingers slip out of you but her teeth don't. The feeling of blood being drained is oddly calming. You lean back against her, weakly smiling.

When she surfaces, her lips are stained red. She lightly strokes your hair, eyes gleaming brightly.

"That's it..." she murmurs. "Perfect."

#genshin impact #arlecchino #arlecchino x reader #x reader

[lokidokieokie]

Tangles Lies | Chapter #1 - Partners in Crime

Series Summary: Loki and Y/n were some of the most formidable criminals of the gang The Avengers. On a heist, the one thing they didn't plan for happened: they got caught. And what's the best way to ensure they can't testify against each other? They pretend to be married. Only one problem...they pretty much hate each other.

Based on @deity-prompts' fabulous prompt: A and B are part of a criminal group. When they’re caught, they pretend to be married so that they can’t testify against each other in court.

Pairing: Criminal!Loki Laufeyson x Criminal!Fem!Reader

Warning(s): mob!au themes, mentions of thievery, general stupidity, my bad humour, mob violence, possible gore, mild angst, possible references to death, lemme know if I forgot anything

In the sprawling city of New York, a clandestine world thrived beneath the surface of law and order. Loki, a cunning an enigmatic figure, helped rule the shadows with his silver tongue and a hint of mischief in his piercing green eyes. He was a true mastermind in the art of deception.

And then there was you--a woman of unparalleled intellect and allure, with a reputation that matched Loki's in every single way. But you were no ally; you were a rival, each of you vying for dominance in the criminal underworld.

Despite your mutual animosity, you were both members of the infamous gang The Avengers--a tight-knit group that thrived on pulling off audacious heists; heists that others could only dream of. And tonight, fate had conspired to throw you and Loki together for a mission that could solidify your status within the gang.

The target was a priceless artefact; one hidden deep within the heavily guarded confines of the city's most secure museum. The heist required extreme precision, timing, and a well-coordinated plan. You knew you couldn't do it alone, and Loki, much to your chagrin, was assigned as your mission partner.

As you stood together outside the museum, the tension between you was palpable. "This should be fun," Loki quipped, a smug smile on his face. "Working with my favourite rival, that is."

You rolled your eyes, unimpressed by his attempt at charm. "Oh, please, spare me the pleasantries," you retorted. "Let's just get this over with so I can go back to stealing things in peace!"

Loki chuckled, clearly basking in your annoyance. "As you wish, my dear adversary. Shall we proceed with our extremely cunning plan?"

With a nod, you began to outline the intricacies of the heist, exploiting each other's strengths while ensuring the keep a watchful eye on any opportunity to outdo the other. The museum's layout, security systems, and patrol schedules were meticulously discussed as you both crafted a plan that was sure to confound anyone who dared to stand in your way.

As you entered the museum, disguised in sleek black attire, the adrenaline began to surge through your veins. You exchanged a knowing glance, acknowledging the thrill of the challenge ahead.

The heist progressed flawlessly, a symphony of coordinated movements and unspoken communication. Your rivalry had turned into a delicate dance of skill and cunning, each of you anticipating the other's moves with a begrudging respect.

At one point, as you expertly bypassed a laser grid, Loki's voice danced with amusement. "Not bad, Y/n. Not bad at all. But you're still a few steps behind me!"

You shot him a glare, "We'll see about that, Laufeyson. I'm just warming up."

With a theatrical flourish, Loki retrieved a small, gleaming device from his pocket. "Let's see if you can keep up with this," he taunted, activating the device with a triumphant smirk.

To your surprise, a hidden vent opened in the ceiling above you, allowing Loki to gracefully ascend and evade the laser grid. He looked down at you, a self-satisfied grin on his face.

"Show off," you muttered, but the corners of your lips betrayed a hint of amusement.

Loki laughed, basking in your acknowledgement of his clever move. "Oh, come now, Y/n. Where's your sense of adventure?"

With renewed determination, you followed Loki's lead, leaping and dodging through the maze of security measures.

As you reached the heart of the museum, where the priceless artefact was displayed under bulletproof glass, you exchanged a knowing glance with Loki. This was the moment that would determine your success or failure, and you both knew it.

With a nod, Loki initiated the final phase of the plan. As the distraction unfolded on the museum's opposite side, you moved with calculated precision, slipping through the shadows and disabling the electronic barriers with ease.

The moment your fingers made contact with the glass casing, a tingling sensation coursed through you. It was as if the artefact recognised its impending liberation, and the connection sent a thrill down your spine.

But just as you were about to secure the artefact, a gut-wrenching sound echoed through the halls--an alarm had been triggered.

Your eyes widened, "Shit! We've got to go!"

Loki rolled his eyes, "You don't say? Why don't we just wait and have some tea with the police?"

"Now is not the time for your quips, you asshole," you spat.

Just as Loki was about to spit something back, you both heard the sound of footsteps. "Museum Security! Come out with your hands up!"

"Do they really think that we'd be scared of them?" Loki whispered.

"Not now, Laufeyson!"

Together, you and Loki navigated through the labyrinthine corridors, staying one step ahead of the security team that was now in hot pursuit of you both. The museum was now a maze of danger, but you both managed to move in harmony, being driven by a shared goal and an unspoken understanding.

As you burst through the museum's doors and into the night, the artefact safely concealed under Loki's coat, you exchanged a knowing glance. Despite the obstacles, you had done it--together.

Just as you thought you were in the clear, the sound of police sirens echoed in the distance, growing louder with each passing moment. You and Loki exchanged a glance of realisation--you both had been caught.

As the handcuffs came out, you couldn't help but glare at Loki; anger and adrenaline coursing through your veins. "This is all your fault," you hissed.

Loki scoffed, the corners of his lips curling into a mischievous smirk. "Oh, please. You're the one who tripped the alarm, Y/n. I was simply trying to clean up after your mess."

"This all would've gone smoothly if I wasn't partnered with you!" You shot back, glaring at him with a mix of frustration and grudging admiration.

"We can argue about your faults later," Loki said, his voice low and urgent. "Right now, we need to find a way out of here."

A/N ahh! I'm so excited for this story! I hope you guys enjoy it!

🏷 @thewaithfuckingannoyme @evelyn-kingsley @moonlight-ee @fall-myriad @dryyoursaltyoceantears @avahiddlestonstan

Please lemme know if you want to be added to this or any of my taglists!

#tangled lies au #tangled lies #loki laufeyson #loki #loki x reader #loki laufeyson x reader #loki fanfiction #loki fanfic #loki x fem!reader #loki au #criminal au #mob!au #loki mob!au #tom hiddleston #tom hiddleston character #fem!reader #marvel #marvel fanfic

[edelfan]

In These Arms Tonight | Icemav

Cross-Posted to AO3

"Shit, I'm out of flares!"

"Rooster, evade, evade!"

"I can't shake 'em. They're on me, they're on me."

"Mav, no!"

"What the fuck are you doing here?"

"Ice...?"

"Fuck off to where you came from, Pete!"

~•~

Mav couldn't remember at what point he had realized that it had been a mistake riding his bike in the pouring rain. It wouldn't have been the first time that he had gotten soaked, but feeling like death warmed over on the next day - without being drunk the night before - definitely hadn't been on his agenda. Especially with Carole and Bradley off in Texas somewhere, visiting relatives, it meant that he would spend his precious time of leave alone and suffering.

So instead of taking his bike out on another ride down to the beach, Mav buried himself in his bed, wrapping the blanket around his shivering body.

Maverick only realized that he had been asleep when a ringing noise woke him up. It took him more than a moment to realize it was the phone down in the kitchen.

Stumbling out of the bed, a shiver went through his whole body as he slowly made his way downstairs towards the annoying machine that almost made his head explode. He had no idea how he managed to get to it, but at least it stopped ringing, when he held it in his hand. However, he didn't even have the energy to say his name.

"Pete? Are you there?"

He really wanted to answer Carole's concerned question, but the only thing that made it out of him was a heavy bout of coughing. It hurt in his chest and it didn't seem to end.

Somehow he ended up on the floor again and it was nice enough and cool to fall asleep despite the constant yelling on the phone.

The next time Maverick woke up - or at least was more conscious - he found himself on the sofa in the living room, wrapped up in a blanket.

Ice's voice was coming from the kitchen. But Pete knew this couldn't be right. Ice wasn't here, he wasn't on leave. He was stationed in Lemoore right now...

"No... He's not waking up... Up to 104°..."

For a moment Maverick wondered which poor bastard imaginary Ice was talking about, but that already seemed too much for his tired mind and he closed his eyes again...

A cool hand caressed his sweaty forehead, making Pete lean into it.

"Oh my poor baby."

"Mom...?"

Pete tried to blink, but the figure in front of him stayed blurry. It sure wasn't Ice though.

Deep inside Pete a warm feeling started to spread, something he hadn't felt in a very long time.

"It's alright, Pete. Go back to sleep. Just know that I love you very much and that I am so sorry for leaving you behind."

The words kept echoing around Pete's mind for a long time as he once again sank into the darkness.

~•~

"And you're sure Pops will be okay with it that we took the Cadillac?"

Pete grinned while he put on his aviators.

"Of course, baby goose. First of all, he will be so happy to see you again after being away for so long. And when he finds out that you got your driver's license, he will agree that it's perfect for your first drive."

Mav's words managed to chase away the doubt in Bradley's face and soon he was mirroring his grin as he started the engine.

It was a perfect south California spring day and the sun was shining as they made their way to the base to pick up Ice. The other man hadn't been home in weeks and for tonight they had planned a barbeque by the beach.

In the end, Maverick couldn't even say what had made him react in the way he did... They had been less than a mile from the base when a pick-up had suddenly pulled out behind a truck, right into their lane. Bradley had just stared in shock as Pete had reached for the steering wheel, turning their car to the left - and eventually putting himself on the side of the impact...

"Mav...?"

"Da... ou... ay?"

"Ple... dad... ou hear...?"

Brad... Bradley...

"Dad, please..."

"Bra..."

Maverick barely recognized his own voice, his mouth dry yet tasting like blood.

"Oh my God, dad..."

When he finally managed to open his eyes, Pete saw red - blood - Bradley covered in blood.

"Ba...by Goo...se you.. blee..."

"It's okay, dad, I'm fine. Help is on the way. But you need to stay awake, okay? Please? Dad?"

He really wanted to answer him, wanted to take away the worry in his eyes, but despite his inner fight Bradley's figure became blurrier with every passing moment, until darkness overtook him.

Expecting to come to the familiar sounds of heart beat monitors and medical equipment, Maverick was more than surprised when the first thing he heard was the sound of waves on a beach. Underneath him he felt warm sand and the sun seemed to be blocked by an umbrella.

"Pete Mitchell, don't even think about getting too comfortable here."

He knew that voice. Opening his eyes, he came face to face with Carole - looking like she had in the 80s, beautiful blonde hair and sunkissed skin; no more signs of sickness or chemo.

Unable to say anything, Maverick quickly got on his knees, wrapping his arms around his friend.

"Oh, Pete..."

Carole held him for a long time, her hand slowly stroking through his hair.

When Maverick finally managed to sit back again, wiping at his face as if Carole hadn't already noticed his tears, he frowned.

"Is this a dream?"

Her smile turned sad.

"No, darling, this isn't a dream."

Laying her hand against his cheek, images suddenly flashed before his eyes - the wrecked Cadillac, the back of an ambulance, Ice holding Bradley in his arms, both crying in the emergency room of a hospital...

"This isn't permanent either. You still have many years to come, sweetheart. But I wanted to thank you... For saving my baby boy. Not just today. Let him grow old and grey before I see him again, but don't make a habit out of turning up here. There are people down there who depend on you, my dear Pete..."

He felt the ocean wind pick up suddenly. And just like the sand on this endless beach, Carole's image started to be blown away before there was nothing else but darkness again.

~•~

The jet he had been testing the last few weeks was one big fuck up. As soon as they had fixed one bug, another one would turn up. If you'd asked Maverick, it would be better to scrap the whole thing all together and start over with the next model. But it wasn't his choice to make, he was just the test pilot. And in less than four weeks he would be off to California, finally marrying the love of his life as soon as DADT would officially be history.

Until then, he had to keep flying this piece of crap. Today it seemed to be okay so far. Everything was steady and controls showed the correct data.

It almost seemed too good to be true after all their troubles. However, Maverick had learned to never celebrate too early; and unfortunately he was proofed right when he detected the slightest hint of smoke in the cockpit.

"Crane 21 to Command, there's smoke in the cockpit. I don't know where it's coming from."

"Crane 21, can you make it back to base?"

"Wondering if it's worth it."

"Maverick."

"Okay, okay, looks like I should be okay for landing."

Rushing back to the testing base, Maverick immediately started the descent. However, with every couple of feet he dropped, the smoke got more and thicker.

In the end, he couldn't say how he had managed to land the jet, but as soon as he tried to open the canopy, Maverick knew he was in deep shit. The canopy was stuck. Whatever he tried, it wouldn't budge. And with every breath his mask became more useless as he inhaled more and more smoke.

Mav's world started to close in. Somewhere on the edge of his consciousness, he noticed people trying to break the canopy from outside. His last thought was about Goose and the irony of faulty canopies, before he slipped into darkness.

The first thing Mav noticed again, were the sounds of planes above him - however it wasn't any of the experimental jets he had tested nor was it the well known F-14. He knew it though...

Slowly opening his eyes, he remembered it. The A-4, lots of them... And around him a familiar air base. The one where his father had been stationed before he was shipped off to Vietnam.

A couple feet away, a man was standing by his plane, looking at Maverick. He was wearing a more than familiar leather jacket...

"Dad?"

"Hey, Pete."

For a moment they just stood there and looked at each other, but finally it was Duke who closed the distance and embraced his son.

There were so many things Pete had wanted to say if he'd ever see his dad again, but now in this moment not a single word made it past his lips. He just felt the warmth of the hug, smelled the husky cologne that brought back long forgotten memories.

"Son... Pete... I want you to know that I am so proud of you. Of the man you've become... One hell of a pilot, hm? And marrying an admiral..."

Pete went still, his look uneasy as he focused on his dad's face - almost ready to see disgust or contempt. After all, at the point in time, when he had lost his father, things had been different and little Pete had have no idea yet that he actually like girls and boys. However, there was only love in his father's eyes.

"That Kazansky kid seems like a fine fellow and he better take care of you or I'll have to kick his ass when he'll come to the afterlife."

They both laughed, but all too soon Pete felt himself starting to fade away again.

"I love you, dad."

"I love you, too, Pete."

~•~

"Just... a little... push..."

Staring at the controls, Maverick pushed the stick slowly but surely a bit further. His heart was hammering in his chest, the Darkstar humming around him as it made it past Mach 10.1. Of course, he knew that he had made it, had made sure that the project would be continued, but he wouldn't be Maverick if he didn't try to find the absolutely limit. With the humming turning into heavy vibration, he knew that he had found it.

"Oh shit!"

A blazing 10.4 was the last thing Maverick took in, his hand flying towards the ejection button, before everything turned dark...

"That's your idea of fun, Mav?"

Pete came around to the sound of someone plunking away on a piano. And that voice... Slowly the cloudy surroundings cleared and gave way to a familiar diner - somewhere he hadn't been to since his short stint as Top Gun instructor. Sitting at the piano, there was a familiar figure dressed in a Hawaiian shirt...

Maverick had no idea how he had moved so fast, but not even a moment later he found himself in Goose's arms. Tears were running down his face and he kept on mumbling apology after apology, all while Goose just held him close.

"Oh, stop it, Mav. We both know it was an accident. There was nothing you could have done."

"Goose-"

"No. Stop feeling guilty. I know that you took care of my family, I even know that you held onto me until the chopper arrived. You are my best friend, Mav, and that's why you need to listen to me now. We don't have much time..."

Goose held him at an arm's length, looking at him while Mav tried to wipe away his tears. When their eyes finally met, Goose just grinned. He lay his hand in Maverick's neck, pulling him close again until their foreheads touched lightly.

"It's not your time yet, Mav. People still need you down there... Bradley needs you. His life depends on it..."

Maverick started to feel the almost familiar pull. He tried to hold onto Goose, but all his strength didn't help him as the diner around them started to fade away. The last thing he heard were the notes of 'Big Balls of Fire'.

~•~

"Grampa?"

Small and slightly sticky fingers were poking Maverick's face.

"Grampa, wake up."

"Hmmm, what is it, sweetpea?"

He didn't open his eyes, but wrapped his arms around the little girl in front of him, pulling her close. Blowing a raspberry on her cheek, made her giggling heavily and for a moment she tried to free herself before deciding that Pete's arms still were the place to be.

"Papa told me to get you. He said he and Daddy are finished." Neka whispered loudly into Maverick's ear.

"Oh really? Then it's definitely time to get up!"

As graceful as possible in his age, his arms full of squirming toddler, he got up and off the old leather sofa in the hangar.

Things had changed a bit over the last ten years in here. What had once been his not so little hideaway, now mostly belonged to Bradley.

Being medically discharged after his own encounter with cancer, his godson had needed a distraction and Maverick had given it to him. These days Bradley was mostly healthy, on pension and looking after his and Jake's adopted little girl.

And just like Maverick himself he had started restoring old planes. Over there, in the sun shining through the open doors of the hangar was his latest project - a L-3 Grasshopper, the cockpit realigned so that it could fit three people behind each other.

Bradley had finished the last repairs a few days ago and earlier today he and Jake had made it ready to fly for the first time.

Maverick carried his granddaughter over to where the younger men stood beside the Grasshopper. Jake was grinning like a child himself when he took Neka out of Mav's arms.

"You ready, Pops?"

"You know I was born ready, Captain Seresin."

Shortly afterwards, they were soaring over the Californian desert - Bradley piloting with Jake sitting right behind him, holding Neka in his lap.

Maverick was seated in in the backseat. It wasn't that often that he got to fly anymore these days, but nothing could ever compare to this feeling of being free and on top of the world...

"Daddy... I think Grampa fell asleep again..."

He woke up to the feeling of familiar arms around him. Soft fingertips were stroking the skin on his arms while a kiss was placed on his forehead. Pete didn't need to open his eyes to know whose warm embrace was holding him close.

"Please don't send me back... not this time, Ice."

"No, baby, it's okay. You're here to stay with me. Welcome home, Pete."

#icemav #hangster #pete maverick mitchell #tom iceman kazansky #top gun 1986 #top gun maverick #bradley rooster bradshaw #jake hangman seresin #top gun angst #top gun fic #my writing

[mysteriouslover1516]

Remember Us Together?

It was once again the night of the Pine Glade Festival held in Duskwood, a time for festivities and happiness, but something was holding the group back these days.

“Can I tell you something, MC?” Jessy asks, voice quiet, as she and MC were wandering around the festival, waiting for the others to show up.

“Always, Jessy.” MC smiles, encouragingly. Her eyes held a certain sense of sorrow in them, as if she almost expected what Jessy wanted to say.

“I almost didn’t want to go to this festival, not after what happened.”

“I felt the same, and I’m sure the others are also fighting their own personal demons concerning this night.” MC sighs, “We all miss him, you know that, right?”

“Yes, of course I know.” Jessy hangs her head, “It’s selfish of me to think I’m the only one who mourns this way for Richy, isn’t it?”

“I wouldn’t necessarily say that,” MC says. “You shared a certain bond with Richy, you were closer to him than anyone else in the group was.”

“I almost want to call it love, MC. It was like I loved him, but of course I didn’t, right? I had Dan, so it couldn’t have been.”

“There’s different types of love between friends, Jessy. There’s platonic love, and then there’s romantic love. In your case I think yours was different from both, it was more of a bond that siblings commonly possess. He was your protector, your confidant, someone you trusted. He was your older brother figure.” MC’s voice grows softer, “Phil is your older brother, but he never treated you right, he was rarely loving towards you. What if your mind subconsciously replaced Phil and put Richy in that role?”

“I never thought about it that way,” Jessy admits. “It makes sense.”

“We are all considerate of you, Jessy.” MC says, “We all know how much Richy meant to you. Just, some of us mourn differently. Just because we don’t bring him up anymore or we experience times of happiness, doesn’t mean we don’t miss him.”

“I know that, MC.” Jessy looks horrified at the thought. “I never once considered that you guys forgot about him, never. I guess I just can’t hide my emotions as well as the others can.”

“And that’s not a bad thing, that’s nothing to be ashamed about. It takes time, but we’ll all get through this, I promise.” MC smiles, her eyes clouding over. “If Hannah can celebrate tonight after all that has happened to her, then I know you and I can make it too.”

“You and I?” Jessy questions, “I have a feeling there’s something else besides Richy’s death that is bothering you.”

“I’m worried about Jake.”

“He still hasn’t gotten into contact with you?”

“No, which makes me scared that maybe he never will.” MC admits, “It’s been a year, what if he can never find a safe place to reach out? Or worse, what if he doesn’t want to anymore? What if he changed his mind about me, I mean it’s possible, right?”

“Nonsense,” Jessy shakes her head. “He’s probably still trying to evade his pursuers, but he would never forget about you, I’m sure of it.”

“Maybe you’re right.”

“And deep down you know you still trust him, otherwise you wouldn’t have waited this long.” Jessy says.

“Yes,” MC takes a deep breath. “Thanks for letting me confide in you, Jessy.”

“Of course, always.” Jessy winks as a smile spreads across both girls’ faces.

“Jessy! MC!” A female voice calls to them, “There you two are!”

The two girls look up to see a slender brunette woman walking towards them, a blonde right behind her. “Lilly and I just got here!”

“Hey Hannah,” Jessy greets the brunette first, then turns to her companion. “Lilly.”

“I heard the fireworks are going to be absolutely spectacular tonight,” Hannah informs, “They start at ten and go on till midnight this time.”

Jessy raises an eyebrow, “Wait a minute, where’s Thomas?”

“He’s with Dan, at the hot dog stand.” Hannah laughs.

“Of course,” Jessy facepalms, “Dan loves hotdogs.”

Hannah gestures towards the direction of the baking booth, “And we all know where Cleo is. She’s been working hard helping her mom organize the desserts for tonight.”

“I hope she made her lemon bars,” Lilly laughs.

“Forget the lemon bars, I want her world-famous Pyramid Cake.” MC sighs.

“That was Richy’s favorite dessert,” Jessy says in a soft tone. “He loved this festival.”

“I’m liking this guy more and more,” MC giggles.

“Deep down he really was a good guy,” Hannah nods. “Despite everything he did wrong.”

“Most of us grew up together with Richy,” Lilly says. “Everyone except Jessy, she wasn’t born here.”

“Yes, I moved here when I was six, remember, MC?”

“I would never forget,” MC smiles and then says, “Well, I guess I’ll just have to eat two slices of cake as a tribute to Richy.”

“Yes,” Jessy laughs. “Good idea.”

“Hey!” Cleo greets as the four girls approach the table filled with sweets. “How is everyone?”

“Fantastic,” Hannah answers and then sighs happily. “And once again, everything looks perfect, Cleo.”

“Thank you,” The brunette laughs. “We’ve worked really hard on everything, so please, don’t hesitate to eat as much as you want.”

“You don’t have to say that again,” Lilly puts two lemon bars on her plate.

“Hey, MC. I made your favorite, the Pyramid Cake!” Cleo winks.

“Awesome, can you dish me up a slice?” MC smiles, pulling her phone out of her pocket as it starts to vibrate. “What kind of telemarketer calls this late?”

“Is it Jake?” Jessy asks, looking over MC’s shoulder.

MC’s face pales, “Wait a minute, no. I recognize this number, it’s my ex.”

“You mean your ex from your old hometown?” Jessy’s jaw drops.

“Yes.”

“Don’t answer it,” Hannah advises.

“You don’t want to give him the satisfaction of answering,” Lilly agrees.

“But what could he want?” MC asks, torn.

“It doesn’t matter,” Cleo states. “He’s in the past, you’re here in Duskwood now, you’ve got Jake. Your ex doesn’t deserve a second thought from you.”

MC silences her phone and places it back in her pocket. “Anyway, it looks amazing, Cleo.” She says as she takes the plate from her friend.

“Oh oh oh!” Dan’s voice booms as he comes up behind the girls. “I’ve found the dessert table, Tommyboy!”

“Oh good,” Thomas rolls his eyes at the nickname. “Maybe if you stuff some more food in your mouth I’ll finally have a moment’s silence.”

“What is that supposed to mean?!” Dan exclaims.

“Maybe it means you talk too much?” MC raises an eyebrow.

“Pfff,  I don’t know why I asked for your opinion.”

“Rude,” MC sniffs then grimaces as her phone vibrates in sequence.

Bzzz Bzzz Bzzz Bzzz Bzzz.

“What is that?” Dan asks, looking around.

Bzz Bzz Bzz Bzz Bzz

“Sounds like somebody’s phone is blowing up,” Dan says.

“It’s mine,” MC says in a quiet voice.

“Someone is desperate to get a hold of you,” Dan notes. “Hackerman?”

“It’s her ex,” Jessy answers.

“What?” Dan frowns, “Give me your phone.”

“Dan, that’s not a good idea.” MC shakes her head.

“I’ll beat the crap out of this guy!”

“Oh sure you will.” MC rolls her eyes.

“I just have your best interests at heart,” Dan informs. “Promise me whatever your ex is saying, you won’t dwell on it. Read it, laugh about it, and move on.”

“Yeah, it’s his loss!” Jessy agrees.

Hannah laughs, “Also I’d be more concerned about what Jake would do to your ex, rather than what Dan would do.”

“Hey!” Dan protests and flexes his muscles, “Do you see these things?”

“But Jake can hack into the guy’s account and wipe out all his savings,” Lilly reminds.

“Pfff, that’s the easy way out,” Dan brushes her off. “It takes more gut to beat the man up face to face.”

“Look at the fireworks!” Jessy excitedly points at the lights erupting against the horizon.

“Oh my gosh, I almost forgot about the fireworks.” Hannah exclaims.

“Aren’t they starting a bit early?” Cleo asks.

“Yeah, to hype the crowd up.” Dan says, “There’s more tourists this year, haven’t you noticed?” “Oh yeah,” Lilly glances around. “You’re right, Dan.”

“I’m always right,” Dan waves his hand. “Come on, let’s find a spot to sit.” “I’ll find you guys later,” Cleo says. “I’m waiting for someone else to come take my spot at the booth.” “Sounds good,” Thomas says, “See you then.”

Bzzz Bzzz Bzzz

“Listen, I have to find the bathroom real quick, text me when you find a spot and I’ll meet you there.” MC lies, not waiting for anyone to talk her out of it. Walking around a corner of a tent, out of view from the group, she immediately pulls out her phone and unlocks it.

Hey, MC.

Why aren’t you answering your phone?

Can we please talk?

MC? Fine, here it goes anyway.

I’ve had a lot of time to think about it.

The thing with the other girl didn’t work out, she didn’t even come close to comparing with you.

I miss you, I haven’t seen you around town for a while. Where’ve you been?

Are you busy?

What do you think about us starting over again?

We could go back to the way it was, like absolutely nothing happened between us.

What do you say, MC?

You were so madly in love with me, you probably still are, haha.

Afterall, remember us together?

MC read the messages twice, heartbeat racing, thumbs frozen over the keyboard. Should she text back? She couldn’t just let him get away with trying to contact her again, right? Why didn’t she block his number beforehand….

Are you drunk?

I don’t drink, silly.

It’s over, it’s been three months. You were the one who ended us, remember?

It was a dumb mistake on my part, I admit it. I miss you, I want you back.

You think I’ll go back to you just like that? You snap your fingers and I’ll come running back into your arms, just so you can go break my heart again?

I promise I won’t, please, MC. Listen to me, I need you.

It’s over, I’ve moved away.

You moved? Why the heck would you move?

I needed a fresh start, to get away from people like YOU.

Where did you even move to? Lol.

Like I’d tell you. How stupid do you think I am? So, it wouldn’t work anyway, if I even DID want to come back.

We both know you’ll never find anyone else. Stop being so haughty, just come back. You know you want to. If you think you’ll find someone to replace me, you’re crazy.

Are you kidding? You honestly think that? Did you forget how jealous you got when other guys dared to even smile at me?

You’re one to talk about jealousy, what about that girl you always accused me of flirting with?

You mean the girl who you ACTUALLY did flirt with? The one you cheated on me with and caused us to break up because she was apparently your true love?

That’s beside the point, MC. Stop taking everything so personally.

Stop taking cheating personally? My apologies, I didn’t know. If you’re trying to say cheating is the new normal, then you’re wrong.

How so? A lot of guys get bored and have fun with other girls, lol. Doesn’t mean anything.

Jake doesn’t.

Who the heck is Jake? And also if you think he actually loves you, you’re silly, MC. Whoever would want to deal with you for all eternity is out of their minds.

I thought you wanted me back?

I’m just bored and drunk, haha.

I don’t have time for this. Leave me alone.

MC watched the typing bubbles float on the other end of the line, eyes starting to water slightly.

“MC,” Jessy’s voice came to her, causing her to look up.

MC shrugs, wiping her eyes. “Curiosity killed the cat, didn’t it?”

Jessy smiles sympathetically, easing the phone out of MC’s hand. After skimming over the messages, she looks back up. “You need to block him.”

“But-”

“No, he’s already starting to deprecate you again. He’s toxic, you can’t keep playing into his hands. Just you texting him is showing that you’re still willing to waste your time on him.”

“He sounded almost like he changed in the beginning,” MC whispers.

“I’ll give him that he sounded remorseful at the beginning, yes. But did you read what he ended with? Once you started replying and weren’t cooperating as planned, he started to show his true colors again. He basically was saying no one would want you, that he was the best thing that ever happened to you. Not only is this guy insane, but he’s an idiot as well!”

“Why can’t I move on, Jessy? I’m going insane, I can’t keep doing this to myself.”

“MC, every relationship that lasts as long as yours will be hard to get over. You invested your time and effort into making it work, you entrusted him with your heart. Unfortunately he ended up fumbling with it and therefore broke it. When he cheated on you, the future was gone, but the past wasn’t. No one ever gets over a relationship that easily, especially one that affected you as much as yours did.”

“But what about Jake? I told Jake I’d wait for him, even said I loved him. But here I am crying over my ex and for a split second I was wanting to believe he had changed.”

“Even when people move on from previous relationships and enter into new ones, the memories of the past are still with them. What matters is what you choose to do with those memories, whether you lament over the heartbreak you experienced, or whether you push yourself to find better and realize how much you’re worth.”

“Can you block him for me?” MC asks, voice quiet.

“My pleasure,” Jessy says, then suddenly the phone starts ringing. “Oh, even better.”

“Don’t answer it,” MC giggles as Jessy makes a face at her, answering the call.

“Oh hey, you’re MC’s ex, right? Well you can just go wander off a cliff. And also, if you call her one more time, I swear I'm gonna come over and beat you to a pulp till you can't see a dang thing and your mom is gonna have to feed you through a straw for a year. Oh right, you were a jerk to your mom as well, so I guess you have no one to take care of you. Maybe you can go crawling back to some past ex that you were a jerk to, just so she can kick you to the curb again. What? Oh, I’m Jessy, MC’s best friend. And by the way, you might wanna watch out for MC’s new boyfriend, he’ll hack you into pieces.” With that, Jessy hangs up on him and then blocks him. “Here you go,” she says, handing MC back her phone. “We should probably go find the others now, before they start to freak out.”

Bzzz Bzzz Bzzz

“That’s probably them now,” MC laughs as she looks at her lockscreen. “OMG.”

“Is that a good or bad OMG?” Jessy bites her lip, confused.

Hello, MC.

My pursuers have finally lost track of me, I doubt they will find me again soon.

I hear you moved to Duskwood. Being that I am in the area, what do you say about finally fulfilling our promise to meet in the future?

There’s a nice Chinese restaurant in Duskwood that I know of. You once told me Chinese was your favorite, so what do you say?

I’ve thought about you often, MC. My feelings for you never faded, they only grew stronger. I hope you feel the same.

“It’s Jake,” MC’s eyes light up, her phone starting to ring.

“I’ll give you a few minutes by yourself,” Jessy smiles, satisfied, walking off.

“Jake.” MC answers the phone, “I’ve missed you so much.”

Hey, lovelies! :) Thank you so much for reading this, and please leave a comment! I love to hear from you all! My ex actually did this to me, so I sympathize with anyone who can relate. There's someone out there who will treasure you and treat you like their whole world! In the meantime, I love you, and so does Jake! ;)

#jake duskwood #jake x mc #jake hacker #jake donfort #jake x reader #iamjake #jake4life #hackerman #hacker boy #duskwood hacker #duskwood jake x mc #duskwood fandom #duskwood fanfiction #duskwood #duskwood everbyte #everbyte duskwood #everbyte studios #everbyte game #duskwood game #jessy duskwood #duskwood jessy #jessy hawkins #dan duskwood #duskwood dan #dan anderson #cleo duskwood #duskwood cleo #thomas duskwood #duskwood thomas #thomas miller

[lykaonimagines]

Moonlight Freedom - Stephen Strange x Reader (NSFW)

I’ve had this one sitting for awhile, writing any smut is by far not what I’m best at, but I had fun with it 🙃

Paring: Stephen Strange x F!Reader (Mutant w/ water manipulation powers, not relevant for most of it)

Word Count: 1,716

Description: After being unable to sleep on their beach house vacation, Stephen finds himself enjoying the night view of the beach... and Y/N shows him how much she enjoys the view she woke up to.

Song/lyrics mentioned are from “(I Just) Died In Your Arms” by Cutting Crew.

Other Things: Fluff with some smut. Married couple.

Warnings: NSFW. Partially Smut. 18+ Content. (M handjob). Nothing that wild honestly. Some swearing. (Please don’t read this one if you’re under 18.)

(I spent far too much time really wanting to use a clip of Stephen/Ben, and finally did... and then went with a silhouette shot where you can’t even tell it’s him 🙃 oh well. Clip originally from “Actor Cumberbatch Benedict at Mykonos Grand Hotel A” on Youtube.)

Laying in the small beach house bed, Stephen finds himself on his side facing his sleeping wife, sleep evading him.

The sheets pooled around her waist, skin still shining from their love making, and his love bites decorate the skin along her neck and shoulder.

Reaching one hand out he runs his fingers through her hair to move it from her face, smiling as she snuggles into his palm subconsciously.

Rolling away from her, he carefully climbs out of the bed and walks to the sliding door facing the ocean.

Pulling the door open and stepping onto the back porch, he closes his eyes to take in the sounds and smells of the ocean.

Reaching his hands into the air, his fingertips just graze the bottom of the awning as he leisurely stretches every muscle of his typically tense body with a satisfied groan in the cool sea breeze.

Freedom.

Full freedom.

The empty night sky spanning over ocean for as far as he can see, not a soul on the beach. No missions. No paperwork. No training. No clothes. No messages. No responsibilities. No rules. No obligations.

The sound of music pulls him back from his thoughts, a pair of arms wrapping around his midsection before he can turn to look.

“This was a nice sight to wake up to,” Y/N mumbles as she presses slow, deliberate kisses up his spine, sending a shiver up in their wake.

“Is that so?”

“Mhm, this nude beautiful almost ethereal looking man standing outside the doorway basking in the moonlight in all his glory,” she hums as her fingertips trace the muscles they find.

He chuckles at that and relaxes into her embrace, his ears pricking at words he hears her mumbling into his back, “Hmm?”

“Oh I, I just died in your arms tonight,” she repeats, and he can feel her smile against the skin on his back.

“Cutting Crew,” he states as he focuses on the music coming from behind him. “Are you suggesting something dear?”

“La petite mort,” she responds, her nails gently scrapping across his stomach. “A little death. As someone one that’s experienced multiple deaths, hopefully that kind is preferable.”

With a raise of his eyebrow, he laughs darkly, listening quietly to the song as her hand strays down his bare thigh, “Would you like to give me a demonstration wife of mine?”

“I’d love to,” she whispers as she lightly nips at the skin on his back and digs her nails into his thighs.

Her fingertips brush across his hip bone and pelvis then slowly down his shaft before reaching her destination.

Her finger runs slowly over the tip, collecting the pre-cum there and swirling it around the head agonizingly slow.

A hiss escapes him, and he lets his head fall back and his eyes drift shut at the sensation, “Going to torture me tonight huh?”

“Impatient boy,” she teases. “I could just stop if you’d rather?”

“I’ll be good,” he growls as she chuckles behind him, drifting her fingers up his hardening length.

Wrapping her hand around his shaft, Y/N starts leisurely stroking him as his hips slowly buck in rhythm with her hand.

Her free hand continues to explore his front, tracing around his abdominal muscles before trailing up toward his chest.

A short gasp leaves his mouth as her fingers stroke a deliberate circle on the nipple she reaches.

Increasing the speed of her hand on his shaft, she falls into a steady rhythm with the song that his hips quickly meet up with.

With each pull down, his hips send her wrist back up and her thumb brushes the lightest of touches on the underside of the head.

She can feel him building up, an almost silent pant leaves his mouth and his hips fall out of tempo with the music.

Her hand on his chest drifts up to his mouth, tapping his bottom lip with a fingertip, “Help me out baby?”

His mouth opens compliantly and he lazily swirls his tongue around the fingers she slips into his mouth.

Pulling her hand back, she quickly drops it down to interlock her fingers with her opposite hand and increases her speed.

“Fuck…” he betters as he leans back, his own hands desperately grabbing for her thighs behind him.

Pushing herself further into his back, she runs slow open-mouthed kisses up his spine, “You should watch, you’re missing the show with your eyes closed.”

Finally cracking his eyes open, he glances down at her hands fast at work on his shaft and groans, “Just like that sweetheart.”

Feeling his body start to tremble against her own, she grips a bit tighter and sucks sharply on the skin on his shoulder blade.

“Fuck!” He curses as his eyes squeeze shut and he loses himself in his finish. His eyes drifting back open as he comes down from his high, he glances down at her hands still loosely on him, coated in his cum and her wedding band gleaming in the moonlight.

Pulling her hands back, Y/N takes a step away from the sorcerer as he grabs onto the door frame next to them. Turning towards Y/N, he gives her a tired chuckle as she sucks her fingers clean with a wink.

“Well this is definitely something not possible in the city,” he muses, grabbing ahold of her waist and pulling her into his body.

“Scandal of the millennia,” Y/N laughs, resting her cheek against his chest and lazily draping her arms around his waist. “The famous hero Doctor Strange caught being debauched in public!”

“Let’s enjoy the peace and anonymity while it lasts,” he responds, pressing a kiss to the top of her head.

“Mhm,” she mumbles against him then looks up into his eyes. “Want to skinny dip before getting back to bed?”

His brows rise and he threads his fingers through her hair, “You are very determined to make me experience everything you can possibly think of aren’t you?”

Y/N shrugs, “I just want to you to have a good time and relax. It’s one of the rare moments where we can just make happy memories doing something fun. No fate of the city or universe hanging over our heads. For a few days it’s just about you and me, making memories worth remembering when the shit hits the fan again. We spend so much time protecting everyone and everything… but these moments with you are what makes it worth continuing to do that.”

Staring down into her eyes, Stephen’s mouth opens and closes several times, her words swirling around in his mind. Swallowing hard he hugs her tightly against his chest, “Every moment with you is worth remembering. You’re my world.”

Y/N gently strokes his back in response, “I love you Stephen. And our life together. I wouldn’t trade it for the anything.”

“I love you too, more than I’ll ever be able to say.” Swaying together in the breeze to the rhythm of the new song coming from inside the house, he eventually leans back to grin down at her. “So what was that about skinny dipping?”

Y/N returns his grins and slides her hands down his back to grip his butt, “That I’ll take every opportunity available to see you wet and naked love.”

“Then you won’t mind if I just…” he trails off with a mischievous look in his eyes, suddenly scooping her up and over his shoulder.

“Stephen!” She shrieks as she clings to him and he bounds down the steps of the beach house, headed toward the ocean.

Trudging into the water, he pries her from his form and tosses her into the water with a loud splash, laughing as she resurfaces and splashes at him angrily.

“Oh you’ve started a war Doctor Strange,” she hisses, the trace of a smile on her lips as magic glows at her fingertips as a mini cyclone of water raises beside her. “And this time, we’re in my element.”

“Perhaps I acted too rashly?” he offers before getting blasted in the face and thrown under the water. Scrambling back to the surface spitting out the seawater, he holds his hands up in surrender.

Chuckling at her husband, Y/N closes the distance between them and reaches up to push the wet hair from his face before wrapping her arms around his neck, “Smart man.”

“Smart after realizing I started something in the water with someone that controls water,” he grumbles but presses his forehead to hers.

“Hmm… what about this?” She asks as a fountain of water erupts beside them, raining droplets down onto them.

“Rain?” he asks with a raised brow.

“Supposed to be romantic,” she muses and buries his fingers in the wet hair on the back of his head. “Kissing in the rain and all that.”

“Kissing in the rain, in the ocean, in the moonlight,” he teases, brushing his lips against hers.

“And you looking extra handsome, when the moonlight hits your eyes they just light up in the best way. Like the most beautiful oceans in the open sea.”

Turning his face away as a blush works its way across his cheeks he mumbles, “You can’t just hit me out of nowhere with something like that.”

“Oh? I can’t find my husband irresistibly handsome?” she laughs and presses a kiss to his cheek.

“No, I’m thankful for that,” he says with a smile turning back to her. “My little water goddess is seducing me at every turn today.”

“One compliment has you seduced now Stephen?” she teases before lightly tugging at his bottom lip with her teeth.

“Completely coming undone beneath me earlier, compliments, handjobs in the doorway, running around naked and looking stunning,” he lists as he slides his hands down to squeeze her butt. “I’m starting to think you don’t want me to get dressed Mrs. Strange.”

“Guilty as charged,” she winks and presses a hungry kiss to his lips. “And I’m thinking it’s about time you take me back to bed for round two.”

“Gladly,” he grins, pulling her up into his arms. Trudging toward the shore he takes off into a sprint toward the house with their combined laughter getting lost in the warm sea breeze.

----

If you’re normally on my taglist but left off this one, it’s probably because you were added before I made the Google form asking if you were ok with NSFW. If you were left off and are ok with NSFW stuff/18+, just let me know and I’ll put you on that list :) I’m not going to write it a whole lot, but it might pop up on occasion. (If I did tag you and you don’t want to be tagged in NSFW content, also let me know!)

Stephen Taglist (Main Stephen/NSFW Edition): @stephenstrangeaddictions​ @ironstrange1991​ @stanny-uwu​ @ohchoices​ @sparky22122 @typical-bistander​ @asgardianprincess1050​ @pop-rocks-and-skittles​ @namethathasnotbeentaken​ @peachywoong​  @valeriegreyy​ @floralover1​ @cumberbitch​ @lightmeuplivly​ @lucimorningst4r​ @bluebear142077​ @strangeobsessed​  @bymoonlightfics​ @strangeions​ @sherlux​ @qhbr2013​ @lovingly-unlovingme @thelaststraw3​ @Benedictcumberbitch @vereon​  @veryladyqueen​ @ultrasilentwhispers​ @cemak​ @azu21​ @clockblobber​ @ben-er-ino​ @alaina-b​ @guyfieriii @classickook​ @mochuchi​ @rbymoon​ @wanderingfairy73​ @secretsthathauntus​ 

There’s a link to a Google form to fill out if you’d like to be tagged, on my pinned Channel Navigation post and on my Masterlist! Makes sure I don’t miss your comment, and lets you opt out of certain things if you’d like :)

If I’ve tagged you in something you didn’t want to be tagged in (certain variant, a warning you aren’t comfortable with, etc) just message me and I’ll make a note on my sheet to make sure you aren’t tagged in anything like that again.

#doctor strange #Doctor Stephen Strange #doctor strange x you #doctor strange imagine #doctor strange x reader #Stephen Strange #stephen strange x reader #stephen strange x you #stephen strange imagine #doctor strange smut #marvel #fanfiction #smut

[babyboiboyega]

Deep End (Matt Murdock x gn!Reader)

Deep End (Matt Murdock x gn!Reader)

Content: major character death, angst, profanity, mentions of blood

Word Count: 2.6k

A/N: Y’all remember that heartbreaking, angsty Matt Murdock oneshot I mentioned like 2-3 days ago?? Here ya go!

I’ve been in bed for the last three days with COVID (after evading it for three years, it finally got to me), and you’d think I would take all of this downtime to write. The exact opposite, actually. BUT I had enough energy to pump this out, so y’all better not let this flop.

I’m just kidding, I sincerely hope y’all enjoy this! I appreciate any constructive criticism and/or comments!

Stay safe, y’all!

*italics: flashbacks

A storm had rolled over Hell’s Kitchen, and it was intent on staying. One might have thought that the heavy beating the city took from the rain would keep the darkest of humans and criminals from venturing outside, their minds set on causing fear and chaos; if anything, the rain, thunder, and lightning provided only a cover for the indiscriminate ruthlessness that took over the city at night. 

Unfortunately for those who committed any vile acts, The Devil had no problem venturing outside when it rained, as it only provided an extra distraction for those he hunted. 

It didn’t work as well when he, himself, was also distracted; and tonight, he was possibly the most distracted he had ever been, and he had paid for it in a few ways.  

The shallow cut on his side stung as he ran and leapt across darkened rooftops. His back throbbed from where a lowlife had managed to clip him with a metal bat… all because he had gotten distracted at the sound of his phone ringing. 

He had gotten distracted…by his phone ringing.

But it hadn’t just been any instance of his phone ringing; the ringtone that had permeated the sounds of fighting around him was the one he had assigned specifically to you. It hadn’t been the first time you had called him during his “nightly duties”; but it was different this time around.

The second your ringtone had reached his ears, he had fumbled for a split second as the memories of the last time you two had spoken raced through his mind, the word ‘spoken’ being an understatement for the argument you two had had. 

“I did what I had to do. It was either you or him, and I made the call- and I’d do it again.”

One of Matt’s fists clenched while the other hand raised and rubbed at his face roughly in an attempt to…calm himself? His helmet lay on its side from where he had carelessly dropped it onto the table in frustration. 

Your name left his mouth in a sound that closely resembled an exhausted sigh mixed with a growl. Your chest tightened at the idea that your presence, which he had at one point enjoyed, now caused him nothing but exhaustion and frustration. How did you two get here?

“That wasn’t your call to make, damn it! You killed-'' His unseeing eyes closed as he took a deep, shuddering breath. “You went too far tonight, and you don’t even seem to care. You put yourself in danger tonight doing something reckless, and you don’t seem to care.”

The sudden rush of anger that seized your body surprised even you, but as you spoke quickly and without hesitation, you could see Matt’s jaw clench in retaliation.

“You’re a goddamn hypocrite, Matt. That’s all you do; you go out every night, not caring what condition you’re in, risking yourself and being reckless.”

“Yeah, well when I’m reckless, at least I’m helping people.”

He couldn’t stop the heavy sigh that wracked his body as his feet landed on yet another rooftop that brought him closer to his apartment, yet his footsteps stopped as his thoughts caught up to him. In fact, they only grew more resilient as he slowed down. 

His tongue darted out, gathering rain water and the taste of copper off of his lips before pulling out his phone. He took a few steps until he was under a small awning, leaning tiredly against the brick wall as his hand fiddled with the burner phone. 

His words were sharp, slicing through the atmosphere of confrontation and turning it into one of stone-cold silence. 

Your chest rose and fell heavily, and it wasn’t hard to miss that his chest did the same. Taking in the way his body was closed off, you made the decision there that the conversation was over. There was nothing else to say, as there had already been plenty said. But you couldn’t stop your final words from lashing out; a last attempt to make him feel how you felt.

“Fuck you, Murdock. You and your pointless mission. You can’t help everyone, and I won’t be there when you finally realize that.”

Matt could remember just standing there, listening to your pounding heart and heavy steps as you walked out of his apartment. He remembered listening to your heart, it fading the further you walked from his building until he couldn’t hear it anymore. He remembered denying the way his own heart had thudded painfully in his chest when he couldn’t hear yours anymore.

But he also remembered the feeling of anger and frustration that had taken hold of his body that night, causing him to say words that seemed necessary in the moment, but were clearly counteractive. That same frustration had resulted in him not reaching out to you for almost two weeks, something he was surprised he was able to do.

He had had this idea that you would reach out to him when you were ready; after all, he had said those hurtful words that night while you had only spoken the truth, albeit, in a rather brutal way. Every day he had wanted to reach out to you, but he also knew that if had reached out to you only for you to turn him away, he quite literally wouldn’t know what to do with himself. 

But tonight, you had called him…and he hadn’t answered because he was too busy doing the exact thing that played a factor in your argument. And then, not only did he wait to call back, he also held back from listening to the voicemail you had undoubtedly left, signaled by the extra chime that came from his phone. Every bit of his hesitation came from his own self-sabotaging tendencies, as he was convinced that your call had just been an accident of some sort. 

But then there was a small, yet persistent voice in his mind pointing out that maybe - just maybe -  you needed his help, and the thought of not being there was enough to push his own shame and guilt aside. 

So now here he was, pressing the designated number that he knew was assigned to your name. He hadn’t noticed at first, but as the ringtone sounded, he found himself holding his breath and waiting for one of two things: your voicemail or your voice.

His eyes closed in resignation as the automated voicemail rang out. Admittedly, it made his chest constrict in guilt; but whether or not he’d be going home with more guilt would depend on the voicemail you had sent him. It only took the pressing of a button or two, and then your voice was in his ear…and almost immediately, he was pushing off of the brick wall behind him in alarm, his heart speeding up.

“Matt, it’s…it’s me- shit-”

Your words broke off and he could hear you take a deep, shuddering breath. A grunt sounded out, in your voice, but it seemed to be distanced from the phone, almost as if you had pulled the phone away. The next time you spoke, your voice was clear, but to his dismay, still shaky.

“I know you’re pissed at me, but…I need your help. I…” A noise that sounded close to a repressed cry shook him to his core as it came through the speaker. “I fucked up. It was a setup- the whole thing was a trap.”

“Tell me where you are. Come on…” Matt found himself speaking into the phone as if it were a live call, his own voice shaking in anxiety.

“I’m near 49th a-and 11th. I know I made you mad, but please, Matt I…I need help.”

He had already taken off, his legs pumping as hard and as fast as they could in the direction of the location you had given him. The echoes of your voice growing weaker and more breathy towards the end of the voicemail spurred him on as he bounded across buildings, sliding under and jumping over anything that was in his way.

He wouldn’t let himself think of the fact that the voicemail he had just listened to had been sent at least 15 minutes ago; the voicemail he had put off listening to because of his hesitancy. Matt couldn’t let himself entertain the thought that you were now in a threatening position…all because of his hesitancy. 

His lips moved soundlessly as he ran, sending prayer after prayer that he’d find you in time and that you’d be okay. His mind simultaneously worked on keeping the devil at bay as it snarled, thrashing against the very restraints that kept it at bay for a chance to go after the bastards who had hurt you. 

Though the second his feet landed on the corner of 49th and 11th, all of those thoughts quieted. Almost anyone could have surprised him from how focused he was on listening for any sign of you, but as he picked up the sounds of your soft grunts of pain, no one could have stopped him from getting to you.

You were in a wide alley, propped against the grimey, brick wall of one of the buildings that surrounded it. The scent of blood was strong enough for him to smell over the various disgusting, unknown scents that blanketed the alley, and that realization alone was almost enough to bring him to his knees. But it wasn’t what brought him to his knees; it was the sound of your quick and raspy gasps coming from the middle of the alley. 

His feet quickly took him to where your body was before he dropped to his knees, not caring about the tiny bits of rock and trash he kneeled on. Your name escaped his mouth quietly and then he was reaching for you. Despite your efforts being weak and clumsy, you still tried to push his hands away. In your disoriented mind, the hands didn’t belong to the one person you so desperately wanted to see in the moment; they belonged to the people who had put you in this position; they belonged to the people who had spilled your very life onto the dirty ground around you in a random alley. 

“Sweetheart, it’s me, it’s Matt.” 

“Matt?”

It took a few seconds, but as your brain registered Matt’s voice, your weak efforts stilled. Your hands fell limply to your lap as your eyes sought out his face in the darkened alley. 

Your voice was unrecognizable, but you didn’t have the awareness to be worried about it. Matt, however, was perfectly aware, and it threatened to break him right there.

He couldn’t let it show through his voice, but the terror wracking through his body made him shake. His hand that pressed against the steady flow of blood from your torso shook, as well as the hand that rested against the clammy skin of your cheek. If you were more aware, you’d be able to hear the tremor in his voice as he spoke.

“Yeah, I’m here, I’m gonna get you some help, okay? Just…just stay awake for me, can you do that?”

At his words, your head lolled into his palm. He couldn’t see it, but despite the haziness in your gaze, your eyes held the guilt you had been feeling since the last time you had spoken to each other. It was a struggle to do so, your breath hitching every time you tried to speak, but you pushed the words out; you needed him to hear you. 

“Matt, I’m sorry. I’m sorry about what I said, I’m sorry about tonight. I just wanted to help, that’s all I ever wanted to do.”

While you spoke, Matt worked on pulling out his burner phone and dialing 911, quickly uttering your location to the dispatcher. His fingers slipped slightly from the blood- from your blood that coated his hand; it all threatened to make him sick. 

“You don’t have to say sorry, sweetheart; it wasn’t your fault. None of this was your fault. Save your strength.”

The corner of your mouth lifted into a combination of a smile and a grimace, not having enough energy to fully make it into the former. Your vision continued to wane, but you could still see the barely concealed panic on his now completely exposed face. You hadn’t even seen him take off his mask.

“I’m not, Matt. I’m…not making it out of this.”

It hurt to say the words, both physically and emotionally; coming to terms with your own death wasn’t easy in the slightest, but Matt’s presence made it bearable. You couldn’t even feel the agonizing pain that had been wracking your body only minutes ago. 

Matt’s head shook quickly, his wet hair shaking violently along with his movements. 

“Hey, don’t say that. You’re going to be okay- you have to be okay. I just need you to take it easy. Focus on me and focus on keeping your eyes open- hey. Hey! No, no, no…”

Your lips parted to respond, but instead of words coming out, a violent cough seized your body. You could taste copper on the back of your tongue, and it almost seemed as if something heavy was pressing down on your chest, making it harder to breathe. 

Your eyes had slipped shut without you even noticing, and they only opened after Matt tilted your head towards his, desperately calling your name. When he spoke, his voice was softer; resigned; full of a sorrow that permeated the numbness of your subconscious and made tears prick at the corner of your eyes. 

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean any of it- any of what I said. You do help people- you’ve helped so many people. Please, just keep your eyes open. The ambulance is on its way.”

His words reassured you while simultaneously getting rid of the very small shred of hope you had unknowingly been holding onto that you’d make it out of this alley. There wasn’t an ounce of anger in your body directed at Matt, though. If anything, the last emotion you felt as it grew increasingly difficult to draw in your next breath was a mixture of gratefulness and a bittersweet sorrow. 

You knew that this ending was predictable, especially when it came to you two and your professions; but never did you think you’d end up in this position. Call it blissful ignorance or denial, but you never saw either of you in this moment. But now that it was here, you couldn’t find enough energy to be upset about it. 

“I’m sorry I won’t be there, Matt. Promise me… p-promise me. You’ll…keep…the city…”

He couldn’t have stopped his tears if he wanted to. Your words grew increasingly slurred, and there was a sound deep in your chest he could hear; one that would forever plague his nightmares. The sound was a haunting sign of the inevitable, as was the feeling of your body going completely limp in his arms. 

With a choked sob, he pulled your body until you rested against his chest. His mask lay discarded and forgotten behind him, even as the sound of sirens grew closer. He didn’t care.

His tears mixed with rainwater and your blood as they fell on your skin. His head rested against the top of yours as his pleas and apologies fell on ears that couldn’t hear them anymore. 

The city had taken so much away from him throughout his life, and with every loss, he was closer to going off of the deep end. Throughout the hardest moments, you had been there; the barrier that not only stopped him from doing so but also encouraged him to walk away from that deep end. But you weren’t there anymore; that barrier wasn’t there anymore. 

Throwing his head back, Matthew Murdock let out every single ounce of pain and anger he had held back throughout his years of serving this god-forsaken city…and then he stepped off of the deep end. 

I hope y’all enjoyed this! Let me know if it made you cry, made you mad, made you feel anything! 

#matt murdock #matt murdock x reader #matt murdock imagines #matt murdock drabble #matt murdock oneshot #matt murdock x gn!reader #daredevil #daredevil x reader #daredevil x gn!reader #daredevil oneshot #daredevil imagine #daredevil imagines #matt murdock angst #daredevil angst

[softguarnere]

Masterlist

Oneshots

Ron Speirs

Pull That Trigger

Ares and Athena

Learn to be Lonely

People-Watching vs People Watching

Alone, Together

Anywhere You Go (Let Me Go Too)

From Scratch

If You Strip Away the Myth From the Man

Everyone, Everywhere, Everything

Evaded By Hypnos

Joseph Liebgott

The Freudian Slip (Part One) (Part Two)

Touch Me, Love Me, Can't Get Enough

Miracle of Miracles

'Til Dawn

2am

Hardheaded At Best

Joe Toye

When You Talk To An Officer

In That Head

I'll Be Right Here Waiting/Put It Back Together

Seven

In Sickness and In Health

Bill Guarnere

Always Best to Believe in One's Self

Hoping That There's Something Coming (It's Not the Same)

You Need a Little Candor, Need a Little Candor

Might Find Love

Babe Heffron

Call A Medic (But Not For Me)

I Don't Want You to Hide Your Issues (Blow Them into Your Tissues)

Inhale, Exhale

Eugene Roe

A World Without Color is a World Without You (Part One) (Part Two)

Avec Les Étoiles Dans Les Yeux

Staring At the Ceiling With You

Where There is Injury

Shifty Powers

You Tied a Tether Here to Keep Me Close

Don't You Feel My Heart Go?

She Used to Be Mine

Wildflower

David Webster

Friends That I Barely Know

Return to Sender (Part 2)

It Will Have Been Worth It

Lewis Nixon

I Can Read You Like a Magazine

Hold Me Close While I Think This Through

Coming Clean

Carwood Lipton

White Christmas

You Matter Too (I Promise You Do)

Skip Muck

I See Forever in Your Eyes

Dick Winters

Guardian Angel

Lucky Stars

Blushing All the Way Home

Skinny Sisk

Return to Sender (Part 2)

You've Got a Side You Can't Explain

George Luz

I Can't Stop Feelin', I Want Her Love

Cold Turkey

The Rest of the World Falls Away

Floyd Talbert

Passed Me a Note Saying, "Meet Me Tonight"

Johnny Martin

The Depths of Despair

Headcanons

Pining Headcanons

Bull Randleman and Chuck Grant

Joseph Liebgott and Dick Winters

George Luz and Don Malarky

Carwood Lipton and Joe Toye

Eugene Roe

Bill Guarnere

Joe Toye

Relationship Headcanons

Dating Shifty Powers

Dating George Luz

Dating Eugene Roe

Dating Lewis Nixon

Dating Joseph Liebgott

Dating Chuck Grant

Dating Dick Winters (as an OSS agent)

First date with Skinny Sisk

Misc. Headcanons

fem!reader overworking herself for Easy

taking care of Malarky

Easy Company reacts to praise

How they react to you being in a shootout

Helping a S/O who is touch starved

Christmas with Easy Company

How they react to false news of your death

Luz falling for a lady lieutenant

Asking their crush to be their Valentine

Asking their crush to be their Valentine (part 2)

How Liebgott would ask out his crush

How Easy Co. would help a S/O with insomnia

Doc Roe dating an extrovert

Nurse!reader who has a boyfriend back home

Falling for a childhood friend (Eugene Roe and Joe Liebgott)

How they would react to reader saying they don't like smokers

How they take care of you when you're sick

Luz asking out his crush

Comforting them after a bad week

How they react to you being wounded in combat

How the officer squad reacts to your awards

First date with Winters

When they get jealous

Dick with an upbeat nurse

Double reaction - end of war

Original Character Fics

Like A Girl (Like A Man)

For Whatever We Lose

#my writing #band of brothers x reader #band of brothers headcanon #band of brothers imagine

[amournoir]

𝐩𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐞 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐲

pairings: elijah x reader

count: 2.3k 

warnings: angst & fluff?

note: completely flattered to write this request. i hope you enjoy @shawty-writes-a-little ! ♡

It had been hours since he last texted. If you could even call it that, it was less of a text and bordered closer to a demand. Either way, I listened and here I was, seated on the edge of the bed. Earlier that day we had argued but before I could push further, he left and was off to save the paranoid maniacal brother of his. No, not the younger one with psychopathic tendencies, the hybrid one. 

It was just me, Freya, and Rebekah but I didn’t want company and both girls knew better than to prod. Freya, their eldest sister, was treated more like an on-call witch than family. Rebekah was simply there to protect me even though she and I both knew I could handle myself. She only agreed so that she didn’t have to traipse through the bayou in her new boots. I don’t fully blame her. 

The room was too quiet for my liking, normally I didn’t mind it but all it did was heighten the voices in my head. The ones that awoke when I had nothing to distract me from thinking about my boyfriend lying dead somewhere. He can’t die silly. I scoffed at no one but myself because it was true. This entire family evaded death like the plague, I swear they would outlive even  the most resilient cockroaches. 

I glanced over at the clock above the burning furnace and the hand was inching closer and closer to midnight. With a loud sigh, I tossed myself back on the bed, staring at the ceiling above. After what felt like fifteen minutes, technically it had only been five, I dragged myself to the couch that was in front of the fireplace. The book I had been reading earlier was still there so I sat down, covering myself with the blanket and shifting around until I found a suitable position. 

Once settled, I picked up from where I left off. I was so engrossed in the book that my mind quickly drifted away from reality and into the imaginary world. This was what I enjoyed the most, reading undisturbed. It was my escape from the supernatural world I was dragged into yet chose to stay. I can’t say how long I had been reading but the slamming of the doors below and the thumping of footsteps on the stairs and down the hallway pulled me back. I could make out Rebekah’s and Klaus’s voices but I could not decipher what was being said. I sighed, this was nothing new because eventually they’d stop. 

I slumped back into my seat and held the book on my lap, using my thumb as a bookmark. Before I could resume my interrupted silence, the bedroom door opened slowly and in walked my boyfriend. He didn’t seem too happy and he didn’t say a word. He leaned against the wooden frame of the door and watched me. I decided not to pay him any mind so I lowered my head and returned to my book which was far more interesting than the incoming argument. 

I am stubborn and he is patient, this never bodes well. I refused to say anything first, my pride wouldn’t dare allow me to. He was patient enough to wait me out and our history of arguments would side with him. 

“Y/N.” He firmly said. 

Although it would seem that today, tonight, I won. 

“Y/N I know you hear me.” 

Silence. He was met with my silence and lack of attention. My head was still shoved in the book, I no longer was reading but that didn’t matter to him. My insolence would only enrage him. 

“I had to go. You know I had to.” 

Still nothing. Instead I shifted in my seat and properly marked my book, threw the blankets off of myself and stood. I could feel him observing my every move, waiting for me to say something. I looked at him once — pursing my lips and shrugging my shoulders — as I made my way across the room, intending on passing him. 

He seamlessly extended his hand out for my arm once I reached him and grasped it. We stood side by side, shoulder to shoulder, his hold strong on my arm but not painful. I was facing the door he came from and he faced the couch near the fireplace I previously sat. 

“Y/N. Stop this.” 

My stubbornness knew no bounds. I still refused him. 

“Stop behaving like an insolent child!” His patience wasn’t wearing thin but my lack of participation in his commentaries was. 

“Then stop treating me like one!” I retorted much louder than I had aimed to. 

“What on earth do you mean?” 

He must be kidding. “You ‘had to go’?” I quoted his words. 

“Of course. Niklaus needed my help.” He stared at me as if I was new to this. “I was protecting him.” 

“He disturbs the witches daily and the moment they decide to retaliate, he runs back to you with his tail between his legs! He is a toddler that you refuse to say no to.” 

“Enough of this.” 

“No! It is one thing to strike back at enemies that come at you unprovoked but in these past few weeks, his skirmishes are unnecessary.” 

“He is my brother, no matter his actions or choices. I stand beside him.” 

“Then you should lay beside him as well since my opinion whenever it comes to him falls on deaf ears.” 

“I won’t listen to this any longer. You are upset so I will take my leave until you have calmed.” 

I chuckled at that and shook my head slightly, sighing to myself. He let go of his hold on my arm and took a step back. With one foot, he pivoted and turned his back toward me, walking to the bathroom. I stared at him as my chest rose and fell rapidly; I was angry that he was hard-headed but even more so that he was deaf. 

“Elijah Mikaelson don’t you dare turn your back to me! I am not done!” 

This had him stopping but he didn’t turn. He stood still and waited for my next words. I had never once yelled at him, admittedly I had recently begun raising my voice at him but that was only during our arguments about his bastard brother. 

I stood my ground as my eyes bore holes into his back, “Turn around and face me. You owe me that much.” 

“I owe you?” He asked astonishingly, “Everything I do is for you, Y/N!” 

“Don’t you even— I have never once asked anything of you.” I snapped. 

“You never had to, it is my job. You are my responsibility.” 

“Stop treating me as though I am some useless damsel in a shitty tower!” 

“Why can’t you understand that I will always protect my family?!” 

That made me stop. That sentence alone turned me into a mute. My voice was soft, a stark contrast from the yelling it had been doing. “And what of me Elijah?” I asked, gazing at his backside. “What am I then?” 

“I do not know.” Was the last thing he said before silently excusing himself and walking out. 

I didn’t know what was worse, blaming him for his brother’s ridiculous brawls or questioning his affections for me. I knew he loved and cared for me, I saw it on a daily basis but whenever something like this would happen I quickly doubted it all. One day it would be between me and his siblings and there would be no choice, I would just have to say my final prayers and write up a will. I couldn’t even tell him this fear because he would convince me that it wouldn’t ever happen or if it did, he’d give me false hope that he would save me. He wouldn’t live with that choice and neither could I. 

So while he stood outside the balcony, nursing a drink in his hand and thought quietly, I opted to pack a bag for the night. We both needed space so I would do my thinking in the shower where I could cry and let my sounds be swallowed by the water. During it, I had planned to send Camille a message and ask if I could crash for the night or possibly longer. At the end of it, I was physically clean and emotionally cleansed— I had cried until the tears grew weary of me and abandoned me as well. Mentally, I still had words for him but my mind reminded me of my mini breakdown in the shower so I opted against it. I had just gotten dressed and was now seated at the edge of the bed, feet dangling off of the mattress whilst I stared down at my phone. I still hadn’t texted Cami, every time my finger hovered over the letters, I stopped myself. 

My head quickly perked up when I heard the door creak open. Elijah poked his head through and saw me, sitting in the dim lighting silent. He slowly strolled over towards me, coming to a full halt right in front. His hands were dug in his pockets and his stance screamed power but his eyes held a softness in them. He was peering at me but my eyes were glued to my phone; it was only then that he noticed the duffel next to my feet. 

“Please don’t go.” 

“I can’t stay.” 

“I apologize for what was said. I did not wish to hurt you.” 

“I know but it was true, wasn’t it?” I finally tore my eyes away and looked up at him. 

He removed one hand from his pocket and sighed, “I said it in anger.”

“No you didn’t.” I stood up and reached for his face. He moved closer and I placed my palm on his cheek. “You always think everything through.” 

He was quick to respond, “Not this.” 

“I won’t be gone long. I’ll give you your space.” I rubbed my thumb against his cheek in a soothing manner. 

He grabbed my four fingers and placed his thumb on my palm then brought my hand close to his mouth, lowering it to place a soft kiss on the inside of my wrist. “I do not wish for space, just you.” 

“We both need to rethink our places in each others’ lives. I know what you are to me and where you stand and I was sure I knew my position in your life but it looks like that has changed.” 

“It has not. I swear to you, Y/N.” 

I pulled my hand away from his slowly and looked past his shoulder. I headed towards my place on the couch, settled in front of the burning furnace and took a seat. I didn’t need to look behind me to know he was watching me so instead I patted the spot next to me. In a flash, he sat down and angled his body so that he faced me. Shaking my feet out of the slippers, I pulled them up on the couch and waited for him. Without a word, he fully sat back in the seat and opened his arms which I happily accepted. 

We sat peacefully in silence for a few moments. I was cradled on his lap with my legs outstretched on the cushions and covered with a blanket whilst he toyed with my hair, occasionally pressing a kiss on my temple. I was being choked by his cologne but there was no way I would voice that. I needed this anyways, the days I would be without him, I need to remember his scent. 

“I am sorry for tonight. I wish you would listen to me more often and come to me first but I can’t be mad at you for helping him.” I broke the silence. 

“I promise to, from here onwards.” He combed his fingers through my locks and asked, “Will you please stay with me?” 

“Only if you shower me with affection.” I smiled up at him only to find him already glancing down at me. 

“Let the showering commence.” 

In the blink of an eye, I was upright with my legs wrapped around his waist. We had made our way to the bed and under the warm blankets. My back was pressed against his front while he peppered my neck with kisses which made me twist and turn in his arms. I couldn’t help the small giggles — what a silly word — that escaped me. This only spurred him on and made him pull me closer and tighter towards him. 

“Are you showered yet?” 

I grinned up at him, “I think you have drowned me but I will accept your offer of stay.”

“How unfortunate, here I was hoping you were dry so I could give you a real one.” He smirked, his naughty fingers sneaking up the base of my shirt. 

I swatted them away playfully and shook my head, “Absolutely not Mr. Mikaelson. You will cuddle me and be an honorable gentleman.” 

“Really? Is that what you wish for my dear?” There was a smug smile playing on his lips and I’d be a liar if I said I didn’t enjoy it. 

“Yes, smother me with cuddles.” I simply said but then added with a slight smile, “For now at least, who knows what I’ll wish for later on.” 

Elijah didn’t say a word, instead he lowered his head down and kissed me. It was wanting but carefully controlled— soft and gentle. With a slight tickle of my sides, my lips parted to laugh and he took that opportunity and dove in. I knew exactly where this was heading and had no intention of stopping it. All that mattered was that by dawn, I will have solidified my place in his life. That was a promise.

taglist:

⤷ @mrs-maximoff-kenner @thatfanficstuff @elijahmikaelsontrash @firebirdsalvatore @mxacegrey @thatfictionalwh0re @catmikaelson20 @loverswillowed @duhitzdae @sweetwrathoflilith @panic-at-the-fiction @iiskittles16ii @original-siphon @hellotvshowtrash @onlyfreds @imgoingtofreakoutnow @slinthoex​ @mikaelsonsdeservedbetter @i-love-nora @multiversediaries @decoffinated-vamps @livsterriblesecret @hopester08 @aloneatpeace 

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#aurora.r fics #request #elijah mikaelson x reader #klaus mikaelson #rebekah mikaelson #freya mikaelson #elijah mikaelson #the originals #the originals fic #the mikaelsons #angst #fluff

[memes-in-a-half-shell]

Ooh! A potential freebee from one of my favorite creators on here, how could I resist! Okay, if it's something you'd be interested in (and if you don't vibe with it absolutely NO worries at all), how about any turtle of your choice, any format you want with a s/o that tends to downplay if they're ever sick or hurt because they always worry about burdening others unnecessarily.

Hi anon!!!! This feels like a Leonardo kinda situation, so imma roll with it 😎

Have a bonus Leo pic, as a lil' treat 💙

Burden (Leonardo x Reader)

Ever since you've woke up this morning, there was this tingly feeling in your throat. At first you tried to dismiss it by drinking lots of water, but the inevitable was soon brought to light as the day went by; a dreaded cold had now invaded your body.

It was no surprise in a sense. The arrival of Fall, the shift in temperature, not always knowing what kind of clothing to wear (weather forecast, more like weather forlie). The symptoms were there: a sore throat, body ache, stuffy nose, and the occasional cough. By the end of the day you felt like death, yet you didn't want that to interfere with your plans tonight. Getting to spend an evening with your terrapin lover, Leonardo, had become a rare feat these days, due to additional patrol nights and intensified training sessions. Foot clan activity over Manhattan had amplified over the last few weeks, so the turtles were needed more than ever. Whenever there was a glimpse of some downtime for them, you both had to see eachother - an undeniable law.

Your trek through the sewers seemed to take forever, your steps a little slower than usual and generally feeling heavier due to your generalized body ache. As you neared the lair's entrance however, you took a moment to readjust your stance, wanting to dismiss your general grogginess and appear somewhat normal. Stepping in, it didn't take long before you were greeted with some closeby "hellos", each turtle occupied, yet remaining polite. As you made your way towards Leo's room, you did notice how Donnie was slightly frowning in your general direction, somehow concerned. Ah shit, was your nose running again? It was probably red now from all the tissues you've gone through... Your pace quickened a little, obviously evading any questionnaire that could come from the bespectacled mutant. You reached Leo's room entrance, first resting at a column nearby and taking back your breath. Shit, was it always this hot down here? Your eyes scanned the environment, then noticing the blue banded turtle looking your way, katana in hand as he was in the process of sharpening it - but now stopped as soon as he noticed your ... entrance.

"You good?" he asked, arching a brow ridge.

You let out a quick, sharp exhale, slightly nodding as you made your way in his direction.

“Yeah, sure. Just a bit tired today.”

You sat next to him, at the edge of the bed. The small wince on your features accompanying your moves did not go unnoticed, the terrapin preferring to leave his blade aside as he then brought the back of his hand over your forehead.

“Leo, what-?”

“You’re boiling hot, love.”

You tried to dismiss his hand: “Walking to this place with my layers of clothing probably caused that.”

“Don’t try to fool me, your voice sounds raspy as well.” he brought a finger below your jaw, getting a feel of your lymph nodes. They were obviously swollen due to your sore throath.

You rolled your eyes, your stature slightly slumping in this small defeat.

“Alright, mother hen. I have a small cold. Happy?”

Leo got up, aiming for a small wooden box nearby that contained different types of tea. The concern he was now experiencing could be clearly heard in his tone:

“Why didn’t you tell me earlier? I would’ve made my way to your place instead of having you get down here.”

“It’s no big deal, Leo, I’m okay.”

“You’re sick. You’re not okay.”

“Who cares?! It’ll be gone in a couple of days. For the rare time you’re not out on patrol, I didn’t want to bother you more and have you on the move simply to see me.”

His attention snapped back to you, somehow confused.

“What the heck are you going on about? Going to your place is not an issue for me! Hell, that would even have given us more privacy. ... I could use the time away from my brothers,” he muttered next.

“You’re already occupied as it is,” you added. “If I can give you a break by me making the moves once in a while, I won’t say no to that. I don’t want to burden you...”

His gaze softened, a quiet sigh escaping him. He closed the wooden box, still keeping it with him as he sat back down by your side. His blue eyes found yours, clearly wanting to put an emphasis on his words.

“You’re not a burden.” A quick huff of a laugh left your lips, trying to turn your attention away, but he brought you back to him, gently cupping your cheek. “Look ... I get it,” he continued. “Sometimes showing weakness is hard. Sometimes asking for people to act in your stead is annoying - especially if you’re so used to doing everything by yourself. ... But others’ happiness and well-being does not have to rely on you solely, believe me.”

Your brows furrowed a little, his words making sense in this present hazy brain of yours. You brought a hand to his, your thumb slowly stroking his scales.

“I have days I feel like complete shit,” he continued. “Either my body hurts from training, or my mood is just not at the right place and I feel like I don’t deserve to be a leader. ... I keep on going and I keep it to myself, when I should be more open about that. I get it,” he reiterated.

He showed a soft smile next: “We’re two stubborn bitches that won’t ask for help when we need it most.”

That brought you to laugh, that sentence catching you off-guard. Pleased with your reaction, the mutant moved to leave a kiss to your forehead, tenderly nuzzling your hair afterward.

“Promise me next time you don’t feel good you’ll let me know?” Leo asked.

“Only if you tell me when you’re not doing so good yourself in return.”

“I’ll gladly accept those terms.”

Straightening his sitting position, he then reopened the wooden box he kept close, showing the many tea bags inside.

“Pick your poison,” he said jokingly. Then adding with a wink: “Although green tea’s where the real magic at.”

“Whatever you say, doctor,” you added with a playful smile in return.

#anon #ask #maaann I really need to write more about Leo 💙 #he's my second favorite :( he needs more love #oneshot #sorry for any mistakes teeheeee

[futzingbarton]

Even as the Hour Grows Bleaker

“Well, I just…” she stops, sighs, starts again. “Thank you,” she says instead. She is so free and constant with her gratitude, Halsin notes, like someone who once used to fill those spaces with something else—apologies, perhaps, or self-doubt.

She clears her throat. “Now then. I came out here to play some music.” She speaks quickly, hastening her retreat from the topic. “Might I tempt you with a song?”

Halsin cannot keep himself from smiling broadly. “You can tempt me however you like,” he says, and delights in the particular shade of purple that spreads from her cheeks to the tips of her ears.

--

During a restless night at the Lost Light Inn, Halsin finds himself drawn to an unexpected siren song.

Me? Writing BG3 fanfic? It's more likely than you think.

Exhaustion hangs heavy in Halsin’s bones. He is tired down to his marrow, tired in a way that makes him miss the comforts of a ray of sunlight upon his skin, a warm breeze through his hair. There is none of that here, in this wretched land of darkness and shadow and loss. Nothing else has room to dwell here—not even hope. 

Rest eludes him tonight. It evades him like a particularly stubborn mouse hidden beneath a field of grass: visible enough to feel as though it is within reach, just to dart out of his grasp again and again. Were he a hawk, he would be frustrated with such a quarry. As it stands, as an elf, while he may not require a night’s sleep, any opportunity to clear his thoughts and find some peace would be better than this—an endless state of guilt and worry and frustration. 

He sighs and sits up from his bedroll, tying his hair up with a piece of cordage. He is grateful he had the forethought to gather a decent supply of bark and fiber from the Grove. Most of the plants here are too decayed and dried to be helpful for anything besides kindling. He emerges from his tent quietly, careful not to disturb the rest of his companions, who are all lost to their respective meditations and slumbers. Perhaps he might find reprieve in wild shape, he thinks, and shifts into a panther. The shadowed lands around him call for an equally shadowed coat. 

Satisfied, he stalks silently through the camp. Even so, the tomb guardian meets his eye and nods, though no one else rouses enough to notice him. Despite his preference to be as a bear, he does enjoy his time as a panther. The shadows welcome him, and silence guides him forward.   

They are set up around the Last Light Inn, right at the edge of the lake. Neth had insisted on being close enough to be within the light of Selune’s blessing, but didn’t want to take away any beds from those at the inn who might require them. She didn’t expressly forbid any of her companions from resting at the inn instead of in camp, though to some surprise, no one took her up on her offer of hospitality. All were content to stay around their warm central fire, even Astarion; he complained, of course, and bemoaned the lack of a proper bed, but when the time came, he took to his bedroll happily, mumbling something about safety in numbers and the devils you know. 

After the attack on the inn, Halsin supposes he cannot blame the group for wanting to stay among themselves. Jaheira is competent and formidable in her own right, as are her Harpers and the attending Flaming Fists, but no soldier can predict the cave-in of a roof, and solutions to sudden death are hard to come by. Better to sleep under the open sky, and perhaps see any sign of an enemy. 

He shakes his head to clear his thoughts. In this form, he can hear the guards on patrol around the inn, whispering worries between themselves as they clank around in their chain armor. The lake laps at its shores, the wind whistles forlornly through the lifeless reeds, and the few leaves remaining upon the trees clatter against each other like dried bones. It all serves as a reminder of his failure for the past century…and as a catalyst to drive him forward in helping Neth. They will remove Ketheric Thorm from this land, the last thorn in Thaniel’s side. They must . 

He spots a cozy looking spot upon some boxes near the docks. That will do nicely, he thinks, and curls up to watch the rippling water. Surely that would be enough to lull him into a trance. 

A miserable half-hour later, it becomes quite clear that there will be no quieting his mind. He lets out a low growl, frustrated with the disquiet of his thoughts, of his heart. It seems the stresses of the day—or rather, the past few weeks—refuse to leave him be. Though he has never balked at action before, it could be that the battle looming before them is simply too large, with too much at stake. Or maybe his heart just needs time to recover from the centuries of guilt and worry he had held for Thaniel. 

He jumps down from his perch upon the crates, stretching his paws far out in front of him, then arching his back. If rest will not find him now, then he will join the guards in their rota until there is no choice but to succumb to his fatigue. He takes a step towards the inn, and in that moment, his ears flick back at the sound of something foreign. Something…musical? 

He sits, and swivels his ears to listen. There is only mumbling coming from the inn, and the sounds of the lake, but then—there it is again. A soft twang, then another. The tuning of a lute. 

Curious, he turns to go investigate the sound. The lute-player is making an effort to be quiet, but the stillness of the lake and the surrounding forest amplify the lonely echoes, and his panther ears have no difficulty in locating the origin of the sound. The rocky outcropping where Neth had defended him while he went into the Shadowfell to retrieve Thaniel serves as a stage, and there, her legs hanging off the side of the rock, her hair cascading around her shoulders, sits Neth herself. 

Halsin takes a moment to regard her, veiled in the dim moonlight and the rising fog of the lake. She looks beautiful always, but she shines resplendent in her element: surrounded by clouds and storms and the breath of the wilds. Here, the fog envelops her like a blanket, and he envies it for being close enough to caress her gentle, cornflower-blue skin, to draw forth goosebumps along her arms, to curl around her horns, to bring a flush to her cheeks. He cannot help but to watch, enraptured, as she brushes her hair to one side, exposing a shoulder that has escaped the confines of her flowing linen shirt. 

He intends to exhale, to compose himself, to draw his mind back to the matter at hand and remind himself that, in due time, with the death of Ketheric Thorm and the healing of the land, he might allow himself to focus on matters outside of the Shadow Curse. On matters of the heart. 

But he is as a panther, and his harmless exhale instead emerges as a long, low growl. 

Nethralia stiffens, hands frozen on the knobs and strings of her lute. Slowly, she turns to peer over her shoulder. Her fiery eyes meet his golden ones, and in them, he can see her fear. She is unarmed, alone, vulnerable . In this moment, she believes she is his prey. 

The very thought makes him sick. Panicked, he shakes his head, surely looking comical in his current shape. 

Neth doesn’t move, just watches him with wide, scared eyes, so he considers how else he might convince her. It would almost be worse to just change back in this moment, lest she think he was stalking her on purpose , so he does the one thing he can think of as a sure communication that he is not a threat. 

He drops to the ground and rolls over, brandishing his belly to the sky. He rolls side to side, his tail swishing in the dirt of the road as he waits for her reaction. 

He watches her, upside down, as her brow creases in thought, until, finally—

“...Halsin?” 

He springs back up, shakes the dust off of his coat, and pads over to her. When he is close enough that, should she wish it, she might reach out and touch him, he stops. He tilts his head to gesture at the lute in her hands, then looks back up at her. 

She holds his gaze, and in her fiery eyes there is a rueful intensity. Pale gray and blue flames flicker in her irises as she takes him in fully, and he wants to think she is as appreciative of a panther’s lithe and powerful form as he is. She takes her time, as though she is counting every whisker to be able to distinguish him in the future.

Then, she lets out a deep breath and smiles , and his heart soars. Acceptance. Such a simple thing, truly, to see someone for who they are and take them in stride without any added judgment—yet he has seen it given out so rarely that he had almost forgotten the thrill of it. Unlike others he has met in his travels, Nethralia has no trouble with accepting people as they are. In fact, she rises above mere acceptance and stands wholly in the realm of embracing all of those she comes across. 

Neth shifts over on the rock and pats the space next to her, inviting him to sit. There is not much he would change about his panther form, though in this moment, he wishes he could purr rather than growl. He steps in a circle and curls up beside her, joining her in looking out over the lake. 

“I am sorry if I disturbed you,” she says softly, returning to her lute. She has finished her tuning and is idly strumming chords, practicing switching from one to another. 

He snorts. As if she could disturb him. 

She glances down at his reaction. “Hush,” she chides. “You know what I meant. I would feel terrible if my sleeplessness was the cause of someone else’s.” 

Another sniff, and then he shifts so as to lay his head upon his paws. He closes his eyes, happy to share the moment with her and her lute. 

He hears her laugh quietly. “Alright, then. Just…let me know if you would prefer I not play, I suppose.” 

Why she would expect anyone not to hear her play is beyond reckoning; her mastery over her lute makes a mockery of Volo, and leaves other bards with much to be desired…though he knows some part of his opinion is bias rooted in his adoration of her deft, skilled hands. 

She begins to pluck a melody , something slow and sad and sweet. The notes echo over the lake, accompanied by the lapping of waves and the occasional gust of wind rustling through nearby reeds. Two patrolling Harpers pass by as she starts to play, the clanking of their armor stilling as they stop to listen. The tune is almost mournful, nostalgic , a memory woven in a melody, a prayer longing for simpler times. To his surprise, Halsin begins to feel stifled in his wild shape, and longs to show his appreciation for Neth’s art in a way besides being a captive listener. 

The song is woefully short. With the last notes resounding across the water, their echoes fading away in the fog, the Harpers resume their patrol—and Halsin takes his cue to stand. Neth glances over at him, brow raised. 

She smirks. “Had enough already? And here I thought I’d tuned well.” 

He shakes himself and stretches. Stepping back from the edge of the rock, he wills himself to shift back, the golden threads of his magic guiding him back into his elven form. He rolls his shoulders to reacquaint himself before sitting back down beside Neth, who has been watching him attentively throughout his change. 

“You misunderstand,” he says. “I wanted to be in a shape capable of expressing that I thought your playing was beautiful.” 

“Oh.” She says, a hint of surprise in her voice. “Well, then. Thank you. I appreciate you listening.” 

“Of course. It is an honor to be your audience.” 

Neth tries to suppress a bashful giggle behind a purposeful clearing of her throat. “Well…thank you,” she says again, resuming her idle strumming. 

Halsin hums but says no more, granting her the opportunity with which to compose herself, and, perhaps, her next melody. He is more than happy to enjoy the moment without any conversation, even though he longs to learn more about her. Patience is necessary in nature, when waiting for flowers to bloom or eggs to hatch; so, too, must he be, when pursuing this delicate thread of something that tugs at his heart. 

It is Neth who speaks up first, after a short while. “I haven’t had the easiest time sleeping recently. Playing helps to calm me down, even if just for a few short hours. I was delighted to find the Inn had an extra lute lying around.” 

Halsin nods, still looking out at the water. “You play well. When did you start?” 

“As a child. My mother was a bard, and before we moved to Baldur’s Gate, music was my main source of entertainment. I just watched and listened to her play, at first, and then one day my father came home with an assortment of instruments for me to try my hand at, and the rest is history.” She plucks another song as she speaks, only occasionally glancing down at her hands to see them placed correctly. 

“Was?” asks Halsin, noting the past tense. 

She hesitates, leaving a chord hanging unfinished in the space between them. She takes a deep breath as though steeling herself, then carries on playing. 

“Yes,” she says, sounding small. “She died when I was still young.”

“You have my sympathies,” Halsin says. He sees her face fall, that fire in her eyes dim just a little, and he wishes he could hold her. He settles for placing a hand on her shoulder, pleased to find her leaning into his touch. 

“Thank you. It was a long time ago, but I still miss her. I miss…home.” 

This close to her, he finds he is insatiable; not just for her touch or affection, but to know her, to know of her, to be as welcomed into her past as he is in her present. He decides to take a chance. 

“And where, or perhaps, what , is home, for you?” 

Neth hums, a small smile lifting the corner of her lips. “Here.” She answers far quicker than he had expected, and his heart stutters. “I mean, obviously not here ,” she corrects, stumbling to clarify herself, “among all this death and shadow. Just…on the road, with people I care about. I haven’t been settled in a long while, though I do miss some aspects of Baldur’s Gate. Before that, as a child…”

She sighs and sets the lute aside, turning so that she can sit to face him. Crossing her legs, she leans onto her elbows and begins to draw nonsense patterns with her finger on the sand and dirt that lays upon the stone. 

“My father was—well, is, I suppose—a ranger. He was your standard lone wolf adventurer without a care in the world until he met my mum. Caught her eye when she was performing in a tavern one day and said he knew, right then, that he’d want to be with her forever. Classic fairytale romance. He didn’t want to live in the city, though, especially not after he stuck around there for a long while when he was courting her. So he built a little cabin out in the woods, maybe three or four days' travel from any city, and that’s where I was born.

“Life was sweet. Simple. Mum played music, dad taught me about nature, I adventured and explored from sunrise to sunset. Sometimes dad would go off on long adventures and come back with books and music and stories that would tide me over during the next spate of time he was gone. Really, the halcyon stuff out of storybooks.”

Halsin can’t look away from her as she tells her tale. Neth is not what he would necessarily call secretive , but she hides her sorrows well, under layers of gratitude and genuine joy. Were one not looking for it, they would not find it, like a tree whose bark and leaves do not betray a trunk hollowed out by insects and rot, leaving it barely standing.

Neth sighs and looks out at the water. “Well. Neither mum nor dad really knew about any latent magical stuff in their bloodline. When I started playing around with magic out of nowhere, they did what research they could and tried to teach me the best they knew. But I was a young sorcerer, and I knew little of caution.” 

She stops to rub at her eyes with the back of her hand.

“Nethralia, if—” he starts, to let her know she has nothing to prove to him. He has had the luxury of centuries with which to accept his mistakes and regrets. She has had nothing of the sort. 

“It’s okay, Halsin,” she interrupts. “It’s…I would like you to know. If you would still like to hear.” 

He shifts to sit cross legged as well, and reaches out to take one of her small hands in his. “Of course I would.” 

She gives his hand a squeeze. “Thank you.” She cranes her neck to look up at the moon, the pale blue streaks among her mouse-brown hair shining almost white in its light. 

“No one got hurt. Well, no one besides me.” She gestures to the scar across her left cheek. “Mum was playing music outside in the sunlight. Dad was out hunting. I tripped over a stack of books trying to get help, and knocked myself on the head before I reached the door. The cabin went up in flames quickly, what with all the books and herbs and sheet music. Mum got me out of there just in time, and dad rushed back when he saw the smoke. All we had left after that were the clothes on our backs, mum’s lute, and dad’s bow. I was ten. 

“I remember the walk to Baldur’s Gate being long and quiet. After lots of saving, mum got me my own lute so I could earn myself some coins by playing on the streets. Dad was out hunting and taking what work he could, so I never saw him much. Mum played what taverns and shows she could, too. I had a few magic tutors here and there to make sure we could avoid a repeat, and I practiced magic whenever I wasn’t practicing music. 

“That worked out for a while. Eventually we got a small place in the Lower City. Things seemed to be turning around. But then mum died—got caught in a mugging or a fight on her way home late from the tavern. Dad found her the next day. He lasted a few weeks, but one day I got home and he just was…gone. So were his things. Just a note saying he was sorry and enough gold for one more month of rent. I was fifteen.”

She rubs at her eyes with her free hand and sniffs. “Last I heard, he was back in the city. Remarried .” She all but spits out the word. “Haven’t spoken to him since then, though, so I can’t know for sure.” She looks back down at the water, looks everywhere but at him. 

Halsin frowns. Surely she cannot think he will judge her poorly for actions in her past, actions that she could not control. Sorrow has made a home with her, hanging heavy on her shoulders like a wet cloak, dousing that fire in her eyes and spirit. It pains him to see her saddened at her memories; it hurts even more to think she may see herself still culpable. For all this, he knows there is little he can do or say to ease her pain. This is her burden to carry, and it is her choice to decide if someone might help lighten her load. 

He reaches up to wipe a stray tear from her cheek, and uses the moment to turn her to face him again. 

“I am sorry,” he says, for that is sometimes all one can say. “Thank you for speaking to me of it. Perhaps if there are any places that hold fond memories for you within the city, you might show me them?”

Neth smiles sadly. “I certainly do know of a few places, though I can only hope they are still as I left them.” She chuckles under her breath, adding, “Truthfully, I do not think you will enjoy Baldur’s Gate all that much. It’s rather antithesis to your whole…everything. A city exemplifying the ambivalent and uncaring nature of our supposedly civilized world.” 

He shrugs. “This may be true. Regardless, I am eager to see the city for what it is, and come to my own conclusions.” 

Neth claps her hands over her mouth and swears. “Oh, no, I didn’t mean—I’m sorry, I didn’t want to suggest that you should just take my word for it!” She reaches out and takes both his hands in hers. “Of course I will show you around. I simply don’t want you to think I expect you to care for it in the same way I do.” 

Her hands feel so small in his own, so cold. It is a wonder she can play the lute as well as she can in this state. Thankfully, Neth has always been rather open and accepting of physical touch, so he starts to rub slow circles along her palms and fingers in an effort to warm her up. He smiles, his heart feeling full and purposeful, even with this simple action. “I have learned by now that you are very good in not holding those in your company up to unrealistic expectations, Nethralia. You often remind me of the patient warmth of spring, content to let winter run its course. Even with those whose icy demeanors may take more time to melt.”

Neth raises an eyebrow. “Oh?”

Halsin clears his throat, considering how best to broach the topic. It is something he has been curious about, as a newer addition to her entourage, and observation from the side can only provide so much insight regarding her relationships with others. “At least from where I stand, you seem more than willing to allow those around you to take the time they need to realize themselves. I sometimes find myself envious of your propensity for accepting people as they are.” He leans over slightly, so as to better meet her eye. “The gentle sunlight of your company makes it easy to follow wherever you lead, and easier still to address those parts of us that endeavor to be worthy of you. Take Astarion, for example.” 

She chews on her lower lip. ��I don’t…what about Astarion?” She glances away, cheeks darkening. 

“Even a blind mole could see the impact you have had upon him, Nethralia,” he says with a chuckle. “Could see the way he follows you with his gaze, stands taller when you are near. You say that Baldur’s Gate is full of uncaring people, part of an uncaring society. Are you not part of that society? Are you not Baldurian? Then you are yourself the very instrument by which things care, and you inspire others to follow in your stead.” He gives her hands one last squeeze before he lets go. “Baldur’s Gate must have its silver linings, if it gave us all you .”

He draws his hands back, giving her some space. A distinct blush has settled comfortably among the freckles on her cheeks, but to her credit, she has not looked away. Her gray-fire eyes meet his with conviction, and the smallest hint of a smile dances upon her lips. She works her mouth for a moment, searching for her reply.

“Well, I just…” she stops, sighs, starts again. “Thank you,” she says instead. She is so free and constant with her gratitude, Halsin notes, like someone who once used to fill those spaces with something else—apologies, perhaps, or self-doubt.

She clears her throat. “Now then. I came out here to play some music.” She speaks quickly, hastening her retreat from the topic. “Might I tempt you with a song?” 

Halsin cannot keep himself from smiling broadly. “You can tempt me however you like,” he says, and delights in the particular shade of purple that spreads from her cheeks to the tips of her ears. 

“Alright,” she squeaks. “Most of the ones I know are rather upbeat and boisterous, but I have one particular one for a night such as this.” She retrieves her lute from her side and repositions herself, one leg crossed over her thigh, the other hanging off the edge of the rock again. She plucks a few strings to find her range, and hums a few lines. 

Already, Halsin is transfixed; he slides forward, nearer to her, to sit shoulder-to-shoulder. She is the picture of calm focus, and an easy comfort settles around her, commingling with the swirling fog. She keeps her eyes closed, takes a deep breath, and begins to sing . 

“Enter the wild with care, my love, 

And speak the things you see. 

Let new names take and root and thrive and grow. 

And even as you travel far from heather, crag and river…

May you like the little fisher, set the stream alight with glitter, 

May you enter now as otter, without falter into water.”

Halsin’s breath catches in his throat. Her voice is a velveteen balm, hushed and warm and soothing. She plucks at the doubled strings of her lute with delicate precision, the notes lingering in the air like they are loath to part from her. And those words, those reverent words—they capture the spirit of nature as though they were spoken by Silvanus himself. Nethralia takes a deep breath and looks up, eyes shining as she is haloed in the silvered moonlight, and continues singing. Halsin would sooner be cast into the Shadowfell again than look away. 

“ Look to the sky with care, my love,

And speak the things you see.

Let new names take and root and thrive and grow.

And even as you journey on, past dying stars exploding,

Like the gilded one in flight, leave your little gifts of light.

And in the dead of night my darling…” 

She trails off and glances over at Halsin, lips turned up in a tender smile, and he can only respond in kind before she looks back over the lake. 

“...find the gleaming eye of starling.

Like the little aviator, sing your heart to all dark matter.”

The lull between verses is filled by the tapping of her heel against the rock, keeping time with her strumming. A breeze stirs the surface of the water, emboldening the lapping waves below, as if she is singing magic into the very lake itself, encouraging it to sing with her. The lute sound is mellow and warm, but he realizes just how much he misses her voice, light and lilting. He is here, and he is seeing her in this moment, rooted in the reality of the moonlight and the waves and the fog, but his heart is alight with the sparks of daydreams: walking hand in hand with her through vale and forest, her voice joining with the dawn choir of birdsong, the hem of her robe catching dewdrops and spiderwebs. He is powerless to stop himself, and knows the moment will pass too soon, so why shouldn’t his heart soar with wild abandon, here in this sacred sliver of time? There is no looming threat of Moonrise, no beckoning mausoleum, no Absolute. Just Halsin, awed and dumbstruck, and Nethralia, serenity incarnate. 

“Walk through the world with care, my love,

And sing the things you see.

Let new names take and root and thrive and grow.

And even as you stumble through machair sands eroding,

Let the fern unfurl your grieving, let the heron still your breathing,

Let the selkie swim you deeper, oh my little silver-seeker,

Even as the hour grows bleaker, be the singer and the speaker.”

The tune slows. The tapping of her foot ceases, the water calms. Neth meets his eye again, her own blazing moon-bright and ethereal.

“And in city and in forest, let the larks become your chorus,” she sings. “ And when every hope is gone, let the raven call you home.”

Like a curtain closing over a stage, a new wave of fog rolls in and over them both, diffusing the moonlight and draping them in shadow. It swallows up the last of the echoes from her song, and only when she lets out a deep sigh and puts her lute to the side does he dare speak and break the moment. 

“That was magical,” he says, for he has no other words. Well, he does, but they are lost among the rise of feelings in his heart, and he is desperate to practice restraint. If they could go back to that moment, the one that held no promise of war, perhaps he could speak everything he wishes to say, and act in all the ways he wishes he could act. Perhaps he could show her all she does to him, and perhaps she might admit she feels the same. 

But this is not that moment, and he breathes his attachment to it out slowly, along with all of his idle dreams and hopes for her. Here, now , is something different, and he doesn’t want to miss a second. 

“Thank you,” Neth replies shyly, picking at a loose thread on her sleeve. She shifts side to side, and Halsin wonders if she is going to stand up and take her leave, but then—she leans into him, and lays her head against his arm. 

“My mother taught it to me,” she elaborates. “It was one of a few lullabies she sang to me every night when I was growing up. It isn’t something I can perform often, so I…I appreciate you listening.” 

“Of course,” he responds instantly. “I was—am—honored that you shared such an important piece of your history with me. I will treasure it always.”

He feels her shake with silent laughter against his arm. “You’re very…uninhibited, you know?” she says. Her tone is light, almost humorous, but he senses a hesitation in her words. 

He lets out a low chuckle. “I am. I have not found much point in being anything but honest and open. …Why? Would you prefer I not be?” 

The space before she replies seems to stretch for hours, and he hopes his heart isn’t pounding loudly enough for her to hear while she considers. Of course he would be happy to occupy whatever space she can offer in her heart, and certainly this isn’t something they can even move further in discussing, or acting upon, with the state of things as they are, but maybe, maybe …after Ketheric is vanquished, and the shadow-curse continues to recede, there may be a moment where this silver seed of hope that has found root within his heart might bloom into something bigger, something promised, something free and wild and shared.

“No,” she decides, and he lets out a breath in relief. In joy . She leans in closer, allowing him to wrap an arm over her shoulders. She fits perfectly against him, even with her horns. “I prefer you just as you are.” 

He laughs. How could he have ever considered otherwise? Whatever weight had held him down before, had run through his mind and kept him from rest—it feels lifted, carried away on wings of song. He is lighter, at peace, and as he feels Neth drift away to sleep, her breathing growing slow and steady, he knows that after he carries her back to camp and sets her down upon her bedroll, he, too, will find solace and rest tonight. 

#halsin #halsin/tav #astarion/tav #if you squint. it'll be there More since the actual ship is astarion/tav/halsin but yknow. one fic at a time #tav in this case is my tiefling named nethralia whom i love and adore #baldur's gate 3 #bg3 fic #nika writes things