#*healed enough. clearly not fully recovered if i’m still reading

[paeonie-s]

caught up w the bnha manga

#bnha #.txt #i could’ve found a more irrelevant ch to mention but im finally healed i don’t remember the names of ppl who aren’t like atleast semi impo #to the plot 👍 anyways he should be studying he has 8 am chem lab tmmrw ‼️‼️ idc if the country is collapsing this is not an excused absense #*healed enough. clearly not fully recovered if i’m still reading

[randomfoggytiger]

The Mulder Family In-Depth (Part IX): Tena Mulder's Suicide and Saving Mulder from Himself

The last of the Mulder Family analyses is here!

Without further ado, here we go~.

Sein und Zeit

While Mulder is investigating a child disappearance that parallels his sister's too closely, his phone rings. He springs up to answer it, vibrating with energy and ready to tackle the next lead. However, he's pulled up short when Tena answers with a soft "Fox? It's me" to his "Mulder" greeting. 

His voice immediately softens (“Mom? Hi.”)

Tena immediately launches into the purpose of her call, telling him: “I’m watching the news. That little girl in California-- you’re out there, aren’t you?” Despite the distance in their relationship, she knows her son and his mad pursuit for answers, correctly deducing Mulder would be compelled to solve this case out of a sense of empathy, absolution, or both.  

He can’t deny it; though he reflexively shrinks from wanting to discuss a case so close to their pressure points. 

“Yes”, he admits, a mix between trepidation, hesitation, and a little shame. “I am.” 

Either as a deflection or as a gentle probe into her welfare, Mulder asks “Are you okay, Mom?” 

Tena demurs: “When are you coming back here?”

Mulder snaps upright, possibly a little shocked she would care to know anything about his routines.  

“Well, I’m not sure, I, y’know, I-I…I dunno.” 

“Call when you get back, Fox.” 

Tena is tense-- knitted brows and troubled eyes-- but doesn’t betray it in her voice as she bids her son goodbye.  

Mulder promises-- “Okay, I will. Um, you take care, Mom--” and hangs up as fast as he can, gritting his jaw slightly. 

It’s obvious that, while he loves his mother, the blind trust he had given her regarding his emotions has not recovered. Since Demons's separation and Amor Fati's mild reconnection, the fracture has not fully healed, or even really started to. Mulder knows that his mom loves him; but even when he was comatose, Tena never dropped her pride enough to verbally tell her son that she loved him (she didn't know he could read minds so her confession was only incidental; and while it was nice to know she loved him, Mulder probably felt more hurt that she wouldn’t say it before she signed him over to the man that cut his brain open.) And after Amor Fati it seems the gap has still not been bridged.

While this is sad, it's a huge step for Mulder. He is not letting himself be taken advantage of or duped anymore: there are firm boundaries in place, including when he schedules his life around his mom. Before he would have dropped everything in the midst of an intense and interesting case and flown immediately to her side; now, he has placed her importance firmly where she has placed his in her life. Mulder may have forgiven Tena in the wake of his enlightening experiences while trapped in his own mind, but he has not forgotten.

Tena hears his sharp disconnect, 

and hangs up the phone, caught up in her own thoughts as well. 

It’s revealed she has been gazing at a photo of her children--

the very same photo CSM had in Redux II-- 

and contemplating something that her son is not aware of (yet.) 

She is also clearly wearing a wedding ring on her left ring finger, 

meaning one of many options (or all of them):

1. She kept Bill Mulder’s ring and wore it anyway post divorce. This would be odd because she didn’t wear it previously. 

2. She put her wedding ring back on to create a comfort zone of nostalgia: Mrs. Mulder again, with her doting son by her side-- an ode to a happier, more familial time. It would bring a little cheer to the present so that she and her son would have an easier time making peace with her approaching death.

3. She, like the Mulder men, like to wear random wedding rings without being married to anyone. It’s a pattern (seen in the episode Travelers-- post here-- where Bill Mulder and Fox Mulder wear bands without documents or timelines to legally bind them to a wife.)

4. She got married? And her husband was just some guy in the background who was literally shoved out of any room Mulder (and the camera) walked into. Maybe there’s a random guy named Joe who spent an afternoon being shoved around by the investigative team and ignored by everyone else.

While Tena stares at her children, she swallows before stretching her neck: steeling herself against unwanted emotion. 

The next we see of Tena she is looking at her emptied photograph frames while leaving a message on Mulder's answering machine: 

“Fox, it’s your mother. I’d hoped you’d call upon your return, but I haven’t heard from you. I’m sure you’re busy. There are… so many emotions in me I wouldn’t know where to start. So much I’ve left unsaid for reasons I hope one day you’ll understand.” 

As her words play overhead, Tena takes the infamous photo of her children, 

plucks it from its frame, 

and proceeds to burn it. 

As she gazes at the disappearing photo, Tena sighs, tries the straighten-your-back-to-contain-your-emotions trick; but she loses some ground to the fight (crunching her shoulders up, lowering her head, and pinching her face a bit more.)

Mulder is informed sometime soon after that his mother is dead.  

Tena Mulder, even in her last moments, was a selfish woman. While Bill Mulder was cowardly and quailed under the iron fist of the Consortium, buddying up with ex-Nazis and sitting on the sidelines while his colleagues hushed up and obliterated the lives of innocent people to keep themselves from being exposed, Tena railed, raged, and finally stewed. If she couldn’t have it the way she wanted-- a happy family life, no abductions, no affairs to taint her moral code-- then she wouldn’t remember any of it. This led her to systematically cut everyone from her life that served as a reminder to everything she wished to forget: her CSM lover (before her daughter was even abducted, post here), her ex-husband (laying all blame at his feet and none at her own, post here), her son (post here.) It’s not simply a matter of burning her children’s photos-- although that’s bad enough. In destroying her past, she destroyed her son’s as well; and with it destroyed any tie Mulder had to his earlier happy childhood, something he always remembered fondly and wanted to recapture through his quest to recover his sister. While Tena viewed her actions as taking control of what she was robbed of by burning up all the lies she lived in the process, she threw in the good with the bad; and cast her baggage onto Mulder, leaving him with wounds grown deeper and deeper and robbing him of the last proof of his former life, family, and sister he treasured.  

Mulder and Scully drive up to Tena’s place, navigating their way through the team of investigators. As he numbly walks around the kitchen, Mulder curls in on himself; and when that doesn’t provide enough comfort, he sticks his hand into his mouth like a small, confused child trying to self-soothe. 

His mother held a huge place in Mulder’s life, as evidenced by his raw anguish and vulnerability. All those years, their bond was wound tight by their mutual trauma-- but Mulder spent his childhood wrapping his mother in a metaphorical trauma blanket while punishing himself for her pain and for his sister’s abduction. He never had a chance to be taken care of or given support to process his own trauma; and, in his own words, he’s “still walking into that room” every day of his life. 

Mulder wilts even more as he’s handed Tena’s suicide pills and explained she used them in conjunction with the gas stove: 

Tena left no final note. 

Mulder doesn’t see the sense or logic in any of her actions; and wanders around her bedroom, lost, looking for something but not knowing what. Finally, he sits before he falls to pieces, trying to center himself and think more clearly.

As Mulder relates Tena's phone call to Scully, a new theory pops into his head-- the White Whale, the elusive and uncatchable beam of light he can forever chase to keep the ugly realities of his life at bay-- that she had been subdued and killed. 

He rushes into this theory with renewed vigor. When emotions start to bubble to the surface again, almost drowning out his words, he uses his hands to demonstrate to Scully what to look for in his mother’s autopsy--

becoming insistent when Scully begs him not to ask her to perform it. His voice is deceptively upbeat, cheerful, a late-stage effect of teaching himself not to upset his mother (or anyone else) with his emotions in times of crisis. Internally, he’s bleeding; externally, he’s ignoring the wound and pursuing the chase. There’s an addictive quality to his hunt for answers: a simultaneous distraction from his needs and a focus for him to stave off discouraged apathy with life’s continual beat downs. He has yet to develop an effective coping strategy (though he has improved a lot since One Breath) since he is so used to running around, half-bandaged, shouting oaths at the world for justice (or vengeance.) As long as there is something to fight for (as his subconscious demonstrated when Amor Fati dream Scully ordered him to “Get up and fight”), Mulder will keep going. Unfortunately, this goal has driven many a more stable and healthily functioning person straight into single-minded madness.

Tena knew these things about her son and still did what she did. 

The worst thing about Tena’s uncommunicated suicide is that it pushed Mulder further into unhealthy coping mechanisms: he immediately discounts the evidence,

believing it has been planted and that his mother was murdered. Mulder then jumps to conspiracies, insisting Scully prove him right by autopsying his mother.

Tena's final act put her son in a very, very precarious position: either he pursues her murderers to his grave (an expanded clause on his Samantha Recovery Pact), or fold in on himself in blame, crushed forever. Her death is an unexpected, piercing grief that only serves (despite whatever her intentions were) to strengthen Mulder's one-sided purpose. Not only that, but with the case he was working on and the guilt of his mother’s death (and tangentially Samantha’s abduction) combined, Mulder would have been eaten alive with his belief that Tena's death was preventable and entirely his fault: he had driven up for his dad the night he died-- why hadn't he at least called his mom back? Especially when she had finally, finally, reached out to reconnect with him? Mulder would have concluded that his mother had died thinking that he didn't love or care about her, the ultimate stake in his heart. Always his fault. Always too late. Always a failure that loses his family and gets them killed.

The last we ever hear from Tena Mulder is her phone message Mulder replays over and over. His hyper-focus on trying to decode her words, find a secret somewhere between her sentences, is a failure; and before he can further lose himself in this untruth, his partner saves him. If Scully had not been someone Mulder trusted above all else, he likely would have discredited her autopsy and driven himself crazy. It’s Scully who gives him a modicum of peace about his mother’s death: having suffered a painful, deadly illness herself, she understands the muddied logic of the dying; and she uses Mulder’s trust in her to convince him that his mother did commit suicide because she simply wanted the pain (all of it) to end. While that may or may not be true, Scully believed it for him, so Mulder believed in her. 

With no one to blame and no other explanation out of this nightmarish reality, Mulder collapses in grief. It's here we see how devastated, helpless, and toothless Mulder is without his pursuit. Scully saves Mulder from a fate worse than Tena's death, helping him to finally address his injury and start to heal it (and others that it was bleeding over into.) Without her, Mulder would not have been ready to accept Samantha's final gift of peace in Closure.

It’s interesting to reflect on Tena and her husband’s variations on neglect. Bill Mulder created a lot of early damage in his son by erecting immovable barriers between himself and young Mulder. While it was motivated from deep fear of his inabilities and cowardice from confronting his past, Bill at least reached out when he could no longer escape from exposure. In his final hours, he tried to give his son closure, even opening himself up emotionally and revealing his pride that his son was a better man than he. In contrast, Tena was close with her son-- doting, loving, and sharing a bond with him that was layered with trauma and affection (see post here.) Her neglect was emotional: Mulder learned that he had to suppress himself emotionally to care for his broken mother. This set him up for too much reliance and dependence in relationships, leaving him to be easily exploited by others (Phoebe, Diana, Krycek, etc.) and a gun-shy attitude towards emotional vulnerability (see post here.) But, most crucially, when Mulder needed honesty from Tena about her past-- ready to listen empathetically and eager to forgive-- she expunged him from her life, not reentering it for almost three years (not even for his faked suicide); and still maintained a distance that was all her own doing. Both of Mulder’s parents failed him; but in very different ways. 

So ends Tena Mulder: the person who molded Fox Mulder into the man he is today with all his virtues and faults, tenderness and stubborn insistence, empathetically bleeding heart and faulty coping mechanisms. While she had been an important part to him for almost all of her son’s life, their final years were filled with too many words left unsaid. 

Mentions:  

Tena was mentioned once or twice more-- in Within, Mulder visits Raleigh (where she was buried) "every week" and buys a tombstone by her grave (the evidence on that is small, but was never disproven-- or thoroughly questioned-- canonically); and we are shown her grave when Mulder’s “dead” body is buried in Deadalive. (The only other maybe? reference to Tena might be in connection to the doll Mulder gifts Scully in Empedocles: we don’t know its origin, but it's reasonable to assume it was a family heirloom-- likely belonging to Samanatha at some point-- that was stored at the Vineyard. If so, at least Tena didn't burn it.)

We have reached the end of the Mulder Family saga, concluding with Tena's suicide and the impact of this decision on her son. While their relationship started out strong, her excommunication completely nuked it; and her curated, preservative selfishness prevented any further reconnection that she could have had in her final years. She was a woman who adored her son, could shout down CSM and live to tell the tale (post here), and had self-preserving instincts so fierce she could cut someone from her life and never look back. A flawed, neglectful, and stunted person; but one who wasn't evil so much as complicated.

Thank you for reading~

Enjoy~

#txf #x-files #The Mulder Family In-Depth #Part VIII #meta #Tena's Suicide Could Have Destroyed Mulder Forever #the x files #xf meta #analysis #Tena #Teena Mulder #Mulder #S7 #Sein und Zeit #S8 #Within #Deadalive #Empedocles #mine

[holopiloted]

     how do the apex games really work ? pt. 2 electric boogaloo —

          so, in part 1 i talked about how i think the apex game’s seasons are laid out and scheduled.

     i never actually expanded on that post like i was hoping to....but now my brain is hyperfixated on figuring out how DAMAGE works in the games !! here’s my take on it that, once again, nobody asked for:

     i’m not entirely sure where i read it ( if i come across it again or my brain suddenly decides to start working, i’ll site it here ), but elliott has made a comment before, talking about how, while he wants to join the games, he doesn’t want to possibly leave his mother childless.

     there’s also the fact that mad maggie was put into the games as a PUNISHMENT — right ? a ‘ DEATH SENTENCE ’ — why would they do that if the games weren’t life threatening and gruesome ?

          for me, this implies several things, but one of those things is: the very real DANGER of participating in the games.

     i am fully convinced that there is the possibility of actually dying in the games. and there’s real consequences for taking damage, both from weapons and the environment. for one, if there wasn’t, EVERYONE would be participating, right ?

     but obviously, there’s some sort of system in place that keeps our legends alive and healthy, otherwise, we wouldn’t see most of them return season after season, because, at some point, they just simply wouldn’t be able to. they would be tattered and broken beyond belief. and i DON’T think they have some magical way of either healing all the legends back to 100% or reverting them back to a time before they got wounded, because let’s be real: they wouldn’t be using that kind of technology for the games; especially not solely for the games, we’d see it being used all throughout the apex universe. which we don’t. so, there has to be some sort of balance between the two, right ?

     i’ve thought about it, and this is kind’ve what i came up with:

damage taken during an apex match is VERY REAL. the pain is real, the damage inflicted is real, and there is a chance that the damage inflicted can cause REAL, ACTUAL DEATH.

               &

before each match or season, participants are probably given some sort of stimulant that encourages faster healing, up to...eh, 500% faster than normal. this means that a simple bullet wound with no major complications that would normally take a little over a month to fully heal, would only take about a week. should wounds heal best case scenario, the scarring will be minimal. ( because, let’s face it, anything else and anybody competing in even just one season of the games would end up looking like swiss cheese, and that’s clearly not the case. ) they implement this because, without it, they’d be cycling new legends every single game, which, also obviously doesn’t happen.

     this would effectively encourage the legends to take the games a little more seriously, or at least taking damage a little more seriously — as something like, slipping off a cliff and breaking a leg or arm would obviously take a little longer to heal. and bouncing off my part 1 post, with games every week they really can’t afford any major injuries like that.

     as far as the worst injuries ? the most life threatening would probably be those headshots with larger calibers ( ex. kraber and wingman ) and close proximity shots with shotguns. because you’re still going to heal as if you got shot ‘ in real life ’, but just FASTER. and wounds like that usually don’t have the greatest outcome — you risk major internal damage to your organs all the way up to permanent brain damage.

          this means that the legend’s off days ? aren’t all fun parties and coffee meet ups — a lot of times, they’re RECOVERING.

     and while some may still be able to do those things while recovering between matches with light(er) injuries, most are probably bedbound. or at least confined to the dropship.

          i’ve got a few other ideas bouncing around in my little brain, but i think that’s enough for now.

                    how do Y’ALL think the games work ?

#✩ — ＧＯＴ ＴＨＩＳ ＴＨＩＮＧ ＩＮ ＴＨＥ ＢＯＸ → [ headcanon ] #:^))

[mimzy-writing-online]

You probably know this by now, I don't know if you keep up with Whumptober, but one of the prompts this year includes "blindness". I'm not blind but based on your posts about writing blind characters, and based on how I would feel if one of my disabilities were used as a whump prompt, I'm not super comfortable with it. I was wondering what your thoughts are on blindness being a Whumptober prompt.

(unironically and with feeling) thanks, I hate it.

Yes, I’m familiar with Whumptober, but I’ve never participated myself and I haven’t seen this year’s prompts.

Edit: I later did see the prompts and check out the blog. I think it's a good set of prompts and I look forward to all the promising content, especially since some of my favorite tropes are there. To be clear before you read this, I have no problem with Whumptober2021 or whump in general. This is not the first time blindness has been included for a list of whump prompts, and it won't be the last.

This post directed at the concept of "blindness" as a whump prompt and why I think it's a bad idea. The intended audience is individual writers thinking about future projects.

The timing of this is almost too perfect because I read a fanfic earlier this week that would meet that prompt exactly. Tags included whump, blindness, and angst with a happy ending. Now whump, hurt/comfort, and angst with a happy ending are tags I enjoy reading, but blindness as whump has a specific message to it.

To explain that message, I want to discuss what whump is. Many readers are already familiar with the genre, but I think taking the specific definitions and picking apart what it means and what expectations we carry when reading whump fanfiction

Urban Dictionary defines it as: taking a character and putting them through physical and/or mental torment and is typically followed by the same character being treated for their traumas. To indicate the characters place in the situation they’d typically be called a whumpee (the character being hurt/comforted), the whumper (the character that causes harm and trauma), and the caretaker (the character designated the helping/healing/comforting the whumpee).

Fanlore has a page for whump that explains it in depth, including where it started in fanfiction, examples of whump, and even a list of “popular targets” in different fandoms. (Warning: you might find yourself called out on the popular targets list)

“The term whump (or whumping) generally refers to a form of Hurt/Comfort that is heavy on the hurt and is often found in gen stories. The exact definition varies and has evolved over time. Essentially, whump involves taking a canon character, and placing them in physically painful or psychologically-damaging scenarios. Often this character is a fan favorite…”

To add to that, I think an important detail is the distinction Fanlore makes between hurt/comfort and whump:

“While some communities and fandoms may use whump as a synonym for hurt/comfort, there is still a recognition that whump refers to darker and more extreme scenarios. And there are still whump fics been written that have very little, or no comfort at the end of the story.”

The big appeal of hurt/comfort is getting to both explore the darker sides of pain and then experience the catharsis of being taken care of, of being supported by your loved ones as you recover from the trauma. The character is the proxy for experiencing those highs and lows while you yourself are safe at home.

I personally don’t read much/any whump without some h/c involved, but I’m happy there are stories out there for people who do enjoy it. I’m not here to judge what you like reading or what you do to your characters.

What I want is to express how blindness, my disability, used as a whump prompt personally makes me feel and what message it sends to me, to others, and how that message affects my daily life.

Whump undeniably involves watching a character suffer through something painful and traumatic.

My use of the word “suffer” is what I want you to focus on.

Vision loss can be painful and traumatic. I personally developed an anxiety disorder in response to vision loss. Others experience depression. For some it might result in relapsing into old, maladaptive coping mechanisms like drug use, self harm, or eating disorders.

A big part of my anxiety was how people reacted to my vision loss. It was a cause of their stress. They were worried because they genuinely believed I would never live a happy life without normal vision, and that my life would only be struggle and pain.

I recently saw an old friend who hadn’t heard about my vision loss. The conversation was awkward, but the worst part was how they reacted as though I had experienced an insurmountable tragedy. And even when I assured them I’m happy with my life, they clearly didn’t believe me. They acted like I was just lying or in denial.

I love that people want to empathize with my situation and ask themselves what they would do in my situation, but I hate when the conclusion they come to is something along the lines of “I could never do that, I’d be too miserable thinking about everything I lost, I’d never be able to do anything I enjoyed ever again.” But I did go blind. And I’m not miserable, I’m actually happy with the direction my life is going, and I still enjoy my hobbies, even if I engage with them differently.

I’m not suffering. My life didn’t end with vision loss. It’s not ruined, broken, or worthless.

I read a fanfic that was tagged with whump, blindness, and angst with a happy ending. A general synopsis of the plot: the whumpee had gone blind due to a curse. It was true love’s kiss that broke the curse. Even from the summary I knew it was going to end with whumpee being cured somehow and that I’d leave that fanfic vaguely dissatisfied no matter how good the rest of the fanfic was.

I can say this for the fanfic: the whumpee had already accepted that they would likely be blind for the rest of their life, but everyone around them was treating it as a tragedy that needed to be fixed, working tirelessly for a cure despite the whumpee’s protests that they didn’t have to.

It actually hit home to my personal experience.

I still left it dissatisfied with the ending. I might love curse fics in that fandom, and I love the “true love’s kiss” trope, but it wasn’t enough to distract me from the fact that: an actual person out in the world thought the best happy ending, maybe the only happy ending, would be if the character got their sight back.

(note: I clicked kudos and exited out of the story's page because no fanfic writer deserves unsolicited critique or hate, especially for content I consumed for free and at my own volition.)

Why read a story I knew would disappoint me?

Because blindness representation is so damn rare that I feel like I’m wandering in a desert, dying from thirst and desperate for that oasis. But sometimes that oasis is a mirage and the author is unintentionally telling you that your life is actually awful and you’ll never be fully happy like this. And that is a shit mentality to walk through life with.

I don’t appreciate blindness being a whump plot. I hate it. Hundreds (thousands?) of fanfictions featuring blind characters are about to enter the internet and the overall message is going to be “You poor thing! You must be in so much pain, you must be miserable! Who’s going to save you? Who’s going to comfort you? Wouldn’t it be terrible if there was no one in your life to take care of you? You poor helpless thing!”

And I feel objectified. I feel trivialized. The mirage in the desert is going to become a starch, empty room filled with dozens of water bottles, almost all of them poisoned. My representation is going to hurt me personally, and it’s going to reinforce that idea strangers have about how awful my life must be.

(I returned to school this past month, and every day I’m hesitant to tell someone I’m visually impaired because I don’t want to be treated differently. If I’ve managed to pass as sighted this whole time and then suddenly reveal “oh yeah, I’m visually impaired” I feel this instant silence, this pause of awkwardness as people suddenly question how they’re supposed to treat me. They treated me like a person, and now I’m something strange and unfamiliar.)

I’ve worked so hard to improve representation for blind people, to give internet strangers the exposure to a blind person they need to normalize blindness because I hope that if they’re ever so lucky as to meet a blind person, they’ll treat that person with respect. That hope that another person in the blind community will find a friend they feel comfortable and accepted with. I hope that I’ll meet people who accept my blindness as just another aspect of me (like being bisexual or gender fluid or a writer or a cat lover).

Please don’t turn me and my community into a caricature. Don’t erase everything I’ve worked for with this blog.

To be clear, this is not just me saying "I hate the cure trope" again. This is me saying "the purpose of whump is to painfully hurt your favorite character, and I hate that your idea of pain and suffering is my daily (wonderful) life."

#blindness #whumptober #fanfiction #whump #whumptober 2021 #blind character #disability #ableism #anon

[kimetsu-no-imagines]

submission request

its ur bf write me rengoku porn rn before i kiss you in electrical- u know what i want 😩 ——————————————————————————- a/n : !!!!!! anything for u babe!!!!! a request from my bf,,,,,,,how special,,,,especially when haven’t written on here in forever,,,,,, warnings ; mugen train spoilers!!!!!!!!!! s o m a n y!!!!!! mentions of rengoku/akaza fight, alternate universe where rengoku lives it’s what we all want anyway, pre-established relationship/rengoku is your husband, breeding/pregnancy kink, rengoku living and dying (figuratively) between your legs, “dirty” talk but rengoku is such a loving man i don’t think it should even be called that here, uhhhh body worship but with his eyes? its very vague but it is there, boy just loves you okay, also none of this is proof read or anything if that matters word count ; 2,728

I’m Home

When you first hear about it, of course, like his fellow pillars, you’re terrified-thankful, naturally, that your husband at least hasn’t died, but the crow sent to inform you of the events of his mission, of his injuries, doesn’t exactly try to sugar coat anything, not even for you, his spouse.

Skull fractures from dodging the punch that would have smashed his eye completely, broken ribs from dodging yet another hit that, if he hadn’t moved back fast enough, would have gone through him and killed him-the details were gruesome, they were bone-chilling, it wasn’t as if you or anyone particularly enjoyed hearing about it, but one thing was for certain-you were relieved not to have lost him to this, to have lost anyone. Tanjiro and the others were so strong, so hard-working, and they were so young, with so much to live for-you couldn’t imagine how you’d feel if anything had happened to them, either.

There’s so much about it that pains you-not being able to have your husband home with you after he’d already been so busy with this mission and the ones before it, knowing how injured he was and how long it’d take him to recover at the Butterfly Estate, it was all… Torture. Not that you couldn’t go see him, of course-but Shinobu urged you to stay home and relax, you wouldn’t want to see him in the state that he was in, she promised you that much. Her crow did come by to personally update you on his condition every day or so, though-that was at least some amount of relief.

… Or, it would have been. You hadn’t seen any crow come by in a week or so, to the day-and yes, you kept track, because of course you did, you were an anxious wreck, and it’d already been months of your husband steadily recovering, or so you thought. Had he died from his injuries? Did something happen to the estate, were more people hurt? … Well. You supposed that was a silly thought, she lived so close to the Master’s own residence-no demon could get close enough to hurt them, with all the wisteria around both places.

You were so used to having your husband around to calm you when you thought about the worst things, like this-your heart hurt with anxiety and worry. What could you do but stand outside by the door, every day, for hours, just waiting for some sign, of a crow, of Shinobu herself, of anything?

It was another day that had gone by just like that-your feet and legs ached from keeping yourself up for so long, dried tear trails staining the sides of your face-you knew it was silly of you, you knew you should have tried to be at least a little stronger, for him if no one else, but… You just couldn’t help it. You hated this. You just wanted your husband back.

A dejected sigh leaves you as you watch the sun set for just one more moment before turning to go back inside, tears stinging at the corners of your eyes again-maybe tomorrow you’ll go up to Shinobu’s estate yourself. You couldn’t stand this for another–

“Hahaha! Now isn’t this strange! You’re running away from me!”

Your heart stops, and you freeze in place. What?

You feel him before you can turn to see him-chest pressed against your back, though soon you’re spun around and pulled up into a crushing hug anyway, and it’s all you can do to immediately start sobbing into your husband’s brightly-colored hair as you’re held.

“… Hello, my sweet,”  His voice is no longer booming and jovial like it was a moment ago, but soft, gentle and meant only for you, as he squeezes you to him-you want to worry about the injuries he was supposed to be recovering from still, but you don’t want this to end, either. You suppose, he must have just been coming around the corner and through the gate when you turned to go inside-not that it mattered, all that did matter was that he was… Here, holding you.

“You must have missed me terribly!” All hearty, he laughs with you again, even if all you can do is cry in his arms while he rubs soothingly at your back, “But of course I missed you terribly too! I tried many times to sneak out and come home to you, but Shinobu or one of the other girls always caught me-”

You missed his voice dearly, you did-and you were still crying, but you couldn’t help but lean up and kiss him. It was something you usually did to quiet him, for sure, but right now you just… Needed him. And he didn’t seem to mind, hands happily and readily sliding down to hoist you up into his arms, never breaking from you as he carried you into your home.

“… Such a beautiful shouldn’t have quite so many tears upon it, you know,”He mumbles gently against your lips, and you sniffle as you finally reach up to start wiping at them, “I-I just missed you so much, Kyojuro, I was so scared-you were almost-you could have-”

“But I didn’t, and I won’t.” He interrupts you sweetly, but firmly nonetheless, shaking his head at you, “I am fine. I am healed, my love. I am still here to fulfill my duties-and I always will be. That includes my duties to you as your husband.”

“I…” It doesn’t feel like you should believe it-after what you’d heard of his battle, knowing he’d even just encountered an Upper Moon demon, this felt too good to be real or true, and yet… There’s such certainty and finality blazing in his eyes as he stares at you, all you can do is nod.

“… Alright.”

———————————————–

… Really, all you had intended to do this evening, now that you had your husband home with you, was cook him his favorite meal and go to sleep with him, in his arms, for the first time in who knew how long, at this point. Truthfully, that had been your only goal. You wanted him to rest, no matter how many times he told you just how fully recovered he was through the mouthfuls of sweet potato you so lovingly prepared for him-and yet… And yet…

Well, you suppose you simply didn’t account for him wanting… Dessert.

“It’s been so long,” The words are mumbled around you, your flesh, as he greedily, really voraciously eats and licks you up from between your legs-you’d already known him to be feral when presented with the sweet treat only you could provide him with, but this was something else entirely, “-it’s been too long, my love, don’t you understand how very hungry I am?”

You don’t, but by no means are you going to let that stop either of you. You missed his mouth just as much as he missed your taste.

“K-Kyojuro-Kyojuro, I’m-Kyo–”

… He’s never been one to tease or deny you. And yet just as you’re about to cum, so close to the edge you could have tasted it yourself, he’s pulling away from you. His lips and chin and… Well, his face, in general, are so shiny with you-you easily forget your frustration and get lost in the blissful look in his eyes as he cleans himself with his tongue. “While you certainly are the most delicious thing in this world, my sweet,” He crawls up the length of your body so quickly, so desperate to smash his lips to your own, “-as I’ve told you, it’s been far too long. I want to feel you cum around my cock this evening. But I’m sure you have no complaint either way?” Any other day, you’d want to hit him, to get that cheeky look off of his face, but… You also can’t say you don’t want that. Maybe you really don’t have any complaints either way. “… You’re awful,” You huff up at him, but you nod, “… But alright.” … And yet he stays still. It would be so easy-you’re properly soaked, and the pair of you are completely naked, and yet your infuriating husband is just… Sitting there, hovering over you with a smile on his face. It’s a soft, loving smile-but you’ve known him so long, you don’t miss the mischief in his eyes. “… Can I not admire you, my beautiful spouse? Even for a moment, after I’ve been gone from you for so very long?” It’s not a crime for him to stare at you so adoringly-really, you’d love it if you weren’t as damn horny as you were. But... It has been a long time. He’s teasing, but as much as that’s true, you know he’s being earnest, too-his eyes flicker all over your form so carefully, meticulously re-memorizing every tiny detail about you. “... Even more beautiful then before I left you, dear one,” The way he murmurs it, so absently, it’s almost more like he’s saying it to himself, but his eyes raised to bore back into yours after a minute-clearly, he wants you to hear every word of what he’s saying, absent or not. “... Would you like to know something I thought about while I was away?” His love renders you breathless, speechless-it’s all you can do to nod up at him. “During the brief hours of respite I would get, I would think to myself... What would it be like to come back to you, our home... How would it feel, the joy of it all... And then, another thought had started to occur to me,” A sharp gasp tears through you as you feel a few fingers suddenly and swiftly beginning their work at stretching you out-sneaky man, he’d distracted you from his hands with his voice, and even then, he kept talking like he hadn’t done anything, “... What would it be like if I could come home to the sight of you all swollen and glowing with our child...?” Those words rob you of whatever meager amount of breath you had managed to regain. With your child...? “... Oh, my love, you squeezed my fingers so nicely just now,” He marvels at the sight, the feeling of you, worrying his lip between his teeth-you’re so pretty like this, is what he wants to say, but his mind is suddenly consumed by the thought he’d put into both your heads a moment ago. You, glowing with the product of your love in your stomach. You don’t fail to notice the twitching of his cock where it hangs all hard between his legs. “Do you like the sound of that, then...? Do you want to carry my children, our children, my dear one? I’ll give it to you if you just say the word-after all, what poor excuse of a husband would I be if I didn’t?” His fingers move in and out of you faster, frantic and eager to prepare you for him, now, as he almost rambles on like that-his words set your body, your insides, on fire. You do want it, you realize-it’s not something you’d given much thought to before, but here, like this, right now after spending so much time worrying about losing him? You really do want nothing more. “P-p-please, please Kyojuro, I want-please give me your children, I want it, I want you, please make me pregnant, my husband, please-” It’s not meant to egg him on, truly it isn’t-you just can’t help but beg with how badly you want it yourself. But that doesn’t mean you don’t delight in the way he seems to snap, just the slightest bit, above you, quickly removing his fingers from you to replace them with his cock-what you’d been waiting for since he laid you down in bed earlier. That felt like an eternity ago right now, though. The stretch isn’t an uncomfortable one, with the care he’d still taken to prepare you-you missed it, if anything, you missed him. And it’s clear that he feels the same-he’s gone so tense above you, arms trembling on either side of you with the restraint it takes not to move. Somehow, he still manages to keep up that bright smile of his, too. “Do tell me when I can move, my love. This is a bit unbearable with how lovely you feel!” ... As hazy as your mind was with pleasure, you couldn’t help but giggle. Even now, your husband was so... Endearing. So cute. Your bring your hands up to hold his face as you nod your head eagerly, over and over, “Please, Kyojuro-please, I want it,” You can see that he wants to worry about you, wants to ask you again to make sure-but he can’t, his body betrays him, his hips instantly slotting themselves against your own, pulling back only to quickly bring themselves back down, his cock pressing and rubbing against every bit of your insides as it moves in and out of you, over and over and over, so fast-and your husband hardly even breaks a sweat. ... His being a demon slayer, and a pillar, at that, had its perks, you supposed. His stamina was one of them. But he seemed to already be losing his composure, too, with just how long it’d been since you’d gotten to be so close. “This-this is embarrassing, haha-I feel like I could burst at any moment already-just-just thinking about how-utterly perfect you’d look, ah-” His hips stutter, and he stills for a second, to keep his own pleasure at bay for a moment-though he makes up for it with the hand that shoots down to rub and stroke at what his cock isn’t already touching, “-goodness gracious-how perfect you’d look, pregnant, my love-” As if you aren’t ready to burst, yourself. Did he suddenly forget about denying you mere minutes ago...? “M-my husband-my husband, Kyojuro, please, m-me too, just go ahead, please-please give me your child, give it to me, please-” “You’re really as difficult as you are beautiful!” The very wind is knocked out of you as you find your legs suddenly on either side of your head, as he fucks into you with a very renewed, fittingly fiery sense of vigor and passion, grunting freely every time he feels you wrap around him again and again, “I truly did want to take my time with you this evening, my sweet-how irresistible you are like this-I’ll have to savor you another time-” This position, the wildness in his eyes, the feeling and the sight of him-yes, the sight of him, you’d be lying if you said you didn’t see the bulge appearing and disappearing from your stomach-fucking into you desperately, all of it is far too much for you, far too overwhelming, but of course he revels above you in the way you clamp down on him and make a sudden, abrupt mess all over the pair of you, not to mention the futon underneath you. “So beautiful-so beautiful like this, my love-I-just the sight of you, you’re going to make me-goodness-” He leans over you and folds you in half even further, nose brushing against your neck, “I-I’m going to-I’m going to give it to you now, alright? I swear it, my love, my dear one, I’ll-I’ll get you pregnant, I promise, I promise, I--” It’s so intense, he almost roars as it washes over him, as he fills you up so completely it leaks out of you, with how long its been since either of you had any form of... Release. Your legs are released, and they flop numbly down against the plush futon beneath you-your husband can barely keep himself up, but he at least tries to be careful as he collapses against you, chuckling so happily against your shoulder while you can hardly keep your eyes open, let alone say anything. You wish you had the sense what was apparently so... Funny, right now. “... I love you, _____.” The biggest wave of tranquility falls over you, hearing those words. You can’t quite say much of anything still, but he knows-he sees it in your eyes when he looks up at your face. You love him too. Right now, that’s all he needs. “I really am so happy to be home, dear one.”

#demon slayer kimetsu no yaiba #demon slayer #demon slayer imagines #rengoku kyojuro #rengoku x reader #rengoku smut #demon slayer smut #submission

[sternbilder]

Gyu-hyuk's Epilogue 3 (Re-translated)

#Buried Stars spoilers

OMG okay, I feel like I need to expand on this, because YES, it does;

So the line you're referring to is the one where Gyu-hyuk tells Do-yoon, "딛고 일어서," which, to break it down: 딛다 means to overcome or get over something, and 일어서다 means to stand up. Grammatically speaking, this is in the imperative mood, so in a very literal sense, "get over it" is...technically...an accurate translation.

However.

In the context of the scene, I think this is misleading. In the official translation, Gyu-hyuk sounds weirdly cold and dismissive, but imo he doesn't actually come off that way in the original text? I read the "Get over it" line as more like...Encouraging? Motivational? Than dismissive, personally. It's clear to me that he's comforting Do-yoon, and I was honestly surprised at the tone whiplash in the translation.

Don't get me wrong, this scene is unsettling. It feels "off" somehow. But it's not because Gyu-hyuk is being dismissive of Do-yoon's feelings when Do-yoon is clearly still incredibly traumatized, but rather:

Because Gyu-hyuk himself seems relatively unfazed, in stark contrast to Do-yoon (Not to mention the strong Dutch angle on that CG. Come On. It just adds to the subtle creepiness of Gyu-hyuk's weirdly serene smile?)

Because one of Gyu-hyuk's biggest flaws is his tendency toward codependency, and of course

Because Gyu-hyuk is the one responsible for the murders, which is like. A pretty big part of Do-yoon's trauma.

At the time that you get this epilogue for the first time, it's likely that you haven't actually seen the true ending yet. So unless you know what happens, it's easy to chalk (1) up to Gyu-hyuk's personality—or at least, the calm and level-headed front that he puts up. You have enough evidence to arrive at (2) by this point, but it's not until you learn (3), which obviously isn't revealed until the true ending, that you realize what a deeply broken person Gyu-hyuk really is.

Without some of this background, the scene honestly reads as, idk, a bit uncomfortably codependent maybe but also...Very Heavily Romantic, in a fucked up, vaguely problematic and unhealthy way? Incidentally, I was looking up a Korean let's play of this scene on Youtube so that I could transcribe it and the streamer I was watching also was straight up like, "Why does it feel like he's flirting with me" and "Oh this feels like a romance" so I know I'm not the only one thinking this LMAO.

TL;DR This epilogue doesn't feel "wrong" because Gyu-hyuk is being insensitive and selfish, but rather the opposite—if anything, his tone is excessively warm and sweet, almost bordering on smothering.

Anyway, because I really, really hate how this scene was translated, I'm going to take a crack at a fan translation that (hopefully) captures the effect of the original text a bit better? I've highlighted the lines that I think have the greatest diff:

Original Text

GH: 또 심각한 얼굴이네. 무슨 생각을 그렇게 해?

DY: 그냥 뭐… 이것저것. 형은 아직 여유가 좀 있나 봐? 맨날 문병 오는 거 보면.

GH: 여유 있긴, 너 보러 시간을 빼는 거지. ...오늘은 좀 어때?

한도윤은 창틀을 매만졌다.

DY: 복잡해. 사람들이… 그렇게 됐으니까.

GH: … 지금은, 너만 생각해.

어깨를 토닥이는 손길에 저도 모르게 움츠렸다.

GH: 아, 미안…

DY: 아냐. 내가 아직… 다 낫질 않아서.

GH: 얼마나 걸리든 푹 쉬어, 다 나을 때까지. 복잡한 머리도 풀릴 때까지. 내가 있잖아.

이규혁의 말에 고개를 들었다. 따스한 눈길이 한도윤을 바로 본다.

GH: 너, 나… 우리 두 사람은 살아남았어. 힘들면 기대. 내가… 언제든지 곁에 있을테니까. 도윤이 네가 구해준 덕분에 난 여기 있어. 언제까지라도 널 배신하지 않을 거야.

눈앞이 흐릿해지더니, 볼에 뜨거운 무언가가 흘러내렸다. 눈꺼풀 밑으로 스러져간 얼굴들이 아른거렸다.

GH: 괜찮아.

이규혁의 손이 다시 한번 어깨를 토닥였다.

GH: 서로 의지하면서 살아가자.

고개 숙인 한도윤이 이규혁의 팔을 붙잡았다. 바람이 흔들리는 창문 소리가 적막한 병실을 울렸다.

GH: 도윤아, 딛고 일어서. 내가 곁에 있을 거야.

다정한 목소리가 멀게만 들렸다.

Official Translation

GH: You look somber again. What’s on your mind this time?

DY: Just a few things… Aren’t you supposed to be busy? You visit me every day.

GH: Busy, but I always have time to drop by to see you. How are you feeling today?

Do-yoon touched the windowsill with his hand.

DY: Complicated, considering what happened to them…

GH: Focus on yourself for now.

He fidgeted as Gyu-hyuk patted him on the shoulder.

GH: I’m sorry…

DY: No, it’s just that… I’m still recovering.

GH: Just take as much time as you want until you’re fully recovered. And I hope you can stop worrying so much, too. I’ll stand by your side.

Do-yoon raised his head to listen to Gyu-hyuk. He was staring at Do-yoon with an affectionate eye.

GH: You and me, we’ve survived. Lean on me when things are rough. I’ll always be there for you… I’m standing here because you saved me. I’ll never betray you.

Do-yoon’s eyes blurred, and tears rolled down his cheeks. The faces of their departed friends glimmered under his eyes.

GH: I’m okay.

Gyu-hyuk patted Do-yoon on the shoulder again.

GH: We’ll watch each other’s backs.

Do-yoon lowered his head and grabbed Gyu-hyuk’s arm. The sound of the rattling window hit the walls of the still hospital room.

GH: Do-yoon, get over it. You have me.

His kind voice seemed so distant.

My Translation

GH: You have that somber look on your face again. What’s on your mind?

DY: Oh, you know… This and that. I guess your schedule must be pretty free still? You’ve been visiting me every day.

GH: I wish. I’m actually making time to come see you. How are you feeling today?

Do-yoon adjusted the windowsill a bit.

DY: It’s complicated. You know… considering what happened to them.

GH: …You should try to worry about yourself for now.

Do-yoon couldn’t help but flinch reflexively as Gyu-hyuk touched his shoulder.

GH: Oh, sorry…

DY: No, it’s OK. It’s… just that my injuries are still healing.

GH: Take as much time as you need and rest until you’re fully recovered. And until your anxieties quiet down a bit, too. You know I’m here for you.

Do-yoon lifted his head as he said this. Gyu-hyuk was watching him with his warm gaze.

GH: You and I… We’re survivors. Lean on me when things are tough. Because I’ll… always be by your side. The only reason I’m here today is because you saved me, Do-yoon. I’ll never betray you, no matter what.

Do-yoon’s vision blurred, and hot tears began to roll down his cheeks. The faces of the deceased wavered beneath his closed eyelids.

GH: It’s all right.

Gyu-hyuk patted him on his shoulder once again.

GH: We’ll have each other to depend on from now on.

Do-yoon lowered his head and grasped Gyu-hyuk’s arm. The sound of the wind rattling the windowpane echoed throughout the quiet hospital room.

GH: Do-yoon, you'll overcome this. I’ll be right here beside you.

His voice was kind, but it somehow sounded distant.

#blackflirtlarping #Buried Stars #cam thoughts #liveblog: bstars #My translations #Meta #anyway i love this tragic and problematic ship. thank you for coming to my ted talk

[seriphimlm]

Binary Stars

Summary: Castiel possesses Dean. 

(Yeah, I’m writing SPN fan fiction now. Mind ya business.)

Binary star system: Noun. Astronomy. A system of two stars in which one star revolves around the other or both revolve round a common center. Locked in the constant chase of hunter and hunted, the two stars spend their lifespans circling around the other’s orbit, never able to touch, always just out of reach. 

---

It started, much like everything else complicated in the lives of Dean and Castiel, with a hunt gone wrong. 

Read on AO3

The sunlight was filtering through the dingy hotel room’s curtains as Rowena examined Castiel with a series of powders, juices, and soft-spoken Latin chants. Dean watched as he leaned against the wall, subtly texting Sam an update on their hunt. Dean and Castiel had been trying to take out a witch just west of Lincoln when she blew a shimmering powder into Castiel’s face. He had spent the following few minutes coughing up a lung while Dean shot the witch between the eyebrows. Unsure what to do, they called Rowena when they returned to the hotel room. She was leaning over Castiel as he sat on the side of one of the beds. 

“It’s bad.” Rowena finally said, her eyes flicking between Dean and Castiel. “You boys tussled with the wrong witch.”

Dean sighed and kicked off the wall he was leaning on. “Awesome.”

“What did she do to me?” Castiel’s eyes calmly tracked Dean for a moment before they flicked to meet Rowena’s gaze. 

“You mean you can’t tell?” Rowena raised her eyebrows and looked away. “That’s not a good sign.”

“Cut the crap, Rowena,” Dean growled. “Can you fix it?”

Rowena sighed. “Aye, the spell’s not built for fixing.”

“Remind me why you’re here, then?” Dean took a half-step towards Rowena. 

“Dean,” Castiel said, stopping him in his tracks with just a word. He turned back to Rowena. “Explain. Please.”

“Well,” Rowena paused as she thought. She pursed her lips, choosing her words carefully. “It was a homemade spell designed to erase an angel’s grace. It starts slow, which must be why you can’t feel it yet. It will continue to get faster and faster as time goes on.”

Dean threw his hands up. “Awesome.”

“You said that already,” Castiel grumbled. 

The two men shared tense eye contact for a few charged moments. 

“You haven’t seen any hex bags today, correct?” Rowena asked, causing them both to look back at her. 

Castiel stood up and moved his eyes around the room before ending on Rowena. “I would be able to sense if there were any present.”

Rowena nodded and hummed her approval. “And the witch who cast the spell is now dead?”

“Yes,” Dean said, stepping forward. “I made sure of that.”

“Lovely,” she said, making it clear that she thought that it was anything but. “She must have been a powerful one then, if the spell is surviving past her.”

Castiel grimaced. “What can we do?”

“Do?” Rowena began to gather her supplies back into her large purse. “There isn’t much that can be done, I’m afraid.”

Dean opened his mouth to speak, but Castiel beat him to the punch. “But there is something.”

Rowena sighed. “You’re not going to like it.”

Dean and Castiel both leveled Rowena with steady stares. She closed her eyes to center herself before speaking again, opening them to look at Castiel. 

“You’re going to need to leave your vessel,” she finally said.

Her statement hung in the air for a few moments before anyone else spoke, heavy in the crisp air-conditioned room. Castiel hardly reacted except to blink, but Dean was visibly agitated. 

“No way.” Dean shook his head. 

Rowena laughed drily. “Have you got a better idea, then?”

“Dean,” Castiel cut in, nipping their cat fight in the bud. “I’ve been without a vessel before.”

“So, what?” Dean turned his attention to Castiel. “You’re just gonna find some other holy trench coat to possess?”

Castiel turned his head slightly to look at Dean directly.

“Not necessarily,” Rowena interrupted. “The spell is only affecting Castiel’s physical form. If he were to” —she struggled to find the word for a moment— “exit, the spell would run its course and eventually fizzle out. I don’t see why he couldn’t return after that.”

“And how long’s that gonna take?” Dean asked. 

Rowena made a noncommittal sound as she examined Castiel lightly with her eyes. “Oh, a few days to be safe. These things move faster when the mind isn’t present.”

“So what, right before he starts to rot away?” 

Castiel lowered his chin slightly and looked at Dean. “My vessel, Dean. It’s not me.”

Rowena held up a finger and rooted through her purse as the men had an impromptu staring contest. After a moment, she pulled out a small hex bag. It fit snugly in the palm of her hand. She loosened the string tying it together slightly to create an opening. 

“This will help keep your vessel in working shape while you’re away,” she said, presenting the hex bag to Castiel. “I just need a drop of dear Mr. Novak’s blood.”

As Dean was rustling through his pockets to pass Castiel his knife, Castiel just bit the tip of his index finger with his front teeth. He held the finger over the bag as the blood welled up and finally dripped down. When the droplet of blood hit the bag, a barely-visible puff of blue smoke was created. Castiel ran his thumb over his index finger, healing the small nip. 

“Perfect,” Rowena said as she retied the string, nonplussed by Castiel’s behavior. She passed the completed hex bag to Castiel. “This will keep the lights on while you’re not home. Keep it in one of your pockets until you return.”

Castiel nodded and put the hex bag in the inside pocket of his trench coat. 

Rowena continued, “I suggest that you leave your vessel before you go to bed. There hasn’t been any damage done that you won’t recover from, but that won’t be the case when you wake up tomorrow.”

“I don’t sleep.”

She smiled sweetly at him. “Sometime before whatever it is you do at night, then.”

The group eventually made their way through saying farewells and Rowena left, leaving Dean and Castiel alone. Dean was tense. It was hard for him to think of Castiel’s body as just an empty husk to be filled. 

“Dean,” Castiel said, breaking the silence that fell when Rowena left. “This is a manageable problem. There is no need to worry.”

Dean scoffed. “What, me worry?” He sighed and grabbed his keys from where they were sitting on the nightstand. “Let’s get back to the bunker before you do anything crazy.”

Castiel nodded and followed Dean outside of the hotel room. 

The two men continued in silence as they pulled out of the hotel parking lot. Castiel had come to appreciate silence in his time on Earth, but this particular moment rang with unsaid words. He knew that Dean would voice what he needed to say before too long. This time, he only had to wait for three-and-a-half Metallica songs. 

“So.” Dean said, finally breaking the silence. “You’re leaving your vessel.”

“Yes.” Castiel straightened his back and watched the dotted yellow lines disappear beneath them. 

Dean snuck a peek at Castiel. He nervously bit the inside of his cheek. No one spoke for another few moments. 

“Well, are you gonna ask me or not?”

Castiel replied casually, “Ask you what?”

“To be your new vessel.” Dean snuck another peek in Castiel’s direction, taking time to rake his eyes across his face. “If I can handle Michael, then I can handle you. Right?”

“Dean. I couldn’t ask that of you.”

Dean reached over to turn the music down. “Humor me.”

Castiel gave an angel’s impression of an eye roll. “Dean Winchester, are you willing to give your body and mind over to my cause?”

“Yes,” Dean said. His response was immediate. He looked over at Castiel, lips not fully closed. 

“You can’t mean that.” Castiel didn’t seem to be impressed. 

“It’s better than spending a week as a holy cloud of gas and you know it.”

Castiel moved his gaze in Dean’s direction, not quite looking directly at him yet. He couldn’t disagree. “Your history with Michael—” 

“You’re not Michael.” Dean shook his head lightly, turning back to the road. “Come on, Cas. If everyone was the same as their older brothers, Sam would be blacklisted from about twenty more bars than he already is.”

Castiel didn’t seem to be persuaded. He looked anywhere except Dean’s face. 

“Dean. I do not wish to cross any boundaries here.” He finally raised his gaze to meet Dean’s. “You understand that saying yes will give me unfettered access to your body and soul.”

“Look at me. I get it.” Dean quirked his lips humorlessly into a smirk. “I’ve been a hunter my whole life, I know what possession is.” He paused and sighed, tearing his eyes from the road to look at Castiel, speaking clearly. “I trust you. I’m saying yes.”

Castiel still didn’t look convinced. Dean sighed. 

Dean let out a humorless laugh as he rubbed his thumb on the steering wheel nervously. “Listen, man,” he said, his voice an olive branch. “I could learn how to say it in Enochian if English ain’t enough.”

Castiel finally met his gaze again. “I can remain unobstructive while we share a vessel.”

“I’ve already said yes, no need to keep selling,” Dean said, then hesitated. “So long as I get to stay behind the wheel.”

“Of course, Dean.” Castiel leaned imperceptibly closer to him. “I would never strip you of your autonomy.”

Dean nodded. “Good.” He paused, then echoed, “Good.” He looked back to the road. 

---

The bunker door slammed loud enough to ring through the halls. Dean gave a holler to Sam anyway, in case he didn’t hear him and Castiel come in. 

Sam walked into the room from the direction of his bedroom. “What the hell, Dean?” he said. “You can’t just text me, ‘Cas got witched. Be back before midnight.’ and then not respond.”

“Aren’t you the one who gets on me about texting and driving?” Dean smirked at Sam. “Just being a safe driver. ‘Sides, you could have used Cas’ phone. We got him one for a reason.”

Sam rolled his eyes and shifted his focus to Castiel. “I tried calling Cas, but it went straight to voicemail.”

“My phone stopped working a while ago.” Castiel pulled it out of his pocket. “It no longer turns on.”

Dean grabbed the phone from Castiel and examined it, testing the power button a few times. “When’s the last time you plugged it in?”

“Plugged it into what?”

Dean dropped his hands and looked at Castiel. “The wall, Cas.” He looked over at Sam pleadingly. Sam chuckled. 

“You have to charge it for a few hours every day or two,” Sam said. “I’ll put a charger in your room later.”

Castiel took his phone back from Dean. “I see. I will be more mindful of that in the future.”

Dean walked down the stairs into the main room area, Castiel following closely behind. 

“I’m going to grab a beer, want one?” Dean called over his shoulder as he headed towards the kitchen. 

Sam sat at the table. “Sure.”

“You’re getting one too, Cas,” Dean said, not waiting for a response from him. 

Castiel nodded and sat across from Sam as Dean left the room. 

“I’m beginning to appreciate the taste of beer,” he said to Sam. “The creation process behind it is very compelling.”

“I’m glad you like it.” Sam chuckled airly. “So, what happened with the witch? You look totally normal to me.”

“I’m glad I look normal.” Castiel sighed. “The spell is one that targets my grace, so humans are unable to see what the witch has done.”

Sam frowned. “Are you okay?”

“The damage so far is minimal.” Castiel shrugged. “I hardly noticed until Rowena brought it up. She said that the rate at which the spell devours my grace would increase unless I left my vessel.” 

Sam’s eyebrows shot up. “And you’re gonna do that? Leave your vessel, I mean.”

“I have no other choice,” Castiel said. “But my vessel will survive without me until the spell runs its course.” Anticipating Sam’s question, he added, “I’ll be able to return to this vessel in a few day’s time.”

“Huh.” Sam leaned back in his chair for a moment. “So will you just” —he waved his hand through the air nervously— “float around all day?”

“No, I—”

Castiel was cut off by Dean re-entering the room, holding three beers. “Brewski time!” he called, waggling the beers with one hand. He put a beer in front of Sam and Castiel, then took one of the open seats at the table and took a swig from his own bottle. 

“Dean, Cas was just telling me about what happened,” Sam said. He looked back over to Castiel. “Sorry, I’d offer to help, but I have a… history with angels using me as a vessel.” He gave an awkward half-smile. 

“I understand,” Castiel said, returning a small smile in Sam’s direction. 

“You don’t have to worry ‘bout a thing, Sammy.” Dean took another sip of his beer. For some reason, he felt nervous to tell Sam. He pushed it down. “Cas is gonna stay with me.”

Sam smirked and looked down at his beer bottle. “And you’re cool with that?”

“What? Lucifer didn’t wear me to the prom.”

“Dude.” Sam looked up to lazily glare at Dean. 

Dean was sufficiently cowed. “What, too soon?”

“Yeah, too soon.” Sam rolled his eyes and laughed under his breath. “Forever would be too soon.”

“I’m going to leave my vessel before morning,” Castiel noted, gracefully changing the subject. “Would you like to be in the room while it happens?”

Dean stiffened imperceptibly. 

“I’m sure you two can handle it,” Sam said, taking a sip from his beer. “I’ll be down the hall if you need anything.”

“Well,” Dean said, setting his beer on the table and moving to get out of his chair. “What do you say, Cas? No time like the present?”

Castiel’s eyebrows drew together. He looked up at Dean and then back down at his beer. “I’d like to finish this first. It’s pleasant to drink with you two.”

“Come on, Dean.” Sam laughed and lifted his beer in Dean’s direction. “Waste not, want not.”

Dean chuckled to cover his blooming blush. He relaxed back into his chair. “I’m just glad we corrupted an angel.”

---

Dean and Castiel ended up in one of the extra bedrooms, one which Dean liked to call Castiel’s room. Castiel hardly used it. He was sitting on top of the unwrinkled bed covers while Dean was pacing, trying to tamper his anxiety. 

“So, this possession thing.” Dean looked over carefully to Castiel. “Does it hurt?”

Castiel’s eyes tracked Dean’s movements. “What do you mean?”

“The whole...” Dean waved a hand around as he thought of how to word it. “Smoke-in-the-mouth thing. I mean, I smoked my fair share as a teen, but I’m no iron lung.”

The drug reference gave Castiel pause. “The process shouldn’t be painful. It may feel uncomfortable at times as your body attunes to housing a celestial being. You may experience sensations that the human body is not equipped to feel.”

“Lucky me,” Dean said breathlessly.

Castiel nodded. “Lucky you.”

Castiel swung his legs on top of his bed, shoes and all. He leaned against the headboard in a sitting position. Dean bit his tongue when he worried about the dirt tracking onto the sheets. 

“How would you like me?” Castiel asked once he settled. 

Dean tripped on his tongue for a moment. “Like you?”

“My vessel,” Castiel clarified. “How would you like it to be positioned while I’m away?”

A breath escaped Dean’s lungs. Castiel had to know what he was doing when he said things like that. 

“However you want, bud.” Dean flexed his jaw and swallowed. “It’s up to you, I won’t be coming in here until the spell times out.”

Castiel hummed and scooted forward so that he had the space to lie down completely, but he propped himself up on his elbows to keep Dean in his eyesight. He was lying on his back with his trenchcoat puddled around him like an aura. 

“Are you sure you’re willing to do this, Dean?”

Dean walked over to the side of Castiel’s bed. “My answer hasn’t changed since the last time you asked.”

“I’m serious.” Castiel’s voice compelled Dean to look him in the eyes. “I would not think any less of you for changing your mind in the eleventh hour.”

“You’re my friend, Cas.” Dean’s hand reached out to pat him on the shoulder before he realized that it was too far away to reach. For lack of a better location, he patted Castiel’s thigh where it was resting on the bed. “Friends help each other out.”

Castiel furrowed his brows as he watched Dean’s hand touch his thigh. Dean moved his hand back to its neutral position once he noticed Castiel looking. He felt a blush begin to heat his face without understanding why. 

“Besides,” Dean started, trying to distract from the building burning in his cheeks. “It’s a win-win. You get a vacation in Casa Winchester and I get to go a few days without seeing your ugly mug.”

Castiel’s eyebrows drew together even more. “You think I’m ugly?”

“Of course not,” Dean backtracked immediately. “I’m sure you’re, y’know, good looking. For a guy.” Dean would have to change the subject if he didn’t want Castiel to notice his blushing cheeks. “It’s just something people say.”

Dean wouldn’t know where to put Castiel on the traditional 1-10 scale of hotness. He lived on a different scale entirely. 

“I see.” Castiel relaxed his arms and allowed his gaze to trail up to the ceiling. “I never understood human beauty standards. I have a hard time evaluating my vessel.”

Great, Dean thought as he put a few feet of distance between him and the bed. I gave the angel a complex. 

“You’ve got nothing to worry about, man.” Dean tried to backtrack. “Chicks dig the whole dorky, just rolled out of bed look.”

Castiel hummed idly and then lifted himself to look Dean in the eye again. “Are you ready to be possessed?”

Dean had long since gotten used to Castiel’s abrupt non sequiturs. 

“Should I sit down?” Dean moved towards an empty chair a few feet away from the bed. 

“That would be smart.”

Dean carried the chair to the side of the bed and sat in it. It was strange to see Castiel laying down. The only other times that Dean had seen him in this position, he was bloodied from a fight. Castiel moved his arms to lie down completely, turning his head on the pillow to look at Dean. 

“Dean Winchester, will you let me in?”

“Castiel,” Dean breathed. He shivered in anticipation. “Yes.”

It wasn’t like the demon possessions he had seen, where the victim screamed as the demon’s black cloud rushed into their mouth. Castiel closed his eyes and exhaled slowly. A small, wavering tendril of bright smoke seeped out of his mouth. This was Castiel, more so than anything related to Jimmy Novak’s body. Dean’s adrenaline spiked as the tendril began to close the distance between them. It meandered through the air of Castiel’s bedroom like lazy cascading waves on a shoreline. Dean’s mouth opened and he tilted his chin towards the smoke without being aware he was doing so. 

The tendril of Castiel finally reached Dean’s lips. For a moment, it felt like he had used TV static as chapstick. The static feeling filled Dean’s throat. It spread over his head and spilled down his chest as more of Castiel flowed through him. It felt like the borders of his body were being erased, like he was expanding to fill the bedroom. His head was floaty and blurry, as if he was back to being seventeen and smoking Js with other nomads outside of run-down hotels. 

It was as if he had a whole new sense awakened in him. How could you explain sight to someone who was born blind? He felt his thoughts being pushed to the side to make space in his head for another entity. His body went blank for a moment before he scrambled to gain control. The feeling, which had to be Castiel, let him gather it up from the corners of his awareness. His limbs were left feeling like they fell asleep. He compressed Castiel to right at the base of his neck, behind his collarbones. He felt raw energy thrumming in the back of his mind. 

Dean opened his eyes. He hadn’t been aware that he closed them. Sam was banging on the other side of the door. They must have been making noise, even if he didn’t realize it. He stumbled up from his chair and almost instantly banged his shin against the bed frame. 

“Shit!” Dean yelped. The lightbulbs in the room popped in a sharp shatter of glass. He flinched at the noise. 

Sam yelled from behind the door, “Dean?”

“Yeah, give me a second!” Dean responded, traversing through the bedroom in the relative darkness. His adrenaline was still pumping, leaving him feeling tight and thready. He finally made it to the door and opened it for Sam. 

Sam looked different. It looked like someone had taken a long exposure photograph of him while he was moving. There was a glow to his body that made it look like he was radioactive. It made Dean feel like he was burning. He screwed his eyes shut. 

“Dean, are you okay?”

“Cas.” A growl came out of Dean’s throat and he rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands. “Whatever it is you’re doing, man, you need to pull up. This is too much.”

“Dean?”

Dean felt the fizzy numbness of his body recede even further. His body felt almost normal. His eyes opened hesitantly. 

“...Cas?” Sam asked, going out on a limb.

“Still me,” Dean said, shaking his head. He could finally look at Sam directly without feeling like his face was melting. He sighed. 

“Are you okay? Your eyes were...” Sam peeked around Dean to see Castiel’s empty vessel laying on the bed. “Is he…?”

Dean tapped the side of his head. “All up here. We’re good.”

Dean stepped aside so that Sam could enter the room. Sam flicked the lightswitch a few times but the room stayed dark. He looked at Dean accusingly. 

“What can I say? I got my go-go juice.”

Sam rolled his eyes and used his phone flashlight to examine the body of Jimmy Novak. Dean followed him and lingered by the bed. 

“He’s still breathing,” Sam said. He hesitated before adding, “Do you think he needs…”

Dean curled his upper lip. “Depends?”

Sam and Dean both stared blankly at Jimmy’s empty body. 

“I’m not opening that can of worms,” Dean finally said. He patted Sam’s shoulder as he moved past him to leave the room. “I’m starving.”

Dean stumbled as he walked down the hallway. He was in the kitchen for just long enough to grab bread, peanut butter, and jelly by the time Sam entered the room. 

“Do you feel any different?” Sam asked hesitantly, lingering by the doorway. 

Dean nodded while spreading peanut butter on a piece of bread. “I feel like I ran a freakin’ marathon.” He ran his thumb on the side of the knife to gather the remaining peanut butter and stuck it in his mouth. “I’m gonna eat a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, eat another, down a beer, and then crash for the night.”

Sam smiled and huffed air out his nose. That was the Dean he knew. “Is Cas talking to you?”

Dean looked up to tell Sam no, but jolted when he wasn’t standing by the doorway anymore. He looked around the room and flinched again when he realized Sam was a few feet to his side. 

“Son of a bitch, when did Cas teach you to teleport?”

Sam looked confused for a second before realization dawned on him. “Cas took over for a few minutes. He told me that everything is going according to plan. It will take a few hours for you to get ‘attuned’ enough to communicate. Whatever that means.”

“Damnit Cas, I told you to let me stay behind the wheel.” Dean said with very little heat behind his words. 

“He said that would be the only time.” Sam motioned to the counter where Dean was making his sandwich earlier. “He apologized.”

Instead of the half-made peanut butter and jelly sandwich that Dean was making, there was now a plate of two completed sandwiches (cut into triangles) and an opened bottle of one of Dean’s favorite beers, fresh from the fridge. Dean’s stomach growled.

Dean picked up the plate of food and the beer. “He’s forgiven. This time.”

---

Dean woke up and headed to the bathroom on autopilot, his bladder sending alarm bells to his brain. He went through the motions as usual, yawning and scratching his tummy as he relieved himself. When he looked down to make sure that the tank was empty, he felt a wave of embarrassment wash over him. His eyebrows pulled together and he touched his cheeks with a free hand. There was no reason why he should be blushing as he takes a whizz. He would have to do some googling later. He filed the feeling away in his mind, and the embarrassment passed as he put himself away and moved to the sink to wash his hands. 

Dean jolted when he saw his reflection move without him in the mirror. He furrowed his brows and looked pointedly down at the faucet. 

“Am I hallucinating?” he asked the empty bathroom. 

His own voice answered him. “If Sam were to walk in right now, he would see you talking to yourself.” Dean’s eyes flicked back up to the mirror. His reflection’s voice was grittier than normal, as if he ate a bowl of gravel for breakfast. “But you are not hallucinating. This is one way I can communicate with you.”

Dean laughed dryly and shook his head, looking away again. “This is weird, man. I feel like Jamie Lee Curtis.”

He had almost forgotten what had happened the night before in his post-hunt adrenaline crash. The reflection, which must be Castiel, had better posture than he’d ever had in his life. It looked like he’d gained an inch in height. 

“I can remain completely dormant if you’d prefer.” Castiel kept Dean’s body still as he spoke, save for the slight tilt of his head. “I do not wish to make you uncomfortable.”

Seeing someone using his meatsuit would normally make his hand itch for a silver blade, but something about this felt different. 

Dean shook his head slightly. “No big deal. Anything else I should know about beside this whole” —he waved his hand half-heartedly at the mirror— “Mulan thing?”

“I am passively aware of the sensory input you receive,” Castiel said, lowering his eyes. “But I am able to focus my attention elsewhere when you require privacy.”

Dean felt the tips of his ears begin to burn as he remembered what he had just been doing. He cleared his throat and changed the subject. “So what, you’ve been busy reading my thoughts?”

Dean’s reflection tilted his head and lowered his eyebrows slightly. Seeing Castiel’s mannerisms on his body made his hands twitch. He had to stop himself from touching the mirror. To shatter it or caress it, he didn’t know. 

“The mind of a shared vessel is difficult to describe in terms you can understand,” Cas shared after a pregnant pause. “There is no branch of human studies that can be used as an accurate reference.”

“You’re an angel,” Dean said, flexing his fingers. “I’m sure you can dumb it down for me.”

Castiel took a moment before speaking, no doubt firing a trillion of his and Dean’s currently shared synapses. “We share subconscious minds in this state, but our conscious minds remain our own. Instincts and emotions are shared before coherent thought.”

Something clicked in Dean’s mind. “Wait, was that…” Dean bit his tongue. He hesitated before speaking again, pointedly not looking Castiel in the face. “Were you embarrassed earlier?”

Dean’s reflection avoided eye contact. “I understand that humans are very protective of their genitalia. I apologize. I did not intend to—”

Dean cut him off. “Okay, we’re not going to talk about genitalia. New rule.” Dean worked furiously to think of a way to change the subject. Finally, “Why don’t I feel any different?”

Castiel looked thankful for the prompt. “Human senses aren’t accustomed to celestial intent. You felt that when I first entered your body. It will slowly become more comprehensible as we continue sharing the same vessel.”

Dean barked out a short laugh to distract from thinking about it too much. “Thanks for the fine print. Anything I should be on the lookout for?”

“Nothing major.” Dean kept expecting to see Castiel’s blue eyes when their gazes linked. Something about making eye contact with himself felt weird. “You were created to house the most powerful archangel in heaven, so there’s no chance of unintentional damage to your body on my behalf.”

“Don’t sell yourself short, bud.” Dean raised his eyebrows at his reflection. “You can be scrappy.”

Seeing his reflection give a small, easy smile was something that Dean hadn’t seen in a while. 

After a small pause, Dean swallowed and cleared his throat, speaking carefully. “Listen, can you—”

As if reading his thoughts, Dean’s reflection changed to Jimmy Novak, trenchcoat and all. 

“Is this better?” Castiel asked, back to his normal appearance. 

Dean’s lips quirked up. It was nice to hear his voice again. “Yeah.” His mouth was a little dry. He tried again. “Yeah, Cas. That’s better.”

Castiel smiled at him before dissolving into Dean’s reflection. Dean lifted his hand and rubbed his face, watching his reflection follow his movements exactly. Everything was back to normal. He nodded at the empty mirror and turned on his heel to start his day. 

---

After a cup of coffee for breakfast, Dean started to become aware of how dirty he was. He never actually had the chance to take a shower after the fight with the witch. Thankfully, she was staying in a classy apartment rather than a cabin in the woods, but still. He probably smelled like an entire gym locker room. He put it off for as long as he could, not knowing how to bring it up to Castiel. He almost made it to noon by reading lore in a storage room before Sam leaned over him to see what the book said and scrunched his nose. 

“Dude, come on. You stink so bad,” Sam said. 

Dean rolled his eyes and stood up from where he was sitting. He gave Sam a shit-eating grin. “I smell like a bed of roses.”

“Sure, maybe one that a dog just peed in.” Sam chuckled under his breath. “Maybe you can ask Cas to zap you clean.”

“I’ll just do it the old-fashioned way.” Dean scooted around Sam and made his way to exit the room. “Kids these days, always looking for the easy way out.”

“Dude, I’m 32!” Sam yelled after him as he entered the hallway. 

Dean chuckled at his own humor as he walked to his bedroom to grab a fresh set of clothes. Once he realized that he needed a shower, everything felt uncomfortable. It would be nice to get under the bunker’s perfect water pressure again. 

He spent a longer time than normal picking out clothes, still putting off having to deal with Castiel possessing him while he showers. Finally, he entered the bathroom he claimed as his own. There was just enough space for the basics: toilet, shower, sink, counter, mirrored medicine cabinet. 

He stood in front of the mirror awkwardly for a moment, unsure how to broach the subject. 

“Cas?” He said to the empty room. 

The mirror didn’t change. Dean wondered if maybe he imagined the entire possession. He clicked his tongue and turned away from the mirror, but jolted when he saw Castiel standing next to him. 

“Holy shit!”

“No,” Castiel answered. He tilted his head at Dean. “It’s me.”

Dean shook his head in shock. “How are you here?”

“I’m not, physically speaking.” Castiel lifted his arms to show off his form. “I’m a visual representation constructed by your mind.” He looked down at himself. “I’m surprised. It normally takes months for seraphim to harmonize with their vessel’s brainwaves enough to present themselves without the aid of a reflection like this.”

“Look at you go.” Dean checked the mirror quickly. Castiel had no reflection. 

Castiel seemed to realize where he was for the first time. “Are you about to take a shower?”

Dean nodded.

“I assume you wish to have privacy,” Castiel said.

Dean felt his cheeks heat up. “Please.”

“I will put my attention elsewhere.”

“How?”

Castiel thought for a moment. “If you’re willing to try, you may be able to create an illusion of something for me to distract myself with.”

Dean hummed an affirmation. He tried to think of something that Castiel would like. He closed his eyes shut and imagined Castiel holding it. 

After a few moments, he heard Castiel say, “The Bible?”

Dean opened his eyes to see Castiel holding a copy of the Bible. It was small and leather bound, with the title embossed in gold. It looked like an exact copy of the one that his dad used to keep in the trunk of the Impala. 

“Yeah, the Bible. You’re an angel, aren’t you?”

Castiel flipped through the pages. He smiled. “Have you ever read the Bible, Dean?”

“Uh, no. I never got around to it, surprisingly.”

Castiel turned the book around so that Dean could see the pages. They were all blank. “Your brain didn’t know what words to add. Try something that you know.”

Dean took a deep breath and closed his eyes, picturing what he wanted Castiel to have in his mind’s eye. 

He opened his eyes to see Castiel examining it in his hands. “What is this?”

“My old walkman,” Dean said. 

It was beat up, with countless chips in the plastic. The wire to the headphones had a kink or two in it, but Dean knew that it would still work. It was loaded with an AC/DC track that Dean stole from the Impala’s glove box when he was 17. 

“This is before I turned it into an EMF detector.” Dean wanted to reach for it, but hesitated. His hands would probably pass right through it. “It’s nice to see it again.”

Castiel looked at it fondly. “How do I use it?”

“Here, put these over your ears.” Dean grabbed the headphones on instinct. They felt solid in his hands. The feeling stopped him in his tracks. “I can touch this?”

“It’s all in your brain, Dean.” Castiel set the walkman body on the bathroom counter and took the headphones from Dean. Dean felt the soft brush of his fingers as he did. “The same brain that is letting you see and hear illusions can let you feel them too.”

Dean licked his lips. “Okay. Awesome. I can handle this.”

Despite feeling anxiety grow in his gut, Dean felt calmness attempting to wash over him. He looked at Castiel. 

“Pretend I’m here physically,” Castiel said, not mentioning the jedi mind tricks he was no-doubt pulling. “Show me how to use the walkman.”

What’s the big deal, Dean? Dean thought to himself. Never taught an illusion of an angel how to use a walkman in your bathroom before?

Dean forced himself to take a full breath. “Okay. Okay.” He shook his head slightly to shake off his anxiety. “Put the headphones on.”

Castiel did. He picked up the walkman from where he set it on the counter. “What button should I press?”

“It should be all rewinded and everything. Just press the play button.” After a moment, Dean added, “It’s the triangle.”

Castiel nodded and pressed it. He looked at Dean with a smile. “It’s working!” he said, a bit louder than normal. 

Dean gave him an awkward thumbs up. “Just close your eyes and listen for a few minutes.”

Castiel gave him a thumbs up back. “I’ll just… um…” He looked around for a place to be while Dean undressed. He pulled the headphones off for a second. “Where should I go?”

Dean suddenly realized that the bathroom didn’t have much room for privacy. He looked around for a moment before lowering the lid of the toilet. 

He pointed at the now-covered toilet. “Sit here. Turn the volume up.” “Okay.” Castiel sat. He put the headphones back on and fiddled with the buttons. He closed his eyes. “I’ll be here.”

Dean just looked at Castiel for a few seconds. This was so weird. He trusted that Castiel wouldn’t try to spy on him, but he was still sitting less than a foot away. He hesitantly took his shirt off. Castiel didn’t react. Socks were next. Pants followed soon after. 

He was standing in front of Castiel in his underwear. 

Right, he needed to turn the water on first. He had to awkwardly bend around Castiel’s knees to reach the faucet handle, but thankfully Castiel ignored the movement. He could almost feel the warmth of Castiel’s imaginary body heat on his torso. He adamantly ignored it, for Little Dean’s sake. 

The water was running. Moment of truth. Dean took a deep breath and pulled his briefs off. He didn’t dare to look at Castiel in this state. He had to bite back a hysterical laugh from the absurdity of it all. 

Don’t think about it, don’t think about it, don’t think about it. The thought ran circles around his mind. He’s in your head, don’t think about it. He can feel what you feel, don’t think about it. 

Dean hopped in the shower. He gave a sigh of relief when he finally pulled the curtain back, blocking Castiel from his line of sight. He could pretend like it was any other day. The water hit him like rain. 

He sang Shoot to Thrill under his breath as he washed himself clean. 

---

Thank God that Dean’s tastebuds were still working. If he started tasting molecules instead of flavors, he would have to kick Castiel out. He piled his plate up high with the chicken alfredo that he spent the past few hours cooking. Sam had already served himself a plate of the pasta before Dean added the chicken and was sitting at the kitchen table, reading something on his laptop with one hand while he ate with the other. Dean grabbed some silverware and sat down across from him. 

Without thinking, Dean wove his fingers together on his lap and lowered his head. He sat in relative silence, mouthing something inaudible under his breath. 

“Dean, what are you doing?”

Suddenly, Dean snapped back into reality. He unclasped his hands and moved them from his lap to above the table. He quickly picked up his silverware and started to spike pasta with his fork. “I’m eating dinner, Sammy.”

“No.” Sam laughed. “No, before that. Were you… saying grace?”

Dean felt a blush begin to rise in his cheeks and pointedly ignored Sam’s gaze. “That must have been Cas.”

“Or Jimmy.”

“What?”

Sam slid his laptop to the side so that he could look at Dean directly. “I’ve been doing some reading about angel vessels. There isn’t much out there, but we know that angels leave behind a trace of grace in the vessels they occupy.”

“Yeah, of course,” Dean said, having completely forgotten about that part. 

Sam took a bite of pasta and chewed quickly to continue speaking. “What if the opposite is also true? Cas has been inside Jimmy for years now. He could have picked up on some of his habits.”

“Dude,” Dean said. “Never say that again.”

Sam paused for a second, then rolled his eyes when he understood. “I’m just saying, Dean. This is uncharted territory. Who knows how angels and vessels affect each other? The Men of Letters’ research on them is all theoretical.”

“I’m not going to church anytime soon, if that’s what you’re thinking.” Dean paused. “Are you asking to research me?”

“No. Well, it would be helpful since you’re already here.” Sam looked up at Dean hopefully but shook his head when he saw the look on Dean’s face. “But no. Definitely not.”

Dean rolled his eyes. 

Sam changed the subject. “Good job on dinner, by the way. Thanks for making it.”

“Nesting has its perks.” Dean gave Sam a smile with cheeks filled with pasta. 

---

The nighttime was when it felt truly bizarre. Dean had to lay in bed and try to fall asleep, knowing that Castiel was just a sharp inhale away. He had been tossing and turning for almost an hour. Angels didn’t sleep, so Castiel must have been just watching this all happen. He couldn’t fall asleep if he thought about it. 

“Cas?” he finally voiced into the empty room.

Castiel appeared, sitting on the side of Dean’s bed. He turned his head to look down at him. “Hello, Dean.”

Dean sighed and relaxed into the pillow. “This is weird.”

“How are you feeling?” Castiel asked. Dean barked out a laugh on instinct. 

“Me? Peachy.” Dean pushed himself up into a sitting position. “How’s Hotel Dean? Do I need to call housekeeping?”

Castiel looked out into the darkness, giving Dean a view of his side profile. “You’re the strongest vessel known to man. I am… exceedingly comfortable.”

“Good. That’s… good.” Dean felt embarrassment in his gut from the compliment, unsure if it was his own or Castiel’s. “You aren’t bored?”

Castiel returned his focus to Dean. “I do not find being this close to you boring.”

Dean forgot what he was going to say. His mouth was suddenly dry. He licked his lips and broke eye contact. He could still feel the weight of Castiel’s gaze. 

“Um, what’ll happen when I fall asleep?” Dean had to clear his throat to get his words out clearly. 

“Nothing unusual. I will remain dormant.”

“Would it wake me up if you took over?”

Castiel furrowed his brows. Finally, he answered, “No. It would be less invasive than sleepwalking.”

“I don’t see why you couldn’t take over while I’m getting my few hours,” Dean said carefully, looking back at Castiel. “If I can’t tell the difference.”

“Dean…” Dean could already tell from his tone that Castiel was going to decline the offer. 

He adjusted his position on the bed. “Come on, man. You’ve gotta take what I’m giving to you. I wouldn’t say it if I didn’t mean it.”

Castiel looked into Dean’s eyes for a few seconds before responding. “I understand.”

“Just don’t do anything weird.” Dean relaxed back into laying down on the bed. “Take care of my body.”

“Of course, Dean.” Castiel looked away before blinking out of existence. 

Dean didn’t have trouble falling asleep after that. 

---

Sam was walking to the kitchen in the early hours of the morning when he heard sound coming from Dean’s lounge (which Sam refused to call The Dean Cave, no matter how many times Dean threatened to cut his hair off). He changed course to investigate, his socked feet making soft pat-pats in the morning silence. The door was slightly ajar, so he pushed through to see the TV on and Dean sitting on the couch. Sam could have sworn that he recognized the show, from some article or meme that he saw online. Finally it clicked. 

“Is that… Riverdale?” Sam asked incredulously. 

Movement came from the couch. “Don’t be too loud, you’ll wake up Dean.”

Sam was caught off guard for a second before he put the pieces together in his mind. This would take some getting used to. 

“That’s creepy,” Sam said, pointing at Dean’s body. “So, I’m talking to Cas now?”

“Yes.” Castiel turned his attention back to the show. “Claire recommended this show to me. She said that I would find it funny. I’m not sure I understand the joke.”

“Yeah, I don’t think anyone does.” Sam chuckled breathlessly. “Does Dean know you’re making his eyes watch this?”

Castiel closed his eyes for a moment, opening them to meet Sam’s gaze. “He is currently dreaming about being in a high school musical theatre program. I assume that on some level, he is processing the show alongside me.”

“Um…” Sam floundered for words for a moment, suddenly struck by the strangeness of the situation. “Do you want any coffee? I’m starting a pot.”

“I don’t.” Castiel paused. “But bring a cup anyways. Dean’s about to wake up.”

Sam walked back to the kitchen, muttering, “So creepy…” under his breath. 

---

Maybe Dean shouldn’t have been so adamant about taking a case while Castiel and him were shacking up. 

Side note, Dean thought as he struggled to breathe. Find out whether shacking up is only about having sex.

It was easy to feel regret now, as he was being held against the back of a gravestone psychically by his neck. But hey, pobody’s nerfect. Maybe it was Sam’s fault for agreeing to come with him. 

The case was supposed to be a simple salt-and-burn for a ghost that had been spotted a few times in a Topeka graveyard. Just a quick day trip. Everything was going according to plan until… Well, Dean’s neck hurt. Thankfully, they had dug up the grave before the ghost showed up. Double thankfully, the ghost’s attention was entirely on Dean. 

He couldn’t help but smile a little as Sam dropped the lit pack of matches on the ghost’s salty and gasoline-drenched bones. Said smile turned into frightened eye contact with Sam when the ghost didn’t disappear. 

“Dean, something else’s keeping it here!”

“Y’think?” Dean gritted out his words through clenched teeth. He made a snap decision. “Cas, take the wheel!”

What Sam saw was Dean breaking out of the ghost’s psychic hold, thrusting his hand through its chest, and the ghost burning away from the inside out. 

What Dean saw was different. 

He felt brisk air as it hit his exposed forearms, cooler than the warm summer night he had just been in. He opened his eyes to see himself standing in the middle of the countryside in front of a barn. A familiar barn. 

The wind picked up as Dean walked closer to the barn’s doors. The roof started to stutter and creak. The doors began to shake. 

He knew this barn. 

He reached his hand out for the door handle, but the doors opened in a burst of sparks and splintering wood before he could even touch it. The inside of the barn was revealed. 

There were sigils and graffiti painted all over the walls. He knew those sigils. He painted them with Bobby. 

He could make out someone walking over to him from the shadows. 

“Are you gonna stab me with a knife?” Dean asked, holding his arms out. 

Castiel continued to walk closer to Dean. “I apologize for the abrupt change in scenery. This is the first location I could think of to take you.”

“This is fine, Cas.” Dean huffed out a laugh, still coming down from an adrenaline high from the hunt. “This is just fine.”

Castiel smiled contentedly. 

Dean suddenly remembered what situation he had just escaped from. “Wait a minute, if you’re here, who’s handling my body?”

“Still me,” Castiel said, somewhat smugly. “I’m able to multitask.”

“So what’re we doing right now?” Dean couldn’t help but circle around Castiel slightly, echoing his footsteps from years ago. 

Castiel noticed his repetition and watched him idly. “Sam and I are refilling the grave. Would you like to take back over?”

“Nah, I’ll let you handle the heavy lifting.” Dean finally planted himself by the table of various weapons and leaned against it. “How does it feel?”

Castiel tilted his head at Dean. “I don’t experience physical exhaustion like you do. It doesn’t feel like anything.”

“No, not the digging.” Dean’s thumb rubbed against the rough wood of the table. He lowered his gaze slightly, too embarrassed to say it while looking at Castiel. “Do I feel any different than Jimmy?”

Castiel tilted his chin up and inhaled as he thought. “You have a higher white blood cell count than Jimmy. Your cholesterol is higher than his as well.” He paused. “You also have more” —he squinted his eyes slightly as he decided on a word to use— “brightness to your vessel.”

“What, I’m blowing sunshine up your ass?”

“No,” Castiel responded, drawing his eyebrows together. “You’re the righteous man. You’re divine.”

He said it as if it was the easiest thing in the world. The sky was blue, two and two was four, and Dean Winchester was from the heavens. 

Dean scoffed and shook his head. “I’m not divine, Cas. I’m just a guy.”

He heard cracks of lightning. Castiel was no longer looking at him, deciding to move his gaze to something behind him. 

“Dean,” Castiel said, eyes twinkling in mirth. “Look behind you.”

Dean only had to turn his head slightly to see them. 

There were wings growing out of his back. Big and black, exactly like the ones he saw on Castiel. 

“No.” Dean shook his head. “This is all backwards.” He looked back at Castiel. “Am I dreaming?”

Castiel didn’t say anything, choosing instead to close the distance between Dean and him. For a second, Dean thought—

“Dude, you need to get a sleep apnea machine.” Sam laughed from where he was sitting behind the steering wheel. “You sound like an airplane.”

Dean tensed in his seat and checked his surroundings a few times to comfort himself. He was in the Impala with Sam. 

“I was sleeping?” he asked. 

Sam quickly glanced at him, keeping his attention on the road. “I don’t really know. Cas took over to kill the ghost and clean up, but then he just sat silently in the car. It was creepy.” Sam shrugged. “I just said something when you started to snore.”

“Gee, thanks.” Dean rubbed his hand over his face. It hadn’t felt like a dream. Castiel must have done his forehead-touch thing to send him back to the land of the living. “Remind me to stop crashing after hunts. I get the weirdest dreams.”

“Yeah, you love it when I tell you what to do.” Sam checked the mirrors dutifully. “How’s Cas?”

Dean raised his eyebrows at Sam. “Weren’t you the one who just talked to him?”

“Yeah, but I’m not the one he’s riding shotgun in.” Sam’s mouth quirked. “What’s that like?”

“It’s great.” Dean adjusted his position in the seat. “There, we talked about it. Can we stop by a store? I need to pick up some protein.”

Sam rolled his eyes. “Sure thing.”

---

Dean was lying awake in his bed sometime between day two and day three when he finally asked it. 

The words rang in the silence of the night. “What’s it like needing a vessel?”

In the blink of an eye, Castiel appeared. This time, he was lying in the bed next to Dean, under the covers in three layers of clothing. Dean felt underdressed in his pajama pants and old band shirt. The two men were lying on their sides and looking right at each other. Dean thought about telling him to give him some space, but it didn’t matter. He wasn’t physically there. 

Castiel was silent for long enough that Dean started to wonder if he was going to answer.

“It makes me feel demonic,” Castiel confessed. His eyes almost glowed in the dim light. “It should not be the will of heaven to ruin a life just to exist on the physical plane. Having to tear someone from their family, from their entire life. I admit, I feel some semblance of comfort knowing that Jimmy is in heaven.” He lowered his eyes in shame. “But Claire, Amelia. Even those in his life he wasn’t close to. Every human has such an intricate web of relationships and reasons to live. Using them as a vessel erases the beauty of humanity.”

Castiel paused. “Jimmy wasn’t my first vessel.”

Dean looked at him in silence, willing him to continue. 

“She was a young woman. Carlotta Richards.” Dean thought he could feel the phantom puffs of Castiel’s exhales on his cheek. “She left her family as a teenager. They didn’t approve of her.” Castiel looked at Dean meaningfully. “She saw me as a blessing. She didn’t realize she was cursed from the moment she let me in.”

Dean’s mouth was dry. “What happened?”

“The mission I used her for ended and I returned to the celestial plane.” Castiel continued to avoid Dean’s eyes. “Her heaven is beautiful. She spends her time in an eternal Saturday sunset on a picnic with her soulmate.” Castiel finally looked at him. “Dorothy.”

Dean held his breath. He was transfixed, completely and utterly. 

“What else?” 

“You,” Castiel said in a low voice. “This body is no closer to what I look like than yours is. I’m not a man with dark hair and blue eyes. I’m not a man at all. Angels’ true forms are their most personal expressions of the self. You deserve to see it.” Castiel’s voice was soft, so soft. He was nearly whispering when he spoke again, his eyes burning into Dean’s. “I wish that you could see who I truly am.”

Both of them wondered, in that moment, if this would be when it happened. Neither moved. 

Dean finally exhaled. “This is who you are.”

Dean blinked. Castiel was gone. 

He didn’t sleep a wink. 

---

It had been a few days. 

Dean could tell that Sam knew it was time for Castiel to go back. Dean knew too. He was eating breakfast when the man himself made an appearance. 

“It’s time for me to return to my rightful vessel,” Castiel said, sitting in the chair across from Dean that was empty a moment before. 

Dean nodded and finished the last bite of his cereal. “You sure?”

“I’ll do an examination of the vessel before I return.” Castiel watched Dean wipe the milk off his lip. “But I believe so.”

“Awesome,” Dean said. He stood up and brought his bowl to the sink. “Let’s get you back home.”

Castiel disappeared after that, leaving Dean to walk to his room alone. He knocked on Sam’s door as he walked by it. 

“Cas is going back to his vessel, you good?”

He heard a muffled, “Let me know how it goes!” from through the door and continued down the hall. Dean was vaguely grateful that Sam didn’t want to be in the room for it, but he didn’t care to examine why. 

Castiel blinked into existence again when he opened the door to his room. Dean turned on the light (thanking Sam for replacing the lightbulbs) to see him staring at his prone body from where he was standing at the foot of the bed. 

“What’s the verdict, Doc?”

Castiel hummed. “The spell seems to have run its course. It should be entirely safe for me to return to my vessel.”

“Good, good.” Dean went over to grab the chair he used before. “Sitting down again?”

Castiel nodded. 

Dean pulled the chair up to the same position, mind only spinning a little bit from seeing two Castiels in the same room. 

“So, what do I do?” Dean asked. “Just exhale really hard, or what?”

Castiel placed a hand on Dean’s shoulder, standing behind him. “I will take care of it. Close your eyes.”

Dean did. 

The reversal process was the same level of strange. It felt like someone was painlessly turning him inside-out. He could still feel the static over his lips as the white light trickled out of his mouth. He felt Castiel’s grace rubbing against the inside of his skin as it retreated up his body. Dean was glad he was sitting down, because his knees felt like they were made of Jell-O. 

Castiel began to rise into a sitting position as he returned to Jimmy Novak’s body. Dean subconsciously trailed after the white smoke as it left his mouth, closing the distance between him and Castiel’s true vessel. They both inched closer to contact as the cloud that was Castiel transferred between them. 

Dean wasn’t aware that he had been kissing Castiel until Castiel started kissing him back. 

It was like touching the surface of the sun. Dean leaned into Castiel’s body for a moment before pulling away. He felt like he was burning. 

“Woah, I—” Dean fought out a breath. 

Castiel was a deer caught in headlights. He scrambled off the bed and started moving away. 

Dean suddenly realized that he didn’t want him to go. He grabbed his forearm. 

“Don’t leave,” Dean pleaded. 

Dean didn’t let go of Castiel’s forearm. Castiel didn’t say anything. Dean kept not letting go. 

“Dean.” Castiel’s body was tense, like a rubber band about to snap.  

To Dean, It all made sense in that moment. Every hidden glance, choreographed touch, charged moment. Dean couldn’t imagine being content without him. He felt like a puzzle whose final piece had just clicked into place. 

Dean took a deep breath. “Cas, you’re my only happy ending. It’s you.” It was a revelation. “And I want a happy ending. I want a happy ending so bad it hurts.” Dean moved his hands to grip his trench coat by the lapels. “I’ve fought for it. I’ve died for it. I need the sun to set, Cas. I need you to be by my side when it does.”

“Dean,” Cas said. 

“So yes. Of course, yes.” Dean let go of Castiel’s now-crumpled trench coat, leaving his hands to slip and rest flat on Castiel’s chest. “Yes back then, yes today, yes tomorrow. Yes to you every day until I’m dead in the ground. Yes to every day after that.”

“Dean,” Cas prayed. He lifted a hand to cup Dean’s cheek. 

Dean’s eyes threatened to fill with tears, but his eyebrows were set sternly in place. “Please, Cas. I won’t ask you twice. Stay.”

“Yes.”

Castiel was the one who closed the space between them. It was electricity in motion. Their kisses were clumsy, awkward, but neither of them would change a thing as they fell onto Castiel’s bed and the kisses began to deepen. 

---

Dean would scratch the back of his neck as he stood next to Castiel, looking at Sam sitting at the table. 

“Hiya, Sammy,” he would say, getting his attention. “Cas and I are... Well…”

Castiel would interrupt. “Your brother and I are having sex now. We don’t plan on stopping.”

Sam would be caught off guard for a moment, but he would smile and laugh kindly with them at the absurdity of it all. 

“It’s about time,” he would finally say. “You two have been circling each other for a while now. It was either killing each other or…”

Dean would smile and say, “Falling in love.”

“Well.” Sam would laugh again. “I was gonna say making out. But that’s good too.”

Dean would feel embarrassed and lower his gaze to the floor for a moment. But Castiel would grab his hand, squeeze it, and everything would turn out alright. 

#spn #supernatural #destiel #deancas #dean winchester #castiel #sam winchester #rowena macleod #i'm queueing this up so when it's posted i'll literally be getting top surgery lmaooo #how queer #anyways writing fan fic is so fun y'all #i had a good time working on this one <3 #but i am not mentally capable of writing smut so <3 #i should probs come up with a writing tag for this blog huh #uhhh #j writes

[katewalker]

when you were scared

rating: mature

pairing: wyll x delphene goldshaper

words: 1k+ ; tags: angst, mild hurt/comfort

summary: “why do you keep bringing feelings into this?” she asked louder than she wanted to. these conversations always left her so frustrated. he always seemed so sure of his feelings as if they were foregone conclusions. if she could let go, she would. in a heartbeat she would.

(you can also read it on ao3)

“How far?” Wyll voice was roaring and shaking due to his anger. It was the first time she saw him in almost forty-eight hours and definitely the first time she saw him in this state. Sitting on her slightly raised cot, Delphene made a point of slowly looking him up, then down before going up again. She crossed her arms on her chest and tried not to strain her right side. She had yet to recover her full range of movement. That gobbo got her pretty bad. Sneaky ugly snot rag.

“How far?” Wyll asked her again.

“What in the Hells are you talking about, sir? And keep it down, Halsin needs all the peace he can get after... after.”

Delphene wasn't proud of herself for what happened two nights ago. She put the entire party in harm's ways including Wyll, but she had to follow this lead. It was too important; she needed these maps. And she succeeded... well, technically she fell, but Astarion told her Lae'zel and especially Wyll took the green monsters out. Gale took the maps and even some artifacts back at camp. The vampire revelled in riling her up by telling her how touching it was to see Wyll so reckless in battle the moment she went down. Bastard. Clearly, she knew what Wyll was talking about. She was just deflecting as usual. She pushed too hard, tapped too deep into her connection with her patron. Apparently, Halsin took care of her for the majority of the first night. Her wounds, mental and physical, prevented her to travel for six whole days. Enough time for the gash on her right leg and the one near her ribcage to heal properly. Shadowheart and Lae'zel visited her too this morning and gave her a stinking eye because of it. Delphene understood and did not take it personally. They still needed to find a cure for their tadpole problem and they were comprehensive enough to let her go on her errand. Everyone had their own personal motives and lives before their respective abductions. It was the unspoken rule to follow each other when urgent private matters arose, no questions asked. For even if they still did not fully trust each other or get along, they were bound together by what happened on the mind flayers’ ship. They had better chances to survive together. It was a fact that no one questioned. Not anymore.

Wyll was looking at her with so much intensity. She could feel his anger fuelled by his worry. He was downright terrified of what could have happen. What scared her in return was that she did not need the tadpole to know this deep in her core. She opened her mouth to speak, maybe crack a joke and reassure him - and herself - but he went on before she could say anything else.

“Don't you think I'm an idiot, Delphene! I held you after you fell. You were covered in blood, lifeless eyes, and that fucking black aura emanating from you. You were dying in my arms as I brought you back here! How far did you go when you channelled your patron back there?”

Oh, how she hated when he dared judge her on this topic. Just because he wanted to break the deal he made with his dear Mizora, it did not mean she had to feel the same about her own pact.

“Too far! There! I reached deeper in our connection than I was allowed to and They rejected me! Happy now?!” she hissed.

“Delphene...” His anger deflated in a flash and he sounded defeated and tired. She didn’t like the sound of her name on his tongue when he said it like that. “Was it because that gobbo spoke dwarven to you? You lost it when she did... well all saw it. That's not like you... What did she say for you to be so careless?”

His anger she could take, but not his kindness. The guilt was too much to bear. So, she pushed back.

“What do you care? And you don't know anything about who I am! I was ready for more, but They won't allow it... yet. I was just surprised when They closed off from me and that bitch got lucky to land a hit on me, that's all.”

He was nonplussed by her cutting tone as if this was a game they already played far too often during their intimate acquaintance.

“I do care and do know you! Why do you always refuse to talk about it?” he sighed, passing a hand on his tired face. He had no rights, they agreed on their thing being a casual thing. They did not speak of feelings. They did not have feelings. After Hanka and because of her own personal matters — the reason she made a pact in the first place — she refused to be in a relationship anymore. Only pain and cynicism waited at the end of the road. He could not commit himself while bound to Mizora, he told her so after they slept together for the first time. It was the perfect compromise, mutual pleasure and stress relief, nothing serious. It was irrelevant to their current situation if she decided to purposefully ignore the fact he often would wish out loud that he could offer her more.

“Why do you keep bringing feelings into this?” she asked louder than she wanted to. These conversations always left her so frustrated. He always seemed so sure of his feelings as if they were foregone conclusions. She should know better after Hanka. Still, a part of her — kept hidden and locked deep inside her heart — was begging to let it all go and embrace what Wyll tried to offer. How she wanted to bask in his warm and tender devotion! This part of her was too selfish, too greedy, too possessive, too dangerous to be trusted. She could not let it out, because she had a quest of the highest importance to accomplish. If she could let go, she would. In a heartbeat she would.

But she needed to restore her family’s grandeur. When she realised how much this part of her wanted, she remembered her grandmother. She recalled the tales of bygone days, when their dynasty had lands and the highest of reputations amongst jewellers and other artisans. Delphene thought about how sad the ancient woman sounded talking about her lost lands and the times of prosperity and power that her granddaughter will never know. The young dwarf thus vowed revenge all on her own. She will bring everything back to what it once was for the sake of her grandmother, of her family and the rest of her people uprooted by force from their land. Her desire for vengeance was so strong she was willing to sacrifice herself on the altar of forgotten gods to guarantee it would happen. She never anticipated her deal with the Great Old One would be so unstable, despite her willingness to offer Them anything They wanted, including her soul.

“Fuck you, Delphene!” he spat, his anger flaring once more for a handful of seconds, before his shoulders sagged. If only she could make him hate her. Everything would be easier. “You were almost dead... bleeding in my arms... and I couldn’t bring you back. What was I supposed to do? Act as if I wasn't scared shitless at the thought of losing you? Over your pact?”

His voice cracked and he took a step towards her. She would have taken a step back were she not on her cot. He was too close, she had to push back again and be safe. She could feel herself wanting.

“You are one to talk!” she snickered. “Please, can you remind who...” Delphene stopped abruptly upon noticing his grimace as he moved, her mantra abandoned. She couldn’t help the surge of concern she felt on his behalf and she hated herself for it. Not him, never him. “Are you hurt?” she asked, trying to sound stern and control the worry in her voice. She quickly lost consciousness after she got hit in the cave. She was out of it the entire following day. Her companions checked on her this morning, except Wyll. That was when Astarion told her about how brutally the mighty Blade cleaned the place of any goblin still standing after she hit the ground... She knew everyone was alive, and that was enough. She never took a moment to consider that her party could have been hurt too. Maybe the vampire wasn't trying to be an arsehole for once, but to warn her — in his own twisted way — that Wyll wasn’t in his best shape either. “The bastards got you too?”

“A lucky hit, just like you,” his eyes fixed his shirt for a few seconds before finding her face once again. “Don't change the subj...”

“Come here! Let me see,” she ordered while extending her left hand to him. He looked at her unconvinced. He thought she was trying to stray from their initial conversation. In all honesty, she was, but the truth was she loved Wyll much more than she should. A truth to be kept hidden with the part of her who wanted too much. Knowing these fresh wounds were inflicted on his skin because of her made Delphene feel ill. They locked eyes for a long moment, neither talking. He must have found something in her green eyes, because he took her hand and slowly walked to stand in between her short legs.

“Delphene... please... don't drop this conversation again...” he whispered, but she was already unbuttonnig his dark shirt to reveal a bandage covering his stomach. She caressed the freshly clean linen covering his middle section. Halsin must have changed it this morning after he took care of her.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered back, resting her cold forehead on his warm chest. Those three words held way more meaning than a simple apology for their argument and they both knew it. She was sorry for letting herself be provoked so easily back in the cave. She was sorry for letting him see her on the verge of death. She was sorry he got hurt because of her. She was sorry for everything else to come their way in the future. She was sorry for the future they never could have. She felt his gentle arms enveloping her, one hand on her back, the other in her hair. She felt too much. He was too close, but she couldn’t push back and be safe. Because right now, her foolish heart felt safe.

Her lips grazed his skin above the bandage. Atonement.

Then, she felt him kissing her scalp. Acceptance.

She wanted to weep.

#baldur's gate #oc: delphene #delphene x wyll #uservoelds #*pau edits #*oc #and here it is...... finally #no beta this is war

[oxzebi997]

Clone Tober Day 3 Chip Removal

Fives woke up, a pounding in his head and the taste of bacta on his lips. Kriff he’d gotten hurt, badly enough for a soak. He wasn’t listening yet to his surroundings, but he could tell he was laying on a pretty hard bed, probably a mess bunk, which made sense. His head throbbed a little, not the normal result of a long bath in the blue gunk. He chuckled a little, wondering if Rex would slap the back of his head before telling him how he’d ended up in a tank.

He could hear brothers all around him, some sounding worried, some nervous, some even seemed angry. What the hell had happened? He let himself fade again briefly, while he tried to recall.

Good soldiers

Fives snapped awake viciously and shot straight up, before he could even speak, his chest burst with a burning memory of the injury he now fully remembered. There were brothers immediately at his sides, but his vision now blurred from his very sudden movement and pain and he couldn’t clearly tell who he was looking at.

“Fives, Fives relax, it’s alright. You’re alright vod!” The Captain’s voice was firm, but concern was heavy in his tone.

“Rex- Rex you have to- Tup- th-the Chancellor/“

“I know, Fives, you told me already. It’s been a little while since then. I need you to calm down for a moment, and I’ll catch you up.”

Over the course of the war Fives had come to trust Rex with everything he had, he knew the Captain wouldn’t outright lie just to get him to be quiet for a second, so he paused a moment and let his breath catch up to him. He looked around, his vision clearing now, he felt several hands on him, on his shoulders and forearms.

Jesse looked… scared. That expression did not belong on his Vod’ika. His brows scrunched just a little, messing up the Republic Cog he was so proud of. He turned to the other side, Kix, who usually looked worried anytime he had a hand on Fives in a medbay, somehow it seemed different.

“Alright… alright Captain, I’m listening.” He breathed.

“You were right, those chips do have orders on them. It’s worse than you thought but we’ll talk about that later. After some… convincing, the General was less defensive and listened to reason.”

“You- … you believed me?”

“Fives, you’re my brother, of course I believe you! I didn’t understand and you were panicking, I’m sorry you felt like I didn't. It was important enough to you to get shot and nearly killed, I filed a report with Cody while you were in bacta. I think he mentioned it to General Kenobi and then the Jedi Council got involved.”

Fives couldn’t believe it, he hadn’t saved Tup, but it wasn’t for nothing. His vod’ika’s nightmares were over, and things were… going to get better? He realized after a second in his own thoughts that Rex was still talking.

“-first, obviously and let you heal completely in the tank, then as many of the commanders as we could get to a facility and all the medstaff brothers, as well as the Guard. And now we’re just working our way through the army as quickly and efficiently as we can.”

“And… the chancellor?” He asked, barely above a whisper.

“I don’t have all the details, as I understand it the Jedi want to have at least half the army de-chipped before they make a move, but they are planning an investigation using our General as something like a spy.”

“Did… you said you had to convince him?”? He was shaking a little, still angry with his general, he’d been dismissed.

“The general is close to the Chancellor, he didn’t want to believe that one of his mentors could be the villain in some big conspiracy plot. You passed out, which, fair you got a shot to the chest just half an inch off your heart. We managed to get you into a tank and Kix spent an hour looking for your chip, since you were down already.” Rex paused, putting his story together, maybe back in order, “when Kix found your chip and we were able to figure out what was on it he came around, he’s… pretty karked at the moment about the whole thing.”

Fives took in all of it, relaxing finally and letting the whole story process. He’d done it. Rex had listened and believed him, sure he’d been shot but… well that probably wasn’t Fox’s choice now that he thought about it. He looked around him, Rex, Jesse, Kix, all wore a small bacta patch on the same spot on the side of their heads. He looked around behind them, brothers waking up on medical gurneys with the same patches, a dozen or more brothers already in surgical pods, many others moving around bringing supplies or just keeping an eye out for the recovering patients. Tup had died, Fives had failed him, but Tup’s death had just saved every clone in the galaxy from the same fate.

“We did it vod…” he leaned back down on the bed he had woken up on “it’s over… the fighting… the nightmares… it’s finally over.”

He smiled and closed his eyes and for the first time since Rishi, he rested.

Read it on AO3 or support me on Ko-Fi

#fives clone wars #star wars tcw #clonetober2021 #star wars

[theawkwardterrier]

and the last age should show your heart

Summary: In which a recovered Kate is ready to settle into normal married life; her husband makes things difficult; and challenging each other does not stop with the wedding.

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Although he could clearly see the progress of her recovery himself, Anthony insisted on having her examined several times over by the most reputable medical men in London in order to ascertain that she was truly through with her convalescence. Kate bore this first with amusement, then with impatience, and finally with distinct ill humor.

“I do it only out of concern for you,” he emphasized the afternoon he informed her that he had made another appointment (the fifth) for tomorrow. “It’s clear that your leg can bear weight well enough, but always best to be thorough. Were we to have an incomplete understanding of the healing process and thus allow further injury, I should never forgive myself.”

Once, some version of herself would have softened at such an expression of attentiveness from him. An even earlier one than that would have been astonished that anyone except Mary or Edwina would ever have so concerned themself with her at all. Those versions, however, had been allowed the freedom not only of all the floors of the house but of the glorious outdoors as well without an overly bothersome husband admonishing at every turn to take care.

This Kate, a veteran now after months of marriage - too much of that time spent indoors if not in bed - said testily, “Then it sounds as if your concern is truly for yourself, although it is I who has found herself most inconvenienced. In fact, as you have barely believed me able to leave this bed, it strikes me that these last few months have been startlingly advantageous when it comes to indulging your more wicked tendencies - and you have little anxiety over my injured state then.”

She did not gesture to the rumpled sheets among which she sat, but he took her meaning well enough, fingers stilling on the cravat he had been retying after their (not quite) brief midday interlude together. “That is unfair, Kate,” he said, ironclad voice masking what she suspected to be actual hurt, although she did not know whether it stemmed from the insinuation that he preferred her without independence, kept captive to his whims, or that he cared little for her comfort or enjoyment when in their bed.

Neither was true, so she allowed herself only another moment of stewing before she forced her eyes to his and said, “I know. I apologize.”

“Excellent.” He finished the knot and turned to check it in the glass, face smoothed cheerful once again. “Then Mr. Josephs and I shall see you tomorrow at half three.”

She cut her growl short, merely seething as he placed a kiss on her forehead and took his leave. (Even as she fumed, she could appreciate that he held back the urge to whistle as he did so. Just as she could appreciate that whichever tailor had cut his breeches was most certainly not paid handsomely enough for it.)

They had a perfectly civil meal together that evening, and a night which one would not precisely call civil but which was certainly enjoyable all the same, and when they laughed together over breakfast, Kate felt them thawing back to their particular normalcy. However, when Mr. Josephs failed to impress as he allowed himself to be forced to stay a mere hour before declaring Kate fully healed and Anthony tried to insist on a sixth visit, she put her foot down, literally and hard and atop his. He was quite lucky that she no longer had need of a walking stick or he would have had that to contend with as well.

“No!” The word came out nearly as a snarl. “I am sorry, but regardless of your misplaced concerns, regardless of your overprotective nature, regardless of whether I fall down a dozen times in the doing of it, tomorrow I am going to put on a dress and style my hair and take tea with your mother.”

“You could—”

“At her home,” she said, and this time, even spacing and perfectly bitten off enunciation and all, it was most definitely a snarl.

All of the Bridgertons had been excellent company during her recuperation - despite his considerable efforts, Anthony could not keep her confined entirely to bed, and she was able to venture downstairs to host various pairs and groups of them over the past months even when she was not receiving most callers. Their frequent visits provided significant entertainment and what Kate only half jestingly referred to as “dispatches from the outside world.” As such, she was comfortable in the drawing room at Bridgerton House even as tea with her mother-in-law expanded to include all three of her older sisters-in-law and Daphne’s infant daughter Amelia.

In fact, she was feeling more than comfortable, she was feeling rather splendid, having the chance to be out somewhere, stretching her limbs and speaking with people, even in such a small and familiar setting. While she was aware that one day this would be her home rather than Violet’s, an idea which still intimidated her, right now it was simply somewhere different from the house where she had been trapped for months and wonderful for it.

A good quarter hour had been spent admiring each facet of Amelia as she slept in her mother’s arms, and even that was wonderful. Kate could not keep her eyes from the baby’s fingers. How tiny they were! She could hardly understand how Daphne could sit so serenely when they looked delicate enough to break at a touch. It struck her that sometime soon she might have her own child with infinitely breakable fingers for whom she would have to care; even with her injury, she and Anthony had not been doing very much to prevent such an occurrence. One might say the opposite, in fact…

She drew her mind quickly from thoughts of her husband before a blush could overcome her face, and listened instead to Violet recounting the latest trials through which Hyacinth was putting her governess. The dowager viscountess sighed at the appropriate places and her tone was all motherly despair, but Kate detected a slight smile at the corners of her mouth. Kate herself was attempting to cover a laugh by holding her cup to her mouth, hoping that none of the others would notice that she had allegedly been sipping tea for nearly a full minute.

“Would you like some more, Kate? Or perhaps a biscuit to accompany? You seem to have quite the craving for tea today.” Eloise was unfortunately too astute for either her own good or Kate’s.

“Oh, I really—”

“I would quite enjoy tea and biscuits. Thank you for offering.”

Kate’s cup came down hard onto her saucer, mirth transformed into confused suspicion. “Anthony? I had thought you were spending the day on some business with Lord Ellsworth.”

“Ah yes,” he said, literally waving a hand through the air as he walked further into the room toward them all, his brother Benedict following behind. “We concluded earlier than expected, but he mentioned something which put me in mind of some papers which I realized are in the desk in my study here.”

“Where they remain even now, despite how imperative it was that we come find them at once,” Benedict murmured. Kate had noticed that while he did not quite have Anthony’s ready control of a room or Colin’s easy charm, he was still as witty as the rest of his family, simply a bit less loud about it, particularly in company. Although not, she thought, quiet enough, based on the glare his older brother cut his way; Benedict ignored it easily, placing both hands on his mother’s shoulders from behind and bending to kiss her cheek.

Anthony, meanwhile, gave up on his brother and moved onto pestering his sister. Well, not pestering, precisely. He merely hovered implacably over the place where Francesca sat beside Kate, and his patience was rewarded when she sighed and stood so he could take her seat.

“Don’t let him bully you so,” cried Eloise.

Francesca shrugged her slim shoulders as she moved to sit at the pianoforte instead. “I don’t mind. He wants to sit beside his wife. I think it’s quite sweet, actually. Very romantic.”

“See, I’m romantic,” Anthony said, leaning over to speak softly to Kate, although he barely needed to move to do so. By her measurement, if he intended to sit this close, Francesca could well have stayed put.

“Romantic is not precisely how I would put it.”

“How would you prefer to phrase it? Charming? Besotted? A steadfast and wonderful husband?”

“Trying,” she offered through gritted teeth. “Difficult. Unnecessarily meddlesome.” She considered moving into the bit of empty space remaining on her other side, but she knew that he would only move closer, and besides, it was actually quite comfortable to feel him pressed warmly against her. Still, she gathered her irritation as she added, “I truly don’t know what you expected us to be doing in your mother’s drawing room in the middle of the afternoon which would necessitate you coming to inspect—Anthony, are you listening to me?”

“Are you certain you would not like a footstool?” he asked, ignoring her entirely in favor of frowning down at her leg, covered as it was by the fabric of her dress. “No one would object if you needed to prop your leg. It’s only family after all, and everyone wishes you to be comfortable.”

Despite it all she felt herself softening at that. “My leg is fine,” she said, tone easing like a kite when the wind slows. “But thank you for being so considerate.” And then, because she truly could not resist, she added, “In fact, it seems that all the recommendations regarding moderate activity and returning to a regular routine are doing me a world of good.”

And likely because he could not resist either, he responded, “What seems good today might turn regrettable tomorrow. Only remember then that there is no shame in admitting that you have overexerted yourself and will be more comfortable at home.” A look of nobility which undoubtedly hid a smirk came across his face. “I shall certainly not preen about it should I turn out to be right.”

She spluttered, then glared, forgetting that they were visiting, that they were surrounded by other people. Anthony had always been able to vex her into forgetting herself. “You will not be right, but for taking that tone, I am going to have Cook prepare tripe and boiled turnips every day for the next week.”

“She was my cook first,” Anthony protested, likely turned a bit childish by the thought of such fare. Kate didn’t disagree; she would need to have an alternative menu prepared for herself if she indeed made good on her threat.

“Yes, well, she likes me better.”

“She does n—”

“Your tea, Anthony.”

Violet’s pointed voice startled Kate back to awareness. Judging from the looks the rest of the Bridgertons were giving them, ranging from Benedict’s vague amusement to Eloise’s relish to Francesca’s sympathy, Kate guessed that it was not the first time her mother-in-law had attempted to draw her husband’s attention to the cup she was extending to him. Anthony, clearly better practiced at glossing over such moments, merely took his tea and sipped at it politely.

“Delicious as always, Mother,” he said, all correctness. “I’m so very glad we were both able to join you this afternoon.”

Kate narrowed her eyes, and she would have kicked him would it not have been too obvious. As it was, she simply said, “Oh, yes, it has been absolutely lovely,” and decided that she would take him further to task when they returned home.

“Well, marriage does seem to have some practicalities to recommend it if nothing else,” Penelope commented as she and Kate walked down the street to the subscription library of which they were both members. The weather had shifted from a damp gloom to an unseasonable brightness, and Kate took in the air, refreshingly cool but not chill, with relish. “Had we needed to wait for my mama or one of the maids, busy as they were assisting my sisters, we might have been forced to postpone our outing for another week at least.”

It did still surprise Kate that she was now considered a suitable chaperone - at this time last year, she would have expected herself quite a bit more likely to reach such a position simply due to age rather than via marriage. However, she knew well the desire to make one’s unwedded state a casual fact so as not to cause awkwardness for others, and she suspected that Penelope was attempting the same now.

Studiously not thinking of her argument and subsequent reconciliation with Anthony the previous night, Kate said lightly, “Yes, not needing to be accompanied everywhere is one aspect which I have found to be worthwhile,” but did not dwell further on the topic.

Nevertheless, it was clear that her marriage was on the minds of others. As Kate and Penelope entered the library, several of the other ladies inside glanced at them and then immediately began whispering to their companions. Kate was not conceited, but she had little hope that anything other than her arrival had caused the reaction: Penelope, already sliding away to examine the shelves, had managed to leave the house in a day dress of pretty pale blue muslin rather than one of her mother’s more noteworthy choices, and the tongues had scarcely ceased wagging over Kate’s hasty wedding to the very eligible Viscount Bridgerton before she had quite publicly broken her leg and all but disappeared for months.

She had some friends, and her family of course, but never having been among the fashionable set nor a particular standout in any way other than her plainness and relationship to Edwina, she was not exactly a known quantity among the ton. In a strange way, her unremarkableness had made her even more an object of fascination.

I am going to have to entertain sometime soon, she thought with dismay. Else I will never have anyone used to me.

But that would come sometime later. For now, she could simply browse the shelves in the hope of finding something new and diverting. She had already devoured Miss Austen’s latest, of course, and Mrs. Gorley’s work was not precisely to her tastes, but she did think she spied a copy of Walter Scott’s Waverley just there - it had been published months ago, but had been so popular that she hadn’t a chance to read it before now.

Elevating slightly up onto her toes, Kate reached for it, fingers grasping the spine and just beginning to pull the volume down when an altogether too familiar voice said, “Ah, I thought that was you, Kate. Here, allow me.”

Her husband’s hand, warm and broad, brushed beside hers and removed the book, bringing it down to a more comfortable height with a bow. She accepted the volume with a brief “Thank you,” glancing sharply around at everyone watching before she ground out in low tones, “You just happened to be passing, I assume?”

“Of course.” He was all innocence. “Quite the lucky coincidence, I would say.”

“Quite.” Her teeth were going to crumble in her mouth at this rate. She forced her jaw to relax and painted on a cheerful expression. “Well, thank you for the assistance. I shall see you this evening.”

“You are most welcome.” Tilting his head with the smile she was certain had charmed altogether too many women, he added, “But must I truly wait until this evening? Surely I could accompany you for the rest of your afternoon - I am already here after all, and have little else to occupy myself.”

Hitching up her own smile even as she knew that it would do nothing to deter the gossip she could fairly see floating around the two of them, she said, “I am afraid that I am already accompanied. See, Miss Featherington and I were so enjoying our time together.”

Penelope had been standing silently beside the adjoining bookshelf, clearly relying on the wisdom of animals and small children that if you stayed entirely still and quiet perhaps you would not be noticed. Her eyes widened fractionally as she realized that it had not worked and that she was in fact going to need to step over and be polite, but she did it anyway, curtsying to Anthony and greeting him. (Kate had noticed that for all of Penelope’s wallflower ways, that manner in which she, by preference or fate, tended to fade into the background, she had little trouble speaking with Anthony, intimidating as he was.)

“Wonderful to see you, Miss Featherington, as always,” he said, bowing in return. “How fortunate my wife is to have your company. I wonder if you would not mind allowing me to share in that pleasure as well?”

Had the situation been different, perhaps Kate would have sympathized with the way Penelope glanced hastily between the two of them, trying to conceal the vague panic on her face. She might have even found it amusing. As it was, she tried to communicate without words precisely how much she had been looking forward to some time without the presence of her intrusive husband.

“Well, this is meant to be the ladies’ library,” Penelope finally ventured and Kate fairly beamed.

Too soon, however. Anthony waved a hand. “Ah, do not concern yourself. I shall step out as you finish your browsing, and then we can all ride together in the park. After all, being in the barouche might offer a respite for my wife, given her injury. What a splendid idea, Miss Featherington.”

“Oh, but I—”

Penelope’s words seemed to dissolve in the air as Anthony gave another one of his charming smiles, bowed, and left, the door clicking quietly closed behind him.

“It is no matter,” Kate said before Penelope could add any sort of apology. “You did wonderfully - it is no fault of yours that he is so persistent.” She sighed. “The park will be lovely, I am sure. And I did manage to find a book before he arrived.” Turning her back on the onlookers still gawking at them, she added even more quietly, “Next time I shall simply neglect to share with him my plans for the day. He will not find me so easily then.”

Beginning to look just the slightest bit mischievous, Penelope asked, “Oh, but will he not simply begin to have you followed?”

Kate set her shoulders. “Then I shall at least lead him on a merry chase about London, and see how he enjoys that.”

“It was lovely of you to accompany me today, but may I say, Kate, how unkind you are to allow your sister to learn of your recent exploits only through Lady Whistledown.”

Edwina turned slowly on the spot to face Kate as the modiste pinned expertly at her hem. Her expression, once fully revealed, was far more playful than her disapproving tone had indicated. Kate wrinkled her nose at her, but her sister only laughed.

“The latest issue had much to say regarding the ongoing tension between yourself and your husband. The two of you are apparently engaged in ‘a battle of wits and wills.’”

“Wills and whims is perhaps more accurate.”

“Regardless, she seemed to find the affair most entertaining. Her description of the way you tried to ensure that he had an engagement for fencing with his brother while you paid calls, only to have him bring two brothers along to join you - the whole thing was quite amusing.” It truly was unfair how Edwina only looked lovelier when she put on that impish smile to tease Kate. “Considering how sharp her pen can be, it is remarkable how affectionate she remains toward the pair of you. I believe she is quite taken with you!”

“Yes, her devotion to the idea of our love match is quite remarkable.” Kate turned away to examine some ribbons, although she knew that it would not dissuade Edwina from continuing the conversation.

And indeed: “The idea of your love match?” She could practically hear the appearance of the frown. “Perhaps it was not immediate, but now...Kate, the two of you are quite mad for each other and I know you too well to be convinced otherwise.”

Kate thought of Anthony offering a dowry for Edwina, the comfort of his voice, his reliable presence during storms, the way he always made certain that his family and duties were entirely taken care of. She thought of him with his hair rumpled and boyish in the privacy of their home, how with a few words, a simple stroke of the hand, he could make her feel utterly beautiful, actually cherished in a way she never could have imagined for herself. She thought of all the times over the months of their marriage when they simply sat together, talking of events both large and inconsequential, how he listened to her opinions and how she liked to listen to his (even when they were quite clearly flawed), how she appreciated making him laugh such that the burden of his responsibilities weighed less if only for a short while. She pictured the glint in his eye as he tried to verbally best her and the one when he had decided that there had been enough words between them for the evening and he would prefer instead to rob her of the ability to speak.

She sighed. “You are not incorrect,” she said, twisting the end of a white satin ribbon so that it curled around the tip of her finger. “It is only that—I have found it surprisingly simple to be married to him, but there has been little chance for me to truly learn how to act in this new time of my life. I am a viscountess now, a wife, and I can scarcely settle into either role when I am constantly wondering when he will arrive to try to distract me from my tasks.”

“One might think that it would be easiest to learn how to be a wife when your husband is constantly beside you,” Edwina noted, although her voice was kind if not entirely filled with understanding. “However, of a more pressing nature: it seems that you need not wonder long today.”

Puzzled, Kate turned, the question of precisely what her sister was talking about already on her lips, but found that she did not need to give it voice. Through the large window in the front of the shop, it was easy to spot Anthony striding up the street, eyes fixed and grin wide.

“Allow me to guess,” Kate said as the door to the shop opened to admit him. She placed one hand on her hip, tapping her chin with the other in mock thought. “You bribed my maid into telling you where we had gone and then simply happened to be in the area?”

“Your mother told me where you were with no bribery involved,” he said cheerfully. “And it did in fact so happen that I too had business only on the next street. Now—” He glanced around at the modiste’s assistant, who had remained ducked into a curtsy at the sight of him. “Please fetch the viscountess a seat.”

“I have no need of a seat,” Kate protested.

“As we shall be going soon,” he nodded. “Very sensible of you. Once Edwina has finished, there is a new cake shop I am eager to try. I believe that they have a confection made with lemon syrup which will be much to your liking, Kate.”

His outward manner was one of simple, practiced courteousness. In reality, she knew that he was attempting once more to win his way, but she also saw the smile, which was honest and directed only at her.

“I suppose we may add such a venture to our plans,” she agreed with a sigh. If nothing else, she would at least get some cake from the arrangement.

“Not to credit myself exceedingly,” Colin said as he and Kate walked together from the drawing room at Bridgerton House. “But I daresay none of my siblings would have made quite so good a partner, so it really was a good showing on my part to introduce you to Anthony and facilitate your joining the family.” The two of them had been paired together during charades following supper, and it was no boast to say that they had absolutely trounced the others.

“Not to credit yourself exceedingly, of course,” Kate said dryly. “Particularly as that introduction was made more in the spirit of your own entertainment than it was in hopes of our future together.”

“Ah, Kate, what a blow.” He pressed a hand to his chest.

Her mouth twitched uncontrollably into a smile. “You do not deny it. I judge my aim to be true.”

“Well, I shall take the acclaim for your wedded bliss, regardless of my original intentions.”

“Yes,” she said. “Our bliss.” But her smile faded a bit and she knew that she saw.

“My brother continues to exasperate, I gather.”

“He would certainly say the same of you,” Kate said, trying to tease. It was true, but she also found that she did not particularly care for others speaking against her husband, even if they might be correct.

“Oh, he has called me much worse than exasperating. Indeed, I recall—”

“You recall what?”

Kate turned just in time to see Violet fall into step with them, smiling briefly at her daughter-in-law before she turned to her son and said keenly, “Well, what is it that you were speaking of?”

“Only the tendency of your eldest son to irritate those around him,” Colin replied smoothly. “Tell us, Mother, did his nature show while he was still in his swaddling clothes, or did it only reveal itself once he began speaking?”

“Oh, hush. He was perfect, as all my children were, you know that.” She swatted lightly at his arm, before dropping her voice and adding, “Although there are perhaps some stories I could tell…”

“I for one would enjoy hearing them,” Kate said.

“Of course you would.” Violet’s light tone shifted just the slightest bit as she added, “You know, I can certainly have a word with him if he truly is causing you trouble. A reminder of one of those stories might serve well as a warning.”

Kate glanced over her shoulder at where Anthony was coming down the hall behind them, listening intently to something that Gregory was saying even as Hyacinth bobbed at his elbow and tried to interrupt. He really would make a wonderful father someday; in certain ways, he had already been playing the part for years now. She sighed, her heart softening a bit once again, and turned back to her companions.

“Please, do not worry yourself. Truly, all is well between the two of us, and I can certainly manage the situation if need be.” She linked her arm through Violet’s, a devilish little smile touching at her lips. “However, knowing one or two of these famous stories of yours might not go amiss. They sound ever so fascinating, after all.”

“How kind of you to allow me the pleasure of a dance,” Anthony said as they waltzed together a week later at Lady Vincent’s. “I have noticed you are less than satisfied to see me of late.”

“I would be perfectly happy to see you if only you did not force me to do so quite as constantly,” Kate reminded him. “And if you continue chasing me down and making a nuisance of yourself, perhaps in future I shall dance with your brother instead. If he is not much more accomplished than you in that area, these days he at least strikes me as less vexatious.”

“Who, Benedict?” He snorted, looking to the edge of the floor where his brother was sipping extremely slowly from a glass of punch, likely to avoid his mother’s latest attempts at matchmaking. “You are misled.”

“A pity. Luckily, I was referring to Gregory.”

“I had not realized they allowed waltzing in the schoolroom.”

“Ah, well, I suppose I shall have to make do with you. Only pray remember even as I grant you that, it makes you not a jot less maddening.”

Her coiffeur for the evening involved cascading curls; they fluttered with his breath as he bent toward her and said very softly against her ear, “After this insufferable affair has come to its end and I have taken you home, I shall remind you precisely how I can madden you, and how very much you can enjoy it.”

The flush which crept from cheeks to throat to collarbone and down along her décolletage felt apparent even to her, and she could tell from the gleam in his eye that he well enjoyed watching it spread. That look of superiority could not stand, so she mastered herself, leaning in to give a whisper of her own. “Perhaps I shall deny you such an opportunity and madden you in my stead. Turnabout being fair play, after all.”

“I should like to see you try,” he said, voice still low. “It has not escaped my notice that I am not the only one in our marriage with...robust appetites.”

The music was coming to a close; there was only a moment more for them to speak this way. She had the chance for the last word, and she seized it.

“Ah, Lord Bridgerton. You should have known better than to challenge me.”

Kate surveyed herself one final time with a surprising degree of satisfaction. Although Lady Bridgerton had insisted on expanding her wardrobe considerably before the wedding, there had been little opportunity to show off the modiste’s fine work; sitting in bed or around the house with her leg thrust awkwardly forward called more often for clothing in the category of old and comfortable rather than fashionable. Although Kate had never cared overmuch about how she dressed, wearing something new which suited her was a bit of a treat.

She was taking her enjoyment where she could these days. Anthony had become, if anything, more persistent in his intentions to find her wherever she went, leading her to make good on her threat not to allow him to pay her interest in a more private setting.

(Although she had obeyed only the letter rather than the spirit of his condition of faithfulness so long as she did not bar him from the bed, she had no worries on that score. He loved her, she knew that, and besides, between his usual responsibilities and his determination to chase her down at every opportunity during the day, and his attempts to seduce her all night, where would he find the time to stray?)

While her prohibition clearly seemed to have an effect on him, given the time he was investing in attempting to convince her to give over to him and the snappish manner he had taken on over the last several days when she had not, she was not finding the situation precisely easy either. As Anthony had pointed out, since their marriage, she had become accustomed to having certain needs met, and now that she was aware of those needs, it was most displeasing to have them remain unsatisfied.

“Excellent.” She jumped a bit at hearing Anthony’s voice in the doorway of their bedchamber, pretending to herself that it was merely because she had expected to have a bit more time to depart considering the appointments she knew he had scheduled today. It had nothing to do, of course, with the fact of him here in the flesh after she had been recalling that flesh so vividly to mind. “Are we going out, then?”

She ignored him, picking up the lead from the side table as she called Newton’s name sharply. Unfortunately, he simply continued to doze on the floor beside the bed. Holding back a sigh, she went over and attached him to it, which did manage to wake him. Instead of stretching and standing with any degree of dignity, however, he immediately leaped up, panting, and attempted to pull her from the room. It was only her preemptively planted feet which kept her from being towed gracelessly behind.

Although she had purposefully avoided eye contact with him, Anthony, still lounging in the doorway, said blithely, “I had been hoping to have an opportunity to take some air. A walk with the creature will be perfect.”

And that, for some reason, was it. Perhaps because it had been going on so long, or perhaps because she had spent the past several nights lying inches away but not touching him even as her fingers fairly itched to do so, or perhaps it was because Newton was behaving ridiculously, or because Anthony was insisting on joining them only to spite her (he did not even like her dog enough to use his name), or some combination of all of those factors and more, but her voice went quite deadly, coldly dignified, as she said, “My apologies, but you shall not be joining us, my lord. You shall stay here, and I will speak to you upon my return. Now, if you will excuse me.”

Luckily, his spine had gone straight with shock at hearing her tone, entirely devoid of teasing or requisite argument or begrudging capitulation; she did not think he would have moved over on his own enough for her to pass. As it was, even as she and Newton descended the stairs and departed the house, she nearly expected to be followed.

She did not expect the small pang which struck her when she realized she had not been. After all this time, she had managed to push him away and she was unsure what it might cost her.

Newton’s energy had flagged after less than an hour - the consequences of short legs, she supposed, and perhaps the interrupted nap - but she forced the two of them to stay out for a respectable interval. It had been hard-won, after all.

When she finally returned, she removed her bonnet, saw Newton settled and lapping noisily at a bowl of water, and spoke briefly to the butler and the housekeeper before she asked where her husband was and braced her feet toward his study.

She was somewhat surprised that he was still in the house, although it was entirely expected that he would withdraw from their bedroom rather than remaining there at her order like a caught child. The way he moved his pen across the page, all tightly wound fury, his choice not to look up although he surely heard her tread or her light knock - all just as she predicted. Even the way he spoke when he finally chose to wipe his pen, set his papers aside, and look at her, the ringing command of, “I will not be addressed in such a way, Kate,” was the voice of the viscount, precisely as she had known that it would be.

But she had not known she could respond similarly until she did. “Then do not require it of me, Anthony,” she said: the voice of the viscountess, although she had never before heard it from her own mouth.

He looked for a moment just as taken aback as she felt, the mask dropping briefly. It was enough to soften her, making her sigh and walk in toward him, closing the door behind herself. She leaned on the corner of his desk nearest him, hands clasped and resting against her skirts.

“Anthony,” she said, gazing down at him. “Anthony, this is becoming absurd. Will you please tell me what on earth you have been thinking of?”

He said nothing, mouth pressed mulishly inward, but he turned just the slightest bit toward her, angled his legs so that they were nearer hers, and she recognized the space he was opening. She reached down to take his hand, pressing it to her lips.

“Please.” Her words were becoming ever softer. “Please, I must know what is going through your mind. Will you tell me?”

Although she had heard him speak clearly mere moments before, when he finally began to talk, his voice was hoarse enough that he had to clear his throat once, twice, before he was finally able to be understood.

“It was your injury at first. Needing to stay close to you to reassure myself that you truly were well and would not be overcome, yes, but…” He inhaled slowly and deeply before he continued. “I am certain that no matter how long my life, I shall never forget the sight of you beneath that carriage, so still and silent.” His gaze met hers, and she saw the shine of tears there. “If such an accident could happen once, it could happen again, and I would—I could not have borne it had anything else occurred, but more than that, I could not take the chance that I might be away from you when it did. What if you needed me and I was off looking at accounts, or taking care of some foolish errand, or sitting about playing cards, or doing anything but all that I could to help you? So I made certain that I would be near you as often as I could.”

“Anthony—” she started, but now that he had begun speaking he could not seem to stop himself.

“I know the extreme unlikeliness of you breaking another limb while trying on gloves or sitting taking tea or what have you, but I could not take the chance. And beyond that...I know you have doubts regarding my foreshortened life. Nevertheless, your advice was to ensure that whenever my time comes, I would be without regret. And aside from neglecting the continued well-being of my family and tenants, the thing I would regret the most is not spending enough time with you.”

His hand, which lay so naturally in hers that she had nearly forgotten she was holding it, tightened as he faced her. “It took me too long to understand that I loved you, and longer still to realize that you have become my favorite person to spend time with. Having you at home for all of those months made it terribly easy for me to become accustomed to being around you for hours or days at a time, and even that might not have satisfied me. Truly, I am not certain that ninety years beside you would be enough.”

Emotion seemed, for a moment, to eclipse her ability to speak. She had the feeling that anyone might have reacted thus to such a declaration of love, but she was only just finding out what it was to be loved, that it was possible for her to be desired. She had spent her life up until the last months believing that if she did not remain a spinster altogether, her prospects were limited to those desperate for any sort of wife. Hearing these words from someone who loved her truly and especially was quite overwhelming.

Even knowing that it would not be truly comfortable for either of them, she could not help herself: she relinquished his hand and settled herself in his lap, pressing her forehead into the space between his jaw and throat as they both breathed together. He did not seem to mind the discomfort, holding her tightly.

When she had finally mastered herself, she said, still a bit shakily but making the best of it, “I must say that I don’t know that spending every moment of the next ninety years together is truly practical.”

She seemed to be able to nearly feel his answering smile. “Perhaps not, but one cannot make such a statement before making the attempt.” And then the smile was gone again from his voice, although she hoped not far. “I know that my mother wishes often that my father could be there to experience life beside her. For the larger moments, of course - when Hyacinth was born, and seeing my brothers off to school and to university, and for all the courtships and marriages and births to come - but for all the little in-betweens as well. I never—” He cleared his throat once again. “I do not want to reach the end of my life, whenever that may be, without knowing that I experienced you smiling at me, or handing me cups of tea just the way I like them, or telling me about whatever you have read lately absolutely as many times as I could.”

“What about hearing me play the flute as many times as you could?” she asked, holding back a sniffle. He really was quite sweet sometimes - as sweet as he was irritating, which meant abominably so.

Close as she was, she felt the wince even as he checked it a second later. “And hearing you play the flute, of course.”

“Then I shall be certain to play for you this very evening.” He did not respond but she resisted prodding him into agreement, choosing instead to say gently, “You know, I’m quite honored that you took my advice with such seriousness, but I wonder if you have forgotten the other part of it. Spending all this time worrying over regrets rather than settling into the wonder of each day...We are trying to build a life, and I want you to have a chance to revel in the array of it rather than attempting to hoard memories by volume."

“You think perhaps that I shall miss the forest for the trees? That in turning greedy for as many tiny moments as I can have, I shall forget to enjoy our life together as a whole?”

“Just so,” she said, relaxing further against him. "Not to mention the practicality of it all. Even if you were with me all day long from the time that you awoke - and I fear I would turn murderess in such a circumstance - but even so, there would be some second that your back was turned, some word or gesture that you missed. And besides, one day there might be more than us two in our family and I should hope that you would want to collect some fatherly experiences as well. Considering how much time you have spent only trying to follow me about…”

“How I should manage with a child or more I cannot think." Resting his cheek on the crown of her head, he sighed against her. "Must you be so impossibly sensible all the time?"

"Yes, I absolutely must," she said solemnly, although she was quite glad to hear his own good sense finally reasserting itself. "However, indulgent wife that I am, I shall make you a bargain: you might not be able to see me all the time, but we may arrange some—" She held up a finger for emphasis before he could get any ideas. "Some outings together during the day, and perhaps find some mutual activity to partake in. And we shall spend every evening that we are able together."

"I still will not have my fill of you."

"Perhaps. And perhaps I never would of you. But whether ten years or thirty or ninety together, we can make each day have been enough."

He groaned, leaning back as much as he was able. The chair at his desk truly was not intended to hold two fully grown adults. "Some healthy debate is one thing, but I dislike truly arguing with you: today was more than enough."

"Really?" She had begun tracing the buttons of his waistcoat, just lightly. "It is only afternoon. I can think of certain activities to occupy us for some time yet."

Before she truly registered the motion, she had been lifted into the air, his stride easy and purposeful as he carried her across the room.

"Have I told you lately how much I appreciate your mind? You really do have some marvelous ideas."

"And what if I had meant we should spend the rest of the day playing chess? Or visiting your mother?" she said, although she knew he could hear the joy in her voice.

"I could convince you otherwise," he said. "Believe me."

She did. Not that it would do to tell him, but she would not have taken very much convincing at all.

No one was overly surprised when Kate delivered a baby midway through the next year. In fact, if she heard Simon correctly as she passed his study at Hastings House before they announced her condition, there had been some playful questioning over whether Anthony understood the precise mechanics of things.

“Considering the amount of time you spend together, one would think the newest Bridgerton would have appeared already,” her brother-in-law had laughed.

If it had been one of his own brothers speaking, Kate suspected that the remark would have earned a swift smack upside the head, but as it was, her husband only replied, his voice like a hand on the hilt of a sword, “Remember that is my wife you are speaking of. And I’ll have you know that I could easily spend quite a bit more time with her, new Bridgerton or no.”

“Well.” Kate could not see past the cracked door into the room proper, but there was enough surprise in his voice to picture the Duke of Hastings with his eyebrows halfway up his forehead. “Apparently that is your wife we are speaking of.”

And despite the foolish masculinity of their conversation, it had made her smile.

She smiled quite a lot these days. Not so much when Edmund was being born, painful as it was, but in the months afterward, even with the baby so very small and fretful, she could not help herself as they settled into being a family.

In the past, she had considered the idea of waking with a smile to be the stuff of daydreams and silly novels, but no longer, and as she typically greeted the day wrapped in her husband’s embrace, she felt that she could be forgiven for the sentimentality. They always managed to have at least a few moments speaking together in the mornings before Anthony had to be up for some appointment or Kate needed to be off to meet her mother or sister, or her mother- or sisters-in-law. (Sometimes it was more than a few moments filled not precisely with speaking, which Kate found to be a rather delightful way to start a day.)

Afternoons found them often apart, although not as often as most married couples: few wives had promises of the favor of their company for a midday walk solicited so frequently, and most husbands avoided tea with the ladies like the plague rather than arranging to be welcomed to it. Seeing him appear in the doorway was always cause for a smile - although she did admit that it turned devious on the occasions that he realized too late that she was entertaining certain members of the ton who he typically preferred to avoid. It always suited her to have an ally, and as he was the one insisting on being present, he would have to take the bad along with the good.

In the evenings, so long as they had no other engagements, they would sit together after eating and share tales of what they had seen and done while apart during the day. He was well known for a most impertinent and absolutely entertaining impersonation of Lord Liverpool, but refused to allow her to show off to his family her impressions of the ladies of society - apparently it would give Eloise and Hyacinth ideas.

As if those two could not come up with ideas perfectly well on their own, and would regardless of any influence, but she let him have his fantasies.

Eloise herself took a seat between Anthony and Kate one morning as some of the family sat together in the drawing room at Violet’s new home. Kate, although she was now capably assuming the role of viscountess in true, had been a bit relieved that when her mother-in-law left Bridgerton House, the center of the family had shifted with her; she did love them all, but she was fairly unaccustomed to people turning up and going in and out at all hours. Violet was not even currently at home - she had gone calling and left her children with the run of the place. Not, in Kate’s opinion, a completely sound decision, considering the particular children involved.

Eloise, for example, had not actually sat between her brother and sister-in-law, but had more accurately placed herself practically atop the two of them: had Anthony not begrudgingly shifted over, Kate might have had to balance a grown woman in her lap along with her baby son. Leaning over, Eloise cooed at Edmund, who only smacked his lips together and yawned before dozing off again.

“How lucky you are, Kate, that he is still so small and sweet.”

Kate recalled how three nights past he had kept the house up until the wee hours and nearly had the nurse in tears. “Oh, I believe he is on his company behavior for you.”

“There will come a time where he has no company behavior,” Eloise predicted, nodding sagely. “He will forget all of your good instruction and simply stomp about. Or perhaps mope. He might take after Benedict - he was a mopey sort.”

At the sound of his name, the brother in question looked over from where he had been gazing absently through the window and pulled a face at his sister, although he ended up grinning a bit when she gave one right back to him. Kate was glad to see it; he had been unusually quiet over the past month or two.

“Luckily,” Eloise continued, “he will be at school by then, for the most part, and scolding him will be someone else’s concern.” Turning toward Anthony, she asked, “I wonder, however, how you plan to keep yourself occupied for the foreseeable future.”

“I beg your pardon?” Anthony said, in that familiar ‘your mind is completely confounding, Eloise’ voice.

“Well, Kate will be spending the next years child-rearing, and running Bridgerton House and Aubrey Hall, and playing hostess, and—” She waved a hand. “Viscountessing. So will you be taking up a hobby to occupy yourself until your children are grown? Fishing, perhaps, or gambling on horse races? Oh, I have it: you shall write poetry.”

Kate suppressed a snort while Anthony visibly gathered himself. “If you will recall,” he started with stiff patience, “I have my own responsibilities as well. And there is no reason for Kate to raise the children by herself - Mother and Father were partners in that as in everything, and we shall be as well.”

They had spoken of this before, but Kate could not help but bend her face toward the baby and pretend to adjust his cap. Each time she had heard him mention this, the delight of the thought nearly overwhelmed her.

When she looked up, Anthony was staring past Eloise and right at her. “And besides,” he said, barely for anyone but Kate. “I believe my time will be quite consumed otherwise, and well spent for it.”

“I would tend to concur,” she said, knowing that he was not referring to the music lessons he had recently begun, or even activities of a more personal sort. But before he could crow the victory for having gained her agreement, she smiled at him and waited, knowing that he would be unable to keep himself from smiling back.

#Bridgerton #Bridgerton fic #Anthony Bridgerton #Kate Sheffield #The Viscount Who Loved Me #I didn't mean to but probably should have known it would happen anyway

[aethelflaedladyofmercia]

Frivolous Miracles

Written for the @do-it-with-style-events "Who Needs a Great Plan" event; Day 2, prompt "Bastille."

(This is the first of my angstier fics; warning for mild violence and emotional abuse with the implication of more off-screen. Also, unfinished, to be completed later!)

--

The manacles hung heavily off Aziraphale’s wrists, chain ringing as it dragged across the ground.

He’d been hauled from one cell to the next all day, as the guards tried to decide what to do with the well-dressed Englishman they’d caught. He wasn’t even sure what crime he’d been accused of, but apparently it was a capital offense.

In the last hour or so, he’d been pulled from a leaking basement cell swarming with rats, to a crowded pen of people shouting in French, to a large, nearly empty cell from which he could hear the Place de la Révolution.

And there he waited, as the cell became more empty.

His fingers traced across the heavy iron holding his wrists. It wouldn’t take much. One miracle. A second, for the door. Another to slip past the guard, and one more for the exit. Maybe one or two more on the way, depending how crowded the fortress was.

How many would it take to alert Gabriel? More than one, he thought. Less than five.

Could he wait longer? Try to escape from the tumbril on the way to his own execution? Break the ropes of the guillotine before it could be lifted? Would he be able to slip away in the crowd?

Perhaps he was being foolish. Being discorporated—apart from the pain—would mean truly spectacular amounts of paperwork for him, yes, but for Heaven it meant the loss of valuable property and resources, or, if they wished to recover the body, an extravagant use of personnel who could likely spend their time doing something far more meaningful. So, surely, they would want Aziraphale to spend a few miracles to keep the body safe, and save everyone a great deal of time and hassle.

Normally, he would have.

But last month…

He wasn’t sure which miracles had put him on notice, precisely. He’d had a busy few decades. Floods in the far north, and earthquake off in the west, a return of the black plague down in Egypt. Wounds impossibly healed, endangered property miraculously recovered, desperately needed supplies arriving just in time.

And that was only the jobs themselves. He needed to ensure he got places on time; certainly the roads and waterways were safer than a century ago, but a few miracles took care of any difficulties. He needed clothes, to fit into local customs. He needed to speak the language. And, something he had found impossible to explain to his superiors, after a difficult task, he needed to take care of himself.

One day, he’d been sitting in his set of rooms, shuffling through a more mundane sort of paperwork. Aziraphale was going to buy property, a shop, in London. He’d looked at a dozen possible locations, from fashionable Mayfair to quaint little villages along the main roads into the countryside. None of them had been right, but he continued to look. He would findit.

His concentration was interrupted when the door burst open.

And his day was ruined when he saw who stood there.

The note, written on the crisp, clean paper of Heaven, a little too smooth, a little too perfect to actually exist, every swoop of dark ink perfectly catching just a hint of the light, as if it were still wet. The letterhead shone in embossed gold, and the whole thing smelt faintly of incense.

It began “It has come to the attention of myself, the Archangels, and the highest Choirs of the Angels of the Lord, that Aziraphale, Principality, Angel of the East, has utterly failed to represent the best interests of Heaven, or indeed of those he has sworn to protect.”

It ended “It is our hope that the Principality will take immediate steps to ameliorate the situation, or we will have no choice but to take drastic measures.”

In between, a detailed explanation of his failures, his every action deemed unsatisfactory, his every miracle a waste of resources. Each line dissected his decisions, cast aspersions on his ability to fulfill even the most basic requirements of his position. Every word dripped with the disappointment that all of Heaven felt.

Even Gabriel’s signature seemed to glare off the page at him.

And then, to make sure the message was received, he’d sent three Archangels to deliver it.

First, Michael read the list of every assignment for the past five hundred years. For every one that didn’t measure up to expectations, she cut a mark in his back with a small holy blade as a reminder.

Next, Uriel presented a full accounting of the resources Aziraphale had misappropriated, embezzled for his own pleasure and amusement. Each wasted miracle was repaid with a pinch of Aziraphale’s own Grace, collected and weighed to ensure Heaven was fully reimbursed.

Then, Sandalphon. The first two angels departed, so that he could give Aziraphale a taste of the drastic measures Gabriel had invoked.

Forbidden from using any miracles on himself, it had taken most of the next month to heal. Even now, his eyes still ached in too-bright sunlight.

Testing the manacles about his wrists again, Aziraphale tried to consider his options. So long as he performed no more than three miracles today, he could probably escape without anyone noticing.

As he ran through possible strategies in his head, he became aware of a soft noise somewhere behind him, whimpering, sobbing.

Twisting on his bench, he saw one of the remaining prisoners, seated a little closer to the window. A young woman, no more than thirty, wearing the remains of what had clearly once been a fine dress, curled in a ball, crying softly.

It took even more effort for Aziraphale to shift his body enough to face her, manacles still pulling his hands awkwardly behind him. As he struggled, she looked up, tears pausing for a moment, brows furrowed in confusion as she watched.

“Hello, then,” he said, as brightly as he could. “I know things look bad at the moment, but…but it’s still a lovely day, with every chance of things improving. Why, just think, we could…”

“Monsieur,” she said, face crumbling, followed by a stream of French too quick for him to follow, apart from the accusatory tone. Then she lowered her face again, sobbing harder than ever.

“Ah…” Aziraphale had miracled away his knowledge of French twenty years ago, so that he could experience learning a language the human way. His understanding was that getting frustrated, giving up, and forgetting you’d ever planned to learn it in the first place was an essential part of the process.

The woman snapped something else angrily at him.

“Bonjour…madame…il fait…nice weather?”

Another stream of sobbing, angry French. Somewhere in the line, he caught the word “morte.”

“Oh, I know that word! Morte. Death. Oh, yes, I see. Well. Well. I’m sure it will…”

He glanced out the window again. The cell was almost within sight of the Place de la Révolution. He could hear the cheering of the crowd, vicious and angry; hear the occasional scream from a prisoner being pulled up the final steps and across the platform, to their place of execution.

#good omens fanfiction #good omens prime #aziraphale #bastille #bad angels #angst #was going to be hurt comfort #but it ends before crowley shows up #oops #ngl bastille day was a weird day for me #do it with style events #who needs a great plan? #my writing #my wips

[team-gabriel]

At some point, after ages of bottling things up and trying to numb the pain by ignoring it, Glass snaps. This happens: Glass sits quietly during a staff meeting, trying to keep it all in still, but he cant stop himself from shaking and shedding a few tears. Bright notices and out-loud asks if Glass is okay, and that's when Simon cant hold it in anymore. He breaks down, practically screaming as he sobs that no, hes not okay, he hasnt been okay in so long and that he cant take it anymore- (1/2)

Simon can hardly sleep anymore. If he manages three hours, it’s a really good night.

He’s having less and less really good nights...

Those stupid melatonin gummies hardly do a thing for him and Benadryl does little more than leave him feeling groggy the next morning...

He sleeps. The nightmares wake him up. The cycle continues until he ends up watching dumb wildlife documentaries at 4am in an attempt to pull his focus onto anything else.

But still, exhausted or not, he goes to work every morning as usual. He drinks enough coffee to probably put a fully grown grizzly bear dangerously close to a caffeine overdose — he doesn’t even really like the taste of the stuff, he just needs it to function at this point.

He’s getting better at putting up his walls, at smiling like nothing’s wrong, at pushing his own troubling thoughts aside... he can almost brush off the sickening feeling in his stomach every time he notices someone staring at the fading scars on his lips.

He’s getting better. He says he’s getting better.

Well, technically, he never said there was anything wrong to begin with...

...But it’s wearing at him, little by little. Like rainwater slowly cutting through stone, like snowflakes gathering on a roof until it reaches the point of caving — it’s gradual, it’s discrete... but its damage over time is great.

Glass has been bottling everything up, and now he’s only a few drops from spilling over...

He can barely focus on the staff meeting. Gears is talking about something, but Simon’s own thoughts are too loud.

They pull at him, like a dark rope that keeps wrapping tighter and tighter, until he finds it hard to even breathe.

Glass turns his focus back down to the blank notepad he was supposed to be taking notes on, and he taps his pen quietly against the surface. He’s been so on edge lately — anxious, almost — it has to be all of the caffeine. He says it’s only from the caffeine...

He forces himself to stop tapping the pen when he notices Bright’s concerned glances. Simon clenches his jaw tightly as he returns to trying to take notes...

He manages a few scribbled words before he can barely read them behind the blur of unshed tears that sting his eyes.

Simon takes a deep breath, trying to hold it as long as the horrible tightness in his chest would allow.

He pulls his glasses from his face, massaging at the bridge of his nose and closing his eyes, pretending he was simply trying to work through a headache.

It clearly wasn’t as solid of an act as he had hoped...

“Simon?”

“...fine.”

“...Are you sure you’re alr—?”

“For the last time — I said I’m fine!” Glass snaps harshly, momentarily forgetting of the fact that he was in he middle of a meeting and drawing an uncomfortable amount of focus to himself and his outburst.

Simon straightens awkwardly, glancing around at his coworkers. “I’m... sorry,” he says, forcing his expression into a tight frown. “Bad headache. I’ll... I’ll just see myself out.”

He doesn’t wait for any response before he gathers his (mostly-blank) notes and hurries out.

...Once again, pretending not to notice the way Kondraki motioned with his head for Bright to follow.

He just hopes to get back to his office as quickly as he can, ready to act like this didn’t happen, just like everything else...

Bright meets him up at his office, knocking softly at the doorframe as Simon pretends he didn’t notice him there.

“Glass? Can we talk?”

“Huh? Right, uh... sorry for yelling earlier, I didn’t mean it... Headache.”

“Look, Glass, I’m getting really worried.”

“What? Worried? What’s—? Why are you worried?” Simon asks quickly. “Did— do you want to talk to me about it?”

“You. You’re worrying me,” Jack replies. “And yes, I do think we need to talk about it.”

“Me? I’m– Jack, I’m fine!” Glass assures. “I’m fine. Completely fine. Everything is fine!”

“Bullshit, Simon. I may not be a psychiatrist, but anybody with eyes can see that you are clearly not fine...”

“Jack, I mean it, I’m not–“

Bright pulls the chair from the other side of the desk, sitting so that he is directly in front of Simon.

“Oh, I know you’re not,” he says. “So we’re just going to talk about this– and by we, I mean you.”

“Jack, I’m— there’s nothing to talk about. I told you — it’s just a a headache.”

“You know that’s not what I mean, Simon.”

Glass opens his mouth, clearly about to argue back with another poorly veiled lie, but he shuts it wordlessly, frowning as he clenches his jaw.

Until finally, he speaks the first shred of truth about the situation.

“...I’d much rather we talked about something else.”

“Well that’s too damn bad,” Jack says. “Because this is what we’re talking about.”

More silence.

“If it’s really not bothering you, it shouldn’t be difficult, right?”

Still more silence. Glass is anxiously drumming his pen against his desk again.

“Simon, just admit that this is still bothering you and we can–“

“—Jack, did you know that some species of parrots can live for 70 years?” Glass interjects suddenly. “I didn’t know that. Did you know that?”

“Glass, we aren’t changing the subject.”

“...And there was this one bird that knew almost two-thousand different words! Two-thousand, Jack! I don’t even think I know two-thousand different words–!”

“Simon–“

“I’ve been watching a lot of Animal Planet at night–“

“Oh, believe me, I can tell,” Jack replies. “And you’re doing a real piss-poor job at trying to derail the subject...”

“And ducks! Jack, did you know that ducks– they don’t– they–“

Jack can practically see the will breaking in his eyes at this point.

“Simon...”

Glass takes in a shaky breath.

“Jack, did you know that sometimes– sometimes I just want to scream, but I’m afraid that if I do then I’ll just never stop.”

Glass is wringing his hands, avoiding Jack’s eyes. Bright lets him continue speaking without interruption.

“...Did you know that sometimes it feels like the whole world is trying to come crashing down on me all at once – and I know it’s not, I know it’s in my head – Simon, you’re being ridiculous, you’re a psychiatrist for Christ’s sake, just- just look at your notes or something!” Glass rambled. “And- and you’re right! I’m a psychiatrist, so why am I– I shouldn’t be– what an absolute hypocrite!”

“Simon, you aren’t a hypocrite.”

“Oh, but I am!” Simon replies. “I am, Jack! I sit here all day and I tell people to open up and quit bottling everything inside – but I can’t even follow my own bloody advice?! No, I just poke and pry at everybody’s traumas and I can’t even talk about one goddamn little insignificant raid?!”

“It’s not insignificant, Glass.”

“Compared to all the shit that everyone else has gone through?! Believe me, I know — I’ve heard it all!” Simon exclaims. “Jack, I can guarantee that you’ve experienced things a million times worse than—!”

“But it isn’t about me! We’re talking about you—!”

“That doesn’t matter!”

“You were tortured, Simon!” Bright exclaims. “You were hurt — you still are hurt — don’t try to tell me that that doesn’t matter!”

“I was only tortured because I let myself get captured! Practically deserved it at that point! Think about it! If it were you or Clef, or Kondraki — you’d’ve escaped ages before anyone could even—!”

“Simon, what?!”

“I practically just let it happen, Jack! I couldn’t fight, I couldn’t escape — I couldn’t even tough it up enough to pull out the goddamn stitches on my own! It was a wasted rescue mission, Jack — nobody should’ve had to put themselves in danger for someone so worthless to the Foundation!”

“Simon... what...?”

Glass could only shake his head, refusing to meet Jack’s eyes.

“You aren’t worthless, Si.”

“Then why do I always feel like I am?!”

Glass has already opened up more in the past four minutes than he had in four weeks, and he’s had enough. He sits in his chair, burying his face in his hands. Jack steps closer, standing directly in front of him, pulling the therapist into a hug.

“Simon, it’s okay...” he whispers. “It’s okay...”

Glass, after several long, shaky sobs, hugs him back — Bright resting his chin on the top of Simon’s head, pulling his fingers softly through the back of Simon’s hair.

“You aren’t worthless, Si. You aren’t pathetic. You aren’t weak.”

And, in Jack’s arms, Simon finally let himself break down. Every buried feeling spilling to the surface — that crushing weight in his chest finally beginning to lessen.

He knew it was a discrete, gradual thing — like recovering from a broken bone, like flowers regrowing after a wildfire...

But, in Jack’s arms, Simon finally let himself begin to heal.

#dr simon glass #long post #i.... got carried away #...again #so... yeah #have some angst

[little-red-riding-doublet]

Reading your kink list, I feel like your kinks vibe pretty much with mine. So hoping that feeling is correct how about this prompt: I read a fic whenre J became feral after G came inside him while still under the influence of a potion. But what if there was a different consequence? Imagine if the potion made it so J's now addicted to G's cum and thus also to his cock. They have to buy a plug to make J even able to function as normal.

Here ya go! One cum addicted Bard! 2200+ words, give or take. also, GIMME THAT FIC!

Stuff the bard is a fave of mine!!

**

Geralt crashed through the brush, skin pale and veins black. “Jaskier… Help…” 

It was far from the first time they’d fucked to get Geralt down off a potion high, but Jaskier knew this would be different. Geralt was amazingly rough, in a good way, on one potion, let alone the three he’d said he’d have to take to deal with a small coven of bruxae. He’d never taken more than one at a time before

Black colored blood dripped from several cuts and bites, many of which were healing quickly, quicker than usual, while muscles bulged even bigger under the armor, forcing the armor to creak “Geralt…” Jaskier knew the drill. They’d been fucking for a long time now, and burning off potions just as long. He’d already prepped himself, keeping himself well stretched and lubed throughout the night, not sure when Geralt would return. Jaskier hit his knees, presenting his ass to the feral Witcher.

Geralt managed to shove his leathers down enough to free his cock, dripping with need and covered in black veins, before he reached Jaskier. He sunk to his knees and thrust in, trusting that Jaskier would have prepped himself well. The bard had, as he sunk all the way to the hilt in one harsh thrust.

Jaskier moaned, long and loud, at the feeling and gripped the bedrolls in preparation for the harsh fuck to come. 

He wasn’t disappointed. 

Geralt began to fuck like a man possessed, chasing only his pleasure, not even making a move towards Jaskier’s cock. Jaskier didn’t mind, the Witcher’s cock was more than big enough to beat against his prostate in any position.

Geralt thrust in, over and over, growling low and nipping at Jaskier’s back and neck, more like an animal than a man. Jaskier moaned and when he could catch half a breath, praised his lover, “Fuck, Geralt… gods… so good… More… I want more…”

The words had the right effect, as Geralt slammed in and froze, cock pulsing deep inside. Jaskier moaned at the heat then again as a new feeling spread, like a warm wave all over his body. His head swam, the world tilting slightly and he felt just… so damn good. He barely noticed his own cock spurting on to the ragged old shirt he’d put down to protect the bedrolls. Geralt began to move again, and Jaskier groaned, pressing back against him. He didn’t care that he was sensitive, he wanted Geralt to come again. He wanted that rush of full body pleasure, that swirly feeling. 

 It didn’t take long for Geralt to come again, the potions always gave him even more stamina than usual. They fucked, all through the night, and Geralt finally exhausted himself just as the dawn birds began to sing.

They slept until noon, recovering and Jaskier woke to wet thighs and a sore ass. He felt good though. He rolled over, checking on Geralt. The Witcher was out of his armor, but still grimy and covered in… ick. 

Jaskier stood with a soft groan, feeling cum start to drip down his thighs. Geralt had pumped him full. He loved it. He grabbed the cooking pot and made his way to the little stream nearby fetching water to help scrub Geralt clean. Hot water worked best once the ichor dried. They weren’t far from a town and Jaskier would buy a bath there, but it helped to try to scrub the worst off first. 

Geralt stirred as he wiped him off, and sleepy golden eyes met his. Jaskier leaned down to kiss his beloved Witcher and was promptly pulled across Geralt’s lap. Geralt’s hot, hard cock pressed against Jaskier’s bare, still dripping, ass, and he suddenly, desperately wanted it inside him. 

He moved before the thought about it, sinking down on the hard shaft and pulling a moan from both of them. “Geralt… Come in me again.” Geralt smirked and let Jaskier bounce furiously on his cock, until he couldn’t stand it any longer and rolled them over, pounding into the bard furiously until he spilled again, adding to the mess. 

Jaskier sighed blissfully at the feeling, warmth in his belly, spreading through him. 

**

It took them a day to get to the town, one big enough to have a small inn and after haggling with the innkeeper, who grumpily agreed to allow them the room, they called for a bath. 

Jaskier went first, not nearly as dirty as Geralt, and scrubbed clean, inside and out. Geralt “helped” with the latter part. He toweled off with threadbare towels and flopped face down onto the bed. He was more than ready for a nap. 

Geralt was nearly done with his own scrubbing when Jaskier started to fidget. It felt like ants under his skin and he felt so COLD. It was summer, he couldn’t be cold. His hole ached, clenching down around nothing and he felt empty inside...so empty. It was all he could focus on. A whine built in his throat and he clamped down on it, even as his legs spread of their own accord. He reached a hand back, pressing two fingers to his aching, empty hole to try to soothe the desperate need, but it didn’t help, only made it worse.

The scent of distress had Geralt turning in the bath, seeing Jaskier with two, no… three fingers in his ass, even as Geralt heard him start to whimper. “Jaskier?”

“Geralt, it hurts! I’m...its not enough… I’m empty and it hurts.” Jaskier sobbed, tears filling his eyes. The empty feeling was spreading, moving from his hole towards his chest. “Geralt!”

Geralt clambered from the bath, heedless of the water dripping everywhere and moved to the bard’s side. Distress and need, tinged with desperation rolled off the man on the bed, who spread his legs wider, displaying his reddened and stretched hole.

“Geralt, get in me, please.” Jaskier pulled his hand out of his ass, leaving the hole gaping slightly, and reached for Geralt’s half-hard cock. His cock rose in response to the bard’s touch, just like it always had, and the need and desperation smell overwhelmed the distress. 

Geralt grabbed the oil from the bedside table, the first thing they unpacked at any inn, and quickly slicked himself up, sliding two fingers into Jaskier to get him ready. Jaskier pushed back insistently and Geralt took the wordless plea to heart. 

He corked and tossed the bottle back to the table and pulled Jaskier to his knees, pressing in. There was no resistance and he had to actively hold Jaskier to keep him from impaling himself. The distress scent vanished, as did the desperation, leaving only need and desire. The shifting scents were met with Jaskier reaching back, swatting at Geralt’s hip. “Move! Fuck me, Geralt, fill me up.”

Geralt did so, fucking the bard thoroughly until he came. The change was immediate.

Jaskier relaxed all over, a blissed expression sweeping across his face. Jaskier didn’t come from being fucked alone, but moaned happily as Geralt stripped the hard cock until the bard’s come spilled over his fingers.

Geralt pulled out, and returned with a wet cloth, cleaning the leaking come from Jaskier’s hole before curling up with him to nap until dinner. He tossed the damp rag aside on the table.

**

Geralt woke to Jaskier riding his cock, the scent of desperation all over him again. “Come… Geralt, want your come… your cock… please…” Geralt came quickly, practically before he was fully awake, Jaskier clearly having been at it for a while. 

Instantly the bard relaxed, like a puppet with his strings cut and Geralt frowned, even as he cuddled the bard close, still lodged on his cock. His mind was whirring and he didn’t sleep much that night. 

They left town the following morning, and it was only a few hours down the trail before Jaskier was shaking and sweating again, begging for cock and come. After the third stop the fuck the bard, not truly a hardship, but time-consuming, Geralt reached for a cloth to clean him and paused. Every time the bard was cleaned, he got twitchy within a few hours, begging to be filled up again. 

Instead of cleaning the bard up, Geralt took a bit of cloth and wedged it between Jaskier’s cheeks keeping the come that leaked out contained, at least partially. 

It works, for the most part, and while Geralt loathes doubling up on Roach, it’s faster, and he thanks the gods they’re not far from a large town with a rather peculiar witch who made all sorts of useful items. 

They arrive in two days, Jaskier needing to be fucked twice a day as they traveled. Geralt had tested his theory, cleaning Jaskier up well inside and leaving him on Roach. It had taken four hours before the shaking and shivering had started, and within half an hour after that, the begging. Geralt let it go on for another half hour but stopped when the bard started crying, clenching his stomach and pain suffused his scent. The smell of pain eased the instant Geralt entered the bard, and vanished completely when Geralt came, coating the inner walls of his lover. 

Geralt led Roach around the village to the witch’s hut and knocked on the ramshackle door. A middle-aged woman answered the door with a shout that cut off mid-sentence. “What ya–Geralt!” The woman flickered and a much younger woman stood in her place. “It’s been a while, come in! Come in! Who’s this?” She waved them in, leading them past a closed door into a much nicer, more spacious room. One that wasn’t visible from outside the small shack. He knew most of the building wasn’t.

“Ingred, this is Jaskier. Jaskier, Ingred. We have a bit of a problem.” He briefly described the problem, Jaskier’s sudden near dependence on Geralt’s come and his reaction when deprived of it. Jaskier blushed throughout the explanation and Geralt was very glad he’d discussed it on the way.

“Hmm… Let me look him over.” She moved to the bard, hands glowing, and ran them from head to toe. “Ah… This is interesting. He’s addicted, actually fully addicted to your come, and likely your cock as well. You said the pain eases as soon as you enter him?” Geralt nodded. “Well, I can’t remove the addiction, whatever caused it is firmly in his system.”

She looked at Jaskier. “We could send you through a detox, but I’m not sure if that would even work. I’ve never seen this before. It could work, it could not, or it could kill you.” 

“Keeping the come in seems to help,” Jaskier said, shifting slightly. “But cloth sucks.”

“It does…” She hummed to herself. “Come with me.” She led them to another door, this one painted red, and inside was one of the largest collections of sex tools Jaskier had ever seen. They followed Ingred through the room to a small table filled with a variety of oddly shaped objects. 

“These are plugs, they can keep Geralt’s come inside you, all day. I can spell them to be comfortable, and flexible, so you can move as you would normally.” Jaskier blushed and Geralt wrapped an arm around him. She continued. “You’d need a… hmm… dose… every day. At least one. No more pain though.”

Jaskier blushed more, ducking his head and looking away.

“Jaskier,” Geralt said, pressing his forehead to his lover’s. “I don’t want you hurting. Please…” He was cut off when Jaskier looked at him, eyes blown wide, and boldly took the Witcher’s hand, pressing it to his cock, which was fully hard. “I am definitely not opposed. I suppose this means I winter with you in Kaer Morhen now?” “Or I stay in Oxenfurt.”  

“Ugh, no. Kaer Morhen. Valdo drives me crazy in the winters and I can’t get away from the ass.” He looked at Ingred. “So… how do we fit them?”

**

Hours later, they left the shack, Ingred waving goodbye to them. A small sack of gold had been handed over, but Ingred took part of her payment in watching Jaskier learn to take the slim plugs, along with Geralt fucking load after load into him. They’d offered to bed her, but she’d politely refused, telling them her memories would work quite well for a long time. She told them to come back next time they were in the area and she’d make a few custom pieces. 

Jaskier walked along, pain-free and feeling light as a feather. His belly was just slightly rounded from all the come inside him and the plug kept it well settled. It was comfortable, flexible, and he could wear it all day, or night, without hurting himself. 

That night, when they camped, Jaskier stripped down and settled over Geralt’s bare lap, right over his cock. “You know the other spell Ingred put on this?” Jaskier reached behind him and pulled the plug out then slid himself onto Geralt’s cock. “It lubes me up too.”

“Dose me up, Wolf.” And Geralt did. Multiple times.

#jaskier #geralt #the witcher #come addiction #plugs #touch of come inflation #prompt fill

[ardentmuse]

Congrats!!!!!!! I can't wait to read all the wonderful pics you write!!!!! This looks like so much fun!!! 39 for charlie Weasley please and thank you!!!

One More Month

Harry Potter - Charlie Weasley x fem!Reader

39. But then I remembered that I’m a naughty bitch.

Wordcount: 2.7k

Warnings: smut under the break, swearing, injuries, hurt/comfort, also, unprotected sex because they are wizards in a long-term relationship and we can assume magical birth control, right? Also, I’m married and so it is almost impossible for me to remember what pausing for the condom was like anymore. But you all should use protection. Super important. ☺ 

Masterlist

A/N: Did someone ask for Charlie Weasley smut? No?? Am I giving it to you anyway? Yes. Are you going to like it? Probably not, but it is what it is. The first half of the story could be general reader but the smutty part is written with a vagina-owner in mind, hence the fem!reader. But if you wish to ignore the smut, you can just stop at the little breaker line I put it. 

“Y/N, what are you doing here,” Charlie whispered as you lifted the blankets to his cot in the hospital wing in the wee hours of the morning. You pressed your finger to his mouth just as he started his final word. And soon you were hidden up to your neck in your boyfriend’s temporary covers.

A rogue bludger had decided Charlie’s shoulder looked like a nice place to collide during that afternoon’s friendly. That alone would have been fine – Charlie was made of tougher stuff – but the hit had toppled him off his broom. Hooch managed to catch him before he fell to the ground but not before his body collided with the opposing team’s left hoop. The sound his leg made as it snapped against the metal still made you cringe, but Charlie seemed unfazed. Some bruising, some healing to the bone, some rest and a few days off the pitch was all that the incident required. But those were Charlie’s injuries. Your injuries – the ones to your brain at the idea that you could lose this sweet man you loved so much so easily – were not so easily cured. 

“Was doing my rounds,” you hummed into his shoulder as you planted light kisses upon the exposed skin. Charlie was sleeping in only his boxer and the feel of his bare skin, hot and smooth against your fingers, was such a welcome feeling, a reminder of his health and virility even in his moment of weakness. “And I thought you could use some company.” 

Charlie smiled, or at least you thought he did. It was hard to tell with your head buried against his chest and your hands roaming the exquisite expanse of toned stomach and ribs that lay before you. He let out a light hiss as your lips moved across a bruise upon his shoulder but it was immediately followed by a sigh as Charlie fell further back into the pillows. His hands found root in your hair, encouraging the kind of healing only you could give him.

“You know you could get in quite a lot of trouble for sneaking in here,” he whispered, but his shallow breaths as your fingers teased at the edge of his boxers made it clear his words were simply platitudes to his future guilty conscience. 

“You know I thought of that,” you hummed, tickling at his earlobe, “But then I remembered that I’m a naughty bitch.” 

Charlie felt you smile against his neck as his hands held tight to your waist, securing you against him. He swallowed.

“Love,” he warned, as your fingers continued their journey southward. At the lightest caress of your fingertips, he closed his eyes and threw his head into the pillow.

Your hand gave a gentle squeeze to the hardened silk of him that only your hands had ever the joy of knowing.

“We only have another month until we’re out of here. Then you’ll move in with me in Romania and we can do this every morning if you want. But, please, love… you know I can’t say no to you.” 

You paused your hand to meet his gaze. His expression made it clear that his mind was waging a war; he clearly desired you but also desired to not get caught. 

You lifted your head to kiss him slow and pure of the mouth. His hands found your hips and held you close as he slowly explored you with his tongue. 

“Every morning then,” you whispered to him. 

“I can’t imagine you’d want me every morning.”

“I can’t imagine that I wouldn’t.” 

Charlie chuckled and held you tight to him. The heat radiating off of his body warmed your heart, just another pleasant reminder of the closeness you two would be able to share so soon. You imagined walking around your new home naked for the majority of your first month together, just in awe of the fact that you got to see him, all of him, whenever you so wished it. 

As his laughter subsided, you rested once more against Charlie’s sternum, allowing your cheek to enjoy the soft scrapping of his chest hair. 

“Whatever you say, love,” he whispered against your hair before planting a kiss upon your brow. And within a minute, you felt his breathing even out and sleep find him, and you fell asleep soon after. 

Your sleep was not nearly as restful as your partners. You had stopped by with the hopes of giving him some comfort and soon he had filled your mind with ideas about all the wonderful ways you might enjoy your freedom and privacy upon your graduation – images of a much more forward Charlie, leading you by the hand to your shared bed, worshipping your body with his own, showering you in kisses upon parts of your skin only he could see, making you come with him as the morning light broke through the trees, leaving you to feel the gentle ache and emptiness between your legs as you recovered throughout the morning. 

And that was the thought you woke to in the darkness of the hospital wing. Charlie’s mouth was buried in your hair and he softly whispered your name, dreamily and slurred. His hips were rocking with a steady rhythm against your thigh in a way that let you know his dreams were not all that different from your own.

“Charlie,” you whispered, rubbing this hair from his eyes, the sweat sticking them to his forehead. 

“Charlie.” 

“Ba-by, that’s… it,” was all he managed as he squeezed tighter to your waist.

“So good. So perf–. Mine.” 

He was fully erect against your rear, his length straining painfully against his boxers. You loved this man who was dreaming of you, whose fantasies were filled with his partner alone, and as your heart swelled, you realized it would be cruel to leave him in such a tortured state. 

“Charles,” you said, hoping your irregular sound would jar him somehow. When he didn’t seem to stop his gentle rocking into you, you turned in his arms pressing your core against him and felt the jolt through your body at the sensual reminder of the kinds of pleasures that wonderful shaft of his could bring you. 

“Ugh,” Charlie groaned, squeezing you more. You leaned forward and captured his lips in a kiss, soft and sweet. He loved you, even in his dreams, and nothing felt more right and pure than that. 

Charlie’s hand squeezed lightly at the flesh of your ass, and somehow, that little movement was enough to rouse him fully. 

“Sweetheart?” he whispered as he rubbed his eyes. 

You didn’t respond with words, instead kissing him once more, though this time with much more tongue, as you ground your body into his. His moans alone had turned you on quite a bit. This man would be your joy and your torture, so it seemed. 

His hands found your hips to help you in your motion. You were straddling him fully now as you lost yourself in your kisses, a sloppy, sleepy make-out, so different from the normal control Charlie maintained. His length ran against you, finding home against your core underneath your school skirts, pressing into your panties and sliding between your folds in a deliciously tempting way. He was like stone for you and your body could do nothing but crave him. 

You pushed yourself down hard on him and he groaned against you mouth, biting at your bottom lip. His breathing was staggered and he was heated all over. You wanted to strip him more to relieve him of his burning but there was nothing more to remove but the thin piece of silky cloth that alone was providing you with any semblance of self-control. 

“Love,” Charlie said against your mouth, encouraging you to pull away from just a second, “Would you still consider yourself a naughty bitch?” 

Charlie didn’t need to clarify. His fingers were dancing low between your thighs, having slid from your hips to tease at the lining of your panties, already soaked for him. 

Holding his gaze, you reached your hand back to grab at his shaft. He bit his lip, suppressing a needy moan. And that was all the encouragement you needed to pull him from the confines of his boxers. His fingers danced against your core as he shifted the small fabric that had hid your entrance from him. Together, looking solely at your other, you each shifted so your bodies would meet. And with a hard push from your hips, Charlie’s tip found home inside of you.

“Fuck,” he whisper-yelled against his pillow. He quickly looked back at you. “So good,” he added, “You’re perfection.” 

Even just his bulbous tip instead of you was enough to begin to relieve that aching need in your core. He stretched you so gently, filled you in a way that only he could, and even though the painful longing was reduced, it was quickly replaced with a rather carnal desire to drain him of everything he had to give you. 

With a wicked smile upon your lips, you held his shoulders and rolled your hips down, taking the length of him into you in a single thrust. You couldn’t suppress the groan as your eyes rolled back with pleasure as he bottomed out inside of you. Part of you seriously mourned that inch of him that never got to know you intimately, that poor little bit of his shaft that simply couldn’t fit, not until his final push where he would bury himself full in you to sputter to orgasm. You wanted all of him. 

Charlie pulled you down so you were chest to chest, taking over the work of the slow and calculated thrusting that left you dizzy. He was making quick work of bringing you to orgasm, strong thrusts the continuously stroked your just right, the soft roll of his hips that rubbed your clit against his pelvic bone, and the gentle nipping of your ear and neck as he breathed you in. You were putty to him, to mold as he so fashioned, to heal his spirit as well as his body from the pain it had so endured. 

As the sounds of his strokes inside of you, wet and persistent, grew louder to your ears, Charlie locked his arms around you and sat upright. You held tight to his shoulder to not lose your position, but Charlie had other plans. He lifted himself up on his strong thighs, holding you tightly to him so your legs had no choice but to fall back behind his back. You were now sitting upon his lap in the way school children might sit for story time, criss-cross apple sauce,  but when he rocked his hips into you, you knew you were far from childish games. 

“Oh, god,” was all you managed as you rested yourself in his arms. The new position was intimate, heavenly, to hold each other so close, the closest two humans could ever be, felt like the sort of promise you hoped you would exchange in much nicer clothes someday. 

“The name’s Charlie, love. So sad you’ve forgotten,” he whispered in your ears as he continued to languidly explore you. You couldn’t help but laugh. He really was his father some days, though you didn’t really want to be thinking about that at the moment. 

With your laughter, he picked up his pace and his hand began working the space in between you. Your nerves were on fire for him and as he touched and stroked that bundle at the top of your folds, you thought you would light up the both of you.

You screamed as you felt your body clenching down on him. Charlie had grown inside of you, so hard and full that you didn’t think you could fit him any more. It was torture so beautiful that nothing could ease your pain but your own release.

Charlie’s mouth captured your own to stifle the moans. His hand caressed your lower back, helping you to rock your hips into his cock and his hand so you might find your release even sooner. And with that movement, you did. You spasmed and clenched against him, enjoying the feel of your body trembling for the man you loved. He held you close and whispered into your ear that he loved you as you whimpered in your release. Waves of electricity rocked through you, each more pleasurable than the last, until your felt that joyous calm that Charlie’s strokes always provided. 

A few more thrusts and Charlie was collapsed back against the pillows, his whole self finally home in your body, his head contracting with each wave of ejaculation that coated your insides. As he softened, you felt the new type of fullness of his seed inside of you, claiming you as his own. As even though you knew children were quite a number of years down the road for you, the idea that part of Charlie might live inside of you, a reminder of your coupling, was unreasonably pleasant. 

“I agree,” Charlie whispered as he lifted your hips off of him, “You are indeed quite naughty.” 

You giggled as Charlie handed you some tissues from his nightstand. He took a few himself and began the gentle process of cleaning up the sore parts of your body. 

“It’s your fault for being so beautiful,” you said. You tossed the tissues off the bed and into the bin, and, after a moment, reached for your wand and transfigured the clump of tissues into a crumpled bit of parchment, eliminating any signs of your nighttime escapades. 

“I’ve got bruises all over my body, I broke a rib, and I have a black eye. I’m not too beautiful at the moment, I’m certain.”

You looked up to assess your lover for the first time since the sun was just beginning to break through the clouds outside. His nose was quite dark, hiding the freckles you loved so much, and his eye was quite swollen and puffy. His hair was a mess of red curls, fallen from their normal ponytail and cascading in uneven segments around his head. He was a bit worse for wear, but he was still your handsome Charlie.

You kissed him once again. “Still beautiful.”

“And you are still delusional.”

You laughed as you lifted yourself from the bed and gathered your robes. 

“Dorm will be waking soon. Gotta get back, love.” 

Charlie began to nestle once more into the covers, the exhaustion of his injuries and of his orgasm coming together all at once. You finished your dressing at kissed him one more on the forehead. As you began to walk away, he caught your wrist. You turned to see his eyes open again, staring at you with all the love you knew you felt for him in return. 

“One more month,” he said before kissing your palm.

“One more month.” 

As you slipped out of the hospital wing, you looked once more upon his bed. Charlie was already sleeping once more, his arms thrown over his head and his broad chest rising and falling in peaceful slumber. Clearly the healing magic your lovemaking gave him was doing its worth. 

You smiled and returned to your dorm, thinking about that simple sight and how lucky you’ll be when you get to see it each and every morning for the rest of your life together. 

All tags: @fangirlandnerd, @aerdnandreaa, @thisisbullshytt,  @cancerousjojian, @whovianayesha, @themarauderstheoutsidersandpeggy, @luna-xxxxx, @sleepylunarwolf, @starryrevelations, @potter-thinking, @all-by-myself98, @bananafosters-and-books, @cutie-bug, @igotmadskills, @hazelandcoconuts, @yallgotkik

Harry Potter tags: @tessimagines, @0-lost-in-stereo-0, @whysoseriouspadfoot, @eldritchscreech, @luckyvirgo, @hellizhelusive2, @lexrius, @sapphireorchid, @amazingwonderlandnapkin

#harry potter #hphm #charlie weasley x reader #charlie weasley #charlie weasley imagine #harry potter imagine #hphm imagine #hp hogwarts mystery #charlie weasley x mc #charlie weasley x you #charlie weasley x jacob's sibling #charlie weasley smut #smut #reader insert #ardentmuse almost 2k celebration #lexrius #lia talks

[silverhandy]

I saw the devil (in me) - chapter 4

Takemura doesn't believe in ghosts, not really, but a man driven to his limit might believe in just about anything. Trapped in a losing game and consumed by grief, he returns to Night City looking for closure. but ends up finding something much more.

ao3 I chapter 1 I chapter 2 I chapter 3

 As he opened his eyes, the first thing Takemura noticed was that he was no longer lying on a leather chair in the center of the clinic, hooked up to an impossible amount of monitors, a painfully bright surgical lamp hovering over him, blinding him to the point where it wasn’t possible to keep his eyes open even if he wanted to. Instead, Takemura found himself lying on an actual bed, frame creaking with every little movement he made. It was pushed to the side of the garage, away from prying eyes, but still within Viktor’s line of sight. The other man must’ve moved him at some point, though Takemura wouldn't be able to pinpoint when exactly, the brief moments he could recall an unsettling blur in an otherwise blissfully void unconsciousness.

    Misty’s terrified face. Viktor leaning over him, still in that suit he wore to the funeral, bloody smears staining his otherwise perfectly white shirt. The bitter taste of vomit flooding Takemura’s mouth, a pair of strong hands helping him turn to the side so he wouldn't choke. And the cold. An unyielding chill that’d shake him awake every few hours, teeth chattering despite a thick blanket he was covered with. Eventually, it was gone, only to come back in the form of searing hotness, one that made his optics go haywire, spitting glitchy warnings all over his feed before he drifted off again. And Viktor’s hand against his forehead, his skin almost ice cold in comparison with his own.

    In short, Takemura felt like absolute shit. Like he’s been dragged through Night City’s trash dump and back. At least the clinic didn’t seem to him a rocking boat anymore, the soft, neon lights no longer so unpleasantly bright as they were merely a few hours before. It seemed surreal, but it’s not like Takemura didn’t know what to expect. He’s been through cyberware withdrawal in the past, the memory of the last time he ended up in Viktor’s clinic in a less than presentable state still fresh in his mind, but this felt so much worse. In the moments he was lucid enough to form such judgments, Takemura kept telling himself it was his injuries aggravating his symptoms, these two unfortunate circumstances layered on top of each other yet another instance of bad luck that seemed to follow him the moment he stepped foot in Night City for the first time not even a year ago, but he knew well enough it was bullshit. It almost felt as if his body finally found an opportunity to carry out a proper vengeance for the last few months in Takamatsu.

    When Takemura first stepped off the AV, a sense of relief washed over him. Finally, he was back home. He made it, carved himself a path back under Arasaka’s wings, the only place he ever truly belonged. The circumstances were different, sure, and he was yet to swallow the disappointment that being dismissed from Saburo-dono’s side was, but everything was back as it should be. At that point, Takemura could still force himself to push the memory of V far back into his mind, convinced that it was her who made the wrong choice, though little did he know it wouldn’t be much longer.

    He refused to acknowledge it, but even before V started haunting his every waking moment, even his favorite foods felt bland to taste, far removed from the richness of flavor he remembered. Then came the memories and guilt that kept him awake at night and copious amounts of coffee to remedy the lost hours of sleep by day, his meals growing smaller and smaller, reduced into a bare minimum necessary to keep him going. He was never a man to refuse a meal, the hunger that plagued his entire childhood burned into his mind, but these days he couldn’t stomach more than a few bites before he felt it lodge down his throat.

    Takemura slowly sat up and almost immediately regretted it, his back protesting the movement after all the hours he spent in one position. He ignored it, running a hand through his hair to pull back the loose strands plastered to his skin. To his mild surprise, he was no longer wearing the suit he left the hotel in, but a stretched out t-shirt and sweatpants, both a bit too loose on his smaller frame. Viktor must’ve changed his clothes at some point, most likely before the blood had a chance to stiffen the material. It didn’t make Takemura feel embarrassed. If anything, he was grateful for the care, but the state he was in certainly made him feel vulnerable, much more so than he’d be willing to admit. Fighting the anxiety rising in his chest, Takemura looked to the side, fully expecting his left arm to no longer be attached to his shoulder, but there it was - heavily bandaged, but still in one piece. He tried moving his fingers and saw them twitch before a warning flash of pain could reach his senses.

    The clinic was quiet, save for a quiet hum of machinery and the sound of a boxing match playing in the background, punching and grunts faded out by a speaker spitting commentary faster than a machine gun spits bullets. All of that was interrupted by a soft creak as Viktor got up from his chair and walked over to Takemura.

    “Good to see you back among the living,” Viktor said, a faint smile on his lips. He was back to wearing his usual blue shirt, sleeves rolled up over his biceps, stethoscope hanging around his neck. He seemed much more at ease than the last time they met, the clinic being his natural environment much more so than the bar, though it did very little to lift the dark circles beneath his eyes. If anything, he looked even more exhausted.

    “How long was I…?” Takemura’s voice came out hoarse and strained, barely audible even for him. As if reading his mind, or, more likely, simply having a decent bedside manner, Viktor handed him a glass of water.

    “Here you go. As for your question, four days, give or take.”

    “And did anyone..?”

   “Did anyone come knockin’ lookin’ for you?” Viktor asked as he grabbed himself a chair and sat beside Takemura. ”Luckily, no. Left me wonderin’ what the hell happened. Somehow I doubt it was the Valentinos you met on a late night stroll, so let me make a wild guess - tough day at work?”

    “You might call it that.”

    “So what, Arasaka is sending their assassins after people for missing a day off work now?” the doctor asked, not much humor in his tone.

    “It wasn’t...exactly that. I apologize, but I would rather not discuss it right now.” Takemura replied but didn’t provide further explanation. To his relief, Viktor didn’t push for it either, at least for now. Before the silence between them could grow any heavier, Takemura added: “If you are worried about troopers bursting through your door, there is no need. If they had not done that already, I believe it means that I...got my point across.”

    “Should’ve seen the other guy, huh?” Viktor asked with a husky laugh.

    A wet sound of a blade piercing the sternum, going right through the aorta. A seasoned Arasaka agent struggling to load a magazine, fear in his eyes as if he had seen the devil himself. A quick cut to the neck of a practically defenseless man, still recovering from the shard’s aftereffects, dead before he had a chance to see what happened to his companions. That’s all it took, it seems.

                                                              ***

    “Since you’re out of the woods, allow me to give you a quick rundown of how it’s lookin’ for you: a gunshot wound to the stomach was a walk in the park compared to the scrap metal that was the wiring in your left hand. I hooked you up with some suitable replacements, should be workin’ just fine if you allow the cuts to properly heal, so take it easy for a while. I took the liberty to go in and tweak your CPU a little, managed to restore some basic interface functions, but I'm afraid all the other implants are a goner.” Viktor said, fingers dancing as he typed on the screen he was holding. “No way for me to reset them, Arasaka tech is way above my pay grade. You probably know that already, which brings me to another matter we should, uh, discuss.” the other man’s expression changed, his brows furrowed in concern clearly evident on his face.

    “Yes?” Takemura’s fingers froze halfway through buttoning the coat Viktor handed him. To his relief, Takemura realized it was his own coat, seemingly fresh from a half-decent laundry service, one that managed not to completely ruin the heavy grade wool. Buttoning it wasn’t easy with only one hand, but whatever was left of his pride made it impossible to ask Viktor for help.

    “I just found it concernin’ that you had such a strong reaction to bein’ cut off from implants, especially since it ain’t your first time. You should have experienced some mild nausea, light oversensitivity, maybe a vicious headache, but your other injuries aside, it knocked you right out for days. I ran quite a few scans when I was treatin’ you but didn’t find much to explain it. How’ve you been feelin’ in the last few months? Eatin’ well? Sleepin’?

    Was there even a point in lying?

    “Not really, no.” Takemura said, unable to look the other man in the eye, fingers slipping as he rushed to fasten the rest of the buttons,

    Viktor hummed and stopped typing away at the small screen he had been holding, letting his hands rest on his lap.

    “Listen, uh, the past few months have been tough on all of us. I’m not good with this sort of stuff, but if you need someone to talk to, I can give you contact info to a great doc.”

    “That will not be necessary, but thank you. I appreciate it.”

    “Alright, but you know, if you need it, don’t hesitate to ask. With the way things turned out, I presume you’ll be staying in Night City for a while?”

    “I’m afraid so. It would be unwise of me to come back to Japan right now.”

    “I know it was supposed to be a short trip, so I don’t presume you came prepared for a longer stay, huh?

    “I have some funds stashed away on a secure account, but it will take me some time to gain access to them. I will pay for your services, of course.”

    “Nah, it’s not my fee I’m concerned about. I don’t want you to roam the streets in the dead of winter, not an eddy to your name. Suppose what I’m askin’ is if you have a place to stay?

    “Not at the moment, no.”

    “Then how about you stay in my place until you figure out what to do next? I’m not there all that much anyway, been spendin’ most nights at the clinic lately. Shame for the place to go unused like this and it seems you need it more than I do.”

    Takemura hesitated. Viktor has already done so much for him, from saving his life to letting him run up a tab on little more than a word. He knew he'd never be able to repay such kindness, but the ripper was right. Before he jumps all the hoops to access the little cash he had stashed away on an account so deeply buried even Arasaka wasn't able to cut him off from it, more than a few days will pass. He still felt weak and even just the thought of spending the night outside was making Takemura miserable. At the same time, he didn’t want to stay in the clinic any longer, knowing that his presence had effectively stopped Viktor from taking up more than a few clients he trusted well enough.

    “Thank you, Viktor,” Takemura said and bowed slightly, as deeply as the stitches would comfortably allow.

    “No problem, really,” the man smiled and handed him a shard. “Just jack it in, it’ll tell you the location and grant access to the building. It’s a few blocks away, you won’t miss it.”

    “See you later, I suppose?”

    “Sure. Go get some rest before you go out to roam the streets and remember, your body ain’t got all the fancy tech to patch you up in no time. Folks like you often seem to forget that. Just take it easy, Takemura.”

    “It’s Goro.”

    “What?”

    “Call me Goro. And I will, do not worry. I have...a lot of things to figure out.”

#goro takemura #goro takemura/viktor vector #victor vector #viktor vector #takemura/viktor #cyberpunk 2077 #cp2077 #cp77 #the devil ending #cp2077 spoilers #writing #vikemura #takevik

[afni-fics]

Elder Scrolls DC - A Reluctant Dragonborn - Chapter 19: Dragon Rising (part 3)

Elder Scrolls DC - A Reluctant Dragonborn - Chapter 19: Dragon Rising (part 3) by C_R_Scott Chapters: 19/? Fandom: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim, Red Robin (Comics), DCU (Comics) Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence Characters: Tim Drake, Lucien Flavius Additional Tags: Crossover, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, Skyrim/DCU crossover, Reluctant Dovahkiin | Dragonborn, Not Beta Read, Alternate Universe - Skyrim Fusion, Modded Skyrim, Skyrim Spoilers, Tim Drake is Dragonborn | Dovahkiin, Batfamily-centric (DCU), Tim Drake-centric

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Summary:

After the battle with the dragon at the Watchtower, Tim wakes up in the Temple of Kynareth for the start of his healing process.

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

"...Dovahkiin..."

"...Dragonborn..."

"...Motaad sizaan sil..."

"...Tremble lost soul..."

"...Thuri du hin sil ko Sovngarde..."

"...My overlord will devour your soul in Sovngarde..."

"...Draal fah dinok..."

"...Pray for death..."

***

Tim's eyes snapped open as he woke with a gasp to escape the nightmare of draconic voices whispering horrible things to him from the darkness. As his sleep blurred vision began to clear and the echos of his nightmare drifted out of reach, he became aware of several things one after the other.

First, he was no longer on the battlefield. Instead, he was in some sort of building, laying on his right side on a moderately comfortable bed. 

Next, the pain that had been wracking his body from his burns all week long were significantly dulled. There was a deep ache in certain areas, but overall things were far better than they had been earlier. 

Finally, while he was still very tired, suffering from what felt like a bone-deep exhaustion, he was also very thirsty. His gaze wandered around the small bedroom he was resting in and fell upon a nearby end-table with a ceramic pitcher and cup just out of reach.

Gingerly, Tim began to sit up, groaning softly with the effort. He almost didn't hear the soft footsteps approach the room and the quiet knock upon the doorway. He looked over to see an old Nord woman in a hooded robe standing there, a bowl and some linens in her arms. She smiled at him kindly. "You're finally awake," she said as she entered the room. "That's good. We've been concerned you might not wake up anytime soon." She immediately went to Tim's side and placed a cool hand against his forehead. Tim flinched a little, but didn't pull away completely. "Still a bit too warm, but at least your fever is headed in the right direction. Another day of rest and it should be broken completely."

"I'm sorry, but who are you, and where am I?" Tim asked.

"My name is Danica," she replied as she moved to the end table with the pitcher. "And you are in the Temple of Kynareth here in Whiterun. I'm the head priestess here." She poured out a cup of water and handed it to Timothy. "Drink slowly," she instructed before turning back to pour the rest of the water into the bowl she'd brought over.

As Tim brought the cup to his lips, he paused. He could smell something medicinal in the liquid, and the color was not quite right for just water. Still, he was extremely thirsty and he took small, careful sips until the cup was drained. As he drank, he watched as Danica placed one of the smaller linen towels into the bowl and soaked it before wringing it out and folding it into a compress. She then turned her full attention back on Tim and tried to gently encourage him to lay back down. 

The idea of laying back down and going back to sleep was tempting, and he was so tired, but still...

"I can't stay too long," he murmured as he tried to maneuver his legs off the bed.. "I need to speak with the Jarl about that dragon and--"

"No you don't," a familiar voice said firmly. Tim looked at the doorway to see Lucien standing there. He had a firm, determined expression on his face. "You are under strict orders by the Jarl himself not to set one foot out of this Temple until you are cleared to leave by Sister Danica herself." He stepped fully into the room and Tim could see he had a basket in one hand. Though covered with a cloth, Tim could see part of a loaf of bread and some fruit peaking out. 

A corner of Tim's lip quirked upward despite himself. "Oh really? So we're listening to the Jarl's orders now?"

"We do when the Jarl's housecarl Irileth herself has decided to fold you under her wings as a fellow 'soldier-in-arms' and has made your recovery one of her top priorities." Lucien remarked as he set his basket down on a nearby dresser. "Apparently she has a reputation of being a strong advocate for the soldiers under her command, despite her stern demeanor, as well as a reputation of speaking her mind with the Jarl when something troubles her. This..." Lucien made a vague circular motion with his hand that seemed to indicate Tim's whole physical state. "...troubled her greatly." He shrugged. "Apparently when Irileth speaks, Jarl Balgruuf actually listens. Imagine that... A Nord actually taking the words of a Dunmer to heart. Will wonders never cease?" 

Then Lucien's expression turned more serious. "So long story short, the Jarl has instructed that you be given all the time you need to recover from your illness and injury. The Temple itself is not to be disturbed by anyone unless they are approved by Irileth or if they are in serious need of healing themselves. So please, Timothy. Will you please just sit back and rest? This is the first time you've woken and been coherent in three days."

"Three days?" Tim echoed with slight disbelief. 

Lucien nodded and took a seat at the foot of Tim's bed as Danica added a pillow so Tim could recline comfortably, but be upright enough to eat. He pulled out an apple from the basket and began to peel it with a small pocketknife. "You were deathly ill when Irileth had her men brought you to the temple after the battle with the dragon. Your burns were deeply infected and all the stress of that battle exasperated your condition." Once peeled, he cut a slice and offered it to Tim.

Reluctantly, Tim laid back down on the pillows, a soft sigh escaping him when Danica pressed her compress against his forehead. The cool cloth felt good, and the medicinal aroma from the liquid wasn't an unpleasant smell. It was rather soothing. Tim had a suspicion that the herbs had some sort of soporific effect, but he wasn't really in any position to complain against it. Still, for the moment hunger beat out the immediate need for sleep, so he took the offered apple slice and took a small bite.

While he ate, Danica took a chair next to the bed. Then, she gently took Tim's left burned arm. The young man startled at the touch, but Lucien reassured him. "It's alright. Just let her work."

Curiously, Tim watched as Danica focused on his arm, holding it with her left hand. She murmured what sounded like a soft chant under her breath and held her free right hand over the area that was scarred by the burn. A warm golden aura radiated from her hand and eventually travelled to his injury. Tim watched with awe as the lingering ache in his arm began to fade even more, and the wound itself began to look far better. Rather than an infected angry red wound, it now looked more like an aged silvery scar that was a few shades lighter than his normal skin tone. After a few minutes, Danica finished her chant and she returned Tim's arm to him. 

"That's... amazing," Tim whispered as he tentatively touched the scar. 

"How does that feel? Is there any lingering pain anywhere in the arm?" Danica asked.

Tim moved his arm experimentally, testing the range of motion he now had. When his face reflected a twinge of pain around his elbow, though he didn't complain about it, Danica used her magic to heal the area with a more precise touch. 

As Danica worked, Lucien watched with a content expression as he continued to cut fruit, bread, and cheese and feed them to Tim. Eventually the priestess was finally satisfied with the state of Tim's arm and shifted her focus to his back. This part of his body, it seemed, was still in a worst state than his arm. Even after several passes of healing magic, there was still quite a bit of pain left deep in the muscles and bone and it showed on Tim's face, though he didn't complain verbally about it.

"I think that is enough for now," Danica announced after a final pass. She gently stroked some of Tim's hair from his face, She could feel the heat of his lingering fever radiating off of him, and carefully repositioned the pillows so he could lay back down completely. "The burn and infection on your back went far deeper than what your arm endured. Because of your fever, you'll need to rest before we can proceed with more healing."

Tim, for his part, was exhausted. Though he didn't do anything except eat and sip water while he was being healed, he felt as if he'd just run a marathon. He closed his eyes as the compress was placed on his forehead again, and he relished how good it felt against his overheated skin.

Danica didn't leave immediately, though. She studied Tim for a moment. "Just wondering, young man, but were you sickly as a child?"

Tim cracked open his eyes. "Sickly?"

"When you were a child, were you prone to illness and took a long time to recover?" 

He shook his head. "Not as a child, but last year I received a... permanent injury that I've been told might make me more prone to illness." Tim wasn't about to try and explain how he'd lost his spleen and its function. He was unsure how much knowledge of human anatomy and the function of individual organs was known here. He hoped the vague explanation would be enough. 

Danica sighed. "The costs of war..." she murmured with a shake of her head. Clearly she was assuming his injury had been from the current Civil War strife plaguing Skyrim. She then went over to the nearby dresser and pulled open the top drawer. From it, she removed an amulet and tied it around Tim's neck. 

Curiously, Tim lifted it from his chest to get a closer look at it. The amulet was strung on a leather thong, appeared to be forged from iron and some other pale metal he couldn't identify, and was shaped to look like a bird in flight. In the middle of the bird was a sky blue gemstone. It was a lovely piece of jewelry, but that was not the most remarkable part of it.

"It's warm?" he mused. Tim wasn't sure, but it almost felt like the warmth was pulsing like a heartbeat.

"It's an amulet of Kynareth," Danica explained. "She is our patron Divine here at the temple. Through Kynareth's blessing, the amulet improves one's stamina when you wear it. This should help with improving the speed of your recovery while in the temple." She gathered some of the dishes and spent linens. "Now get some rest. I'll check on you in a few hours.

Once Danica was gone, Tim turned to Lucien. "So... who is Kynareth?"

"She's one of the Eight Divines," Lucien explained. "A nature goddess of the sky, air, and wind, and the patron of travelers who traverse both land and sea." He smiled a bit. "When you're feeling better, before you leave the Temple you ought to take a moment and pray for a blessing at the shrine here. It wouldn't hurt to seek Kynareth's guidance as we try to find your way home."

Tim gave Lucien a strange look, and the scholar's smile faded. "Is the worship of gods different in your homeland?"

"Well... There are different religions throughout my world. Some believe in many gods. Others believe in just one." Tim sighed. "And still others don't believe in any at all." He glanced away from Lucien. "And back home... I fall into that latter category."

Lucien's jaw dropped and his eyes went wide. "You... You don't believe in any divinity?! How does that even work?" 

Tim shook his head with a shrug. "I believe in science and in things I can see with my own eyes. I believe in real mortal people who live their lives and make their choices. I believe in the existence of powerful beings who have abilities that far outstrip those of normal human beings. There are plenty of those on my home world. But I don't believe them to be gods and I don't believe in any necessity to worship them."

"Have you always believed like this?"

The younger man's expression became clouded and distant. "No... not always..."

"What happened? What changed?"

Tim sighed. "I... really don't want to talk about it."

Lucien regarded Timothy quietly. It seemed that the scars visible on the young man's skin were not the only ones he carried. Never in his own life could Lucius even fathom the existence of a spiritual injury that could mortally wound a person's faith itself. 

It was a disquieting thought.

"Timothy... I..." Lucien started to say after a long moment of silence, but paused. He noticed that Tim had curled up onto his side and his eyes were now closed in slumber. Lucien's gaze softened as he rose and pulled the blankets over Tim's shoulder. "You may not believe in our Divines here, but I'll pray that they watch over you regardless," he whispered before blowing out the candles and leaving the room. 

There, in the dark of the room as Tim slumbered, the blue gem set in the amulet of Kynareth seemed to glow faintly. 

As he slept, the voice of the dragon that had plagued his nightmares before did not trouble him again.

  -------------------------

Note:

Unfortunately no screenshots with characters in this scene. Just couldn't seem to get a right angle for any screenshots within the Temple of Kynareth. I have included an image of the Amulet of Kynareth Tim received. In-game all the amulets of the Divines offer some sorts of buffs to your characters, and it seemed appropriate that a stamina buff might help Tim since he's sick. I also figured that since Kynareth/Kyne is going to feature heavily during the journey of the Dragonborn, despite Tim being an atheist, she might be a bit "invested" in his well-being.

Just because you don't believe in a goddess doesn't mean she doesn't believe in you.

But because she is one of the Divines and not one of the Daedra, she's not going to be able to interact with Tim directly, but I think there needs to be some obvious-ish indirect influence. I need to think about this... Hopefully I'll have a better idea by the time Tim starts making his journey to meet with the Greybeards.

#elder scrolls dc#fanfiction#tim drake#skyrim fanfiction#batfam fanfic#red robin#batfam#crossover#lucien flavius#wip#afewnovelideas

#elder scrolls dc #fanfiction #tim drake #skyrim fanfiction #batfam fanfic #red robin #batfam #crossover #lucien flavius #wip #afewnovelideas