#cot speculation

[crypticsketchpad]

some more tagarou stuff! this time some regional variants and their cursed counterparts. gonna make a proper post about the different variants in the future, but basically tagarou appearances vary greatly by the biomes they live in, with different colorations and adaptations for each area. their cursed versions are the result of a malevolent god corrupting them and attempting to overthrow the rest of the deities as well as breaking tagarou society itself.

Greenwilds (rainforest): Sporting colorful hair and green hues, Greenwilds tagarou are meant to blend into the brilliant jungle flora of their home. Their mutant variant, the Strikers, resemble a blend of tagarou and ryxxi (snake thing from like two posts ago), and are fierce, cannibalistic hunters.

Red Desert (mesa/badlands): Red Desert tagarou possess striped skin patterns that match the banded rocks and mountains of their home region. Their mutant variant, the Ravagers, are essentially larger, more monstrous versions of normal tagarou, but are still very much terrifying. They came into existence as consequence of an individual consuming the flesh of a fallen god.

Starsands (white desert): Hailing from a desert landscape covered with blinding white sand, Starsands tagarou have a special “third eyelid” that functions similar to the lenses of sunglasses. Their mutant variant, the Chasers, are fast-running pack hunters that relentlessly pursue and ruthlessly maul their prey.

The last pic is a rough height comparison between the average tagarou (which is about 7 feet tall) and (from left to right) Chasers, Strikers, and Ravagers.

#worldbuilding #chronicles of terridea #speculative biology #fantasy race #sketch #tagarou #cultists (CoT)

[lastflowerofyourhouse]

who sleeps in the dog beds?

i'm just thinking about the cavalier cots, and how all the characters used/responded to them.

(note: i know for a fact i've seen at least one other post about this, but i do not specifically remember the contents of that post. so if i do some plagiarism here, i would like to apologize and assure you that it's accidental.)

so.

2: it's judith and marta. obviously they use the cavalier cot precisely as intended. even if judith secretly cherishes fantasies of marta bending her over the edge of the master bed, they use the cavalier cot as intended.

3: obviously it goes without saying that the tridentarii share the master bed. i think on paper the cot belongs to naberius and he does sleep in it occasionally, but i also think when they're mad at him they make him sleep on the floor.

4: this is the only one i waffled on a bit. the conclusion i've come to is that, for the first few nights, jeannemary took the cot and isaac slept in the master bed like you're supposed to, because that's the kind of pair they want to be. but after the fifth died i think they started cuddling up together in the master bed, when they slept at all.

5: they're married. it would be pretty weird actually if magnus slept in the cot.

6: we have canon confirmation that the cot is used for storage, which means cam and pal almost certainly share the bed. no one is shocked.

7: gonna say n/a for the seventh because i doubt that the shambling corpse of protesilaus the seventh, ya know, sleeps. but i will say that, if the real pro and dulcie made it to canaan house, she would sleep alone in the bed. not out of any power dynamic, just due to protesilaus's sense of chivalry. she's sick, she needs the more comfortable situation. i think dulcie would feel a bit guilty about it, but pro would insist.

8: do i even need to include the 8th on this list. either they use the cot as intended or they both sleep on the floor, there are no other possibilities.

9: no speculation here, we know how it went down.

#the locked tomb #tlt #gideon the ninth #tlt meta #my post

[zepskies]

Break Me Down - Part 17

Pairing: Soldier Boy/Ben x Female Reader

Summary: You’re a private investigator by trade, but now you happily sit at a desk — leading a surveillance team at Supe Affairs. After managing to end Homelander in New York, Soldier Boy escapes custody. You are recruited for the manhunt, joining Butcher’s team.

Truly, you joined the S.A. for the right reasons. But after you become his accidental hostage, Soldier Boy will break down every single one of them…

💚 Break Me Down Masterlist

AN: *Gives you a box of virtual tissues.* Just in case. 😘

Word Count: 6,000 Tags/Warnings: Macho angst ahead, hurt/comfort, major, major fluff…

Part 17: More Than Words Can Say

Mount Sinai Hospital was one of the largest private hospitals in the city. 

Fortunately, it was also the closest to Vought Tower, or what once had been the focal point of the superhero industry. It had been reduced to mere rubble and whatever dilapidated parts still stood. 

All the news outlets were covering the tower’s collapse, and speculating on what could’ve created the blast that made the entire city tremble—not unlike last year’s incident, when Soldier Boy killed the most powerful supe in the world.

In the hospital, M.M. walked through the Emergency Department until he found Yvette and her son, Devon. They sat beside each other on a single cot, now joined by Yvette’s husband Chris while she signed her discharge papers. She’d gotten off with a minor concussion and a bandage over her temple. 

“Just checking in on you guys,” M.M. said. Yvette smiled, but she asked about you. 

“She’s in surgery,” he told her. 

Yvette nodded, though tears welled up in her eyes. Chris rubbed her back and held his son’s shoulder. 

“Please call me with any news on her,” Yvette asked. 

“You got it,” M.M. said.

“And please,” she said, holding her son. “Thank Soldier Boy for us.”

M.M. paused at that. 

Seeing the family was well in hand, he returned to the trauma wing. There in the waiting room sat the whole team, minus Butcher, who’d been admitted to the hospital as well after the ED doctors didn’t like what they’d found on his lab reports. (But M.M. would look into that later. Hughie was with him now anyway.)

That left Frenchie, Kimiko, and Annie to wait for any news on you. Even Grace had arrived an hour ago. 

But M.M.’s attention was drawn to the dusty motherfucker standing near the hallway. 

Soldier Boy leaned against the wall with his arms crossed. The collar of his supe suit was undone to give his neck and chest some breathing room. He’d removed his gloves, and an empty gallon jug of water lied at his feet. 

He was covered in a fine layer of soot and grime, though he’d since washed his hands and face to the best of his ability. He was also flanked by his two hired men, Frank Cardoza and Lorenzo Rivales. 

Grace had run a quick background check on both, and as M.M. had learned, they were ex-Marines Soldier Boy had picked up in Colombia, while he was busy infiltrating a drug cartel.   

Fucking figures, M.M. thought, shaking his head as he watched the man. Grace stood and joined him.

“He’s not just gonna fuck off back to South America,” he told her. “You realize that right?”

She considered that with a tilt of her head. “Let’s just see what happens here.”

As if right on cue, your surgeon made his way down the hall and over to the waiting group. Ben pushed off the wall and went to meet him, as did Grace, Annie, and M.M. 

Annie and Ben eyed each other with mistrust and annoyance, respectively, but then he ignored her to regard the surgeon with a terse, expectant gaze.  

The doctor was a graying man in his fifties. He seemed to internally brace himself before he spoke, glancing at Ben first before the others. 

“We’ve repaired the damaged muscle around her right leg. The femur is broken. We also addressed the wound near her shoulder,” he said. “However, the rebar did nick her heart. She’ll need additional surgery to repair it.”

Ben sensed a but coming. He crossed his arms. “Okay, what’s the problem?”

The doctor gave a nod and a short sigh. 

“She’s lost a lot of blood,” he explained. “We’ve given her a transfusion, of course, but she’s in a delicate state right now.”

“So why’re you wasting time? Do your fucking job,” Ben snapped. Grace shot him a glance, but addressed the doctor herself.

“What are her odds, doctor?” she asked. Ben eyed her with a glare. She ignored him for the time being. 

“She needs this now. But, there is a chance she won’t make it out of surgery at this stage,” the surgeon replied. “The OR will be available in thirty minutes…so this would be the time to be with her, just in case she’s unable to get through this.”

“Excuse me?” Ben said. 

His tone was dark and deep with grit, and the doctor stepped back. No one dared attempt to hold Ben back, but Grace quickly thanked the doctor and urged him to move forward with prepping you for surgery. 

Loco shared a saddened look with Frank, who watched their boss with a deepening frown. 

Annie turned to Ben with a measure of sympathy, hidden underneath her irritation at his attitude and her worry for you. You were still her friend, and she felt guilty for how cold she’d been treating you lately. And she could see, at the very least, that this man cared about you. 

“Look, can you just calm down a bit? We’re all here hoping she pulls through,” Annie said. 

M.M. stood behind her, silent, supportive. But Ben just ignored her, and everyone else for that matter. 

He stalked down the hallway. And when he turned a corner, out of eyeshot, he growled and punched a hole deep into the closest wall.

Hughie perked up when Butcher finally started to rouse in his hospital bed. They had him on a hefty dose of morphine. 

He blinked his weary eyes, his head rolling over on the pillow. His lips quirked when he noticed Hughie, who was glaring at him. 

“Watching me sleep now?” Butcher remarked. “Pretty fuckin’ creepy, Hugh.”

“You’re such an asshole,” Hughie said. 

That was something Butcher couldn’t refute. He nodded. “I see they told you.”

“When were you gonna say something?” Hughie said. “When you fucking dropped dead?”

“Probably not even then,” Butcher teased. But when he took in the younger man’s face, all he saw was his little brother, Lenny. Butcher sighed. 

“Ain’t nothing any of us can do about it.”

“Fucking cancer?” Hughie said incredulously. “You could’ve gotten treatment.”

“Would’ve bought me a few more months, maybe,” Butcher admitted. That fell between them for a moment with stony silence. 

“It’s all right,” he added. “I’ve had my fucking time. Got to see the life drain from that golden cunt’s eyes…got to let my girl rest easy.”

Hughie didn’t buy that. Or maybe, he just didn’t want to. His eyes burned, both with emotion and determination. He stood from his seat and set out to find Grace. If there was anything that could help Butcher, she would know. 

While the others went down to the cafeteria for a bite to eat, Frank sat in the waiting room with Loco beside him and Dr. Baker’s briefcase on his lap.

He was sorting through its contents while Loco sat with crossed arms and slumping shoulders. He looked over at Frank’s stoic profile with a frown.

He was older, but not by much. They’d gone through one fresh hell after another together, and somehow, Frank always managed to pull their asses out of the wringer. It seemed Frank was trying to do the same for their boss. 

It was funny, actually. Soldier Boy wasn’t their first contractor. You were their first kidnapping though. Neither he or Frank had felt good about it when Antonio brought you back to the mansion in Medellin, but they’d agreed to do a job. Guarding you became part of that job. 

And yet, you had somehow reminded both Frank and Loco that they used to be respectable members of society. They used to have families, friends. They had once been soldiers. Good men. Maybe that was why they’d grown fond of you over the past few months. 

And Frank…well, Loco knew the man had his reasons for wanting to be done with this work. Loco couldn’t blame him; he was feeling tired himself. 

“Found anything good?” Loco asked in Spanish. Frank’s dark brows had drawn together in new interest.

“More than good,” he said. He looked up, but didn’t find Soldier Boy in the waiting room. “Where the hell did he go?”

Loco pointed to the reception desk. “Try asking someone.”

With a sharp sigh, Frank gave Loco the briefcase. “Guard that with your fucking life. Don’t let anyone from the CIA take it from you.”

Loco gave him a look of offense. “It’s like you don’t know me at all, bro. Fucking hurts.” 

Rolling his eyes, Frank got up and went over to the reception desk. 

“Excuse me,” he said. There seemed to be no one at the reception desk. Granted, it was late at night, and they technically weren’t supposed to be there. Grace Mallory had worked out an agreement with the hospital to allow them all to stay overnight. 

He didn’t have to wait too long though, as an on-duty nurse came over with a clipboard in hand. Her red hair caught his eye, along with her pretty smile. 

“Hi there. Can I help you?” she asked. 

Frank faltered, just for a moment. But he cleared his throat and met her eyes. 

“Did you happen to see which way Soldier Boy went?” he asked.

She gave him a wan smile and pointed down the hall, to the left. “That ‘a way. Think he had an argument with the wall over there.”

Frank followed her gaze and caught sight of the hole in the wall. He frowned. 

“Sorry about that,” he said. 

The nurse gave him a sideways look. “No worries, hun. It’s not your fisticuff outline in the wall, now is it?”

Once again, Frank didn’t know quite what to say to her slightly teasing smile. But he returned it, more reserved, but genuine. 

“Thank you,” he said, with a nod. Then he remembered then what he needed to do. 

And he took off brusquely down the hall. 

It took him a few minutes to pull his head together, but Ben eventually worked up his nerve to go and see you. 

You were still drugged out asleep, of course. He stood outside the large window of your private room in the Intensive Care Unit. He wouldn’t go in though. Part of him refused to believe it had gotten to this. 

And the reality, that this was his fault. He’d caused the blast that destroyed the tower. His fault he hadn’t gotten to you sooner.

“You are the reason I needed saving,” you’d told him once. 

You were right then, and it still held up now. 

So, no…he wouldn’t go in there, into your room. The truth was, he couldn’t. 

But Ben’s awareness prickled before he noticed, Frank had joined him. Ben tolerated it. While he wanted to be alone, maybe part of him (one he wouldn’t acknowledge) craved some kind of company. 

“You’ll get paid, don’t you fucking worry,” he said dryly. 

“That’s not the only reason I’m here,” Frank said. 

It felt like a confession. Ben didn’t reply though; he was focused on your pale face, covered by the breathing mask. Shallow puffs of air fogged the inside of it while your heart monitor clipped on.

“There’s another solution here,” Frank said. 

Ben gave him a cursory side glance. “She wouldn’t take Compound V. Not even to save her fucking life.”

“That didn’t stop you before,” Frank mentioned. 

Ben didn’t answer, but he’d been internally debating it ever since he’d spoken with the surgeon. 

“All right, get it over here,” he said. “The temporary stuff.” 

Frank rose a brow. He’d been curious enough to try testing the man. But now, he frowned.

“She won’t forgive you,” he pointed out. 

“What’re you, devil’s fucking advocate? She’ll get the fuck over it,” Ben snapped. 

But after his initial anger subsided…he knew his subordinate was right. 

“She’ll be alive to hate me,” he said, more honestly.  

Frank inclined his head. “There could be another way.” 

Ben glanced over at him. 

“She lost a lot of blood,” Frank said. Ben frowned.  

“They’ve given her fucking blood transfusions—” 

“Yeah, normal blood. A supe’s blood is stronger. Yours could probably heal her,” Frank said. “But, the only one who can break your skin is you.”

Ben eyed him in suspicion. “Who told you that?” 

“Read it somewhere,” Frank said evasively. 

Ben huffed in response, but as that realization truly sunk into his mind, his lips pressed together in new determination. He left Frank to start a brusque pace down the hall. 

He ignored the red-headed nurse calling at him at the reception desk when he shoved through a locked security door, into the OR unit. He searched until he found your surgeon and pulled him from the sink he was washing his hands in.

The man gasped with fright, though he tried to hide it looking up at Ben. “What the hell’re you doing?”

“I’m making a donation,” said Ben. He raised a blunt nail to his wrist. “You better hurry the fuck up, because I’m about to open a vein.”

It was morning by the time another doctor returned to deliver an update on your progress: the “treatment” was working. Your wounds had knitted closed within an hour following the blood transfusion, and you no longer needed surgery. They had also x-rayed your leg and found that the bone was whole once again. Even your broken ribs had healed.

Ben nodded at the news. He didn’t respond, and just started walking down the hall. Grace, Annie, and M.M. stared after him with mixed reactions of confusion and curiosity. 

“Where are you going?” Annie asked. She was exhausted; all of them were. 

The supe ignored her though. M.M. shared a look with her before he decided to follow the man. 

Meanwhile, Ben once again stopped in the middle of the hallway when he was out of view. He took in a slow, steadying breath of relief, his fists clenching at his sides.

“Congratulations. After today, you’re gonna get your statue put back up,” M.M. said.

Ben turned around to stare back at the man, schooling his face into a stoic frown. 

“Yvette and her son are going to be fine, by the way,” M.M. added, as he crossed his arms.

Ben paused slightly at that, filing that information away with secret satisfaction. 

To M.M., he merely raised a brow. “You got something to say, or are you going to keep wasting my fucking time?”  

“You think saving one black kid makes you a hero?” M.M. asked, point blank. “Taking down Vought. Saving her. What does that all mean to you?”

Ben frowned in irritation. “Why the fuck do you care?”

“Just answer the question. Be honest for once in your motherfuckin’ life,” M.M. said. “Do you really think you’re a hero?”

Silence fell between them. 

Ben didn’t know what it was about this guy. Maybe it was his persistence, or the fact that he’d pulled you out of the rubble and got you to a hospital in time to save your life. 

But Ben actually considered the question.

Killing Stan Edgar and Black Noir. Saving you. He’d done it all for selfish reasons. The kid…that was something else. His face stuck in Ben’s mind, how he’d trusted the superhero, like dumb kids were supposed to do.

But in that moment, carrying the tower on his back and knowing he was the only barrier between a mountain of hot rubble and this one kid…Ben hadn’t wanted to fail. 

And still. You are the reason I needed saving…

It wasn’t really saving the fucking day if he started it, was it?

Ben’s lips turned on a humorless smile. Still, he had saved the kid. And his mom. And you. For now, that was enough.

“Looks like I am,” said Ben.

But he met M.M.’s stare, briefly allowing him to glimpse beyond a wall of arrogance and pride.

And Ben walked away. M.M. watched him go in silent contemplation.

Grace intercepted Ben before he could visit you in the ICU. 

Christ. What the fuck now? he thought sourly. 

She gestured for a word, and with an annoyed look, he followed her down the hall.

“I’ll get to the point,” she said. “Butcher is sharing a floor with your girlfriend, down in Oncology.”

Ben raised a brow. That prick had cancer? Par for the fucking course, if he said so himself. 

“So?” he remarked. 

Grace sighed. She’d expected that reaction. “They’ve given him weeks, but the way he’s been pushing himself, more likely it’s days. Taking the untested Temp V long-term has had its adverse side effects…if you were to make another blood donation, I’ll make it worth your while.” 

So now his blood was some fucking wonder drug? Hell no, Ben thought. 

“You’re asking me to save the guy who’s double-crossed me, tried to hunt me down, tried to end me?” he said, with a dark, incredulous chuckle. “You can fuck right off, sweetheart.”

She grated at the sweetheart remark, but Grace leveled him with steely blue eyes.

“If it weren’t for me, you’d be on ice right now,” she pointed out. 

Ben’s lips pursed. He’d really like to snap this bitch’s fucking neck on principle…but then he thought about it. He could work this into his favor. 

“You know what. I’m having a good day, so maybe I’m feeling fucking generous,” he said. His mouth edged into a smirk. “But I think it’s time we renegotiated our contract. Don’t you?”

Grace stared up at him, and she inhaled a deep breath. 

“Fine.”

You slowly woke up in a hospital room, in a paper gown with an IV drip and a heart monitor. Which made sense, as the events of yesterday came back to you in a rush. 

But beyond feeling relieved to be alive, you also felt extremely well-rested. You didn’t feel like a building fell on you. 

What kind of masterful drugs are they giving me? You tried to read your chart on the wall, but you didn’t see any pain medication on there. 

Annie popped into your private recovery room. Her face brightened when she saw that you were awake. 

“Hey, hun! How do you feel?” she asked, lowering into a chair at your bedside. You wouldn’t know that this chair had been occupied by various members of the team over the past few hours, including M.M., Frenchie, Frank, and even Grace. 

“Great, actually,” you replied. But now you frowned. “I shouldn’t feel great.”

You remembered nearly being crushed under a pile of rubble. You remembered falling on a piece of rebar, and unable to move your crushed leg. You remembered the worry in Ben’s eyes… 

And panic stung at yours.

“Did they give me Compound V?” your voice shook when you asked. Annie calmed you down with a shake of her head and a reassuring hand on your arm. 

The door to your room opened once again. Ben’s frame filled up the doorway. When his eyes met yours, your breath caught in your throat. He was still in his supe suit, and with his hands resting on his belt, he strutted inside the room. 

M.M., Frenchie, Frank, Loco, and Kimiko came in behind him and at least looked showered. Ben looked like he hadn’t even done that much, nor slept all night.

“It wasn’t the V,” he said at last. “Just a little blood donation. Seemed to work like a charm.”

His resulting grin had a bit of charm in it as well. Your head tilted in confusion.

"Whose blood?" you asked.

"Mine," he said. His expression faded, slightly more serious.

You found yourself slowly smiling, though your brows still furrowed in surprise. He gave me his blood…instead of Compound V.

While you tried to wrap your mind around the gravity of that, you reached for the pitcher of water on the rolling tray beside you. You grasped the pitcher, but the plastic actually crunched in your hand. You gasped and moved your hand over so the water inside wouldn’t spill all over you.

Ben raised a brow. 

The room fell silent as all eyes stared at you. When the water finished pouring out onto the floor, you gently set it back down on the tray. 

“Seems you got some of his strength in the deal,” Annie remarked. 

“Great, there’s two of them,” Hughie quipped with a grin. 

“Well, that’s probably just temporary,” M.M. sighed. “Hopefully.” 

You couldn’t help but laugh, and it brought a slight grin to Ben’s lips. 

After a bit of well wishing, everyone cleared out of your room to let you rest up…except for Ben, Frank, and Loco. 

“What are you guys going to do now?” you asked of the latter two. Loco cracked his knuckles. 

“Got another job lined up in private security,” he revealed. “I’ve lost the taste for drug running. Nearly lost a damn toe on the last one.”

You laughed. “Well, thanks for doing one more job here.”

“Anything for el Capitán,” Loco said, giving Ben a respectful nod. “He pays exceedingly well.”

You raised a brow at Ben, who shrugged with a cocky grin. Smiling, you turned to Frank, who was sitting in the chair beside your bed. 

“And you?” you asked. Frank gave you a rare smile. 

“Going home,” he said. “To my daughter.”

Your eyes began to sting, but you tried to blink away the beginnings of tears. You nodded and squeezed his arm. 

“Give her a big hug for me. And thank you again…for everything,” you said, even though you realized that thanking your former guard keep was strange. Still, there had been no part of your kidnapping that was normal in the least. 

Frank hesitated, but he covered your hand with his. 

Though he caught the way Ben’s face tightened, and Frank let go of you. He stood with Loco, giving you and Ben a final nod. Then the two men left your room and disappeared down the hall.

Part of you felt melancholy, like chapters of your life were closing. But you also felt like new ones were waiting in the wings.

Your gaze turned to Ben, who stood near your bed.

He was looking over your chart to see if the doctors needed anything else before you were discharged. But your soft voice called to him, earning his attention. You beckoned him closer.

He went over and sat down on the edge of your bed, laying a hand on your thigh. You reached out for his arm. 

“Thank you,” you said. 

Ben scoffed, though a hint of humor glinted in his eyes. “For what? Saving your reckless ass for the millionth time?”

“For saving Yvette and her son,” you replied with a smile. “And yeah, all that other stuff.” 

Your hand slid down his arm and slipped into his hand. Your fingers curled around his palm. 

“Really. Thank you…” 

Tears welled up in your eyes again. You still couldn’t fucking believe he opened up one of his own veins and gave you his blood. He gave a public hospital his blood in order to save you. 

He could’ve easily slipped you V24 again, or worse, the permanent stuff. But he didn’t just save you. He’d respected your wishes. 

What you wanted to say next got stuck in your throat.

Ben had something hiding behind his eyes, like he was reluctant to show you his real emotions. But when he focused on your face, his hand tightened on yours. His jaw clenched, but he didn’t speak. He only let go of your hand to brush a falling tear from your cheek. His lips twitched at a smile.

“Come on now, baby doll. You’re tougher than that.”

You choked on a laugh as more of your tears slipped down your warming cheeks. “Nope. I’m actually not.”

“Hmm. Could’ve fooled me,” Ben said. You matched his grin with a beaming smile of your own.  

Slowly, you pushed yourself up and took his dirty face in your hands. You guided him down to you, and you pressed your lips to his. 

He allowed it with his usual demanding, fervent kiss. But then it slowed. He held your wrist to keep your hand in place on his cheek, and his thumb drew bath and forth over your skin. 

You parted from him, pulling back enough to see his face. There was so much you wanted to say…but maybe right now, it was too much. 

You met him with another tearful kiss.

Before you were officially discharged from the hospital, you had one more visitor. 

Grace was once again there to debrief you. This time though, Ben sat at your side on the bed, a silent statue who regarded the woman coolly. He seemed to be tolerating her presence with more ease than usual, and you wondered why.

“You’re going on medical leave,” she informed you. “For three months, and then a psychiatrist will need to clear you for duty.”

Part of you wanted to argue, considering you were completely healed of your injuries. But you knew you needed a break from the S.A.—from all of this. 

“Your mother and sister will be brought out of witness protection soon, after we determine that the threat is sufficiently neutralized,” she said. “You can return home today as well.”

You could finally go back to your apartment…though the thought didn’t call to you as much as it should have. You glanced over at Ben.

“Is this the part where you try to ship him back to Colombia?” you asked. 

“That was the agreement,” Grace said wryly. You frowned, trying to blink away the tears forming once again in your eyes.

You didn’t want to lose him, but you also didn’t want to give up your life here. You didn’t want to leave the S.A., or your family, or your friends. Ben put you out of your misery, however.

“We renegotiated,” he said. 

Your eyes widened. “What?”

Grace explained, “In exchange for his assistance in another case, he can stay in the U.S. on a trial basis. As long as he agrees to live within the law.”

You didn’t entirely trust Grace. Ben would be watched at every moment. That was a given, but considering he still didn’t have full control over his nuclear power, you were surprised Grace would allow him free roam within U.S. borders. 

“And, provided, he agrees to a relocation. Preferably not in a densely populated area,” Grace added.

There it is, you frowned. You shared a look with him, and you could see he wasn’t entirely on board with this. You had no doubt he’d agreed to her demands by lying through his teeth. 

You turned back to Grace.

“What if he becomes a contractor for Supe Affairs,” you proposed. “There may be some fallout after Vought’s collapse, and more of their records to go through. Other labs to clear out. Ben would be a lot of help, if he’s willing.”

You glanced at Ben again. He met your eyes, then Grace’s, and he nodded marginally. He was getting bored of the heat in South America anyway. 

Grace heaved a sigh. Ben’s lips formed a smirk. 

“Oh, relax. I just ended Vought. You’d be an idiot not to cash in on that PR,” he pointed out. 

“Need I remind you that you caused the tower’s collapse?” Grace said tersely. “And you did not end Vought. There will be repercussions to this, believe me.”

Ben’s face tightened, but you grasped his hand. 

“But he fulfilled the mission,” you said. “He took out Black Noir…and Stan Edgar in the process.”

“The idea was to arrest him, but I get your point,” Grace said. Her hand raised to cover her mouth as she thought about your proposal.

Eventually, she spoke. “If you can play by our rules, then we’ll contract with you. But until you get that atomic bomb under control, you can’t remain the city. Upstate is the best I can do.”

Ben chafed at being told what he couldn’t do. What the fuck was he going to do in Upstate New York? Slowly rot to death in dusty-ass suburbia?

You shot him a knowing look, raising a brow. 

“It’s a fair offer, Ben,” you pointed out. His lips pursed in annoyance. But he glanced at your hand in his.

Then he looked up at Grace. “Fine. But first, unfreeze my fucking bank accounts.”

Ben later led you out of the hospital. There was a car waiting outside, and he got in to drive, despite you offering. He must’ve been going on very little sleep, if any over the past two days. 

And of course, he’d refused to be seen at all medically, saying he was fine. You were still concerned about that destabilizing gun Black Noir had shot him with. 

“I’m fine,” Ben had claimed. “Just need some sleep, that’s all.”

You watched his profile for a moment, and a smile started to raise your lips…until you finally remembered something that felt like a heavy stone in your stomach.

“Um…” you said, earning Ben’s attention. You looked up at him. “My father’s dead…”

Good fucking riddance, was Ben’s initial reaction. Followed by a frown, as he now realized he would never get the pleasure of choking the shit out of Jon himself. 

Ben had been fucking livid to learn from Frank that you’d been left alone in the Tower with your father while it was coming down (and Ben was petty enough to dock that little slip up from Frank’s pay). Had that asshole lived, Ben wouldn’t have put it past him to try and take you with him after escaping the building. The mere thought grated on him. 

“Black Noir killed him,” you said, heaving a shaky breath. 

That cut through Ben’s thoughts. He glanced over, watching you fight some conflicting emotions. 

“…Punched a hole straight through his chest,” you added.

Ben hummed in acknowledgement. You turned to him with a raised brow and glassy eyes. When he realized you were expecting a bit more from him, his lips pursed.

“Well, he got a quick death,” he said. “Better than he fucking deserved, far as I���m concerned.”

You sighed and leaned your head back on the head rest. Your eyes closed. 

“Goddamn it, Ben.”

Ben eyed you with a deepening frown. “What the fuck do you expect me to say?”

“How about some decency?” you asked, as a tear fell down your cheek. “He tried to apologize. But I wouldn’t let him.”

He paused at that. While he thought you were being unreasonable, it begrudgingly dawned on him what you wanted, and maybe, what you needed. He sighed through his nose. Even now, you were a handful.

Ben reached over, taking your hand from your lap. He pressed the back of it to his lips, earning your mild surprise.  

“That’s not your fault,” he said. And he briefly took his eyes off the road to look into yours. “None of it was. You understand me?”

Your face softened. Though you tried to blink away your tears, a few of them still fell. You wiped at them with your free hand, while the other squeezed around his fingers, resting against your thigh. Despite how you were fracturing inside, warmth still kept you afloat. 

So you looked up at Ben, and you nodded. He seemed satisfied by your answer. He turned back fully to the road, but you kept a tight hold of his hand. He allowed it.   

“We’ll have to go to the safe house to get our stuff,” you said eventually, with a small sniffle.

“No need,” Ben said. “That’s taken care of.”

That confused you. Was he taking you to your apartment then? 

But instead, he drove you out of the city, and an hour upstate into Scarsdale. You’d never been there, but you knew it by reputation—as one of the most affluent towns in the state.

You were even more confused when he drove down a street flanked by tall hedges within a private community. He pulled into a circular driveway in front of an immense white house, with a red brick roof, colonial architecture, a manicured lawn, complete with matching fountains lining the front door.

Ben parked the car and encouraged you to get out with him. You followed him up to the front porch, expecting an old billionaire to pop out of the tall bushes at any moment to chase you away. 

“What’re we doing here?” you asked. His hands fell to the belt of his supe suit as he surveyed the stood, the door, and the walls for anything amiss. 

“I’m looking into buying it,” he revealed, as if he’d just told you, It’s pretty fucking sunny today, huh? 

“Our stuff is ready to be shipped out when the deal closes with the owner,” he added.

Your eyes flew wide. “What? When did you have time to scope out houses?” 

You’d only been discharged about an hour after the conversation with Grace. 

“I had Frank look into some shit. He found this one,” Ben shrugged. “Could use some work, but not bad.”

Our stuff, you repeated in your mind. This house…was he trying to recreate what the two of you had in Medellin?

And more importantly, was this his way of asking you to move in with him? 

Well, there’s not too much asking going on, you thought in annoyance. And yet, you blushed; the sentiment in itself was enough to warm you. 

You brought Ben back down to Earth by grasping his hands, earning his attention from the old grout in the tile.

“Ben, this place is amazing,” you said. “But I don’t know if I’ll be comfortable living like this.”

He frowned down at you. “What the hell do you mean? You could have anything you want here. It’s safe. Got plenty of room—”

“A bit too much room,” you said, holding up your thumb and forefinger a couple inches apart. 

He looked adorably grumpy. You smiled and squeezed his hand. 

“Did you really feel cozy and at home in that mansion with fifty rooms and nobody in ‘em?” you asked.

He didn’t answer you, and he didn’t seem happy either. You didn’t want him to take this as a rejection. 

“If we’re going to do this,” you said, “then can we start a little smaller? Somewhere that feels like home to both of us?”

Ben stared back at you in annoyance. “You need to broaden your palate.”

You just managed to stop yourself from laughing.

“You haven’t had a normal home in a long time, Ben,” you replied. Maybe ever, you realized. “How about you trust me?” 

He gave you a dubious frown.

“What about this,” you tried. “Let’s pick it out together! If in a few months you still hate the new place, we’ll try it your way.” 

“You’re assuming we’re gonna make it that long.” Ben was starting to wonder if this was going to work after all. The two of you were from very different worlds. 

You offered a cheeky smile. “I’m optimistic.”

He huffed. “Sure.” 

You reached up on your toes, and gripped the front of his suit when you leaned up to kiss him. His hands rose naturally to hold you, resting on your jean-clad hips. He followed your languid kiss, his furrowed brows relaxing when you touched his cheek.

When you broke from his lips, his eyes opened to find yours. 

“I am, Ben,” you said more seriously. “I’m not playing games. This is real to me, and I want to be with you.” 

But then you hesitated. You lowered back down to your feet. 

“But if it’s not to you…if you’re just passing time with me, until you get bored,” you said, “tell me now. Please.” 

It was Ben’s turn to hesitate. It was the please that got to him, along with your downturned gaze. He captured your chin between his fingers and raised your face up to him. 

“I’m not fucking around,” he said. “I want you to live with me.” 

Your smile was soft and bright when you took his hand. Ben wouldn’t admit it, but something in his chest stuttered to life then.

“Okay,” you said with a nod. “Let’s do it.”

AN: *squeals* It's happening! We've really gotten here, folks. How'd you like how it all wrapped up with Grace, M.M., and even Butcher?

But we're not quite there with these two yet...

Next Time:

“Why’re you nagging me like a goddamn wife?” he snapped.

“Wife?” you scoffed, crossing your arms. “You don’t even call me your girlfriend.”

But God forbid another man even smile in your direction. Ben was possessive, protective, and claimed with all but words that you were his. And yet, he wouldn’t say it.

You shouldn’t have been surprised that he was afraid of commitment, but you’d been living together for six damn months.

Keep reading: THE EPILOGUE

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[tojisangrylittlething]

Can you do Gojo Satoru x reader (also his age like idk they went to schopl together) and they r dating but the reader almost dies and then treats their death mockingly as if as a joke? How would Gojo react?

Have a lovely day! 🪷

summary: death has always been a joke to you, but your boyfriend isn't very pleased with your sick sense of humor.

tw: canon typical violence, near-death experience, cussing, pre-hidden inventory arc, hurt to comfort

wc: 3.4k

a/n: your wish is my command lovely anon! sorry it took me a bit to complete! you're my first ever ask, so i hope this is what you wanted <3

satoru is currently walking through the courtyard of jujutsu tech. it's his second year as a student and his reputation as the strongest grows by the day. he feels incredibly lucky to have met his friends, such as suguru and ieiri.

but then there's you.

the bright-eyed first year who caught his attention the minute you walked through the doors of the school. shyly introducing yourself, holding out your hand shakily with a timid smile adorning your breathtaking features.

satoru was starstruck, his brain short-circuited and he forgot how to fucking breathe. it took him at least 2 whole minutes to shake your hand and give you an adequate greeting.

as you walked away with nanami and haibara, satoru couldn't help but watch as you did. your hips swaying and hands swinging freely at your sides, laughing at something haibara said. god, satoru will never forget your smile for as long as he lives.

suguru about had to unleash a curse on his best friend to get him to come back to planet earth.

from that day forward, satoru knew that he had to have you. whatever satoru gojo wants, satoru gojo gets.

after a few months of pining and romantic gestures, satoru finally convinced you to go on a date. as the date was coming to a close, he kissed you under the vibrant lights on the city streets of tokyo. the only time that he ever hesitated was when he asked you to be his partner, to be the one who loved and cared for him despite his flaws.

satoru couldn't help but kiss you again the second you said yes, completely overwhelmed with the feeling of joy.

now, six months later, your relationship has bloomed into something exquisite. you've shared many laughs, cries, and tender moments that satoru cherishes deeply in his soul.

he currently walks to see yaga, something about having a new mission for him. you're supposed to be back from your own respective mission today and satoru hopes he'll get to see you before he leaves.

satoru hears his phone ringing from his pocket, he reaches down and grabs it, eyes scanning over the caller ID.

shoko is calling...

he furrows his brows, a bit confused as to why she would be calling. shrugging it off, he presses the green answer button and holds it up to his ear.

"shoko! to what do i owe the-"

the sound of her sniffling immediately stops satoru in his tracks.

"shoko? what's going on?"

he hears her clear her throat and she sighs. gojo chews the dead skin off his bottom lip anxiously, speculating what she could say next.

"something happened to y/n. we're in the medical wing."

satoru feels his heart drop straight to his stomach, eyes growing wide at her words. he thinks he mumbles something along the lines of i'm on my way, but he's not entirely sure. the blood rushing through his ears makes his hearing sound muffled.

he half-hazzardly shoves his phone back into his pocket, taking off toward the medical wing of the school. his thoughts consumed with nothing but you.

---

when satoru arrives, he's shocked by what he sees.

there you are, lying in the white cot with your eyes closed. your skin is abnormally pale, the vibrant glow you always held has now turned dull. you're wrapped in bandages and an IV drip is connected to the top of your hand.

satoru keeps his face blank, afraid that if he shows any emotion he will break down. internally, his brain is screaming for you, what could have possibly happened to you that you're in this condition?

he always swore to you that he'd protect you, not only was that his job as one of the strongest sorcerers of the age, but also as your devoted boyfriend.

"you know i will always protect you, right my love?"

you smiled sweetly at him, eyes crinkling at the corners and nose scrunching up adorably, "of course i know that toru."

that interaction plays in his head like a broken record. he wasn't there for you.

shoko approaches him cautiously, unsure of what her friend is thinking. satoru's face is void of emotions, but she can see the turmoil swimming in his eyes, even from behind his sunglasses. his usually radiant blue eyes are now dark and frigid.

shoko reaches her hand out to touch him, but pulls it back deciding against it. she knows satoru has to be on high alert right now, so surely his infinity is on.

satoru finally looks at shoko, remorse is written all over her face. her eyes are slightly downcast and there's a frown on her lips. she looks him up and down, trying to assess what he's feeling.

he looks back to you, "what happened?" satoru mumbles out, his voice is eerily calm, but there's a waver behind it.

shoko turns her gaze to where gojo's is, the events of the mission playing over in her head. she shakes her head, willing those images to go away.

"the intel was wrong. it was supposed to be a grade 3, but it was a grade 1."

satoru stays quiet as he takes in the information. he clenches his fists in anger, how could they possibly mistake something like that? their one miscalculation leads to the light of his life on their deathbed.

shoko takes his silence as her cue to continue, "the curse threw an attack aimed at me, but y/n threw themselves in front of me. they took the blow head on."

shoko hears the shake in her own voice and feels the tears begin to gather in her waterline. she always viewed you as a younger sibling, looking out for you and having your back whenever you would need her.

"i used my technique and healed them the best i could, but now we have to play the waiting game."

shoko turns to gojo after finishing her sentence and she becomes even more worried for him.

gojo's fists shake from how tightly he clutches down on them, his knuckles are extruding due to the force he is using. shoko can hear the grinding of his teeth with how brutally he is clenching them, any harder he might break a tooth.

before shoko can stop herself, she puts a comforting hand on his arm. she's shocked to find that his infinity is off.

shoko composes herself then, hand squeezing his arm comfortingly, "i'm so sorry gojo, i'm so so sorry."

satoru turns his eyes to her and sees the apologetic look she wears on her face. he sighs and lets go of his fists, shooting her a small smile, "it's not your fault shoko, don't blame yourself."

silence falls across the room then, the only sound being heard is the steady beeping of the heart monitor you're attached to. satoru and shoko are unable to stop staring at you, each of their hearts breaking in different ways for the state that you're in.

"i'm going to wait with them until they wake up."

gojo says nothing else as he plops himself in the uncomfortable chair next to your bedside. he grasps your hand in his, your hand is cold and it makes his insides twist.

shoko watches gojo for a moment, noting how gentle he is with you and the soft look in his eyes. she can physically see all of the love that walking behemoth holds for you.

she bows slightly and makes her way out of the room, running off to tell yaga what has happened and that gojo will not leave your side. she knows him well enough to know that he would cause an absolute shitstorm before anyone takes him away from you.

as soon as shoko leaves, satoru can't help the anxiety that eats away at him. all of the worst possible scenarios being the only thing he can think of.

he frowns deeply and uses his free hand to rub at his eyes, not wanting to shed any tears over something that may not happen.

satoru glides his thumb softly over your wrist, he's able to feel your pulse and it's weak. this causes him to sigh, taking in your figure and the injuries all over your skin.

"wake up soon my love, i'll be waiting."

---

you have no idea what time it must be when you wake up, the lighting in the room blinding you from how bright it is.

this causes you to squint your eyes, trying to get your eyes to adjust to the sudden intrusion to your vision.

when you look around you, you see that your in a room in the medical wing of the school. since becoming a sorcerer, you've grown familiar with the disgusting hospital white that paints the walls. the smell alone making you scrunch up your face with how putrid it is.

after a few minutes of observation, you feel something in your left hand.

you look in that direction and see your beautiful boyfriend satoru. he is bent forward, laying his head on the bed you also lay in with his head resting on his forearms. his eyes are closed and he's snoring softly, a stark contrast to how tightly he is gripping your hand.

you can't help the small smile that finds its way to your lips, your free hand reaching for him. you run your fingers lightly through his snow-white hair, scratching lightly at his scalp.

your movements cause him to stir, he faintly and his eyes blink open slowly.

he glances around the room briefly when his eyes finally find yours, the smile you wear is so tender that satoru believes it to be an illusion.

you try to speak to him but you start coughing violently, your throat dry from being asleep for so long.

satoru scrambles to your bedside table, grabbing the water cup and holding it to your lips.

you grasp at it and drink it quickly, your body feels as if it hasn't drank in days.

when you've finished the water, satoru plucks it from you and sets it back on the table. he faces you again and squeezes your hand, smiling at you affectionately, "welcome back, baby."

you return the loving smile and squeeze his hand back, a rasp to your voice, "hi."

satoru cradles your head, his eyes taking in every single feature on your face. his smile falters almost imperceptibly, his eyes looking directly into yours, "almost lost you there."

you wave him off, chuckling extraneously, "it's fine satoru, could've been worse."

his frown seems to deepen even more, "you almost died, baby. i don't understand how it could be worse."

you look around nonchalantly with a light expression on your face, "oh, i don't know, i could actually be dead."

satoru furrows his brows at you, pulling away from you slightly, "baby, i'm serious. you could have died."

you grin at him, honestly finding his serious behavior amusing, "it's no big deal toru."

satoru completely pulls away from you then, shocked by how your treating the situation, "no big deal? this is a big deal y/n."

you roll your eyes and snicker at him, hilarity dancing in your eyes, "no it's not satoru, it's just part of the job. although, that would not have been a cool way to go. only a grade one? come on." you groan out by the end, embarrassed that it wasn't a special grade that landed you here.

satoru is frozen in his spot, completely appalled at the way you're handling this. he thought of all the ways you would wake up, but he didn't account for this one.

sure, satoru has done incredibly reckless things, come on he's satoru gojo. he only commits those acts because he knows he has an insurance policy in place, his infinity. he's convinced the only thing that can kill him is himself.

you, however, do not have his technique.

yes, you're an incredibly powerful sorcerer, working your way up the ranks quickly. gojo believes that one day you'll sit beside him and suguru as the strongest.

but today is not that day.

you threw yourself at a walking hand grenade for fucks sake, the fact that you even survived is shocking. he's grateful to the gods that you did, but he only wishes you would take this a bit more earnestly.

satoru takes both of your hands in his, rubbing his thumbs back and forth absentmindedly.

"baby, i need you to listen to me carefully."

when he looks up at you, you're looking straight at him. you have a passive look on your face, a small smirk fixed on your lips, "satoru, i told you it's-"

satoru grip on your hands grows tighter, his eyebrows scrunching up in frustration and his eyes are full of anguish. he can't help the volume that his voice rises to, unable to hold back any longer, "no, no it's not fine! i almost fucking lost you today, and for what, because you decided to dive in front of something equivalent to a fucking missile?"

you roll your eyes at your boyfriend and yank your hands out of his grasp, your arms cross over your chest and you huff out in annoyance, the glare you send satoru cutting through your once light-hearted facade, "and what was i supposed to do? let shoko take the hit?"

satoru scoffs at that, the words spilling out of his mouth like an uncontrollable fire, "this isn't about shoko, this is about you. do you have no regard for your own life that you'd just throw it all away?"

you fire right back at him, annoyance beginning to boil in your gut and popping right out of the top, "i'm not throwing my fucking life away! shoko was about to be blown to smithereens! i accepted death when i became a sorcerer, have you?"

satoru cannot believe what he's hearing and it clearly shows on his face, his mouth morphs into a scowl and his eyes are so dark you can't even see his pupils anymore, "at least i wouldn't have wound up here, clinging to a life i obviously don't give a shit about."

the look on your face could kill anyone in a 5 mile radius, your eyes throwing daggers and your mouth shooting bullets, "maybe i should have died on that field, at least then i wouldn't have the honored one trying to dictate my life."

you're panting heavily, you can feel your body shaking with rage and you can hear the heart monitor beeping rapidly.

satoru is a different story.

his breathing is opposite of yours, it seems to have come to a halt. his pupils are blown wide and his mouth is open slightly, trying to see if he heard you correctly.

he sighs dejectedly and pinches the bridge of his nose. he's attempting to think of something to say, but he's coming up empty handed.

you hear him rustling about and turn your gaze back to him. you see him stand with his hands in his pockets, his shoulders hunched and looking completely deflated.

he looks through you with an empty stare trying to mask the pain he's feeling, mouth pulled into a thin line, "you know what? fine. if you want to go on a suicide run, fine, do what you wish. i will have no part in it."

what he says next is like a harpoon being shot through your heart.

"if you are that willing to leave everything behind, i want no part of you either."

you feel as if the world has stopped spinning on its axis. the gravity of his words crushing you, turning you into mere atoms of a human being.

regret begins to wash over you, an apology sitting on the tip of your tongue but you can't form the words. your breaths are now coming out in short pants, your heart and lungs feel like they're being shattered from the inside.

"i love you more than my dreams would ever allow, but i still want to be able to love you and not your corpse."

you put your head in your hands, wishing that the ground would open up and swallow you whole. you dig your nails into your cranium with so much strength you think you broke skin.

you don't even know if satoru is still here, too engrossed in the thought of him leaving you.

to others, your relationship may seem like a juvenile affair, but that's not the case.

in the world of jujutsu, you see and experience a multitude of things that a teenager should never have to go through. you're sent off like soldiers to war, fighting against something that is greater than yourselves. death is simply inevitable, it's in the job description. some sorcerers thrive, while others wither away.

joking about your impending demise has been your way of coping with it. an unhealthy coping mechanism, but what else are you supposed to do? live your life too tentatively and miss out on the beauty it has to offer?

that's why you loved satoru.

he was always a ray of sunshine in your life. a shining star in your dark universe, providing light and warmth in his wake. the day he asked you to be his significant other, you were beyond happy. the delicate glances he gives you, the soft kisses he greets and leaves you with, the love that he reserves only for you.

all of these things make it easier to face the horrors every time you leave the school because you know when you come home, satoru will be waiting for you with open arms.

without him? you don't know what you would do.

realizing that not having him in your life might soon be a reality, you break down into a sob. the faucet behind your eyes turned on and not stopping anytime soon. you're wailing so loud, it's a surprise no one has come in to investigate.

you grip the ends of the gown on your body, trying to ground yourself. you finally find the ability to speak, shouting i'm sorry over and over.

you're now convinced that satoru has left, leaving you to your own devices.

you're proven wrong when a familiar pair of warm arms wrap themselves around you.

satoru pulls you into his chest and you clutch the fabric of his uniform tightly in your hands. you're sobbing so hard that you think you might be sick.

"i'm sorry satoru, i'm sorry. please don't leave, don't leave me alone."

he doesn't say anything, just continues to hold you and cradle your head, rubbing his hand up and down the expanse of your back.

"i don't want to leave everything. i love my life, especially with you in it."

your sobs have calmed down into hiccups and sniffles, the tears now trickling down your cheeks.

"i-i want to live a long life with you, where we grow old and wrinkly and hobble around with a cane."

that gets a small chuckle out of satoru, "i have to admit baby, you'd look good in a moomoo."

you hit him on the shoulder with a small laugh, but quickly revert back to your serious manner, "i'm not kidding satoru, i love you and i want to be with you on this day, until our last day."

he grabs your face in his hands and angles you so you're looking right at him, "i love you, more than anything, but baby i need you to hear me."

he presses your forehead against his, staring directly into your eyes you can feel it in your soul, "i can't love you the way i want to if you're dead. i need you to promise me that you will look after yourself, i won't always be there to keep you in check. i need you to come back to me in one piece."

you think over it for a moment, satoru wants what's best for you, and you should want that too.

you whisper softly, afraid of ruining the moment, "i promise."

you seal the promise with a kiss, running your hands through satoru's hair while he grabs you by your waist to pull you closer.

you kiss each other with a newfound passion, the love you share untethered.

"jesus christ, really?"

"it's a miracle they didn't do anything else on this bed."

you try to pull away, flustered at being caught, but gojo keeps on kissing you with fervor. of course, not without throwing his middle finger up at his friends who chuckle behind him.

#satoru gojo x reader #jjk x reader #gojo satoru x reader #squid writes

[toxicanonymity]

Whoever said that they want raider Joel to make them his trailer park princess was soooo right. I deadass j fantasize abt him and speculate over what’s gonna happen next. I love u raider Joel ur my violent murderous teddy bear and I’ll do whatever u say🖤🖤

I'm suffering from advanced raider brain rot rn. He has super strength btw.

Me: maybe writing a little imagine will get it out of my system 🚬🤡 (narrator: it doesn't)

Raider imagine - House Meeting

raider!Joel (softdark) x f!reader, dark fluff

Imagine Joel waking up to the sound of trouble downhill at the stash house. He gives you a piggy back ride down the hill since you're still half asleep and he doesn't have anyone to watch you at his trailer at this hour. As you go down the hill, you rest your head on his shoulder and look at his beautiful profile as he walks. Especially his nose and neck veins. You give his neck a little peck and he barely snarls since he's distracted by the trouble. When you get to the house, he quickly leaves you on your cot in the private room. He doesn't have time to chain you up before he goes to the main room, but your door is in view.

Voice booming, he yells at everyone to sit down. Then he sits on his own cot facing them, thighs spread, elbows on his knees. He yells at them and they stop yelling at each other. Things cool down while they talk about what happened but then it heats up again.

You creep into the main room where they are and go straight to the cot where he's seated. He doesn't look at you, doesn't even blink. He keeps yelling, maintaining his dominance. But he sits up straight like he knows what you're about to do, and he lets you climb into his lap straddling him. The guys know better than to let their eyes move a millimeter down from his face. You hold onto him with a hug. You rest your head in the crook of his neck and close your eyes. He doesn't acknowledge you or stop yelling. All he does is hold you with one arm and hand on your back, pointing at them with his other bicep bulging along with his neck veins. Then he gently cradles your head as he continues to yell and you can feel the vibrations of his thunderous voice in your skull.

When he's done, he wordlessly stands up with you still wrapped around him. Bends his knees to adjust your weight, then as he'd walking away with you, he mutters, "what're you doin' in here, hmm?" You say you were sleepy and scared. He says, "I know, sweet pea," and gives you a kiss on the head.

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#raider!joel miller #raider!joel miller fluff #dark fluff #joel miller x reader #dark!joel miller #dark!joel miller x reader #joel miller imagine #joel miller blurb #tw captivity #raider!joel☠️ #toxicanonymity ☠️ #softdark!joel miller #dark fluff ☠️ #raider!joel

[rose-pearls]

Bigger Than The Whole Sky

I was reading something online about the song 'Bigger than the whole sky' from Taylor Swift, and people speculate that it is about a miscarriage. I started writing a story about it but I have never had a miscarriage before so if there is anything that is wrong or offensive please tell me and I will take this down.

Warnings: miscarriage, angst

Taglist: @avada-kedavra-bitch-187, @nyx2021 (open for every fandom)

The sun was shining, which was perhaps the biggest contradiction after what had just happened. 

He was trying to keep it together, he was, but the doctor’s words were still ringing in his head.

“There was a miscarriage. I’m sorry for your loss.”, the words had been cold like he had told them thousands of times and couldn’t feel them anymore. Like he couldn’t tell how much his words would hurt and haunt them.

She hadn’t said anything, she had just looked in the distance, like looking at the wall would give her some reassurances he couldn’t give her. 

He didn’t know how to help her, she seemed fine when you just looked at her, but he could see the pain in her eyes, the disbelief every time she rubbed her lower stomach where the baby had been, their baby.

He didn’t know how to react himself; he tries to stay strong for her, but it was getting harder and harder as he didn’t get an answer out of her. For the first time in a long time, he couldn’t read her, help her as she was too far for him to save her from herself.

--

Everything was numb, like nothing had happened but something had happened.

She had lost their child, her body had given up and had made her lose the one thing that could perhaps save her marriage, save her. She felt empty, running her hand across her small bump that had started appearing two weeks ago.

There were no tears, she was numb ever since she felt the blood fall down her legs after her shower. 

They had rushed to the hospital, and they had quickly taken her into an emergency surgery. 

When she woke up, the baby was gone, and she was faced with the fact that she had miscarried. 

Maybe it was because she didn’t pray, maybe this was a punishment for every single wrong thing she had ever done in her entire life. Now she wished that her parents had taken her to church, maybe it would have saved her child. 

She knew that Jake was worried, he deserved better than this, but she couldn’t find it in herself to talk with him. The only thing running through her mind are the scenario’s she imagined throughout her four months of pregnancy, a little girl or boy running around with Jake in the garden. You could hear the laughter as you closed your eyes, but it faded away just as fast as it came.

“Why don’t we go take a walk? The nurse needs to clean the room.”, Jake says softly, and you want to tell him that you don’t want to, but in the end, you know that you don’t have a choice.

“Sure. Why don’t you go to the cafeteria, and I’ll join you there.”, he looks sad at your words, but you try to ignore it, instead focusing on counting how many steps you would have to take before you could come back.

The nurse comes in a few minutes later and you take a deep breath before leaving the room. The hallway is quiet and as you take the shortest route to the cafeteria you don’t realize where you are until you hear a little cry.

There is a nurse walking while holding a newborn, who is wrapped in a little blanquettes before being taken into the nursery.

The babies are all there, lined up in little cots their little eyes closed all bundled up in a small blanquette. 

You don’t even realize that you have taken a step forward, to see them better, or that your vision is blurry now. 

A little boy, you presume, yawns, and a tear falls down your cheek at the sight, your hand moving to your stomach. 

“Which one is yours?”, a voice asks behind you and you turn around, trying to blink the tears away.

“The – the baby isn’t there.”, you tell the woman who is looking at the babies with a tender smile.

“You?”, you manage to say, without your voice breaking over the words.

“Rosie, the little girl on the left.”, she says with a proud smile, and you know that she will be an excellent mother. The little Rosie is fast asleep, and she looks like she isn’t a week old.

“She is beautiful.”, the woman smiles kindly before her husband arrives and she leaves you with a goodbye, to which you don’t respond. 

--

He finds her there, tears sliding down her cheeks as she watches the babies in the nursery. He wants to slap himself for not thinking of that sooner but for the first time since the news she seems to be feeling something.

“Sweetheart?”, she turns around and he can see her trembling hand holding onto her stomach as if she is hoping that the baby will still be there.

He is just in time to catch her before she crashes on the floor, a sob leaving her lips as he holds her tightly.

Her sobs ricochet on the walls and he holds her tighter, only realizing that he is crying when he feels her hair getting wet. He sobs with her, holding her to his chest hoping that he could ever fill in the void that has been left. They hold each other in a deserted hallway, the nursery next to them, reminding them just of what they lost. 

“I’m sorry.”, she whispers, and Jake feels confused for a moment.

“I’m so sorry.”, she says before a sob leaves her lips and Jake feels sick at the apology, like it’s her fault. 

He moves slowly, and as her tearstained cheeks and red eyes look back at him, he takes her cheeks in his hands and look at her.

“You have nothing to apologize for. It’s not your fault, do you hear me? It. Is. Not. Your. fault.”, he says the words like the prayers he used to say in church, only this time he truly believed the words he told her. Tears leave her eyes and roll down her cheeks, but he rubs them away.

“Maybe I could have done something, do better.”, she whispers brokenly, and Jake feels his heart break at the words.

“You couldn’t have done anything. You did everything you could, you aren’t at fault.”, she closes her eyes and takes a deep shaky breath.

“You don’t hate me?”, she whispers, and Jake feels like someone had slapped him.

“I could never hate you sweetheart, god knows how much I love you. I love you more and more every day, through thick and thin I’m here by your side. I know that this is hard, that we will need time to recover from this, but it doesn’t have an effect on my love for you.”, she brings him closer, and Jake feels tears running down his cheeks, desperately hoping that he has gotten through her and that she knows just how much he loves her.

“Thank you.”, she whispers, and he holds her tightly, hoping that he never has to let her go.

“I don’t know what to do.”, she confesses after a moment and Jake lets out a shaky breath and he takes a look at the babies fast asleep in the nursery.

“Me neither but we are going to do this together. Day by day and step by step together. There will be hard days and good days, but we are in this together.”, she nods in answer, and he brings her into a hug, holding her close as he feels her tears on his shirt.

They stand there holding each other, watching the nurses walking around the nursery and the babies fast asleep. It would be hard, but they had each other and together they would get through this.

-

Goodbye, goodbye, goodbye You were bigger than the whole sky You were more than just a short time And I've got a lot to pine about I've got a lot to live without I'm never gonna meet What could've been, would've been What should've been you

#top gun x reader #top gun imagine #top gun fanfiction #jake hangman seresin #jake hangman x reader #jake hangman x y/n #jake seresin x you #jake seresin x reader #jake seresin fanfiction #hangman x you #hangman fanfiction #hangman imagine

[hyperfixationsporfavor]

True Form Sukuna/Reader: A Moment in Time (Part 1- The Sorcerer's Demise)

Author’s Note: Hey guys. This is the first part of the series A Moment in Time. This is a Sukuna/Reader. I’ve been wanting to write a Sukuna fic for a while but I was having difficulty approaching it. Is Sukuna loving? Is he not? I think I’d like to just spitball with some ideas and see where we go from here. Any type of feedback is always appreciated. Please enjoy!

Warnings: nudity, jjk manga spoilers (ch 219), blood, murder, sukuna being a menace, minors dni

Part 2

You found yourself on a bed of furs, a bed that wasn’t your own, surrounded by darkness. Not a stitch of clothing on you, your naked body on full display. You were alone but you felt as if someone was watching you. A thought that created a warm tightening feeling in the core of your stomach. 

Suddenly a hand shot out from the darkness, attached to a looming figure you couldn’t make out. Against your better judgment you reached out to the figure, your fingertips almost brushing their palm.

~

“(Name)?” a voice called out. 

Who are you?  

You opened your eyes to find a servant boy standing over you with a troubled expression on his face. 

So it was merely a dream. 

Clearly now that you were back in your cramped room. 

You would have happily traded a bed of furs for the small cot you resided in at night. 

“Yes?” you groggily murmured.

“I apologize but the palace ladies have instructed me to prepare Yorozu for the Harvest Ritual.”

Yorozu was a new inhabitant from the countryside who had wormed her way into the palace with her finesse in Jujutsu Sorcery. 

At first you couldn’t help but admire her, a woman making her own way in the world. However your admiration quickly waned when you and the rest of the household staff came to discover her abuses extended beyond curses and the egos of powerful men. Hence, why the young boy trembled before you. 

You sighed and forced yourself to get up.

“Alright, just let me get ready and we’ll go together.”

~

The servant boy walked shakily behind you as you made your way down the hall to Yorozu’s room. Other people rushed past you, hurrying to complete preparations for the festival. 

“Have you heard?” the servant boy whispered. “Ryomen Sukuna is coming.”

You had heard, which explained the urgency. 

While you had never seen the curse in person you had heard tales of a beast with four arms and two faces who ravaged countless villages and plundered the lives of men, women, and children indiscriminately. 

A monster that dined on human flesh. 

You pictured a beast that had blood gushing from his lips, bones crunching between his teeth. 

“Do you think he really has a mouth on his stomach?” the servant boy speculated.

“Don’t speak of such things,” you warned. “We’ll invoke his wrath.”

~

When you arrived to Yorozu’s room you found her lounging on her bed with the entitlement of the finest aristocrat. 

The act proved unconvincing given the sorcerer from Aizu sat atop of her throne completely nude, a state she preferred to remain in. Fine in the comfort of her own room, but not so much in the open courtyard where she’d proudly display herself for all to see. 

“Lady Yorozu,” you addressed her. “We’ve come to help you prepare for the harvest festival. Shall I lay out your clothes?”

She stared blankly at you and returned to munching on the berries she had stolen from the kitchen. 

It took everything in you to not lose your temper, but no one in the palace ever challenged Yorozu, everyone knew the results would be fatal. 

The young servant boy got on his knees and bowed. 

“Lady Yorozu. Please put something on. If you don't, the palace ladies will discipline me again.”

Yorozu scoffed and dismissed his concerns with a wave. “You should be used to that type of thing by now.”

Your irritation only grew at the dismissal of the boy's tears. 

“Lady Yorozu-”

Although,” she interrupted. “I’m sure the snacks will be plentiful.”

Before either of you could stop her Yorozu pulled a thin robe over her bare shoulder, not even bothering to tie it, and waltzed past the both of you. 

~

The servant boy turned to chase after her in a panic and begged her to come back. You placed a hand on his shoulder and turned him to face you. 

“Don’t worry. I’ll get her back before she can cause a scene. Go get her clothes ready.”

The boy did as you were told and you hurried down the hall to catch up to the unruly sorcerer. 

~

“Lady Yorozu,” you called out. “The success of this festival is vital to the safety of the capitol. We have a highly respected guest coming.”

She turned to face you, her nose wrinkled in disgust. “Why is some lowly maid talking down to me?”

You held your tongue, knowing the threat she was when provoked. “I just think it’s necessary to tread with caution today.”

She scoffed and turned away. “And what am I? A joke in comparison to this imposing figure? I could kill all of you before this so-called King even lifted a finger.”

She continued down the hall and turned the corner. Suddenly, she just stopped. 

“Lady Yorozu?”

You closed the gap between the both of you and followed her gaze. 

The courtyard had been prepared with a newly installed wooden stage for the guest of honor. 

And there, sitting beside a white haired attendant, was Ryomen Sukuna. You could hardly believe it, but the rumors were true. A man with two faces and four arms laid ahead of you. 

He was massive, looming over the humans below him like a bear inspecting a colony of rabbits. 

When you finally managed to regain yourself you shakily placed a hand on Yorozu’s shoulder. 

“Let’s go back to your room,” you nervously requested. 

Instead of listening to you Yorozu did the complete unexpected and lunged over the banister on the walkway. 

Yorozu raced towards Sukuna with great urgency. 

You wanted to run after her, but your feet felt rooted to the floor. 

Was she going to challenge him? Attempt to exorcize him?

Yes, Yorozu was a capable sorcerer, but there was something about Sukuna. 

A feeling of dread crept up in the back of your throat as your ears started to ring. 

Your shock grew when she wrapped her arms around Sukuna’s neck, pressing her lips against his forehead. The courtyard went silent, no one dared to move. 

“Don’t worry. I’m here,” she cooed.

The white haired attendant looked at Yorozu with a mixture of disbelief and repulsion.

Sukuna, on the other hand, didn’t even bother to push her away. He just stared off into the distance, his thoughts a million miles away. 

“You aren’t alone,” she mindlessly continued. 

The attendant waved their hand and sent Yorozu flying back towards the gravel beneath the stage. 

“Back off,” they warned. 

Yorozu just laughed at their scolding. “Why don’t you back off and I’ll take your place?”

She stood up and pointed at them, playfully countering their threats. “And I’ll be able to take away his pain and loneliness. The man I love.”

A fine line was cut in Yorozu’s torso, a wound that began to ooze blood. 

The crowd gasped when she suddenly collapsed. 

“Yorozu!”

“What happened?”

“I don’t know! She was a woman possessed!”

“Get a doctor!”

“It’s too late for that.”

“You’re right. She’s dead.”

You peeled your gaze away from the crowd forming around Yorozu’s corpse.

When you looked up your breath hitched. 

Staring directly at you was none other than the man Yorozu had just proclaimed her devotion to. 

Sukuna looked at you with an unreadable expression. 

You wanted to look away, but you were paralyzed by his gaze. 

One of the palace ladies stormed up to you, enraged with your incompetence. 

“Don’t just stand there you fool! Go get some men to carry the body away!”

You forced yourself to nod. “Yes ma’am.”

“Quickly! Before he decides to finish us all off!”

You raced back inside the palace and prayed her words wouldn’t prove to be true. 

~

The End. 

#sukuna x reader #ryomen sukuna #true form sukuna #jjk x reader #ao3 fanfic

[fe-fictions]

I’m being so fr I love you and your work but every time I come back to the blog I have to ask myself whether or not I’ve developed amnesia 😭 do you have any Alfonse tucked away somewhere in the crevices of the internet?

(I have one very sweet little drabble-y thing just for you!! U V U )

The night was still young, and Alfonse was restless. Everyone had already eaten, and those who had spare time outside of chores, patrols  and meetings, they were making merry and enjoying themselves. 

Everyone seemed to be accounted for, except for arguably the most important individual in Alfonse’s eyes; Kiran.

Sharena didn’t seem to know where you’d gone, nor did Anna. Most of the summoned heroes weren’t certain where you’d gotten off to, until he asked one of the more observant ones.

Klein had seen you heading toward the armory by yourself just a little while ago. You seemed fine, he added when Alfonse looked confused (and obviously worried).

“What on earth does she want in there?” He wondered aloud, making a beeline for the armory. It’s not like you wielded any of the weapons, at least not well enough to use. He’d been teaching you the way of the sword, but there was no way he was going to let you bring that onto the battlefield until he was satisfied with your skills.

Maybe you were reviewing the stock on your own, as diligently as usual. Alfonse’s speculation came to a swift conclusion, though, when he passed through the tent flaps.

You were in the armory, yes; dead asleep and leaning against a polearm from where you sat precariously on a bench.

“Kiran?” His face blanched, the prince quickly coming to your side. Carefully he put his fingers to your neck; your pulse was fine, and you didn’t appear to be in pain. You just looked tired, really. 

His brow furrowed when he realized you had dark bags under your eyes, and lines drawn likely caused by the stress of the job. 

“What have you been doing to yourself?” He muttered while he got to work extricating you from the tent. He expertly pulled the polearm away, leaning you back against the weapons rack behind you so as not to wake you.

The spear quietly clacked back into place, and he returned to your side. It would be better to let you sleep.

Alfonse gently raised you into his arms, holding you to his chest and making sure your head was resting against him rather than lolling about.

Making sure you weren’t jostled or stirring, he started out of the tent.

It was tactfully ignored when heroes started whispering about what they saw; what was the prince doing with the summoner?

Why was she asleep?

Were they sweet on each other- and were they really being so blatant about it?

His focus was making sure you got some proper rest for the first time in what appeared to be ages. 

“Please excuse me,” He murmured into your hair, as he brought you back to your tent.

The cot was practically untouched; had you even slept in it that morning?

Alfonse didn’t glance around long. He slowly knelt beside the bedroll, settling you onto the blankets.

With great care, he cupped your head, making sure not to let you bounce by accident when he moved his arms out from under you.

Then came the work on your boots.

Mindful of his own armor and clanking bits, Alfonse was expert in reducing his own noise while he got to work undoing your belts and buckles that surely weren’t comfortable to sleep in.

He managed to pull the first one off before he realized his efforts were in vain.

“Alfonse…?”

“Kiran!” He squeaked when you spoke, finding you staring down at him with bleary eyes.

Blushing, he pulled back, one boot still on and the other sock exposed.

“Forgive me, I just…I found you asleep in the armory and wanted you to be more comfortable in your tent. I brought you back and wanted to at least take some of your armor off while you rested.”

“Thanks.” You rubbed at your eyes, “I didn’t even realize I’d fallen asleep at all…guess I’ve been working harder than usual.”

“You’ve always worked hard,” Alfonse countered, recovering himself so he could continue his efforts. You watched with a lazy smile as he continued to undo your other boot, “I think it’s just the steady flow of hard work finally sapped the last of your strength, and this was the result.”

“You think so?” 

He nodded quietly while he set the footwear neatly to the side, before returning to your side. You reached for his hand and he gladly took it, giving your fingers a gentle squeeze from his seat beside the bedroll. 

"Would you like to spend the night with me, then?”

“Uhh…”

“Just to sleep,” You added in quickly, realizing the blush on his cheeks wasn’t because of a polite invitation. “I mean, it’s not like you don’t work hard, too…I thought it might be a good chance for both of us to get some good sleep.”

“If you don’t mind having me here.” Alfonse said softly, “I’m happy to stay until you fall asleep, if you’d rather I not stay all night.”

“I’d have you here every night if I could.”

The prince’s heart skipped a beat, and enthusiastically agreed to join you to bed.

He undid his own armor and belts, left in his tunic, trousers and socks.

His headpiece was carefully placed on your desk before he crawled under the blankets with you.

Your arms were open to receive him, and Alfonse was happily wrapped up in a sleepy embrace by his loved one.

You nestled your head into his hair, feeling far more relaxed with the handsome, sweet prince snuggled up with you.

“Goodnight, Alfonse…thanks for looking out for me.”

“Always.” He smiled against your skin, a chaste kiss along your collarbone. “Sleep well, Kiran.”

#alfonse #kiran #fe heroes #fire emblem heroes #fe: heroes #feh #alfonse x kiran #alfonse x summoner #fe fictions #fe-fictions #f!kiran #fem!kiran #f!mu #fluff #just pure fluff #a whole bunch of paragraphs of ONLY fluff #we love that for alfie ;;;;

[molotov-girls]

Hey wincesties I need help finding 3 samdean/wincest fics please!

1: I read this one on either Live Journal or FFN (I definitely didn’t read it on AO3). I think it was called The Wolf Pack or something? I keep typing that in and not finding anything though. Sam and Dean and John are on the darker/more evil side in this. I think all or most of it takes place from the outside POV of a cop or detective? Sam and Dean and John are running something illegal out of a bar or a brothel or something in Nevada or New Mexico and the cops set up a bunch of cameras in the cabin they know Sam and Dean will be staying in. They describe the canon really vividly, it’s one room, falling apart, there’s a bathroom behind a curtain, and two shitty army cots. Sam and Dean have sex in the cabin and then threaten the cop or something?

2: I definitely read this one on Live Journal. Sam and Dean are teenagers captured by a regular person and bricked up behind a wall in a construction site and they have to escape. They spend months down there until the food runs out and construction workers find them. I believe they go to (Rufus’s?) cabin after with John.

3. This one was definitely on AO3. I remember it being popular. Sam and Dean were hunters and Dean ended up famous and Sam stayed out of the limelight. Dean I think becomes an army trainer or something on monsters and wants Sam to join him. He meets Sam at a bar and a bunch of paparazzi show up and speculate on them. Sam eventually comes around and joins Dean in helping with the training. The public eventually moves on from obsessing over Dean to fawning over Jake I believe?

Thank you guys!! These have been driving me absolutely nuts.

#wincest #Samdean #fic finder

[eponymous-rose]

Fic: The Second Hand Unwinds (Tav/Karlach | M | 5000 words)

(Many, many thanks to @loquaciousquark for the wonderful beta!)

The Second Hand Unwinds

Summary: Desperation is hope unraveling; the path to Avernus is paved with good intentions. Some of those paths are more literal than others.

(read on AO3)

Nessus (The Fall Isn’t What Kills You)

Short breaths, shallow, through the mouth. Can’t smell the burning that way.

There’s a callus on her palm that won’t harden properly, keeps scratching against the stiff leather of her gauntlet until the skin tears and bleeds, again and again. Someday, Amisra thinks, that tiny wound’s going to be her undoing, whether through infection or distraction. She rubs it with the thumb of the other hand, hard enough to hurt. Hurt enough to harden.

“—just got your bell rung, Sergeant,” Doc is saying from behind her, broad fingers combing through Amisra’s tight curls with no particular pretense of gentleness. “Little cut here, that’s all. You still feel like throwing up?”

She swallows bile, says, “Not really,” and shuffles off the examination bench to make room for the next minor complaint, a boy with a bloody arm in a sling. Her ears are still ringing from the blow to the head. “You said the corporal was—”

“Dead.” Doc scratches at one of his tusks with a clean, well-manicured nail and regards her with new speculation. “Told you twice now. Did you hear me?”

Yawning dread beneath her. The half-formed callus tears, again, under her thumb. “Both times, just hoping I misheard. Ears are ringing.” And it’s not ringing, so much, just the tick-tick-ticking of someone’s metallic boot heel against the paved ground, echoing again and again, keeping time as though with some anxious drumbeat.

Doc sighs, turns to his next patient. “Lying’s not your thing, Sergeant. Stick to lopping heads off. I’ve written you a release for the day to get some rest.”

The lurch back to the barracks is nightmarish, probably, but to her it only passes in heart-stopping flashes. A brown braid over a trainee’s shoulder, achingly familiar. A soft hand reaching out in passing to steady her, the same warmth from fingers smaller and stubbier than her own. A soft voice, a passing smell of smoke—

She coughs for a while, not quite retching. Breathes through her mouth, sharp and quick. Corporal’s gone, she thinks, testing the way the concept settles into her bruised mind. Beautiful and quick-witted and warm and then burning and then gone. There’s blood on her hand where the callus was. Ought to have asked Doc for a salve.

One of the errand-boys, with a name that’s a mumble and a face that’s a blur, is crouched in front of her, looking her in the eyes. “You’re pretty fucked up, huh?”

“Got the day off.” She swings her legs up onto the cot upon which she seems to have alighted. “Could use some water, though.”

“That was amazing, what you did,” he says, in a way that suggests fetching her water and leaving her alone is in fact not the first thing on his immediate to-do list. “Killed that weird spellcaster so fast. I seen it, my brother didn’t believe me, but I seen the whole thing. One second, he’s got a head, next second, no head, just like that. Lightning fast, I think.”

“Not fast enough.”

She watches him scramble visibly for some vestige of tact, appreciates the effort almost as much as she’d appreciate that water she’d asked for. “Sorry. But, um, my da always said it’s better to die with your boots on than old in bed. She had her boots on.” He nods approval of his brief encomium. “Anyway, it’s that water I’ll be fetching for you now.”

She listens to his boots clomping down the hall, ill-fitting, another rhythm rapping at her bruised mind, and then she is alone. Her breathing catches, finally, and she rests her aching hand on her aching head, sinking down and down and down into the thin pillow to bleed along with the part of her that just won’t callus against the hurt.

Cania (First Thaw)

Wyll’s not-so-terrifying tiefling menace — Karlach — is watching her from across camp. Her bright eyes glint with flames that Amisra is pretty sure aren’t just reflections of the campfire. “Hey, soldier. You ever actually play that thing or just cart it around?”

Amisra follows her gaze down to the badly scuffed lute teetering atop the disorganized pile of bedding and equipment that will, at some point, have to be sorted into slightly more organized piles before packing up for the day. “I’m not a musician. Just found it yesterday. It’s a nice instrument, under all the scratches. Seemed a shame to leave it out there.”

“Ah,” says Karlach, grinning to soften the teasing tone of voice. “You collect more strays than just the living, breathing kind?”

That startles an undignified snort out of Amisra. “Is that what all this looks like to you?”

“Shadowheart seems to think you’re planning on starting a club. Tadpoles Anonymous, support group, that kind of thing.” There’s a question in the teasing, this time.

At the thought of the tadpole, something may or may not flicker at the corner of Amisra’s eye, and she shudders reflexively. Karlach is watching her, the silence stretching too long. Gods, Amisra’s out of practice with this whole small-talk thing. “I hear you and I have something else in common.”

“Oh?” She’s unprepared for the sheer delight that crosses Karlach’s features.

“Just that, um, I also led some fighting. Little skirmishes, came to nothing, mostly. Worse than nothing, sometimes.”

“Hah! Thought I saw something of a sergeant in you.” Karlach points at her when Amisra reels back in surprise. “I knew it! Sarge, right? It’s all in the way you hold your shoulders.”

Amisra blinks. “Really?”

Karlach barks out another laugh like she’s been holding her breath on it. “Nah, I wasn’t actually paying much attention in the skirmish back there. Wyll told me you used to fight in an army of some sort. Figured you could string two sentences together so they were probably making good use of you, and you’re too much like an actual person to be an officer. Hence, Sergeant.”

“I suppose I can’t argue with that.” Amisra scratches her chin. “I was on leave when I got scooped by the illithid. Just on patrol duty before that. Nothing too interesting for the last year or two. Thankfully.”

“Yeah, thankfully.” Karlach’s mouth turns down, and this time Amisra is unprepared for the heaviness that settles in her own chest in response.

“The lute is a promise,” she blurts out. “To myself, I mean. I’m going to learn to play, someday. After all this.”

Something settles in Karlach’s eyes, a small mystery solved. “You keep collecting strays, you better get used to playing for an audience.”

“I could manage that.” Amisra picks up the lute. She’s pretty sure the strings aren’t supposed to be so loose. She’s pretty sure there are ways to make music with this thing, anyway. “After all this.”

She doesn’t look up from her aimless tinkering, but something in Karlach’s voice twists like a knife. “Yeah. After.”

Maladomini (The Enemy of Good)

“You could have warned me!” Astarion’s voice, behind and to her left, but Amisra’s pretty sure the panicky tone is more annoyance than genuine fear. “The sun and I might be on better terms now, but I don’t think that extends to godly energy directly applied to my cranium!”

“Oh, certainly,” Shadowheart, further back still, and there’s no mistaking the acid in her tone. “After all, you were so quick to give me a heads-up when throwing a dagger inches from my head.”

A lull in conversation, the clash of blades on blades a little more frantic than usual. Desperation to survive, or to get in the next pointed comment? A victorious huff of breath. “Well, it turns out slinking through the shadows becomes difficult when you have to loudly announce your presence to anyone who just simply isn’t paying attention.”

“Sounds like a skill issue.”

Amisra sighs, dispatching the goblin on her right by the simple expedient of skewering him with the spear belonging to the goblin on her left. For gods-knew-what reason, her fellow tadpole-infested travelers had started looking to her in the morning to split them into effective teams for the day, showing a trust in her judgment that seemed less a testament to their respect for her so much as to their increasing apathy and pessimism. She’s long been used to rousing soldiers out of a funk, but these are hardly soldiers, for all their fighting prowess. Perhaps best to switch back to a group of four, which would at least ensure that the bickering would be a little more spread out...

“I want to be on Karlach’s team next time,” Astarion carols over another clash of blades. “Being in the company of two certified sticks in the mud is more than anyone should ever have to bear.”

Amisra turns in time to duck under a swipe from a nastily serrated blade, but Shadowheart is already there, the swirling glow of holy energy around her shredding the goblin into ribbons. She’s not looking at Amisra, though. “What exactly do you even do here?”

A snort. “Have you considered that you might need to wear spectacles if such obvious things aren’t apparent to you?”

With no immediate threats in the vicinity, Amisra follows Shadowheart’s glowering glare, trying to make out Astarion’s form amid the shadowy shrubbery — there, she thinks, and sees him drawing back on his longbow to make a risky shot at the next wave of goblins, distant on the horizon.

Oh .

She’s running before she can fully register why, years of experience burrowed deep into muscle and sinew and bone, then runs harder . She charges at Astarion so fast that she’s nearly on him before his eyes even begin to widen in alarm, and there’s no time, there’s no room, so she drops her sword and she bowls him over, hears the wheeze of breath that has to be more habit than physiology for a vampire, and fumbles bare-handed for the knife of the goblin assassin who’d been sneaking up behind him.

She’s never liked knives. Nasty to fight with, nasty to fight against, like as not to hurt their wielder. Winning a fight with a knife is less about skill than it is about a healthy respect and fear of the blade and a still healthier volume of sheer luck, and she’s never been anything approaching lucky.

The goblin jerks back, startled, and her grasping hand closes on blade instead of hilt, slicing easily through the leather of her glove. She pushes forward again, ruthlessly, working on prising the goblin’s fingers off the hilt of the knife. Another flicker of sound in the bushes, too close, and along with the hot brand of a dagger in her shoulder comes the memory of the hard-won intel they’d gathered about the goblin assassins moving in teams of two.

Twist. No time for delicacy. Wrap the goblin’s small hand in her larger one, force the blade into its wielder. Stand, stride forward to the second goblin, the second goblin who’s got another dagger prepared, and there’s nothing for it but to trust in her armor to keep her alive long enough to close the distance—

The goblin topples, neatly hamstrung by Astarion’s own dagger, hurled with surprising accuracy from his prone position at Amisra’s feet. He watches the goblin fall, then picks himself up, dusting off his scuffed armor with lips drawn tight and thin.

Amisra lets herself sway for a moment, puts a hand to the knife still in her shoulder — a deep wound, and probably poisoned besides. “Out,” Shadowheart says, beside her, and Amisra grits her teeth and yanks it free, searing pain swiftly replaced by the unpleasantly itchy tingle of magic knitting flesh.

“Thanks,” Amisra says, when it’s done. “More coming, I think.”

The silence stretches, accompanied by a crescendo of yells and stomping feet. Astarion raises his hands in an expansive shrug. “There’s always more of them than of us. Hardly seems fair.”

A mournful sigh from Shadowheart. “I suppose that’s what we get for picking the impossible odds every time.”

Amisra’s never been accused of a quick wit, but even she can recognize a conversational opening when it’s left wide open for her. “Pity we’re not just a little bit smarter. We’d all get so much more rest.”

Smiles, larger than the weak joke deserves, and a pit of warmth in her gut stretches lazy tendrils through her body. Probably the poison, she thinks, but when they make it back to camp, Karlach beams at her and says, “You look happy,” and, absurd though it seems, maybe she is.

Malbolge (Corrupts Absolutely)

As a small child in Baldur’s Gate, Amisra had once seen a great clockwork piece of artistry, a mechanical, articulated, pint-sized horse crafted by some visiting tinkerer and displayed in the Lower City as a modern marvel. Karlach’s rage takes her back to watching one of the gears slip slightly out of alignment, leaving the rest to tick and tick and tick as though rapping against some invisible door, frustrated motion expending energy to no end at all.

Flares of heat, milder now than before, more contained, and maybe that Dammon fellow is on to something after all, but still the patchy grass at her feet flares and curls and dies around her as Karlach paces, whispering curses, Gortash’s name chief among them. Amisra meets Wyll’s worried eyes from across the camp and nods; he intercepts a curious Volo and leads him away to regale him with stories of the Blade of Frontiers, to give them a little space. “Karlach?”

No response. Amisra waits, sitting on a log and inspecting her greatsword for new pocks or scratches. Then Karlach says, “ Damn him,” with the weight of all the personal experience that entails, and finally meets her eyes. “We’re going to kill him, right?”

“We’ll get there,” Amisra says, as she’s said a dozen times before. No new revelations, then. Just the old frustration, ticking over and over and over. 

Karlach nods. No tears, no apologies, just energy with nowhere to go. She visibly forces herself to take a breath and stares down at her hands, still glowing. “Gods, it feels good to do that sometimes. Don’t know how most people hold it all in, infernal engine or no infernal engine.”

Amisra smiles, applying blade oil to the still-pristine surface of the greatsword. She’s genuinely unsure whether a weapon with this much magic in it is even capable of rusting, but old habits and all that. “Most people bottle it up and take it out on their loved ones at inappropriate moments. Your way seems healthier, all things considered.”

“Yeah,” says Karlach, and plops down on the ground with a sigh, drawing her knees up to her chest and hugging them as though — improbably — against a sudden chill. “This feels like dying. I mean, really feels like it, more than the—” She cuts herself off, pauses with one hand midway to rapping on her own chest. “Just the same terrible thing happening again and again and again. That was one of Zariel’s favorite tricks, you know. Work out a pact that would give you just enough hope to go on every time things got bad.”

Weapon as polished as it’s going to get, Amisra levers herself down in the dirt beside Karlach, wincing at a new click in her knee, souvenir of the fight with Thorm. “Wouldn’t have thought devils would go in for hope all that much.”

A humorless snort. Karlach rests her chin on her knees and stares at the campfire, flames reflected in her glowing eyes. “You kidding? That’s how they do what they do. Someone hopeless is apathetic. They’re not gonna make a deal, and if they do, who cares? Not exactly the prime infantry needed for the Blood War.” She raises one finger. “Now, desperation, that’s the good stuff. Someone hanging onto that last shred of hope is desperate for any chance to survive. They’ll do anything to live. Anything. Desperation is hope unraveling, and that’s precisely when a devil most wants to show up at your door.”

Karlach’s jaw is set, her shoulders squared, and for the first time in weeks Amisra wonders what it would have been like to face her in the Hells. She inches closer, staring into the fire alongside Karlach, and leans into her shoulder. Hot, nearly to the edge of pain. Comforting. In spite of that, or because of it? “Didn’t happen like that with you, though.”

She feels Karlach’s whole body tense at the contact, then release as she stretches her legs out in front of her, tilts her jaw to the side to rest her cheek against the top of Amisra’s head. “I was a kid who wanted to do a good job. I was a kid, and they stole my life from me, put it back together wrong. Put me back together wrong. I think that’s what stings the most. They didn’t even care enough to make me run right. If it’s all over, if it’s really all done, at the very least I want this — all of this — to mean something, and it didn’t to them. Couldn’t even give me that.”

“Yeah,” Amisra says, and thinks, for no reason at all, of the corporal with the long brown braid, who’d died in a pointless skirmish so far from home.

There’s a holler in the distance, someone yelling to someone else, the outskirts of the city calling them nearer. She feels Karlach’s smile. “Tell you what, though, it’s going to be fun while it lasts.”

Amisra pulls back, looks her in the eyes. Joy, solid and defiant. Hope.

Desperation.

“Damn right,” says Amisra, and kisses her.

Stygia (Nor Any Drop)

Her lips are chapped and bleeding in the heat, the plate of her armor chafing uncomfortably against sweat-slicked leather with every step, and the damnable callus on her hand is bleeding again, filling her gauntlet with more sluggish, body-warmed heat. The others are similarly drooping, Gale’s hair sweat-plastered to his forehead, Lae’zel’s breathing heavy and open-mouthed with effort.

Only Karlach is physically comfortable, here, chin up, eyes alert, focused and resolved and frightened and furious. “Avernus,” she says, like a curse, like a plea. Amisra touches her shoulder, but Karlach shrugs it off. “Let’s get through this. I need to be out of here.”

The fight, when it comes, is long, horrific, nightmarish. Amisra’s head pounds in time with her heart, her reflexes too slow, her battle-senses dulled by discomfort and exhaustion. She hears Lae’zel cry out in surprise and rage, catches glimpses of her between her own clumsy parries and clumsier ripostes, watches a cambion pull its bloodied trident free from her shoulder and move away, circling cautiously as Gale scrambles to get close enough to throw her a potion, slipping on the bloodied floor. Then Karlach draws her attention, rage incarnate, screaming as she bursts through the final remaining soul pillar. Raphael turns to her, irritated, raises a hand as though to swat her like a particularly irksome insect.

Amisra’s sword drives into his thigh, hilt slamming into the palms of her hands with the sheer force of her charge, and her weight pins it there as he howls and tears at her with claws that aren’t that different, really, from the ones she’s seen on simple mindless beasts. “It’s over,” she snarls. “It’s over .” And then, quite abruptly, she can’t speak, feels all the air leave her at once, and watches his claw pull back, slick with blood, from where it had pierced under her armor into her chest. It doesn’t hurt, but her sword drops anyway from numb, clumsy fingers, pins and needles in her hands and feet, a creeping chill running along her arms and legs.

Raphael squints at her for a moment, as though looking for something, then scoffs and turns away. The ground comes up fast, and pain is the slam of her cheek into the filigreed floor, and pain is the increasing pace of the throbbing in her head, and pain is, finally, the spasms of her struggling lungs.

She’s fallen facing the last of the fight, at least. She can’t tell if Karlach is uncharacteristically quiet or if she just can’t hear her over the roaring in her ears, but Amisra watches her lips move, watches her fight with the critical eye of a sergeant. Reckless style, but she makes it work for her, leaving opening after opening with a taunting lack of consideration for her own safety, then capitalizing on every riposte. She’s fast, clever, almost joyful in this violent virtuosity. This is the fire in Karlach that Zariel had seen, had known, had wanted so badly that the ownership was worth its destruction.

It comes as no surprise that, moments later, Karlach is tearing Raphael’s wings from his body. In lieu of applause, Amisra lets her weary eyes close at last.

“—bad shape,” Gale is saying, so close by that the warm hand on her throat must be his.

“You should not have wasted our final potion on me when our commander was so near death,” Lae’zel’s voice, this time, and a curiously gentle touch of her hand on her cheek. “We need to leave this plane.”

“Hey, soldier.” Karlach, a grin, a wildness to her eyes. “We got him. Like, got got him. And we got you.”

“In the supportive, healing way,” Gale says, quickly. “Not in the murderous, ripping-wings-off way.”

“I can do this,” says Hope, hands glowing with familiar, healing light, a sweet, cool salve, and lives up to her name.

Phlegethos (Burning Bright)

Fingers, strong and warm, strong and warmer , pressing deeper. Breathing together, hot exhales warming sweat-slick skin. The other hand encircles, squeezes, pinches, and a too-loud moan slips past her lips. A joyful laugh. Then, more serious, determined, a redoubled pressure and pace. She loses track, a little, of what she’s meant to be doing, of the exchange she’s meant to be making. Heat and rhythm, then heat and less rhythm, and then just heat all through the core of her, burning and soft, and eyes of flame and loneliness and hunger and love watching her come apart.

Minauros (Oil and Water)

Karlach’s head on her shoulder, the small hitch in her breathing that says she’s dreaming, the steady clanking of her heart like some great chain unspooling endlessly, link after link of heavy steel clattering to the floor.

But there’s nothing, is there?

Amisra touches her cheek, the sharp tips of her ears, pauses to feel the heat of her warm, living breath against her hand.

I killed the bastard that ruined my life, and my prize is that I get to crawl into a corner and die.

Amisra’s seen death, felt death, known death in a way few people ever truly could, and she knows the warmth against her bears no resemblance to chill flesh, to stiffened limbs, to bloated agony. Every now and then, a frightened recruit would find her, would stare at their own hands and see nothing but the pallor of death. She’d tell them, every time, that they could be dead all they liked during war, but at peace, they’d bloody well better get back to living.

Avernus was never my home. It was my prison.

Karlach sighs in her sleep, presses closer. Warm. Alive.

The decision, when it comes, feels like a betrayal.

Dis (Paved With Good Intentions)

The first horror is the new silence in her mind.

She’s never been much good with being alone. Easy to get caught up in your thoughts, that way, and without the tadpoles, without the Nether Brain, hers echo now into a void that makes her feel curiously unreal, incorporeal. 

The second horror is the blade.

Orpheus dies by her hand — an adventurer who, unlike Balduran, was willing to cede his ill-gotten power and influence — and she doesn’t have the foggiest idea what anyone else thinks about it, and Lae’zel is flying with dragons, a quick look goodbye, and Astarion is sprinting away under the pitiless sun, and the third horror is

the third horror is

Karlach collapses, struggling to get her goodbyes out through relentless, uncaring agony. Trying to be brave. Angry and sad and so, so scared in spite of it.

Amisra says something, says several things, none of which she can hear over the thrumming of her own perfectly ordinary heart, none of which she can parse without the echoes of her friends’ reactions and emotions surging through her mind. That Karlach should be equally alone in this. Unthinkable.

the third horror is

Wyll takes her by the arm, and she grabs Karlach, feels the flesh of her hands sizzle even inside her gauntlets, the old stubborn callus cauterized at last, and the three of them run. 

A nightmarish passage through the streets of Baldur’s Gate, the suffering and supplication and jubilation a hollow, tinny thing that rings in her ears like a distant bell. Distraction. She thinks of everyone left standing by the docks, of Jaheira and Shadowheart and Halsin and Gale, and she knows, she knows they’ll find each other again. Where? How? She knows. She wants to know.

the third horror is

She hates herself for wasting time doing anything but looking Karlach in the eyes, dreads that her last moments might be spent in fear and terror, in this wild flight, and alone alone alone.

“Hey, soldier,” Karlach says, and Amisra says something back, and Karlach says, “It’s a beautiful day, yeah?”

The third horror doesn’t come.

Avernus (If Not Over, Then Through)

Short breaths, shallow, through the mouth. Can’t smell the burning that way.

Karlach laughs, bold and loud and delighted, as Wyll’s magic slams a cambion out of her face and right off a nearby cliff. “Beauty!”

A maul comes down inches from Amisra’s head, and she rolls, kicking back to her feet, finds her breath again, winded but standing. One quick slash from her greatsword cuts that particular problem away at the knees.

“That was sixteen,” Wyll calls, and she turns to watch him flourish his rapier at another, rather more cautious cambion approaching him.

Karlach snorts, lining up a shot, hurling her trident, neatly picking another cambion out of the shadows. “Cliffhangers like that? More like twelve, and you know it.” The slap of the magical trident returning to her hand echoes around the canyon, and she spins to face the rest.

The Hells were never really something Amisra had given much thought, before all this, before a week of learning to survive amid waves of Zariel’s devils, amid enclaves of invading demons. When the true extent of her ignorance had become apparent one night at camp, once it was clear that they weren’t all three of them going to die in the next few hours, both Wyll and Karlach had burst into surprised laughter.

“Well, there’s nine of them, for a start,” Wyll had said, and Karlach had given him a good-natured smack on the arm.

Then she’d counted them off, across her fingers, “Avernus, Dis, Minauros, Phlegethos, Stygia, Malboge, Maladomini, Cania, Nessus.”

Amisra had flopped back on the hot stone beneath her, unable to shake the feeling that she was sunning herself like some sort of desert lizard. “And we’re in the final layer.”

That had earned her a chuckle from Wyll and an indignant, “Come on ,” from Karlach. “Avernus! First layer! Not that complicated.”

“Nah,” Amisra had said, sleepily. “Avernus is the final layer. Pretty sure I’m right about that.”

That had brought another round of good-natured teasing, and the laughter is still ringing pleasantly in her ears as she turns to face another cambion. A warning growl, and she shifts with effortless ease out of the path of a ray of flame, reaching to grab a wrist, pull him nearer, to where her blade awaits.

After the fight, they dig through armor for possessions, for bartering tools, for information. They make a small pile of it and Wyll sketches plans into the red dust that look etched in blood. Karlach stares across at her, still breathing fast from the sheer joy of the battle, and blurts out, “Sorry you didn’t get to play that lute. I know you were saving it for after the next war.”

It had been smashed to bits in the first moments after arriving in Avernus — all that time shepherding the damn thing across half the Sword Coast and a handful of different planes of existence, and the fall through the portal had finally done it in.

She shrugs. “There will be other lutes.”

Karlach’s face falls, and her voice drops nearly to a whisper. “There will be other wars.”

Amisra reaches across the makeshift map in the dust to pull her in for a kiss, then rests their foreheads together. “And there will be other lutes. Always.”

She feels Karlach’s chuckle as a vibration against her forehead, the nearest thing they’ve got to the tadpole-connection these days. “You hide it well, but I think you might just be even more of an incurable optimist than I am.”

Amisra’s turn to laugh. “This place brings it out in me.”

Wyll rolls his eyes, and Karlach laughs again, and Amisra feels the warmth of the plans taking shape around her in the same way that she feels the reassuring solidity of her sword in her hand, the burns on her palm already healing and fading, leaving soft, unbroken skin beneath.

Avernus isn’t the first step into the Hells, it’s the last: the last stretch in the escape, the last link of the unspooling chain, the last wavering moment of fear before determination sets its hooks. Inevitable like one breath following the next, inexorable like the driving rhythm of boots and weapons and hearts.

Maybe they’ve all been put together wrong, one way or another. Maybe it doesn’t matter because they’ve been put together .

Hope is a promise, a melody they’ll play someday, all the sweeter for the waiting.

#bg3 #baldur's gate 3 #karlach cliffgate #bg3 spoilers #eponymous fic tag #tav/karlach

[happyandticklish]

Morning Indulgences

Notes: Merry late Christmas @achilleean! I was your secret santa for Squealing Santa this year, and have come to present you with some sweet teal oranges love to cap off the end of 2023. I do apologize that it's cutting it so close, life got more in the way than I had planned ;-; still, I hope you enjoy this even half as much as I enjoy the sheer talent of your writing when it comes to these two!

Summary: Jim isn't usually good at asking for what they want. When they do, Oluwande is always happy to oblige.

Fandom: Our Flag Means Death

Pairing: Jim/Oluwande

Prompt: "Soft, cozy stuff and/or sleepytime (morning/falling asleep) tks."

Word Count: 1.2k

Oluwande was not usually one who could be described as a morning person (not that this preference mattered much when it came to his profession). If afforded the chance, he would much rather laze around in his cot till some late hour of the day.

The morning came with benefits, however. Oluwande carded a hand through soft hair, smiling down at the warm body curled around him. As Jim was usually the first awake, it was rare that he was afforded the chance to see them like this. It was well worth the lost few hours of rest, however. They looked so peaceful asleep—vulnerable.

It made Oluwande nervous. He was well aware that Jim was capable of taking care of themself, and sometimes it was all too easy to fall for their impenetrable façade. He forgot sometimes that they were just as human as he was. It was all at once a comforting and nerve-wracking realization every time.

His hand had strayed in its wandering to the nape of Jim’s neck. He brushed their hair aside to reveal the exposed skin underneath. Goosebumps prickled out from where his fingertips touched.

“Mm.”

“Didn’t realize you were awake.”

Jim shook their head ever so slightly to indicate that they were not in fact awake and it was a bold move on his part to presume as much. Nails skipped along the crook of their neck and they flinched almost imperceptibly. “Tickles.”

“Oh! Sorry. I’ll move somewhere else if you'd like.”

“You don't have to. Feels nice.”

Olu paused, his fingers still half-curled around their neck. It was an unusually honest admission from Jim. It was no secret to the two that Jim enjoyed being tickled. That was a fact that had been established months before, at first through speculation and eventually by Jim’s own reluctant admission one night after many minutes of patient, silent waiting. Still, it wasn’t something that Jim was particularly open with. They tended to prefer provoking their fate, or allowing Oluwande to take the lead and conveniently not squirming away as hard as they potentially could have. Asking for it was not typically their go-to move.

He waited a few moments, expecting them to take it back or move away or perform some other form of plausible deniability. They didn’t even seem to have fully grasped what they just gave him permission for, however. Instead, they curled in closer, subtly tilting their head to reveal even more of their neck. He even detected a soft grunt that was perhaps a whine or sigh of disappointment at his lack of movement.

Oluwande's heart swooped at the sound. Later, he would tease them about this as he knew they often longed for him to do even if it was not as easy a thing for them to admit. For now, however, he didn’t dare waste this moment.

Carefully, he continued his earlier wandering, only this time there was a greater purpose behind the gentle swirls and scrapes of his nails as he danced a waltz over their neck. Another grunt, and a slight shift in his arms, but no protest. Feeling encouraged, he grew bolder in his explorations. His hand wisped softly down their spine, occasionally spidering over that sensitive area under their shoulder blade or circling the small of their back.

He was careful to watch them whenever he strayed too close to their sides, noticing each flinch or tightened grip around his waist. When his nails 'accidentally' scraped against their ribs, he couldn’t help but smile at the soft huff of laughter that followed. Nor could he resist repeating the action a few times over on the other side just to watch them attempt to tense and squirm subtly away.

Though Jim's face was hidden in his lap, Olu could see the tips of their ears flushing. He longed to call them cute or to comment on how much this seemed to be getting to them. He knew it would surely result in a slew of curses and a fit of inspired squirming that would make it impossible not to tickle them even worse.

Jim was tired though, and unusually vulnerable in way that he didn’t want to spook accidentally. So he kept his mouth shut however much he yearned to do otherwise, and instead ghosted over their ribs until muffled grunts became giggles that vibrated against Olu’s legs (tickling him a little, not that he would have let that become known to them). In the retelling of the story, Jim would later insist that they did not giggle as they always did and Olu would set about proving them wrong as he always did.

He wasn’t quite sure how long they both spent like that. Time got lost in moments like these and his world became calloused fingers brushing faded scars, laughter dissolving into curses dissolving into sighs, trembling shoulders and desperate hands. He kept his touch gentle and their laughter never rose above a giggle—he had a feeling this was what they needed right now.

To their credit, Jim didn’t try to squirm away as their body so clearly desired. There were moments, such as when Olu gently pinched that spot right above their hip, when it seemed like they might, but for every instinctual retreat, they always ended up scooching back into his awaiting hands. For all their usual thrashing, Oluwande sometimes found himself wondering at their self-control. The same scribbles against his sides would have him jerking away with a shriek as opposed to Jim’s mild twitching and smiles. He could never quite decide if he was jealous or impressed.

That being said, it did have a limit. A sudden flurry of nails against the backs of their legs had Jim lurching into action as they let out a sound that was a mix between a squawk and a wail and kicked themselves over onto their side. It was an irresistibly cute reaction, but Oluwande obligingly pulled his hands back, trying to fight back an amused grin.

Sometimes, it was impossible not to tease. He was only human, after all.

“Something wrong?”

“No.”

“No?”

“No.” Jim replied more firmly, but Olu could hear the smile that they were fighting in their voice. “Just repositioning.”

“Away from me?”

“To a better position.”

“And this has nothing to do with you being t—”

“Shut up and get over here before I show you just how easy it is to take advantage of your own sensitivities."

Oluwande shook his head at the obstinance that he knew they needed to upkeep, but obligingly rolled over to wrap his arms around their chest. Jim didn’t react obviously, but he could feel their muscles relaxing in his arms. Olu knew how much tension they carried in themself, and knowing that he had the ability to take some of that away, if only for a brief moment, continued to amaze him even after all this time.

And a couple minutes later, Olu indulged in the benefits of being able to induce this state of unusual relaxation. When a few quick kisses to the nape of their neck transformed into nibbling, Olu found that he could have listened to the giddy laughter that followed for the rest of his life.

Perhaps, if they were lucky, he could.

#tickle fic #squealing santa 2k23 #ss2k23 #squealing santa #tickling #fanfiction #our flag means death #jim jimenez #oluwande boodhari #teal oranges #apologies if there are any mistakes ive been staring at this for long enough that its difficult to tell on my end lol

[lupeintheclouds]

The worst case scenario for everyone to die or live in COT by TMI and TDA logic:

Charles lives because someone needs to continue the Fairchild line

Kit or Alexander could either live or die because of the Lightwood line

James and Cordelia live because of the Herondale line

I don't think Cassie is going to kill Jesse twice

Alastair could either live or die depending on the baby Carstairs.

Hate to say it but Anna and Matthew are fair game but I'm hoping they both survive and/or become vampires.

Lucie and Grace are also fair game but both seem unlikely to die. I do believe they are going to be exiled/strip of their marks for crimes committed.

These are just speculations of what might happen but if anyone finds a leak pdf or spoilers please send them my way. I don't really mind being spoiled.

#cassandra clare #shadowhunters #the last hours #chain of gold #tsc #chain of iron #chain of thorns

[a-luran]

4, 11, and 17 for the character ask! Whomever you wish but I would never say no to more Scotland lore 👀

aaah! rainbow! i live for Alasdair lore although I admit it changes a little between AUs (even canon ones).

4.Has your character ever witnessed something that fundamentally changed them? If so, does anyone else know?

I can think of so many moments, big and small that fundamentally changed him but I'll outline two defining moments nobody witnessed.

The first I actually wrote a scene for a while back: him watching Arthur get his throat slit and holding him, after. I think that it matters especially that it happened in the 14th century and that it reframed his perception of war and conflict as well as his relationship to humans and nations both. I see it as the moment, as well, in which he finally paused in his anger and thought 'no more'. That is not to say that he became any less angry; oh no, he has a short fuse. But the taste of his anger changed, the consistency of it. I think maybe Francis could possibly suspect that something was different behind Alasdair's eyes the next time they met, but he doesn't know the first thing about it. Arthur definitely noticed a shift in their relationship, as did everyone else in their dysfunctional band of brothers, but it was Arthur who felt the shift most and probably resented it because the next fight they had it was like beating against a wall or trying to move a mountain. This is an ask about Alasdair so I won't go on too long about Arthur but I think that in his insecurity, and in his youth, it probably made Arthur feel small to finally appreciate what a truly formidable man Alasdair is when it comes to his convictions and his will. His stubborn, bull-headed will.

The second one was losing a leg. And I am definitely cheating with this one because it is a headcanon that does not apply to every AU, but bear with me. He loses a leg from the knee down, his left. His strongest leg. There is a general consensus, I think, from people who witness a loss like that, or an accident, or extended illness, to assume that we understand how it changed the person who lived through it. In Alasdair case I think that there would be a lot of silent speculation, early on, about what it would do to him. How he'd adapt, whether he would, how he would talk about it if he talked about it at all. Crucially though, he was alone when it happened. He was alone on a medical cot the first time he became conscious of it. Alone when he had to find his balance for the first time. Alone, essentially, the first time they fit him with a prosthetic. I think that even he would struggle to put into words the ways in which it changed him. It didn't make him a better man, or a worse man. It fundamentally altered his relationship with his body. It changed how others saw him, how they touched him. It happened in the interlude between wars and took him out of active service and no one was there to see. Only his eyes on the letter of dismissal, with only one foot against the ground.

11.In what situation was your character the most afraid they’ve ever been?

I think that he was the most afraid when he realised he would live forever on a conditional immortality.

17.What was your character’s favourite toy as a child?

I think it was wee stag carved from alder wood, so smoothed with age that when it was passed on o Arthur and Daffyd they thought it was a wolf.

#freagradh #hws scotland #thank you for an excuse to talk about the man

[ifishouldvanish]

Until The Sun Rises Again: Chapter 5

SHIP: Alucard/Olrox

SUMMARY: After narrowly escaping Erzsebet's forces in Machecoul, Alucard brings everyone to the castle to rest and develop a new plan of action. But as strangely familiar as Belmont and the others feel, there's one person who confounds him: a vampire by the name of Olrox.

TAGS: Getting Together, A lot of speculating on Olrox's backstory, I just think the two centuries-old vampires who have each loved and lost should smooch, Eventual Smut, but for now just melancholy vibes and longing guess

---

Stockbridge, Massachusetts • May 1775

Olrox felt his eyelids twitch as he slowly began to wake. He didn't know where he was, only that it was safe and warm and indoors–and the realization had him nuzzling comfortably and relaxing his muscles, despite the soreness in his side. A heated discussion was taking place in the other room, and he listened intently.

“If we go further north, we can maximize our access to the Housatonic,” said a deep voice, muffled through the walls.

“They won't honor that,” said another. “In a few years, we'll have access to nothing but a bunch of filthy water they've spoiled with sewage.”

A third, older voice belonging to a woman cracked above the others with a suggestion, but she spoke in a language Olrox didn't understand.

“Nwauwehtaunaunuh, sachem,” The second voice sighed. “...Tell her I know he's buried there. But they said one square mile. If he was still alive, he'd tell us to focus on what gives our grandchildren the most viable land for growing crops.”

The first voice spoke up again, translating everything into that unfamiliar tongue and finishing with a reluctant, “Mauyauweh, Nohàm.”

Nohàm muttered something in protest, and the other two voices sighed heavily.

Both male voices began to speak up again, and soon all three of them were arguing in a flurry of both languages.

“Mtuntowuk!” Nohàm shouted.

Olrox flinched and drew a sharp breath, only to hear someone gasp right by his ear. He could hear their pulse begin to thunder in their chest with fear as the voices in the other room grew quiet. A door was slammed, and the male voices continued in whispers Olrox couldn't make out, despite being English. He shifted where he lay on some kind of cot, and it struck him then how tired, how sore, how thirsty he was.

That thundering pulse was beginning to sound like a dinner bell.

“Uh–Come! Quick!” its owner stammered. “I-I think it's waking up!”

[Continue on AO3]

#castlevania nocturne #castlevania fanfiction #Olrox #alucard #adrian tepes #Alucard x Olrox #alurox

[prolix-yuy]

Ache

Pairing: Din Djarin x F!Reader

Summary: In the aftermath of illness, Mando takes another step.

Word Count: 3.2k

Warnings: Explicit, 18+ MINORS DNI, illness (not graphic), descriptions of male and female bodies, fingering (f receiving), grinding, male masturbation, allusions to sexual acts, we’re still yearning because we have trouble letting ourselves have nice things. 

Notes: First I’m making up things about space banks, now we’re speculating about space doctors. I hope in the great Star Wars universe they’ve figured out things like (galactic?) health care and insurance premiums. Poor little Grogu is suffering in this one, but I promise he’s in good hands.

Takes place after Bloom.

Cross-posted on AO3

I Think of You Series Masterlist

You’re tired.

No, maybe more than that.

Bone-deep, drop-dead, some-other-cute-phrase tired.

Your hands are braced on the edge of the ‘fresher sink, body leaning over so your head can hang between your shoulders. This stretches your back, relieving some of the tightly-screwed muscles that had been screaming at you all morning. Much like the cause of your all-encompassing exhaustion.

The child had been fussy after you left the green planet. You didn’t think much of it. Mando told you he just gets tired of being on the Crest for such long periods (don’t we all) and sometimes throws a fit when the days spent planetside are cut short. The day after blaster training (the memory of it still heating your face) had been one of those disappointing days. Looking up to see Mando galloping around a corner, blaster bolts screaming past him and puffing into the dirt at his feet, you had to take off without whatever forest treat was occupying the child’s attention. 

He definitely hadn’t let either of you forget it when he tipped his ration pouch out onto Mando’s lap while looking him right in his visor, deadpan baby face daring you to be angry about it. 

(it made you have to hide a smile behind your own dehydrated meal)

It had taken a few laps around the Crest for Mando to regulate his breathing again, the stresses of the day coming to clash against the child’s sass. A curious villager turning informant. The scream of TIE fighters overhead. A flash of white and a race off planet. A reminder that yes, you are indeed still being hunted (the reason why Mando brought you on his ship, right?) and dallying on planets puts more than just you in danger. The child should know better than to pout but he’s also, well, a child. 

So you didn’t recognize at first that the grumpiness he was exhibiting wasn’t normal “green baby smarminess” and instead something to be worried about. You began to take notice when he stopped sleeping, not because he wanted to play or be mischievous, but because something was obviously bothering him. His baby squeals and screeches were pained, the first time you’d ever heard that, and it made you dash to your datapad to try and figure out what might be wrong.

Having his unique physiology, it was hard to find anything to compare it to. Maybe a routine illness, but you weren’t sure what could bring him relief. Would regular medicine be fine, or would it be too strong for his small body, or not metabolize correctly? 

After recalculating the jump drive algorithms and leaping back into hyperspace, the third time in as many days, Mando descended the ladder and found you scrolling frantically through your datapad, the child wheezing and crying in his hammock. You weren’t much better, anxiety and worry making your sight bleary and your nose run. Mando rushed up to the cot, hands fluttering over the child as he recognized his father, little baby arms outstretched to be coddled. Mando picked him up immediately, soothing him with soft shushes and examining him head to little toe.

“How long has he been like this?” Mando asked you, and you hurriedly ran through the progression of symptoms without lifting your eyes. 

(can’t let anything happen to him, Mando’s child, you promised you’d keep him safe)

“Hey,” Mando said sharply, making your eyes snap to him. He filled your vision with darkness and beskar and you couldn’t help the grimace that wracked your face.

“I don’t know where he got it, or what it is, or how…how to make him feel better,” you shuddered out. The child’s wet cough was a blaster bolt to your chest. 

(take it away from him give it to you)

“Stop,” Mando said firmly, kneeling down to your level. He put a heavy hand on your shoulder and made you look into his visor. “We’ll figure it out. He’ll be okay. He tried to swallow a live pylat bird once, he’s been through worse.” 

Mando’s attempt to break you from the cycle of misery helped, and you nodded and rubbed snot from your upper lip. 

Two days passed as you used Mando’s connections to find a medic who could give you proper medicine for the child. A round of antibiotics to clear any foreign pathogen, a syrup for the cough, and hot showers and lots of sleep to let his body heal. It sounded so simple when she said it, giving you a small bag with clinking bottles, but you had felt out of your mind with worry. You barely slept the last few nights, the wet breathing and occasional sniffs and coughs keeping you too alert to the child’s condition.

Now, it looked like the medicine was doing the trick. The child’s color was coming back to a vibrant green from the sickly color it held before. The hot showers, held in yours or Mando’s arms (whoever’s turn it was), cleared a lot of the phlegm that tortured him at night. He was finally starting to sleep again, and you suspected he would have a few marathon nights now that he could rest uninterrupted by his body’s rebellion.

That didn’t change the fact that now you couldn’t sleep. It’s as if your body is conditioned to every small noise in the ship, waiting for a dangerous silence to fall. You want to scream in frustration, but the child just got to sleep after shrieking up a storm all morning (appetite’s back) and working through a burst of energy that depleted your final reserves. You think he’ll sleep through until dinner, and keep telling yourself you should too. 

Mando is far less affected by the days of restless nights and lost sleep. “Not much different than hunting,” he says quietly, stroking the child just behind his ear. It works like a charm, eyelids drooping as he falls off. Mando neglected to set coordinates for the next stop until the child was settled, instead spending the days on the ship giving him medicine and attention. 

(the kid does love that part)

(you do too)

But the child is asleep, a good sleep too. And you cannot for the life of you get your body to do the same. You know you need it, desperately, but the adrenaline in your blood is coursing through you like electric shocks.

With a moan you straighten back up, looking in the ‘fresher mirror. Your eyes are bloodshot and tired, face puffy from rubbing it constantly. Your hair is wet from the “relaxing” shower you tried to take, but it only made sleep crawl further from you. You put the heels of your hands to your eyes and sigh loudly.

“Kid’s still asleep.” Mando’s voice envelopes you from where he’s now leaning in the ‘fresher doorway. 

“Yeah, great, that’s perfect,” you say, no feeling behind it. “He’s got the right idea.”

Mando chuckles as you finish hanging your towel. The wetness from your hair has seeped into the back of your shirt and you’re annoyed at the sensation. Everything feels wrong and uncomfortable and you just want. To karking. Sleep.

“Looks like you could use a nap too,” Mando offers. 

(no shit metal man)

“Oh yes, definitely, if I could just get my Maker-damned brain to shut off,” you huff, a tired grimace on your face. Mando straightens and watches you a little more closely. You can see him in the mirror’s reflection, half shrouded by the low light of the hall with golden gleams reflected off the beskar. 

“When adrenaline runs too high, sometimes you can’t get it to come down,” he says, and while you're half bent over the sink you notice him sidling up to you. Slow, his feet barely lifting off the floor. 

“Not sure how I’m supposed to deal with that,” you snark back, squeezing excess water out of your hair. You feel stuffy and swollen with exhaustion, your eyelids heavy but the deep pull of sleep not following when you shut them. Which you do, Mando’s voice is often a nice soporific when you’re bored in the cockpit listening to him make intel calls. You’d fallen asleep uncomfortably in the jumpseat several times just listening to the deep hum of the vocoder reading off coordinates.

“There are a few good ways to bring yourself down. Deep breathing,” Mando’s voice is becoming hypnotic as you listen with your eyes closed. 

(Stars, maybe this will do it)

“Meditation…” he offers, which you scoff at. His voice sounds closer now, almost behind your shoulder.

(If you fall asleep on your feet, will he carry you to bed?)

“Would you like to know how I do it?” Mando practically purrs, and his voice is right by your ear. You force your eyes open, a light furrow in your brow, to see Mando standing directly behind you.

The gleam of the paudrons spans past your shoulders, the helmet hovering by your ear. It’s tipped towards you, the visor trained on your face, before turning to look at you in the mirror. You glimpse your lips, open in surprise, and the lift in your brows before both of Mando’s arms come up around you, fingers gripping the fresher sink next to yours. He’s barely touching you, boxing you in but not crushing you.

“Mando…” you squeak out, and the helmet tips enough for the bottom lip to press against the crook of your neck.

“I take my cock and think of where I’d rather be putting it, and fuck my hand until I cum,” he grits out, his words alone igniting a heat in your cunt. Your knees feel weak for a moment, your body threatening to collapse back into him.

“Can I do that for you, Mesh’la? Fuck you with my hand until you cum?” You gasp, fingers tightening on the ‘fresher sink as you squeeze your thighs together. One of Mando’s hands comes up to cover yours, his warmth contrasting the coolness of the metal under your palm. The other drifts to rest on your stomach, fingers splayed. You can see the orange of his gloves bright against your dark top, thumb making soft strokes against the fabric. 

“I promise it will help you sleep,” he whispers sinfully into your ear and your eyes roll shut. You’re drunk on his words, body responding wonderfully to his touch, as you nod once, lower lip between your teeth. You remember the ecstasy of his hand cupping you on that forest planet, how badly you wanted him to make you scream around his fingers. The rush makes the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end.

(let him claim you)

Mando’s gloved hand drags down your body to rub you over your pants, the press of his fingers between your legs giving some sweet relief to the ache. The moan you let out is more air than sound, but you feel Mando’s hum of approval against your chest. 

“I’ll take care of you, Mesh’la,” he purrs into your ear, hands lifting off you for a moment. You open your eyes to see Mando stripping his gloves off, thwapping them into the sink bowl. He covers your hand again, but this time he laces his fingers between yours. The skin is rough along his knuckles, smooth in the cup of his palm. He huffs out a breath and you remember how few times he feels his skin on another person’s. 

(give it all of it anything you can have you want) 

His other bare hand moves to the waistband of your pants. You’re in comfortable leggings today, too tired to manage anything with zippers and buttons, and his fingers slip under the fabric easily. A gentle finger teases at the edge of your underwear, waiting for you.

In response to his touch, you arch back against Mando, the cleft of your ass pushing firmly against his groin. Instantly you’re met with the heft of his cock, pressed tight against him in his pants. Your mouth drops open and a real moan tumbles out, dragging your plush ass against him. He stutters out a groan and dives his hand down into your folds, his thick middle finger gliding over your clit. Using the flat of his palm and the heel of his hand, he pushes you back against him, surging up to meet you. The armor presses into your back and thighs at contrasting angles, the vambrace against your stomach grounding you against him.

“Fuck, Mando, feels so…” you try to say before he slips his fingers further into you, dragging through your slick to bring it to your clit. He begins making small firm circles, the motion frictionless. 

“Mesh’la…” he groans, and it’s needier than you thought it would be. “Ohhh fuck, Mesh’la,” he continues, and the broken way he’s moaning to you is tightening everything. 

“Mando, please, please,” you beg, rocking back against him as he gives you nowhere to go to escape the mounting pleasure. You can feel his hips grinding against your ass, his cock sliding over the curve and against your lower back over and over. You look up in the mirror and if you weren’t trying to prolong your pleasure you would have cum from the sight alone.

Mando is bowed over you, helmet resting lightly in the crook of your neck. His armor is bathed in the soft glow of the ‘fresher light, golden streaks contrasting the cool silver. You can see the roll of his hips in the way his shoulders flex, the expanding rise and fall of his chest. His thick arm disappearing into your pants and the lewd way you can see the outline of his hand against your cunt makes you keen out a long moan. 

“Can I put my fingers inside you Mesh’la? Feel you cum around me?” he asks, a hair short of begging and you pant out a yes. He cups your mound in his large hand, two fingers delving down to rub softly at your entrance before buying them inside you. The stretch is exactly what you need, and as he seats himself inside you can’t prevent a shout from echoing in the ‘fresher. 

“Fuck, Mando, yes, theretheretherethere,” you cry throatily, hips bucking against him as he curls his fingers inside you, dragging past the spot that will make you cum on his hand. He grinds against your clit and uses his other hand to squeeze your fingers tighter. 

It’s a sandstorm of sensations, breaths and pleas and chants echoing off the walls. Mando is punching out growls behind you, his cock aching against you and if your release wasn’t a moment away you would have begged him to fuck you. But he hits the sweetest spot and you cum around his hand, gasping moans as you begin to fall forward. Mando is too quick for that though; his other arm bars between your breasts, hand spread wide at the base of your neck. He pushes you back against his chest, your head lolling back to rest on his chestplate as you rock out the aftershocks of your orgasm. Both of you lean back against the ‘fresher wall, panting, his hand still down your pants and the desperate hardness of his cock against your back. 

When your breathing slows Mando removes his hand from your cunt, sliding it up to rest his wet fingers against the bare skin of your stomach.

“Feeling tired now?” he chuckles breathlessly in your ear. He’s right, of course. The exhaustion you felt before has morphed into a jelly-like feeling in your limbs, one that promises deep restful sleep. 

“Yeah, I’d say so,” you shoot back. Something heavy hangs in the way you look at each other in the mirror, as if actually meeting eyes would make you have to answer to what you did.

(he made the first move and pulled a devastating orgasm out of you)

(just like the first time)

You know this is the step you’ve both been waiting for. The heaviness of the air colors you with significance. He’s not hiding from you anymore. It should only be a matter of time and circumstance before you take the leap together.

(you hope it will develop into more)

That will be for another day though, when your emotions aren’t so raw and you can think straight.

“Can you get to the bed yourself? Or do you need me to carry you?” Mando murmurs in your ear. His hands are still wide and possessive, spanning as much of your skin as he can. You like the way he looks on you, all warrior and man wrapped around your flesh. 

“Think I can manage,” you pant out, reaching up to trace his fingers with your own. He drags them down your body, resting them on your hips. “The real question is what we should do about this,” you say, rolling your hips back into his cock. You watch Mando’s head drop against the ‘fresher wall, a grunt and heavy exhale echoing.

(you could find a little more energy to watch Mando cum)

“Not tonight, you need the rest. I’ll check on the kid while you’re sleeping.” You hum quietly and brush your hands against his, the size difference making your stomach flip pleasantly. Stepping away from him on wobbly legs, you move to exit the ‘fresher. Pausing, you look back at Mando, who’s half leaning against the wall.

(what do you say to not scare him off?)

“Thank you for helping me,” you say, giving him an affectionate, tired smile. “Let me return the favor sometime?”

You think you hear a choked sound behind the vocoder before Mando nods, and you tap your fingers on the doorframe with a wink before leaving. Stumbling back to your bed, you puddle into the blankets and drop off to sleep almost immediately. It’s a dreamless slumber except for flashes of regal silver and sunkissed gold.

Din turns on the shower, water masking his pained grunts and gasps as he masturbates to completion shockingly fast. He stripped the armor and layers in record time, his skin burning for release, before he drove himself over the edge replaying the way you moaned for him. It barely curbs the hunger he feels, the need to devour you and surround you and make you scream over and over. He wishes he didn’t hurry under the spray so quickly, the water rinsing his hands before he could taste you on his fingers. 

Kriff, he’s been trying his best to curb his flirting, not confuse you with his wants and intentions, and one exhausted look from you made him toss caution to the wind and give you what you needed. Well, maybe it’s what he needed too. Your smile, your body that responds so eagerly to his touch, your company, the look in your eyes as you came shuddering and gasping against him. It’s as addictive as he remembers, his need to wrack your body with pleasure as satisfying as taking his own.

His arousal is mounting fast again, and with one half-frustrated whack of his palm to the ‘fresher wall he takes his cock in hand again and loses himself in the bliss of your smile and the desire in his heart.

END

“lean in to kiss me

in all the places

where the ache

is

the most special.”

― Sanober Khan 

Part 7 of the I Think of You series.

The story continues in Episode 8: Both Sides of the Door

#din djarin x f!reader #din djarin x female reader #din djarin x you #din djarin x reader #din djarin #mando/reader #mando/you #mando/f!reader #the mandalorian fic #mandalorian fanfic #mandalorian fic #the mandalorian #the mandalorian x f!reader #the mandalorian x female reader #the mandalorian x reader #i think of you series #prolix fics

[irisbleufic]

I really cannot overstate how groundbreaking/memorable your Good Omens fic is! I remember reading it in ye olde LiveJournal days and....God, it must be almost a decade later, when I got onto Tumblr I remembered not only the fics but your username and you can't imagine how chuffed I was to see that you 1) are still writing and 2) wrote Great Gatsy speculative fiction!!! Writing can be a hard, solitary endeavor, but please know that your stories resonated and continue to stay with me, and I reread them to this day. Thank you for sharing them with us!

LJ fandom was so much fun! I feel like I was writing and posting there on the borderline between LJ’s decline and AO3’s inception, and because I didn’t start transferring my fic from LJ to AO3 (and just posting to AO3, for that matter), I did myself and my readers a disservice. Still, Good Omens fandom was born on LJ in the early 2000s; I feel proud to have been there and writing at its inception, through to the present day.

I know there are folks who wish I loved the show the way I love the novel, but living with the book for 19 years and my longest, most involved work of fiction ever (CoT) for nearly as long has made it extremely difficult for me to see the novel’s setting of 1990 transposed to now (there’s also the issue that despite the fact that I love what I’ve seen of Tennant as a human being, I’ve never enjoyed any of his roles except for his Shakespearean ones; the casting of Crowley in particular was always going to be impossible in my eyes). It is what it is; we all have those stories that we’ll never see any other way.

Thank you for continuing to read and love my stories in a world where the novel is in some sense being phased out, I guess is what I’m trying to say 💙 I’m astonished I’m alive to be saying this; I didn’t expect to survive the cancer ordeal of 2019-2020. I thought that finishing CoT would be the last meaningful writing I’d ever do. It’s weird to be a survivor of so many health issues barely halfway through my life. I hope my next 40-50 years in fandom will be just as filled with amazing friends and fiction.

#fandom #fanfiction #good omens #aziraphale x crowley #ineffable husbands