#desperate measures is his light song

[moonsaver]

I cant stop thinking about being a possible singer from the Iris Family?? Their family is usually responsible for the major "talent" productions that practically are responsible for the entertainment... also Siobhan as hints to what the Iris family would be like.

-

You were a singer.

Barely a singer, to be fair.

It was for the sake of your little compartment of a family. Desperate times called for desperate measures, and you scraped out every last bit of your talents. The one which seems to be lasting the longest, seems to be singing.

You did what you had to. You sang until your throat was raw and hurt, practiced day and night until your ears were sick of your own voice, passed through every elimination tests that were conducted – all so you could have a stabilized, bolted place in the Iris Family, if it meant you and your parents and siblings weren't kicked out.

And, you weren't the best. And certainly not as good as Robin – the gem of the Oak Family. It was ironic, but it didn't matter. Not to you. As long as it kept your family secure, you endured. The comparisons, the hushed, barely pleased audience as they only took your performance as stalling time for the "real stars" of the show, the side-glances all of your other relatives threw your way. It was fine. You told yourself so. It was fine as long as you, your parents and your siblings were secured.

Risks weren't an option for you. Not when you had too much to lose.

-

Sunday has learned to appreciate frequency over output.

Times where schedules had to be rearranged last minute, performances strained and announcements elongated to squeeze out any extra amount of coverage for a missing show, routine dismantled and put together in real time as the neverending perfect show went on.

In all of those times, Sunday kept a usual eye on everyone. Their names, roles, status, popularity, preferences. And most importantly – their reliability.

You were an average performer. But your reliability was notable to Sunday. Oftentimes he found himself looking for you first and foremost for an improvised concert, whenever things even threatened to go awry. He knew perhaps you obliged out of self-interest or a simple fear of upsetting The Head of the Oak Family, but you were reliable in your own way. A simple glance your way and a nod was enough to signal you for advance preparation for improvisation, repeated song lyrics at the tip of your tongue.

If you were lucky, sometimes Sunday would repay you by scheduling you for an opening performance for a small-time event, or letting you in on the recent trends, the general public opinion towards your show, or even drop some personal hints for you to improve.

That was all you were. A reliable stand-in for when there were a disarray of clarity, disagreements upon disagreements, confusion stagnating the scheduling.

-

Until, you became so much more in a simple moment of disillusion.

A break is in order, Sunday believes. He clicks his pen continuously, the sound echoing in the vast space of the room, bouncing off of the sterile, empty walls.

Click. Click. Click. Click. Click.

5 times.

Click.

6 times.

Sunday's restless mind comes to a small halt when he inhales sharply, constraining his fingers. His shaking hand gently places the pen onto the flat, neatly organized desk, back where it belongs. He rests his chin on his hands. Thinking and listing everything on his agenda for the day.

A tandem of knocks resound from the smooth wooden surface of the door.

"Mr. Sunday?"

Ah. It's you.

He supposes his asisstants and servants don't realize he's noticed the recent pattern as of late. Whenever something changes in the schedule that could possibly threaten to dampen his mood or displease him, they send you in as some sort of collateral. He's gotten used to your presence enough to not mind it.

"Come in."

Short, quick clicks of your heels accompany the entering of your figure into the room. Your front is warmly illuminated by the yellow lighting of the room.

"Changes have been decided within the schedule again."

"As expected."

He gets up from the leather chair with a subtle creak, the steps of his shoes muffled by the carpet. He walks around his table, fingers trailing across the ridges of the masterfully crafted desk.

"Can I ask a favor of you, as always?"

"Of course."

His wings slightly flutter, pleased at the response. You can tell, despite his back facing you.

His fingers trail and come to a slow halt at the edge of the desk. His index finger taps on the surface.

Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap.

5 times.

Ah, you think. He's anxious.

"Mr. Sunday?"

"Hm?"

His finger stops, you note.

"I've heard guests have taken more to berry-flavored items as of late."

He chuckles a bit, softly.

"There's an uprising trend. Berry-flavored items have been on the rise, and as such, food follows."

Sunday half theorizes it could be due to the recent intreview Robin had. Strawberry flavored lipgloss was something she mentioned in particular.

"Ah. I see. So I suppose those colors may also influence the recent fashion trends?"

Sunday hums, in thought.

The moment is interrupted by an abrupt knock at the door.

"Mr. Sunday, there's a few tasks that need your approval to go ahead."

The male asisstant's voice resounds confidently through the previously quiet room. Sunday looks over at you and nods. You turn to take your leave. You can only hope it was enough of a reprieve for him.

-

"It seems fashion trends are inspired, aswell."

Sunday mentions, standing beside you. His eyes are watchful, analyzing the current performance from behind the curtains.

"I see."

You respond. Making conversation was not your strongsuit. Sunday smiles slightly at your awkwardness.

He continued the conversation after a few moments, talking about color palettes, scents, and general observable trends. Your usual,basic gowns and dresses will now see a noticeable change, due to Sunday's suggestions.

He admits, even at times, he looks forward to them. Sometimes, as foolish as it sounds, he slips in a mix of his own personal opinion, thinly disguised as the "general preference", which manages to then take presidence over your usual pick of gowns. He won't admit it, but he secretly does enjoy sometimes "picking out" your outfits. It's never harmed anyone in the long run, and Sunday's personal theories of whichever color would look good on you are confirmed.

-

"May I ask.. what this is..?"

The artificial, blue light of the Dreamscape softly highlights Sunday's face, as he stands before you with a pleased look. The same, usual smile on his face.

"I believe incorporating a few gold accents into your palette may help."

You look at the black, velvet bag; the ends of it scrunched into a closure. Your fingers gently pry it open and meddle around a bit, before they pull out a single, gold earring. It glimmers wonderfully under the soft, blue light. There's a flower at the very top with an encrusted diamond, from which a long, elegant thread of gold dangles, ending into a small golden stalk.

You curiously examine it, slightly dangling it to inspect the weight and movement of the accessory.

Sunday walks toward you with a few, short strides, and holds out his hand.

You look at his open, gloved palm, then him.

You inhale deeply, before taking off your current earrings and placing them onto his hand, and gently replacing their former stations with the new earrings. Sunday places your previous earrings into the velvet bag, and glances at your ears, then you.

"Consider it a.. company gift."

How fanciful.

"Thank you for your generosity."

Sunday's eyes linger on your ears, then trail down to the junction of your jaw. His eyes close as his smiles widens slightly.

To be fair, he wanted more.

‐

Sunday has been getting closer to you as of late.

Because you wouldn't imagine ever being this close in proximity to Robin of all people.

Her lips are glossy with a strawberry tint, and her eyes are a beautiful lake green, you note. You also take note of the fact she's much more warmer and approachable than she is appeared to be on digital surfaces.

Both of you engage in polite conversation, her taking the lead, noticing your awkwardness. She's sweet, and understanding. She discusses general things regarding singing and songwriting. You take her for a very warm individual. It's no wonder she's a well-liked popstar. Talent alone can take you so far.

What you also wouldn't imagine is her managing to entangle you within her daily affairs. She leads you to private rooms, asks for advice on outfits, practice, and all sorts of things, despite the contrast of your styles almost bizzare, you oblige anyway.

And it's almost brazenly obvious she's trying to get you and Sunday to spend more time alone outside of work.

It's of no coincidence that she suddenly has to leave and take care of a few things or shuffle around a bit outside whenever Sunday manages to pop in and check up on you two. It wouldn't have been so uncomfortable if for the fact, Sunday's eyes are always lingering on your ears.

Once, he'd taken note that you'd been wearing them more often to your performances and shows. It can't be helped – you've gained more popularity and as a result, keener eyes inspect your choice of practically everything. Including your earrings. Your fans aren't hesitant to point out how exquisite and specific the craftsmanship of your earrings are, and it's not long before your fans have understood it was gifted to you. By who, became the newest sensation regarding you. Petty rumors were incriminating, but you suppose if it brought you more fans, it was enough.

Sunday chuckles softly when you briefly touch on the subject.

It wasn't long before he'd gotten you another pair as a result.

You only worry about paying him back, more and more.

‐

There are a plethora of thorns on Sunday's side. Many, of which the public, and many members of the Oak Family aren't privy to.

One of them was currently busy darkening his doorstep;

The IPC.

Or rather specifically – Aventurine.

What he wasn't expecting, was for you to be an exclusive invitee to his mischief.

You were rather in an unlucky spot. You had always considered your luck to be rusty, having struggled so much just for average recognition and a barely tangible career that's keeping your family afloat.

On top of that, you were being heavily persuaded by Aventurine, who was persistent in his offer to you. His desperation was more than obvious, like a nervous dog waiting for the bone toss, holding you in place with a firm grip on your arm. It didn't help that he'd forced his way into your hotel room aswell.

And Sunday just witnessed the pinnacle of this forsaken deal.

...

"Aventurine."

"Mr. Sunday."

After a beat of silence, you pathetically try to step in,

"This–"

"I see you've taken to familiarizing with my employees."

Sunday's smile remains well plastered on his face. Aventurine only smiles back.

"I was actually in the middle of striking a deal. There's always opportunities in the best of places, right?" Aventurine side-eyes you. You shrink back a bit.

"My employees are unfortunately off-limits to contracts from unauthorized branches. I look for your understanding in this.. complicated form of approach."

You watch Aventurine's smile strain. Sunday continues.

"Perhaps, if you are in need of a singer, I may direct you to an appropriate employee from the Iris Family to search for someone."

"That won't be necessary. I wasn't looking for a singer. You don't think that's all they're talented at, do you?"

Sunday's eyes slightly sharpen at him. Aventurine's smile becomes more genuine.

"Oh, you've positively ruined the mood. I guess it's just not my lucky day, and it looks like I'm not getting a deal with you anytime soon."

Aventurine's eyes hone in on you. You stand stiffly, your arm tense from the uncertainty your body feels physically.

His grip loosens, languidly. You'd think he was doing it slowly on purpose if not to tick off Sunday more.

"I'll take my leave, then."

Aventurine breezes past Sunday, rounding the corner of the door. He casts one last glance to you as the turns.

His footsteps echo down the hallway. As soon as they fade, Sunday's smile drops slightly.

"Are you perhaps.. unhappy with your current circumstances?"

‐

#moonink #hsr #honkai star rail #hsr x gender neutral reader #hsr x y/n #hsr x you #hsr x male reader #hsr x reader #honkai star rail x gender neutral reader #yandere honkai star rail x reader #honkai star rail x reader #honkai star rail x you #hsr sunday x you #hsr sunday x reader #sunday hsr #hsr sunday #honkai star rail sunday #yandere sunday x you #yandere sunday x reader #yandere hsr sunday #yandere hsr x you #yandere hsr x reader

[fluffy-dixon]

Hold My Girl

The prison walls stood as our fragile shield against the relentless threats of the outside world. Fear clung to the air, a constant companion in our desperate struggle for survival. We were a community bound by necessity, not camaraderie. Sleep was elusive, and relaxation a distant memory. Every creak of the floorboards, every rustle of leaves beyond the walls, sent our hearts racing. The Governor haunted us, a malevolent force that could strike at any moment.

In those rare moments of respite, we worked tirelessly to reinforce our defences. The walls were patched, barricades erected, and weak spots fortified. There was no time for idle chatter or laughter. Gone were the days when Beth’s gentle songs could lift our spirits. Now, silence reigned, punctuated only by the scrape of shovels against dirt and the distant howls of the undead.

Daryl’s hunting prowess provided a lifeline, and the small vegetable garden yielded just enough to supplement our dwindling rations. Today, Carol had concocted a stew—a humble blend of whatever ingredients we could scrounge up. You had spent the afternoon assisting her, chopping vegetables, and stirring the pot. The warmth of the fire and the aroma of the stew offered a fleeting comfort.

As darkness enveloped the prison, weary figures shuffled back inside. Daryl, always the last to return, bore the weight of exhaustion. His crossbow hung loosely across his back, and his shoulders sagged. Fatigue etched lines on his face, and his footsteps dragged. A silent yawn escaped him, and he rubbed his eyes with calloused hands.

Then, he sought you out. Those piercing blue eyes, weathered and battle-worn, locked onto yours. A smile—a rare sight in these grim times—curved his lips. Butterflies danced in your stomach; you were the beacon of light in his darkness. He moved toward you, bypassing Carol’s offered plate. His singular focus was clear: to be near you, to find solace in your presence amidst the chaos.

In that dimly lit refuge, where fear clung to the walls like shadows, Daryl’s presence enveloped you. His arms, muscular and strong, drew you close—your body fitting seamlessly against his. The rough pads of his fingertips traced the delicate curve of your spine, igniting a trail of goosebumps. His other hand tangled in the strands of your hair.

Foreheads pressed together, eyes closed, he leaned down—a weary warrior seeking solace. His lips met yours—a kiss that held hunger and tenderness in equal measure. In this fragile sanctuary, he reveled in vulnerability. You were his anchor, the one who brought light to his battle-worn soul.

Breaking the kiss, he held you still. His head rested atop yours, and he sighed—an exhale that carried the weight of the day. His body melted into yours, seeking refuge from the relentless fight for survival. You swayed gently, a dance of shared weariness and unspoken promises. But then, a primal sound erupted—the grumble of hunger from within him.

“You should eat,” you suggested, practical and caring.

His reply came, soft and unguarded: “Mhmm, jus’ needed to hold ya first.”

#norman reedus #daryl dixon #daryl x reader #daryl dixon x reader #daryl fanfiction #daryl #daryl x y/n #the walking dead #twd #daryl dixon fanfic #daryl drabbles

[hanlimz]

[midnight thoughts: enha + late night love]

synopsis: late night scenarios with enha :,) pairing: ot7 x gn!reader genre/warnings: soft soft soft / none that i know of! wc: ~0.8k a/n: very short return before my break ends! so sorry i’ve kept everyone waiting (;´༎ຶД༎ຶ`) i’ve had writer’s block for ages now so this took a lot out of me :// / i hope you all enjoy tho, pls tell me what you think! (sunjaywon’s r my faves but i love hee’s too)

heeseung never lets you close your eyes before he receives his good night kiss. the cool, night air rustles the leaves to create a midnight symphony while his voice accompanies their song. melodious and gentle, the symphony lulls you into a cloudy, fatigued daze. exhaustion seeps into the marrow of your bones, and you’re about the give into its insistence when heeseung whispers your name. it’s quiet and sweet and ever so slightly desperate. there’s a plea in his beautiful, brown eyes; kiss me before you go, they say. you shoot him a dazzling smile, and heeseung falls asleep with the taste of you on his lips.

jongseong adores the fact that you save a spot for him in the bed. tending to leave early and come home late, he always tells you not to wait up for him, so he doesn’t mind when he finds you sleeping. in fact, he prefers it. as the warm air envelops his body and he rids himself of his work clothes, jongseong slips under the covers and slots himself against your body in the space you left for him. the choice is unconscious; as is the way your hands reach for him through slumber, but he appreciates it nevertheless. before submitting to sleep, he presses countless kisses to the palms of your hands. holding them to his heart, jongseong hopes you can feel how it beats for you.

jake is never not cuddled into your side, listening to the rhythmic beating of your heart. ever the romantic, he weaves the measured thumping into a poem of love, of longing, of devotion. jake counts until his brain becomes muddled with thoughts of you; the joy you bring to his life, the way your smile manages to warm his heart, your endless adoration and care for him. as your body thrums beneath the weight of his, jake feels more alive than ever. your fingers trace the peaks and valleys of his soft face, pausing when you get to his plump lips to commit them to memory. it is in quiet moments like these that jake realizes you are his forever.

sunghoon finds the way you drool a bit in your sleep incredibly endearing. though he curses this wall of restlessness that prevents him from the same slumber you partake in, he is thankful for you. as the moon streams in from the blinds, the light illuminates a peculiarly charming puddle that has collected at the base of your pillow. it should be gross, and he should turn up his nose at you; but, sunghoon can’t find even a modicum of distaste in his mind. instead, he swipes at the stream falling from your mouth and giggles to himself. craning his neck, sunghoon places a tender kiss on your forehead before closing his eyes and settling back in. no matter what, it says, i love you all the same.

sunoo talks your ear off before the familiar wave of exhaustion creeps up on him. by the time his voice grows tired and his eyelids become heavy, he has split your sides with peals of uncontrollable laughter. the two of you have swapped more stories and shared more kisses than you think you ever have, and sunoo doesn’t want to give in. sleep threatens to overtake him, and he fights for as long as he can. it isn’t until you caress his cheek with a soft hand and whisper an ‘i love you’ that he closes his weary eyes. sunoo falls asleep with the ghost of a smile of his lips and the promise of tomorrow in his heart.

jungwon falls asleep to the feeling of your fingers running through his hair. from the sighs escaping his bitten lips to all the tension he carries in his broad shoulders, you know it has been a hard day. upon seeing your open arms, jungwon falls into them with a huff; tears threaten to spill from his pretty, round eyes as he feels your muscles ripple against his. silent and warm, your lover cherishes you like diamonds and keeps you like a promise. as the tips of your fingers traces patterns along the nape of his neck and he slips into his dreams, jungwon lets you care for him, and you let him know he is loved.

riki won’t let you get up after you’ve chosen to lie down with him. with his long limbs and deceptively lean frame, it’s a game where he always manages to have the upper hand. you don’t mind, however, because riki is soft; he is gentle and kind and good. the way in which he envelops your body makes you feel safe. his touch is warm like the tender sunrise of a spring day, and his voice is enchanting as it mimics that of a summer breeze—thick and husky, but not heavy. riki won’t let you get up because, deep down, he’s afraid you will disappear. so, you hold him tighter and hope he knows that you would never leave.

#enhypen fluff #enhypen imagines #enhypen headcanons #enha fluff #; — cass writes: ot7 #heeseung fluff #jay fluff #jongseong fluff #jake fluff #sunghoon fluff #sunoo fluff #jungwon fluff #niki fluff #riki fluff #heeseung imagines #jay imagines #jake imagines #sunghoon imagines #sunoo imagines #jungwon imagines #riki imagines

[doliacuddles]

UNREQUITED ECHOES.

𝖠𝗇𝗀𝖾𝗅! 𝖫𝗎𝖼𝗂𝖿𝖾𝗋 𝗑 𝖧𝗎𝗆𝖺𝗇! 𝖱𝖾𝖺𝖽𝖾𝗋

❝In the silence of the heavens, the beloved becomes the forsaken.❞

In the celestial splendor of Eden, where light intertwined with the serenity of eternal gardens, an anomaly was born. While angels sang in unison and the creatures of paradise danced in harmony, a solitary figure lingered in the shadows, ignored by the divine flow of creation.

That figure was you, a being born in error at the dawn of creation. While the breath of life shaped Adam and Lilith, your existence slipped into the forgotten corners of Eden. The angels who roamed with their divine grace were invisible to you, and so were the eyes of Lucifer, the most beautiful of all angels, whose heart began to beat with an unknown emotion upon crossing paths with you.

Your presence, an unnoticed specter in paradise, was a source of anguish for Lucifer. His attempts to approach you were met with an invisible barrier, a wall separating your existence from his. Each time his words of love and affection were lost in the void surrounding you, he felt his heart shatter a little more.

Lucifer's frustration grew day by day, like a voracious fire devouring his soul. He couldn't understand why you remained oblivious to his presence, why your eyes didn't gaze upon his with the same devotion he felt for you. As time passed, his love became more obsessive, more desperate, like a song refusing to fade into the darkness of the night.

However, despite his suffering, Lucifer couldn't stop thinking about you. He measured every step, every gesture, every glance, hoping to find a sign, a glimmer of recognition in your eyes confirming that he wasn't alone in his love.

But you remained an enigma, a shadow in Eden refusing to be illuminated by the light of his love. Not even the tears he shed silently under the moonlight could move your insensitive heart, which remained oblivious to the suffering you had unleashed in Lucifer's heart.

Unable to bear the torment of his unrequited love any longer, Lucifer made a decision that would change the course of Eden's history forever. With a heavy heart and eyes filled with tears, he approached you one last time, desperately seeking an answer that would never come.

"I'm sorry," he murmured with a broken voice, as his gaze met yours in a moment of shared agony. "I'm sorry for loving you so much and not being able to make you happy."

And with those words, Lucifer turned away and departed from Eden, leaving behind the echo of his lost love and the shadow of his presence fading into the distance. And you, ignorant of the tragedy you had unleashed.

Eden, once a paradise of serenity and harmony, plunged into a palpable darkness after Lucifer's departure. The laughter of angels faded into a melancholic whisper, and the flowers that once bloomed with divine radiance withered under the shadow of despair.

For Lucifer, his departure marked not the end of his torment, but the beginning of an even deeper agony. Each step he took distanced him further from you, yet his love for you persisted like a wound refusing to heal. The void you left in his heart became a bottomless abyss, consuming every thought and every sigh with unbearable pain.

Over the years, Lucifer sank into despair, unable to find solace in Eden's eternity. His wings, once proud symbols of his divinity, withered under the weight of his sorrow, and his beauty faded into the darkness of his inner torment.

And thus, in the solitude of his suffering, Lucifer became a specter of his former self, an echo of the light that once illuminated Eden now extinguished by the shadow of a love lost forever.

Meanwhile, you continued your existence in ignorance, unaware of the price Lucifer had paid for your indifference. Your days in Eden passed aimlessly, without understanding the pain you had sown in the heart of one who once loved you with burning passion.

And so, Eden, once a refuge of beauty and perfection, became a silent testament to the pain and tragedy that had marked the destiny of its inhabitants. And as centuries passed, the memory of Lucifer and his lost love faded into the darkness of history, a fleeting shadow in the eternal splendor of Eden.

Intellectual property of @doliacuddles.

#hazbin hotel #hazbin hotel x reader #hazbin hotel lucifer #lucifer morningstar #lucifer morningstar x reader #lucifer x reader

[luveline]

Hey, love your work. Sooo, I was thinking, if it's ok, more actress reader and rockstar Sirius. Please, please, please. I'm obsess.

ty for ur request!! rockstar!sirius x actress!reader

You're listening to Sirius' new song —it's all you listen to, at this point— and don't hear the knock at your trailer door. 

There's nothing to do but wait until you're needed again at costuming for more measurements, so you've sequestered yourself away to miss your boyfriend in private. Nails in front of you, you're humming the right words to the wrong verse, pushing your cuticles back with your thumb nail and wishing Sirius were here to tell you off.

"How many times do I have to tell you not to do that?" he asks over your shoulder, the smell of his perfume sudden and heavy in your nose. He sounds pleased despite his scolding. "You'll be in so much trouble with makeup." 

You bolt to your feet. One moment you're looking at him, the next you're throwing your arms around his shoulders, the silly foldout chair you'd been lounging in collapsing to the trailer floor with a thump. 

"When did you get here?" you ask, practically shouting in his ear, your enthusiasm jolting him one side to another. 

"You know I'm around," he says, which means, I came straight here. 

"I missed you so much," you say, still happy, but with that desperate loneliness that pervades whenever he's gone. 

You pull away to check he's real, and he is, and he's handsome, skin tanned by the eastern European sunshine, a golden nose ring glinting in the light. Stubble scratches your hands as you stroke his cheeks, your top lip as you lean up for a loving peck.

"You're really here," you say, stroking his hair behind his ears. 

Sirius laughs and pulls your hands off of him, holding them tight in his, "Alright, don't smother me," he says, not without love. "You have very cold hands." 

"You're meant to be holding them," you croon. 

Sirius takes you in. You preen like a bird having combed all her feathers, knowing the genre of what he might say before he so much as parts his pretty lips. "You look beautiful, my love." 

Cheesy from any other mouth, you flush at his praise and pull him closer to you, your stomachs touching, your chests angled apart. 

He's been touring and you've been working; it's been a good long while since you got to hold his hand. He tries to come home to you as often as he can while you fly out city to city chasing him whenever you aren't contracted, but nothing feels as good as this —he's home. At least for a few months.

"I missed you," he says gently. "I know you already know that, but I really missed you." Sirius steals his hands away to wrap arms around your shoulders, face pressed to the top of your head. "I missed you. Missed you so much." 

Your face fits nicely under his. Sirius might not believe in fate —it wasn't luck that sent you what must have amounted to thousands upon thousands of flowers, a bouquet every day for weeks, nor was it luck that had your thank you notes turning to love letters, the best of which he keeps in his jacket pocket— but you do, you have to, because you fit together perfectly. 

"I missed you, too," you murmur. 

"Can we run away, yet?" he asks. 

"Maybe after reshoots, handsome." 

Sirius takes your face into his hand and lays a heavy kiss on your lips. You squeeze your eyes closed, giggling as his kiss grows heated, insistent at the seam of your lips. You let him deepen the kiss but lean back in the circle of his arms at the pressure, pushed by his enthusiasm into the vanity behind you. 

Bottles and brushes and things collapse. You laugh and break away from his kissing, peering over your shoulder at the mess you've made. 

"It always looks like after an earthquake when you come to see me," you say, so in love that it sounds like a good thing. 

Sirius kisses under your jaw firmly, the pendant hanging from his neck ghosting against your chest with his movement. "Won't matter if I make some more mess then, will it?" he asks between soft kisses. 

"Just don't give me any bruises," you say as he mouths downward, weaving your fingers into his hair. 

"Your makeup girls can cover it." 

"But it's embarrassing," you laugh, tickled by his hand as it slides up the inside of your thigh. He squeezes the softness there greedily. 

Sirius peels away, looking down at you like you've just spun silver in your bare hands. He wrote about it once, a song they never made, how the sound of you laughing from two rooms over made him feel homesick. How having you in arms reach was the only thing he really needed. 

He looks reverential. You relent. "They can probably cover it," you say softly. 

Sirius grins as he dives for your neck, another round of giddy laughter dying on your lips as he promises to show you how much he missed you.

#sirius black #sirius black x reader #sirius black x fem!reader #sirius black x you #sirius black x y/n #sirius x reader fluff #sirius black imagine #sirius black fanfiction #sirius black fanfic #sirius black fic #marauders era #marauders #sirius black drabble #sirius black scenario #sirius black oneshot #the marauders #sirius orion black #rockstar!sirius #rockstar sirius black

[cambion-companion]

The Devil's Bard

Thank you again for this prompt @superfunething :) Raphael is all-too-eager to have his ego stroked.

Raphael x reader (gn) | drabble

You strummed your lute, having sequestered yourself into a private corner of the Last Light Inn. You began tentatively tuning the old instrument, an heirloom of your family. The ashen wood glistened from the flickering firelight, the warmth of the hearth seeping cozily into the wool of your clothes.

It'd been too long since you'd had time and solitude enough to compose a new song. Since you had collaborated with Alfira, in fact. The itch was there, yet your creative mind had been held captive by none other than a fiend. A cambion. Raphael.

The image of his transformation inside that "House of Hope" where he'd whisked you. His promises spoken in a decadent low voice, rough yet soft. Those eyes, both human brown and devil yellow, staring right through all your outward bluster and bravado.

Wood creaked as you shifted your weight in the mahogany armchair, a discordant noise rose up while you strummed your lute in mild frustration.

Anything else. You would rather create your art around anything else. Flowers, the night sky, the Underdark even. Yet the only thoughts pervading your restless inspiration were those of cherry skin, musky fragrance and a sharp knowing smile.

You whispered the words at first, haltingly and quiet, not wanting to draw attention.

"False hope arrived on hidden wing.

To manor cold and haunted bring,

the weary, wandering and spent.

Those carrying a writhing tenant."

You sighed heavily. Now to create music for your lyrics. You began slow, building the base chords and singing the first verse more confidently after a few rounds. For a moment the world and your troubles melted into the background, your focus a blissfully familiar spotlight upon your work.

You felt sudden pressure as a firm hand gripped your shoulder.

"Hello, my lark." Raphael spoke from behind where you sat, the weight of his gaze upon your head. "As irresistible as the harpy's song, so I too had to investigate what music you were weaving."

He moved around you. Careful measured steps, till he looked down upon you and you up at him. His warm brown eyes caught the glow of firelight as he measured your blushing cheeks and the way you gripped your instrument.

Raphael tilted his head, in an amused air. "Those lyrics rang so familiar." He smiled, that knowing smile you remembered so well. "Almost as though I am the muse behind your making, but that would be presumptuous."

You grimaced. "Speak of the devil."

"Ah, so your little song is about me." Raphael seemed genuinely tickled by this and he chuckled and clapped his hands together once. He took the seat opposite you and slung one of his legs over his other thigh. "Do, please, go on! I so enjoy the extolling arts, especially when revolving around myself."

"What are you doing here, Raphael?" You raised a brow and glanced over your shoulder just in time to see little Mol look away.

"Business, as usual." Raphael leaned forward slightly, his own gaze never deviating from your firelit face. "The richest bounties can be found in the most desperate little havens. But you've learned that already." He smiled, a little sharply. "My most illustrious client. You've sent many souls skittering directly to my door."

"Maybe I should compose a song of warning to stay away from strange men wearing frilly collars." You bit out, your eyes narrowing as you tried again to see where Mol had disappeared to.

"That's the spirit!" Raphael chortled again and gestured graciously to your lute. "Spirit you have in such brilliant abundance, little lark. I find you ever more delightfully ebullient."

"A compliment, were it not for your nature." You said, a little terse of tongue now, growing uncomfortable with how attracted to this fiend you were becoming.

"Does it keep you up at night?" Raphael frowned, a hint of mockery in his cadence. "Tossing and turning upon that cold, hard ground. Desperate to dwell upon anything but the devil in your corner. Oh, come now." His hand found your knee and pressed you back down as you shifted to stand up. "Indulge me! We are friends. After all, what else are little birds for? Sing me your sweet song while I devise for you a safe, gilded cage."

#raphael bg3 #raphael x tav #raphael drabble #bg3 drabble #raphael x reader #raphael baldur's gate 3 #raphael fanfic #raphael bg3 fic #baldurs gate 3 x reader #raphael x you

[aclowntiny]

woo congrats for the 700 followers babe (i hope you don't mind me calling you that!!) i was wondering a reaction of any group that comes to your mind about y/n kissing them and then running away maybe cause they're shy or being playful idkk!! that's the first thing that came to my mind

Of course not babe 😘😆 this is such a cute idea!!! I like this idea for multiple groups tbh but I’ll start with Ateez of course hehe~ Hope this is what you meant!

Ateez When Their Crush Kisses Them and Runs Away

Hongjoong

“I really like this one. Here, listen.” Hongjoong placed the set of headphones in his hands gently over your ears, the rustling sound tickling them before the click of the play button.

Music filled your ears, upbeat sound enveloping you as if you were surrounded. It brought a smile to your face and motion to your head, the joyful bob mirrored in amusement by Hongjoong. He shook his head fondly, watching with interest at your response to the song. You felt shy suddenly, head falling to no longer meet his intense eyes.

When the song ended, you removed the headphones, setting them carefully upon the desk’s slick surface. “Let’s listen to the next one together,” you suggested quietly, still a bit flustered from the way Hongjoong stared at you. Sure, you’d liked him for some time, but you hadn’t gotten that many signs before he looked at you like that, and suddenly you didn’t know how to act.

“I have the perfect one up next,” he agrees with a nod, unplugging the cord of the on-ears and queuing up the following song on the computer.

Upbeat music faded in favor of something soft and glittery, something that almost would’ve been like ASMR had you still listened in surround. The words started, and you could tell it was a love song. The perfect song, huh? What did he mean by that?

Hongjoong’s face was illuminated purple by the room’s LEDs, all his piercings shining lavender and even the deep brown, almost black, of his eyes getting tinted. His gaze was once again fixed firmly upon you as the desperate lyrics swam through the room, and it sent lightning through you.

As if yanked forward by a puppet string you closed the gap between your seated figures, capturing his lips against yours. It was hard to tell if he was responding, though, your brain working despite the soft warmth sending you spiraling. Your chest sunk. Maybe you’d been wrong. Oh, no.

You had to leave. With one final glance at Hongjoong’s deer-in-the-headlights face, you rose from your seat’s padding, feeling it roll away at the sudden push.

"(y/n), wait!"

Gritting your teeth, you swung back around at Hongjoong's bidding, seeing him half-standing with a hand out.

"I'm really sorry I froze up, I'd been planning to make a move at the end of the song for so long, that completely threw me." His look of worry rose into a smile. "In a good way. Can we try again?"

All you could do was nod, prompting him to stand all the way, glancing down and taking your waist when he received a nod from you before pressing his lips to yours, music still swirling around your heads.

Seonghwa

Everything you did was adorable.

You swayed your hips lightly to the music on Seonghwa's speaker as you cracked another egg into a bowl. You two were baking together, a simple, domestic activity that had Seonghwa's heart full. He could barely focus on his dry measurements, his mind full of you, you, you. What could he say? He was head over heels.

You passed by each other in sync, with you grabbing the milk and him the salt before returning to your respective mixing. Maybe he should try and make things more romantic.

When you beckoned him to bring the dry bowl over, he acquiesced immediately, proverbial light bulb going off above his head. "Alright, let's mix together."

You smiled that gorgeous smile. "Sounds great."

Standing behind you, Seonghwa took a hold of your hand, gaze falling shyly from your smile as you turned back toward the bowl, his hand guiding yours in swirls as you gradually added his half of the mixture to yours. Far too soon in Seonghwa's mind, though, the batter started to look incorporated.

"Does that look..." You turned, inadvertently pressing closer to him as you peered innocently into his eyes, face inches from his as the last part of your sentence came out quieter. "...good?"

Seonghwa's lips parted, but before any reply could leave them yours were pressed sweetly against them. His eyelashes fluttered and his chest soared, but a mere second later you were pulling back away, sinking down against the counter on bent knees.

"I'm sorry, I don't know what came over me! That just looked like a movie scene, and- and I-"

Bending down to eye level with you, Seonghwa nodded encouragingly. "Don't worry, I felt it too. Do you want to do it again or is that just me?"

Yunho

From the peripheries of your vision, you saw Yunho tugging at the thick blue blindfold around his eyes. "No peeking," you chastised.

"All right, but how far do I have to go for the center?" Yunho responded, one hand tightly holding yours.

"Just a few more steps," you replied, tugging him a bit further, "in fact, I think that's good. Everyone ready?"

The rest of the group called out affirmatives, spreading for the game of blind man's bluff. Yunho was 'it', the one who would grope along after you all as you darted away from his hands.

Of course, that's how it should have gone, but Ateez was no normal group. Jongho had climbed onto the table and Yeosang was under a chair. The rest kept running up to tease him with actions ranging from speaking right into his ear and running off to slapping his butt. And that gave you a great idea. Well, not the butt thing. Not yet at least...

You'd wanted to make a move for some time now. You and Yunho were always so playful with each other, joining in on each other's antics and having giggly slappy fights you couldn't help but see as breaks to the touch barrier. So what better opportunity to push your luck than when the man was blindfolded?

Running up at his side, you stood on your tiptoes and crashed your lips against his, smiling even as he jumped back a bit, startled. It took everything you had to suppress laughter, but his next words helped.

"That better have been (y/n)," Yunho remarked, head tilted.

"Who else would have done that?" You shot back. too incredulous to overthink if you were about to be rejected.

"I dunno," he shrugged, still blindfolded, "Wooyoung or something?"

"Does he ever-"

"No!" Yunho cut you off, nose wrinkling beneath the fabric across its bridge. "Gross! And he knows I like you! Which I can say now given my optimistic assumption my feelings are requited."

"Yes," you stepped closer, placing a hand on his shoulder and moving your face inches from his, "yes, they are."

"Good!" He exclaimed, grinning. "But also..." His hands snaked tightly around your middle, lifting you off the ground. "I got you! You're it now!"

Yeosang

“Here we go- one for you and one for me.” With a bright smile, Yeosang handed you one of the ice cream cones in his hands.

It was a beautiful day, the perfect day to take a walk, and of course it didn't take much persuasion to get Yeosang over to the ice cream stand with you. Having time together like this was rare, so you wanted to milk it for all it was worth, drawing out what could be a simple wend through the park with the man who gave you butterflies.

Butterflies indeed, you thought as he dug happily into his ice cream like an eager little boy, continuing his description of the last book he'd read.

"But was it sad though? I don't want to read it if it's really sad."

"No way! The ending was perfect in my opinion. The characters went through everything they needed to." Another smile into the sunshine. Another bite of ice cream.

That time, though, the cone cracked and a little bit of the sweet dessert dribbled onto his lip, which stuck out in a little pout. Yeosang looked so cute, your brain blanked. Complete zero thoughts, head empty, just Yeosang. Without you even realizing it, your lips had fallen onto his, kissing the ice cream off of them.

It wasn't until the butterflies buzzed again, begging you to let yourself get even more carried away, that you even realized what you'd done, backing away immediately with wide eyes.

"I'm so sorry," you gasped, turning and walking away, butterflies now stabbing into your fluttering heart with shock and shame.

"D-do you like me?" You heard Yeosang's voice at your back, but you couldn't bear facing him again, just nodding your burning head, eyes squeezed shut and ice-cream-free hand covering half your face.

His hand on your shoulder almost made you jump. "Why are you getting shy now, huh? You're so cute."

Your hand shot up all the way, burying your whole face. He thought you were cute?

"How can I see your face again? Do I have to kiss you, too? Alright, gladly," Yeosang whispered, kissing your cheek.

San

San felt lucky that day- you two were at the arcade together. He'd liked you for a few months now, but couldn't tell how you felt. Making a move felt too risky. What were the odds you felt the same? Probably not great, especially since you were friends with all of Ateez. You easily could have liked another member, but no matter what San was eternally grateful for your friendship, the easy feeling he got when he was with you. Even though his heart raced every time you smiled, it was never stressful when you talked. You'd made it clear that he could talk to you about anything and even confided in him, too, which just proved it.

It was healing to see you so happy and excited, practically yanking him over to every game you wanted to play. You’d already kicked his butt at whack-a-mole, though his victory at the shooting gallery was clear. None of it was about winning, though. Not for him.

That was until the pair of you stumbled upon the claw machine, your eyes sparkling with excitement and lips curling widely upward in joy. Two little squishmallows of your favorite animal sat amongst the cuddly rainbow of prize options, and anyone with eyes could see it was love at first sight. San would have given anything to get you that plushie, even every last game credit he had.

“Your wish is my command,” he remarked dashingly as he swiped the play card, lighting up the crane’s lining.

“Oh, San, these things are usually rigged, though. I don’t want you to run out of play over it!”

“Then I’ll just have to win it right away, huh?” He shot back with a dimpled grin, deftly angling the gripper over your beloved squishmallow. Pressing the button, he sent it down, plucking the adorable round plushie up…

…and back down, this time considerably closer to the prize depot. Fire blazed in San’s eyes as he swiped his card again. He heard you giggle at his intense expression as he leaned closer to the smudged glass of the claw machine as if trying to become one with the mechanics of it. He twitched the claw back and forth a bit, then with a nod of satisfaction sent it back down, securing your prize and dropping it right through the plastic square trap door of victory.

You leapt for joy, giving that smile that made his heart leap as you reached through the prize door and cuddled your gift to your chest, repeating thanks to San again and again.

He smiled, opening his mouth to day you’re welcome, but was cut off by your lips on his. He froze, every thought and command flying out if his brain until he saw you flush and step back, uncertainty written all over your face as you still held your prize.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, shaking your head, “I just got excited. But I really appreciate-”

“No, no, wait!” Waving his hands, San panicked, words falling clumsily from his lips. “I’m sorry, that was so terrible, I’ve liked you forever so I just got really nervous! Kind of ruined that, didn’t I?”

Your lips parted again in shock, several heartbeats passing before you smiled and shook your head. “It’s like the claw machine, right? Practice makes perfect. I like you, too, San. Well, obviously,” you giggled, and just like that San’s heart picked up again despite that feeling of comfort and rightness returning.

Looks like you guys had both won the jackpot that day.

Mingi

“Give it back!"

Mingi had snatched your phone, which you’d made the mistake of leaving lying flat atop the coffee table in his shared apartment, and ran with it, leaning into the boon of his long legs. He turned back even as he legged it, giving you a wide, boyish smile before sticking his tongue out.

“Come get it,” he giggled in response, breathy from the clear exertion of how hard he sprinted, tearing tightly around a corner.

Smirking, you turned on your heels, running back the other way to cut him off. The look on his face was priceless as you emerged into the room he barreled towards simultaneously, facing one another. His jaw dropped and hands waved, but your triumph didn’t end, not even when you collided, toppling to the floor.

Heat rushed to your face. You had a crush on Mingi, and though you didn’t know if it was returned, the tension of the day’s flirting welled up in your chest, spilling over as you leaned in from your position on top of him, connecting your lips.

The moment you parted, though, you saw how wide his eyes were and panicked, feeling like you’d overstepped. Scrambling off of him, you made to leave, muttering an apology, but his hand closed around your wrist gently. His strength was still enough to stop you in your tracks without yanking you back over.

“Where are you going?” He smiled at you, stars in his eyes. “I need to kiss you back, right?”

Wooyoung

Prey in sight. Target locked.

Wooyoung was the victim of many prank attempts by you, the latest one being sliding up behind him and stealing his phone. Creeping up toward him, you rose up on your bent knees, hand sliding slowly toward the piece of technology in his hand. His hand that immediately reached behind him and slapped yours out of the way.

"Ha! Caught you again!"

"No fair," you pouted, "how did you even see me?"

"I know your M.O.," Wooyoung countered, smiling triumphantly and then sticking his tongue out at you, "there's nothing you can do that surprises me."

Frustration of multiple kinds ballooned in your chest as he smirked at you, challenge glinting in his eyes. You would do anything, anything, to wipe that look off of Jung "Smug" Wooyoung's face. You know what? Great idea, you realized.

"Oh yeah?" You challenged, stepping closer.

"Yeah," he dug his heels in, crossing his arms.

You stood up straight, lunging forward and crashing your lips against his. It was your turn to smirk into the kiss as he returned it immediately, almost desperately. Well, shoot. Guess all that flirting he'd done had been for real. Good to know.

Right as Wooyoung started picking up the pace, though, you separated again, running back down the hall you'd initially snuck down.

"Hey!" He protested.

"Guess I did surprise you after all, huh?" You fired back as you ran, turning to see with great satisfaction that Wooyoung was chasing you. No way he was going to let you get away with that.

Jongho

You didn’t realize it at the time, but you were dreaming. One of the best dreams you’d ever had, you would later reflect.

Choi Jongho, the handsome, stoic, effortlessly funny man you’d fallen head over heels for, had just confessed to you, pulling you into a kiss that had your head spinning harder than any prior fantasy had. The dream was vivid, too, full of sight and sound and sensation so much that it pushed you a bit past perception of reality.

So, when a hand upon your shoulders gently shook you awake, a voice you recognized even in half-sleep as Jongho whispering your name, you responded how you thought was in kind.

By leaning in and pressing your lips to his. Sleep left you further as he hummed in confusion, pulling away and repeating your name, this time questioning, inquisitive, faintly scandalized. Some of the added gravity to his voice had your half-lidded eyes fluttering further open, veil lifted as you blinked at Jongho’s wide eyes, pursed lips, and red ears.

What had you done? Every neuron in your brain called out for you to flee, bury away your shame and scandal forever. Each muscle in your body agreed, but had trouble following suit as you clumsily wrestled with the blanket that had been draped over you upon the couch, fabric catching your feet until you flung it to the floor, pushing up to a seated position and up, swaying to run away.

“Whoa, whoa!” Jongho held out a protective hand. “You just surprised me is all. Let’s talk about this, what happened?”

“Nothing,” you shook your head, unable to look him in the eye, “I was having a stupid dream. That’s all.”

“Is that what you call stupid?” Jongho asked, tone still even as always, but colored with the faintest hint of incredulity. “I would call something like that a very good dream.”

Your eyebrows shot up, gaze returning to his. “You would?”

“Sure,” he shrugged, “felt pretty good to me. But I suppose it wasn’t me in the dream, was it?”

Your chest ballooned at the actual palpable disappointment you saw in his face, heard in his voice. You…actually had a shot here?

“Ok, so you’re not gonna believe this-”

Not exactly the most romantic start to your next kiss, but hey, it sure did the trick.

#ateez #ateez imagines #ateez reactions #ateez x reader #ateez scenarios #hongjoong #seongwha #yunho #yeosang #san #mingi #wooyoung #jongho #gender neutral reader #fluff #requested #jacobbaeluvr #moots 💕

[turnertable]

I’m suffering the post-concert blues from a festival I didn’t even physically attend, only through a TV (Glastonbury of course!) and was wondering if I could put in a request for just some general fluff between Alex and the reader after his show with the monkeys at glasto this year? Maybe reader being just extremely proud and some tired but cute as fuck fluffiness. I’m not great with actually putting my ideas into words and describing them, sorry! Hope you understand what I’m on about <3

written by meee, first fic. sorry if it's shit

warnings: none, just silly sick Alex fluff

word count: 2k

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Sick Day at Glastonbury

(Alex Turner x Reader) (the car era !)

(gif credit to @alexturner )

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The final chords of R U Mine? buzzed across the field of Worthy Farm, Somerset and Alex finally breathed out after all the excitement of the Glastonbury Festival. "Third time's a charm." Alex said under his breath as he did his bows and blew the kisses like usual, turning to his bandmates to leave the stage with a smile. His voice was on the brink of collapse but the attention was enough to make him want to do it all over again.

At the side of the stage, stood her. His pride and joy, the one person he needed to prove himself worthy to still, to impress. Even with the mirrorball right there, somehow she glowed brighter. Y/N could hardly contain her excitement as she cheered him on at this final hurrah, like she hadn't been screaming his name after every song as a measure of her pride in the band. The anticipation of seeing each other again was magnetic and it only took a few steps.

As the Monkeys left the stage, Y/N offered a soft smile and congratulations to Jamie, Matt and Nick, her voice hoarse from the screaming which the boys could understand and offered her hugs before running off to their girls desperately. Y/N loved Alex to the ends of the earth but dating a lead singer did mean you were left at the side of the stage the longest because he was always the one to cue the lights to go down, this was almost a game to see how long he'd take at each gig she attended. Eventually, Alex got off the stage and smiled so wide at the sight of her, running over and picking her up excitedly.

"Babeh!" He chuckled a bit at his excitement as she clung to him. "We did it!" His voice was getting hoarse since he was supposed to be on vocal rest. Y/N pulled him for a kiss to shut him up which Alex of course didn't mind, it was the only polite way to keep him quiet.

She got down and looked at him like he was a god, noticing his messy hair after and giggling. "Al, you look like a lion" She tried to tame it slightly but it was too far gone plus he looked too cute to try to amend perfection. He smiled back like she was an angel before him and shrugged.

"You seem t' like it tho.." Alex hummed as he wrapped an arm around her waist, attempting to lead her backstage so they could both rest after all the raucous. She smiled and looked down, nodding, "perhaps…" as she followed Alex back to the dressing room, letting him rub her side as the crowd became quieter and quieter.

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Alex opened the door and held it for Y/N, "Ladies first, me love." Y/N slightly swooned at his gentlemanly moves. Even if she was used to his actions, the looks and gravitas of Alex Turner would forever be a shock of her system. She waltzed in and essentially fell onto the sofa from the exhaustion of jumping around for 2 hours, making Alex chuckle softly at the sight.

"You ok, babeh?" He sat on the arm of the chair, coughing as his voice squeaks due to the laryngitis he was facing; frankly the fact he even went out on stage was a feat for only the best. Y/N offered him a sympathetic look and a nod, mumbling out a small "tired." with a whine.

As they shared a moment of mutual sympathy, Alex attempted to pull Y/N to sit up gently so she could lay in his lap from the sofa as he rested his voice, just so she knew that he was there for her, even if he couldn't say it. Y/N complied and Alex's hand found it's way into her hair to softly stroke it as he looked down at her with awe and love. She was his, the muse in every word he wrote, the light of his life. He just hoped she knew it.

Y/N shut her eyes and hummed to herself to fill the silence of where Alex's words would usually occupy, much to his joy. Everything felt perfect in this moment. If the festival hadn't felt like a milestone, this comedown was a haven well deserved. Alex's gaze never left her face, studying it like it was the first time he'd ever seen it: tender touches traced her jaw and cheek. This made Y/N giggle slightly, remaining serene amazingly.

"Alexander, that tickles." One of her eyes opened up for a second to see his reaction with a sweet smile. What voice Alex had left was a breathy, squeaky mess so to avoid being compared to his younger self, he offered a cheeky shrug and a poke on the cheek. Y/N noticed and thought to herself: "Do you want some tea?" She tried to sit up as she voiced her concern for him.

This wasn't just an offer of a beverage and the pair of them knew that: Y/N wanted to look after a very sickly Alex. Being the man of the relationship, he had been handling laryngitis "well" or in actuality, he hadn't been able to have a smoke for a week and lay on the tour bus bunk for hours at a time. However this was not a usual Alex is ill situation, it was Glastonbury and a continuing tour after it: there was little time for reluctance nor resistance to being looked after for Alex. He nodded and let her go to the kettle as he sat on the sofa silently, putting his feet up which Y/N smiled at softly as she turned back to look at him, exchanging a look of "it'll be ok baby".

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On the table that housed the kettle, also sat the record player which Alex always requested on the rider: a man who loved his profession didn't cover it. If Alex wasn't performing, the 8 track or gramophone filled the fleeting seconds until the next time he was on stage. Naturally Y/N got the record from before the show back on, much to Alex's enjoyment as he hummed out as if to say "good job" and leaned his head back. Y/N leaned against the table as the kettle boiled, watching her boyfriend relax and grinning to herself at the sight of Alex Turner relaxing for once in his busy life.

"You good?" Y/N joked, checking he was alright since this was odd for her to see. Alex offered her a thumbs up and a stupid smile, making Y/N actually laugh and narrow her eyes at his need to one-up her joke. Alex's wide smile and her genuine chuckle was rudely interrupted by the click of the kettle going off, leading them to both jump at it which only prompted another soft laugh and gaze between them. Y/N turned back to the table to make their tea, making sure to do it perfectly for Alex, he only deserves the best.

"Now I know it's not beer or the best rolled, organic cigarette but… I think I make a good cuppa." Y/N said all cutely as she set the drink down on the coffee table in front of the sofa. Alex smiled softly and sat up, gazing at her with such a grateful look. No words were needed for Y/N to understand how much Alex loved her and appreciated this. She scurried off to get her tea and came to sit with him, leaning on his shoulder to stay close to him and holding her cup in her hands to stay warm.

"I don't know if you need to hear this because I think the crowd said it for you.." Y/N whispered to him as she continued, "but I'm so fucking proud of you, there's no band that could do that 3 times that well as the monkeys…" Alex immediately turned to her and kissed her temple with need after that reassurance, not being able to thank her vocally. Y/N lit up and sipped her tea before cuddling into him more and sighing. "I'm glad I'm here, to watch you do this…" Y/N just gushed on and on about the band and himself, not quite finding the words specifically but talking like she couldn't ever stop praising him.

Alex's smile felt permanent as far as he was concerned, just the way she made him feel was like a drug and he was so ready to be able to talk properly again so he could tell her that but alas, here he was, non verbal with tea in his hands and a sore throat. "I love ya." Alex squeaked out and blushed slightly, "Sorry luv, it's like we're back int boardwalk, aye?" He continued into the joke to hide the disdain he had for his voice right now.

Y/N smiled brightly and shrugged, "I'd still kiss 20 year old Alex, don't you worry. His voice was cute too…but don't let him out just to talk to me. Vocal rest, Turner." She scolded him slightly but it was all in the name of love and wanting him well again. Alex nodded and smirked at the comment, looking her up and down to be funny, making Y/N tap him softly. "Behave yourself, not like that." Alex was content with that answer and sipped his own drink, listening to the music that filled the room.

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As cups drained and cuddles were exchanged, Alex and Y/N's eyes became heavy with warmth and comfort; "Do we need to go back to the hotel?" Y/N mumbled out, followed by a yawn. Alex hummed in response as he nodded with shut eyes. Stretching and leaving Alex's arms, Y/N giggled slightly, "are we that old now where we won't even enjoy Glastonbury after hours?", causing Alex to crack up a bit. Alex looked at her and shrugged like "yeah and what about it?, the smug persona hadn't left since the last time they were at the festival, just it wasn't to get a girl but in fact, a bed to sleep in with the love of his life.

"Back in a sec." Y/N got up and went to leave to find Steve or anyone from the crew to get the pair of them a ride to the hotel. It was a benefit of dating a rockstar, she got what she wanted with more included but honestly Alex's needs were shared right now. Once the ride was confirmed, she returned to Alex and packed their stuff they desperately needed, anything that the crew wouldn't be able to get them later. Alex came to help and yawned as they waited for the knock on the door to leave. His hand found its way to her waist again, it was his way of keeping her safe within the feeling of fame; plus he knew she liked it. She smiled up at him and rubbed her eyes as the knock came at the door as the cue to go.

They snuck out of the dressing room and out of the back to their security, trying to be as inconspicuous as possible in this massive festival where Alex was already under a lot of pressure. If he was seen ill and half asleep, the NME would have it on the website in an hour. They stayed hidden, heads down and walking fast to that car on the other side of the festival. Luckily, the paps only caught what they couldn't see as the pair stepped into the car and sped off to their hotel.

Alex sighed out and looked over at Y/N who was already looking at him. That knowing gaze was unstoppable at that point. It took a lot to get the rockstar away from the music but for Y/N, the golden boy of Glastonbury Festival would call it a night.

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#arctic monkeys #alex turner #alex turner x reader #alex turner x you #alex turner fluff #alex turner x y/n #arctic monkeys fanfic #alex turner x fem reader #alex turner imagine #alex turner one shot

[halfmoth-halfman]

the willow maid

Pairing: Kyle “Gaz” Garrick x F!Reader Word Count: 5.2k Warnings: implied smut, blood, death, loss, bittersweet ending Prompt: Fairytale!AU & “It was the biggest mistake I ever made.” & the song, the willow maid by erutan Disclaimer: I do not own modern warfare or any of the modern warfare characters. A/N: here it is!!! the final fic for @glitterypirateduck’s GazFest 2023!! i hope you guys had as much fun with gazfest as i did!!! and thank you to the amazing glitterypirateduck for putting it all together!!!!! 💜

The tavern is nestled on the far edge of town, a barely held-together building run by an even more decrepit barkeep. Half resting on the edge of the forest, half consumed by the rich greenery, vines and roots split through the walls and upend the cracking cobblestones around it. The windows are covered in a layer of dust, door hanging on by a single bolt, entrance covered in years of muddy boot prints. Every imperfection is only amplified under the light of the early morning sun.

They’re given bread while they wait, circled around the lopsided table pressed up against the clean window, and MacTavish is the only one brave enough to try it. It’s good, if a bit off in a way he can’t fully describe; it’s sweet and light, but there’s a bitterness lurking on his tongue when he swallows.

The ale arrives and, with it, their long-awaited companion. 

He’s quiet, Simon notices. There are only two other people in this tavern, a shifty-eyed child with no shoes and fidgeting hands and a cloaked figure lying with their head on the bar, but Simon hadn’t seen their newfound friend approach. It sets him on edge, more than usual.

(It had been MacTavish who found him, bursting into the inn they'd been staying at with a wide grin and a piece of torn parchment. 

“Got a lead on the flower,” he’d said, handing Price the scrap to let him examine the hastily drawn map. “Met a man who claimed t’ have seen th’ bloom himself. Said to meet him there in three days’ time, jus’ after sunrise.”

Price had been skeptical, but it’d been weeks since their last lead dried up, and their gold was beginning to run low.. Desperate times, and all that.)

MacTavish told them everything he knew about his mysterious contact, but they hadn’t expected him to be so young. 

Barely a year older than MacTavish, the man sits across from them with a polite smile and his hands clasped on the table where everyone can see them. 

Everything about him is dark. His skin, his hair, his eyes. Even his cloak is a deep plum material, unpatterned and plain.

There’s nothing particularly special about him at first glance, but they know something’s not quite right about this man.

He’s too…clean, too put together. There’s no mud on his boots, no signs of hardship or travel, and his clothes are too purposefully plain despite the high quality of the stitching. His movements are too practiced, too elegant, as he takes a slice of bread and fills his cup with manners befitting someone of a far higher station. There’s not a mark or scratch on him, save for the single scratch across is left cheek. 

This man is not what he seems.

“Your friend tells me you’re looking for the Willow’s Wail,” the man speaks, polished, measured, curious.

The three straighten at the mention of the flower. 

It was supposed to be a myth, an old wives tale to tell your children when you put them to sleep. A story about a powerful Fae and a cunning boy who outfoxed her, obtaining a single seed from her garden as a reward. 

But the boy, in his excitement at besting the Fair Fae, didn’t notice he’d dropped the seed just before leaving the fae realm. When the boy finally realized and returned to retrieve it, it was too late. The seed had fallen on the wrong side of the barrier between his world and theirs and he was forced to watch it grow until it bloomed a beautiful, glowing white. 

The boy had one night to admire its beauty before its petals began to fall and the flower wilted. The wind carried the drifting petals, spreading them far and wide to bloom across the mortal realm. The boy was lucky enough to catch one, and it was said that the magic from that single petal granted the boy his heart's desire.

There were countless names for it. 

Moondrop. Angel’s Kiss. Ghostheart. Star Rose.

It changed over the centuries, varying region by region, along with the story, but the details stayed the same.

A glowing, white flower that blooms for one night with enough potent magic in a single petal to keep you safe and sated for the rest of your life.

So many had claimed to have seen it, to have picked an entire bloom and reveled in its sweet scent. How many of the rich and mighty claimed to have one hidden in their vaults? How many urchins kept themselves going with the hope of one day finding a bloom, and pulling themselves from poverty? 

How many rumors had their own merry little group chased, claiming to know where to find a moondrop or angel’s kiss or ghostheart?

Though, Simon’s never heard someone refer to it as the Willow’s Wail before. 

“You know where to find one, I take it?” Price asks. The man nods through a mouthful of bread, taking a sip of the spiced honey ale before he answers.

“Not just where to find it,” he hums, picking at the crust of his bread. “I know how to grow one.”

That’s new.

There have been plenty who claimed to have found a petal. Even some who’ve said they’ve made their own deal with the Fae from the story.

But there’s never been someone who claimed to have a seed before.

The man says it so casually, Simon is almost inclined to believe him. 

“S’pose ye’ll be wantin’ a trade for it?” MacTavish chuckles, already bracing himself for what will either be an absurd amount of coin or a request for a near-impossible task. 

“Of sorts,” the man shrugs.

Simon does not like this, and one glance at Price tells him that the older man feels the same. 

Price folds his arms across his chest, metal bracers clinking against his chest piece. “What’s your price?”

“A story,” the man simply says. 

“You want us to tell you a story?” Even through the shrouded mask, the disbelief is clear in Simon’s voice.

This has to be a trick. The man is clearly a swindler, wasting their time to get a free meal.

“Quite the opposite,” the man laughs. “I’d like to tell you a story. One about how I came across this flower, and, if you manage to make it to the end, I’ll tell you how to grow the flower for yourselves.”

The trio shares a look of wary skepticism, knowing they all share the same thought. Something isn’t right here. It can’t be this simple, this easy. Not when they’ve spent months exhausting every resource, every contact–from officials in the high courts to the lowest of street urchins–available only to come up empty-handed. 

This man is bold, brazen, and a liar. On that, they can all agree.

But there’s something about the way he’s so casually confident in his words. Something simmers just beneath the surface with this man. Something strange. Something…sad. 

He may not be telling the truth about the flower, but they’re sure he has some information that could be valuable to them. 

Price looks to the other two, brows raised in question. Simon and MacTavish each give him a single, reaffirming nod.

“Alright,” Price sighs, leaning back in his crooked chair. “Tell us your story, Mr…”

There’s an awkward pause when Price realizes MacTavish never gave him this man’s name, made only more awkward when MacTavish’s eyes widen as he realizes he doesn’t know the name, either. 

The man takes it in stride, a soft chuckle as he tells them, “Garrick. Kyle Garrick.”

An old name. A rich name. A name written in royal histories about the first kings. 

The name of a family that’s been dead for over a century. 

There’s a hum around the table, a low buzz that sinks deep into their bones and weighs down their limbs. 

Kyle sets his plate aside, staring them down with a toothy grin that doesn’t reach his eyes. Something flashes across his face, a brief flicker of silver barely caught in the sunlight. There are no words spoken, but they all know–

They are trapped here. 

“We’ll start with something familiar, then,” Kyle hums, sharp eyes sliding over to MacTavish. The look of someone who’s obtained a victory. 

“Once upon a time…”

-

…There were no kings or queens to rule over the land. 

No kingdoms, or even cities. 

There was simply the Village and the Forest.

It was a simple exchange, a simple harmony between the two. The Forest would provide food, lumber, livestock, and protection so that the village could thrive, and the villagers would take only what they needed. No more, no less. 

The villagers did not ask where these things came from. They did not demand to know the name of their benevolent caretaker. They said their thanks, made their offerings, created festivals to celebrate their Forest.

They were grateful.

Until the night of the full moon, when a young man, drunk from a week of celebrating the harvest, wandered into the trees. It had been a dare, a test of bravery from the woman whose hand he sought. 

“Name your price, and I swear to you, I’ll provide it!” the man had foolishly declared, loud enough for all of his friends to hear. 

The woman had no intention of marrying him, desperate to be rid of his affections as she preferred another, richer man. She smirked at him, nose high in the air as she told him, “I’ll take your hand and name, but three things you must bring me. First, a ring made from the brightest star in the sky. Second, a dress sewn from the silk of the sea spider queen that resides in the lake–”

Already an impossible task, a joke made of the proposal and the man. 

But the woman was not finished, her grin cruel as she spoke her final request, “And last, a cloak made from the hide of the rarest creature to dwell in the Forest.”

Where there had been laughter, silence now loomed. 

To go into the Forest…

It had never been done, an unspoken rule passed down through generations. They were only meant to take, to thank, to leave. Never to enter. 

But the man would not be deterred, a dangerous mix of love and liquid courage coursing through his veins. 

He turned on his heels, picked up his bow, and marched straight into the Forest.

It didn’t take long for the noises of the village to fade behind him, and the world to grow dark. The trees were too thick for the moonlight to reach, plunging him into unfamiliar darkness. 

But the man would not be discouraged. He pressed forward, walking until his legs shook and the drink wore off, determined to find his rare creature. 

And a rare creature he did find. 

After hours in the black of the Forest, the man heard a voice. A sweet song, drifting through the leaves to reach down into his very soul. He felt light, the pain in his muscles fading as it lured him deeper and deeper and deeper. 

–Into the very heart of the Forest. 

A weeping willow larger than any tree he’d ever seen resting in a ring of red toadstools. So large was it, it broke the canopy of the Forest, its weeping white blooms glowing in the pale moonlight. Soft petals and catkins drifted in the gentle breeze, littering the pale blue grass beneath his feet. 

And there, in the gold of its branches laid her. 

Skin textured like bark, clothed in a dress of draping pale petals, hair so long it wound high into the branches, the Willow Maid sang into the warm, night air. 

Entranced by her voice, her beauty, her presence, the man abandoned his bow. His proposal forgotten, he stepped forward eager to hear more of the maiden’s song. 

Unable to keep his arms from her ethereal form, he unwittingly stepped over the threshold of toadstools. A gust of wind carried the last of her song, as she turned in her branches to stare down at him.  

A piercing gaze, ever-shifting through the colors of the rarest gems. She watched him, staring into him, around him, through him. 

Cautious. Curious.

So overcome by her beauty was he, the man spoke without thought, “Fair Willow Maid, I would seek forgiveness for interrupting your lovely song.”

A dangerous thing, to be indebted to her, but the man did not care.

“Then my forgiveness is granted,” she said, voice echoing in the drifting of leaves and waves of the grass. “But it is not forgiveness which brought you to my willow bed. You seek the hand of a woman. A love to be bought and born of my demise.”

“A hide,” he corrected, flinching under her accusation. “Of the rarest creature to dwell in this Forest.”

“What is rarer than the Forest’s own master?”

The man could not answer, stunned by this revelation. 

Master of the forest, of beasts, and of men. And he had sought to kill her for a love unrequited. 

“You will return to the object of your desires, a failure. My hide is mine own, and I will not allow it to be taken by a love-sickened hunter.”

Foolish and guilty the man may have been, but he was also clever, and a solution quickly came to his mind. 

He could not return with the hide, but that did not mean he had to return empty-handed.

“Come with me, dear maiden,” he called into the branches. “Come from thy willow bed, and meet those who would worship at your feet.”

There was no anger in her, no offense at the thought she would be so vain as to want of worship, but instead peace. 

Calm. 

Serenity. 

A gentle, pitying smile, her voice soft as the moonlight, “I cannot leave this place, daring hunter. Instead, I may present you with a parting gift.” 

The winds shifted, drooping branches caressed his face. 

The man blinked and found himself at the Forest’s edge, staring out at the sun rising over his village with his bow in hand. Around his neck hung a locket of pure gold, a glowing white willow carved into the center.

“I give you this gift,” her voice drifted into his ears, faint and distant. “Proof that you have been blessed by my forest. You may return if you’d like, but I warn you. Don’t ask me to follow where you lead.”

-

Kyle pauses to take a drink, his attention elsewhere long enough for their limbs to loosen slightly. 

“Tha’s quite the tale ye have,” MacTavish says once he regains control of his mouth. 

“So, the flowers are Fae magic,” Price hums. “Guess the stories were right about that.”

“More than you’d think,” Kyle sighs, a bitter chuckle as he sets down his cup. 

“Forests are all cut down and contained now,” Simon says, cold, calculating eyes kept on Kyle. 

“Aye, and th’ Fae Folk are all but gone,” MacTavish adds. There’s a grimace on Kyle’s face, a flinch that he covers by pretending to rub at his eyes. 

“The flowers must be left over from the willows, then?” Price deduces, his head tilted towards their storyteller. Kyle shrugs, with a noncommittal nod that sets off alarms in Simon’s head. 

“Where did you hear this story?” the masked mask asks. “We’ve heard all of the tales, the bedtime stories, the songs. Yet, I don’t think we’ve ever heard of a Willow Maid.”

“Very few have,” Kyle says simply. “For good reason.”

“And we’re supposed to believe you?” Simon scoffs. “A man we hardly know, telling a story no one else has heard of, about a flower that might not even exist.” He looks to Price, the request clear in his eyes.

This is a waste of time. We should leave.

“The deal wasn’t for you to believe me.” Kyle’s voice is sharp, a dangerous edge laced across the tight smile on his face. “The deal was for you to listen.”

The word hisses from his mouth, and Simon feels his muscles tighten painfully. MacTavish groans next to him, and Simon knows he and Price are feeling the same. A weight holds them down, keeps them in their chairs, unable to move or look at anything other than Kyle. 

Kyle simply smiles.

“If I may continue?”

-

…The village had hailed him a hero.

To have gone into the Forest, and emerged with its blessing? There was no higher achievement, no feat more accomplished. 

They showered him in gifts, in favors, in endless wealth. 

The woman whose hand he sought all but threw herself into his arms, so proud to accept his proposal now. 

Yet, he denied it all. He did not want gold nor gems nor silks. He did not care if he had the biggest house, the fattest livestock, the fullest larder. 

His heart’s true desire rested in the heart of the Forest, nestled safely in her tree. 

He visited the Willow Maid often, disappearing into the Forest trees for weeks at a time. Others tried to follow him, tried to gain the Forest’s favor just as he had. All but him were spurned, led into the depth of the trees only to be twisted and turned and led back to where they had started. 

The woman he once sought grew so green with jealousy, she marched into the Forest promising to find what had stolen his affections with a sharp knife and bundle of matchsticks. She never returned, and the Forest refused to provide until the man visited again to apologize on the village’s behalf.

They stopped following him after that.

The man was not bothered, content to be left alone with his Willow Maid. He enjoyed his time, resting in the shade of her tree, listening to her sing or telling her tales from his childhood. He spoke with her, laughed with her, learned about her and her Forest and her creatures. 

Years passed, and his visits grew. He had befriended her, treasured her, loved her. 

And she loved him in return.

The village was alight with rumor and speculation when the man walked into the Forest, dressed in his finest with a bundle of fresh sunflowers in hand. 

Unwavering faith. Admiration. Sincerity. 

To love until the end. 

A proposal with the highest affections.

He stood beneath her willow and wrapped the flowers in the moonlit branches. They carried the fresh blooms to his love, his declaration loud for all of the Forest to hear–

“You’ve captured my heart, my sweet Willow Maid. With your Forest’s blessing, I would be honored to be your groom.”

She smelled the sunflowers, cradling them in her arms like the most precious of gifts. She released them to the branches, watching them drift high into the willow, out of her sight and out of his. 

The wind whispered across his cheek, blossoms shrouding the maiden before she appeared before him at the base of the tree. He took her into his arms, holding her close against him. Everything about her was perfect, the velvet soft petals of her gown, the radiating warmth of her skin, the smell of ambrosia in her hair. 

There would be no other for him, in this life and every life.  

His heart was completely hers, just as hers was his. 

“My dear, darling hunter,” she spoke, her hands a soft caress on his cheeks. “I can wed you never. Not near, nor far, nor soon.”

A heart-shattering rejection that would have ruined him for love eternally had she not looked so mournful. So regretful.

“Why?” he begged. “What is it that keeps you from me?”

A hand on his heart, the other on her tree he feels the pulse–the life–thrum through her fingertips. “I told you, I cannot leave this place.” 

He grasped her hand in his, his voice a sweet murmur as he gave her his solution. “Then don’t.”

A long-awaited kiss, and an even longer-awaited night possessed by the feel, the touch, the love of one another. A promise of dedication, of ever-lasting love. Whispers sewn into the infinite roots of her willow.

They rested against her tree after, pressed against one another as she traced along his chest, a glowing willow forever marked over his heart. 

“The Forest is not your home, my lovely hunter, and I would not be so cruel as to bind you to it. You may come and go as you please. I will always be here, awaiting your visits, but you cannot ask me to follow where you lead.”

A plea unheard, falling deaf on sleeping ears. 

-

The barkeep comes to refill the ale, and the pressure releases as Kyle thanks him with a smile. 

“This is startin’ to sound…personal,” MacTavish jokes, and Price is thankful for the man’s sharp eyes and unrestrained tongue. 

Kyle murmurs something they don’t catch, lips quirking up at the corners. 

“Perhaps it is,” he shrugs. There’s something playful in his tone. Mischievous. As if he's proud of their keen attentions. 

“Laying with the Fae’s an awfully bold thing to do, but promising yourself to one?” Price lets out a low whistle. 

“Foolish, more like,” MacTavish chuckles. 

It wasn’t unheard of. There were stories of humans being whisked away in the night to live a life of comfort and luxury among their Fae lovers. They were mostly fairytales, told to satisfy young children and hopeless romantics, as most of those who’d grown already knew of the dangers of the Fae. 

They knew the true nature of the Fae, and that a mortal’s comfort often went hand in hand with servitude. Wealth and luxury were rewards for proper entertainment and could be stripped away at a moment’s notice. The Fae were as cruel as they were kind, and their promises were not to be taken lightly. 

“Maybe a little of both,” Kyle hums. “Love makes fools of even the best of us.”

“I’ll drink t’ tha’!” MacTavish laughs, and the pressure in his limbs loosens enough to allow him to toast his cup against Kyle’s. 

“So,” Simon speaks up, flexing his hands as a test of mobility. When he’s given range, he leans back his chair, one hand resting around his cup. “What happened next?”

There’s something mournful in Kyle’s smile. A pained regret they very easily recognize. 

They’ve all known that sting of loss.

“What happened next…”

-

…It was the tree.

The willow–her willow–kept her bound to the Forest, away from her love. She had tried everything in her power to make it see reason, to let her wander from its ring of toadstools.

She made offerings, formed new creatures to take her stead, begged at its roots. 

It denied her every time. 

The man tried to stay with her, but I–he could not thrive in the moonlight alone. He could not live off of Forest’s magic as she could. He had to return to the village.

They were resigned to spend their years as often apart as with each other. Not a moment together was wasted. Their joinings were beautiful–soft and tender and full of love–and their partings were miserable. They mourned in their time away, grief-stricken and sick with yearning for their other half. 

Five years of this unending misery, and the man had had enough. 

He stormed through the forest, a fury of determination. The trees parted for him, in fear of the sharpness of his eyes and of the axe in his hands. 

He was going to take his faerie—his wife—and free her from her prison. They were going to be happy together, raise their children together, live their lives together as they were meant to.

He did not waste time when he reached the clearing, did not give her warning before his first swing. 

The roots sprung forth, ripping through the earth to lash at the hunter, striking across his face to draw blood from his cheek. 

Still, he did not stop.

Neither did the tree.

The Willow Maid dove from its branches, shielding her hunter’s body with her own, taking the strike in his place. 

The willow halted its assault, axe planted firmly in its trunk. 

She stumbled to her feet, the split across her back dripping into the pale grass, staining its blades a shimmering gold. She stepped a sure foot forward, crushing the toadstools beneath her bare feet, and took the axe in hand. 

The echoes of her wailing melted into the cracking of the wood. 

The cry of her willow as it fell would haunt the forest for a millennium. 

She collapsed into sobs, but it was not for her willow that  she cried. She cradled the bloodied body of her poor, dear hunter close to her chest. Hair falling around them, its long tendrils soaked by the sweet smelling blood-sap oozing from her tree. 

She wept. 

For him, for her, for their freedom and love. 

She wept. 

Her willow personified. 

She waited until he was strong enough to stand, to face her, to hold her. A kiss over the cold corpse of her once caretaker. 

He led her back through the forest, hand clasped tightly around hers, ready to bring her home. His home, her home, their home. 

When they came to the forest edge, she gasped at the sight of the village. The burning orange sunset streaked across the fields, the speckle of lights from their windows against the darkening land, the sound of cheer and laughter and freedom. 

Her smile was bright enough to rival the stars, eager to start her new life with her love eternal.

Two steps past the forest edge.

That was as far as she got.

Two steps beyond the threshold and her knees buckled beneath her. Her hunter held onto her, lowering her into the warm grass. Her body seized in his arms, barkskin peeling and flaking into thin wood chips. Cheeks sinking in, hair thinning into long blades of grass, petal clothes wilting against her body. 

She pawed at his face, eyes wild with fear and confusion. Her whimpers and wordless pleas broke his heart, begging every god he could think of to fix his sweet Willow Maid. 

This wasn’t supposed to happen.

She was supposed to be safe. They were supposed to be happy. Together. 

He felt her fade, her body melting in his arms, and a shrieking lament tore from his throat as he lost his one and only love, left with only her dim golden blood sliding through his fingers. 

The sun set, the moon taking its place high in the sky. 

The wind whispered across his skin, a fresh sting against the cut on his cheek, carrying with it the voice of her fallen willow. 

“You’ve stolen from me that which is most precious. Don’t you know that pain you sow is pain you reap?”

The Forest murmurs, trees rustled in the growing moonlight. Shimmering silver growing and growing from the dense woods, until it was almost blinding. 

“You have taken but you have not given in return, and so I make this trade instead. I will take from you what you took from me.”

The golden blood began to glow on his hands, glow on the ground, glow in the moonlight, light rising and rising and rising. It skimmed petal-soft across his hands, slinking into the grass where the dirt drank and digested it. 

There was shouting from the village as the lights crescendoed into one final, blinding beam then faded entirely. Everything was left in muted, dull tones as if the color was stripped from the world, the Forest silent and still for the first time since its conception. 

He knew that the Forest would provide for them no longer. 

All that remained was a beautiful, glowing flower. A moon-white blossom, a cruel reminder of what he had done.

The earth rumbled beneath his feet, one last biting sentence from the willow. 

“You can not take from the Forest what was never meant to leave.”

-

Kyle finishes his tale with a sigh of longing. 

“It was the biggest mistake I ever made,” he says, eyes cast down at the table. 

“A cruel lesson,” Price laments, eyes full of sympathy for the young man.

“And one repaid in blood,” Kyle sighs grimly. He takes a deep swig, setting his cup aside as the pressure lifts entirely from the group across from him. 

“The flower wilted by morning, taken from me forever, and I…did not respond kindly. I took up arms against the Forest’s creatures, hunted them to near extinction, and cut down every tree in sight. The magic was gone, but my people rejoiced. They named me Garrick, Spear King.”

The table goes still. 

They’ve heard of the Great Spear King. There’s not a soul alive who hasn’t. The story of how he founded the kingdoms, brought the world to rule under one benevolent ruler, was taught to every child, passed on through every generation. 

There were holidays named for him. Parades in his honor. 

Respects paid to his burial chambers every year. 

Kyle watches the realization wash over them, the skepticism, the caution. He stands from the table, a small gesture out the window. 

“The ruins of my village lie a tenday’s walk in that direction. Just beyond the flooded river, in a deep valley. There are remnants, sometimes, when the moon is brightest. You may not get everything you wished for, but there is power in that soil.”

“And that’s what the others found? Is it truly soil that they keep hidden in their vaults? Is it dirt that they credit their wealth and power to?” Simon scoffs.

“If it is, it’s not from the Fae,” Kyle shrugs. “There’s nothing left of their magic in this world. I made sure of it.”

“Then, why tell us?” MacTavish questions. The once-king shrugs again, adjusting the fastening of his cloak. 

“Curiosity? Boredom? Or perhaps, I just wanted someone to know the truth, and you lot seemed trustworthy enough.”

It should be a compliment, the highest honor given from the man who founded their nation, but it feels…sad. 

“I wish you luck, travelers. It is a rare day indeed that I find myself so open to sharing secrets.” 

Kyle doesn’t wait for them to say their goodbyes, or say anything really. He gives them a curt nod, and turns to head up the stairs to the tavern’s second floor. 

-

They wait until nightfall to leave, making their way down the path under the shroud of darkness.

Kyle watches from the window of his room, sitting tucked in the windowsill. His cloak abandoned on the uneven bed, he smooths his thumb over the well-worn metal of the locket around his neck. The tree’s glow is dim, barely noticeable unless he cups his hands around it, but it’s there.

He waits until the trio fades from his vision, shifting against the rotting wood to sit up straight. The moonlight casts its shine down through the foggy panes, but it’s enough light to satisfy him. 

Pressing his fingers into the sides of locket, he holds it under the light as it opens with a soft click. 

Petals burst from the seams, throwing the locket open to release a beautiful, bountiful white bloom. The flower soaks up the moonlight, waves of golden light pulsing over its velvet petals.

For one moment, he is that young man again, no longer carrying the burden of loss in his eyes, or the torment of a man who has been granted the curse of eternal life. 

He presses a tender kiss to the flower. “I’ve missed you, my love.”

The flower glows just a bit brighter.

#gazfest #kyle gaz garrick x reader #kyle garrick x reader #gaz x reader #kyle gaz garrick #kyle garrick #gaz #mw fics #moth writes #tw: blood #tw: death #tw: loss #private

[saintmurd0ck]

if the tide takes california

masterlist

pairing: frank castle + mentions of reader

summary: frank spends time contemplating if he's deserving of your love

warnings: angst, hurt (with comfort), mentions of grief and loss, frank being a little sad

a/n: i wrote this in one cathartic hour, please cry with me. ok love you

song pairing: til forever falls apart (ashe ft finneas)

And that's a wrap! Thank you for tuning in today to 6NEWS Radio, late night edition. The time is currently 9 PM and we hope you have a good night, wherever you are.

"Damn interference," Frank mutters. He grits his teeth, cursing as he bends forwards to twist the volume knob down. He knows he should be minutely grateful for any service at all, considering that he's out in the middle of nowhere, forty miles from the nearest backwater town, but his tolerance still wanes to a sliver.

Sighing, Frank goes to rub his temples, remembering why it is he has the radio on in the first place. It's because he'd rather the distraction than to be alone with his thoughts.

For now.

Pushing the reminder aside, he tightens his grip on the pair of binoculars in his lap, bringing them up to his eyes. He's done a good job choosing this location. From where he is, the van is completely hidden --- concealed in a copse of trees right opposite the compound. It's a cloudless, starry night; beautiful, if it weren't for the assholes across the way. He'd run out of fingers before he'd get halfway through the gang leader's rap sheet.

He's been casing them for a week. And very soon --- Frank glances at the time on his phone --- the lights would turn on, girls and gang members arriving in hordes, and maybe, just maybe, he'd finally get to meet the head of this operation. Then, they'd have a little exchange, man-to-man.

That, of course, involves Frank being the only one of them to get out of the compound alive.

He inhales sharply, licking his lips as he continues to survey the area.

When he measures the situation in his head, taking every decision and every course of action required to execute his plan, it's simple. Easy. It's all he knows, and it makes sense.

So why is it so difficult when it comes to you?

Frank scoffs at himself, as if to say, "No, not again." Not tonight. There's a dangerous edge to his behaviour, one he continues to sharpen with every passing minute he's in this van. He purses his lips, casting aside the hollowness in his chest, the void worming its way into his heart.

The radio crackles, and a small noise sounds from the back of his throat. Thank fuck it's music now playing. He couldn't bear a single second more of that aimless, idiotic talk show.

There's a bitter taste in his mouth as he recalls that anger, the sheer turmoil within, just from listening to those people talk. He digs his boots into the footwell, his knuckles going white as the radio presenter's voice echoes in his head. He narrows his eyes, because how can people be so… carefree? How could they laugh about concert tickets and the best pie in town and harmless pranks when he has to do this?

He could've turned the radio off, and let silence fill the cracks in his environment, but some small part of him wanted to listen. Not just for a desperate glimpse into a "normal" life, but at the sweet, gut-wrenching agony it caused --- knowing he can't be a part of it, and pain is a healthy reminder he's alive.

It's a fair assumption to say that most people would run from his burden, or at least try to bury it with the rest of their closeted skeletons, but Frank can't. And he never will.

Because he can't count on anyone else. If it isn't for him, then the scum of the earth walk free.

Emotions are messy. Futile. At least guns served a purpose, no matter what that asshole in red told him. It was uncomplicated this way --- put one bad guy down, then the next. Put 'em where they belong, and they wouldn't reoffend.

Sometimes, Frank feels almost insulted that no-one sees it this way.

He puts the binoculars down, wringing his hands as he checks the time again. He allows himself to breathe in deeply, to fill his lungs with air, before turning up the volume on the radio. It's crackly, but better than before, and instead of overlapping voices, it's a mindless, endless drone of music.

He's not fussed about what comes on, as long as he can concentrate on the mission. At the end of the day, that's all that matters. Or so he convinces himself.

He rubs his eyes, listening to the words of the next song. He doesn't care for the melody, or that the singer has the kind of voice that'd smooth over the bumps in his soul, but something about the lyrics perks his ears.

…Dreaming in a world that we both know is out of our control

A muscle feathers in his jaw as he contemplates turning the radio off completely, but he stays his hand. He can't tell if it's a matter of internal torture again --- a yearning for something he, as the Punisher, could never have --- or that just this once, it's a song worth listening to.

But if shit hits the fan we're not alone, 'cause you've got me and you know That I've got you and I know

The thought of you hits him like a blow to the stomach, a twisting, red-hot knife in the embers of his fury.

If he's right about emotions, then why does your presence make him feel whole? Why is he thinking about you, three states away, before another life-threatening mission?

Frank grimaces, feeling his face contort into something that'd scare him if he looked in a mirror. He knows what he'll see, and it won't just be the husk of the man he used to be. He doesn't know if he could stand to see himself longing for yet another person who'd be better off without him.

If the tide takes California, I'm so glad I got to hold 'ya And if the sky falls from heaven above, oh, I know I had the best time falling into love

He swallows, blowing out a shaky breath, not knowing what to do next.

But it seems that you do.

'Your voice was the only thing that got me out of bed today.'

Frank looks down at your text, torment lining every heartbeat.

'Please come back to me.'

He keeps staring, frozen in place, unsure if he's worthy of your concern. Of your love.

His shoulders tense at the image of you, staying up late with him on your mind. These are feelings he's associated with danger, with grief and loss, and he's unsure if he'd be willing to go through it again. Frank hasn't allowed himself to feel in years, and for so long, he's been better off being that way.

We've been living on a fault line, and for a while, you were all mine I've spent a lifetime giving you my heart, I swear that I'll be yours forever 'Til forever falls apart

"'Til forever falls apart," Frank murmurs to himself, thinking back to the last time he made that commitment to someone, just before his world imploded before his eyes.

"Stupid fuckin' song," he says, shaking his head, but he regrets the words as soon as they leave his mouth.

He opens your messages, feeling his gaze tentatively soften, and taps on your contact information. He's presented with options to reply, to call you, or to delete your number and move on, just so he can spare one more innocent soul.

His finger hovers over the screen, hesitating, and his eyes glaze over, trancelike from the song.

His instincts scream that it's a mistake to get involved, but maybe, just this once…

You pick up after the first ring, a sudden flood of relief calming your firing nerves.

Frank clears his throat. "Your voice is the only thing gettin' me through today."

#frank castle #frank castle x reader #frank castle angst #frank castle fanfic #the punisher #the punisher x reader #the punisher fanfic #the punisher angst #x reader #rhi writes 💻

[llondonfog]

oldstones

In the hopes of learning more about his past, Silver journeys to Wild Rose Castle where Lilia had found him as a baby. However, there may be more than just memories roaming these empty and forgotten halls.

this song has always inspired me when i reflect on silver and all that we’ve learned about his parentage during ch7. grief and family are odd things during the holiday season, and i hope that you’ll enjoy this indulgent little piece. may peace & light fill these cozy, dark winter nights, and the best of wishes for the new year, from my house to yours. i plan to eventually put this on ao3 as either one long piece or split into 3 parts, but this is un-beta'd for now with more to come :)

Wild Rose Castle lived up to its name. 

Long forgotten and abandoned by those who could no longer quite recall the battles raged for dominance over its crumbling and mossy parapets, the cracked stone had been subsumed under the untamed growth of the forest that had sprawled lazily around it in the centuries since. Once pristine walls that must have dazzled so brilliantly beneath the sun and shone like a beacon of awe and wonder for miles around now stood pockmarked with age and weathered by time, a sagging version of what had been. It was as if one was viewing the last breath of a structure held trembling within its old and ancient bones, only supported by bloated veins of thick, dark vines from which sprung hundreds upon thousands of prickly thorns. 

It was difficult to believe that the castle had once been home to the Draconia dynasty. It was even more difficult to believe that it had also once been home to him.

Silver laid a hand upon the trunk of one such tree and wondered what it would show if he could use Lilia’s unique magic upon the old, peeling bark. With the stooped age of its limbs, he wondered If it had witnessed such unspeakable tragedies as Meleanor’s defeat, the fall of the castle under the Knight’s command, the bloody and restless conflicts that followed, and the lonely approach of a still-grieving fae who had finally found the strength to revisit the scene of such devastation. And if he were to cut into that thick trunk, would he be able to count the circles within, and find that the very trees he walks among were the same age as himself— silent observers from over four hundred years ago. 

It hurts his head to think as much. To imagine a baby, sleeping silent and still, all alone in the decaying tomb of a castle ahead, while Lilia roamed the world over in desperation to find a way to hatch Malleus from his egg. That for centuries, there had been none who had known of his meager existence, and that it might have continued that way for centuries to come, had Lilia not made the decision to visit the ruins of what essentially served as Meleanor’s unofficial grave. He simply cannot conceive of it, a world in which he would have never known his father, a world in which he would have lived, aged, and died centuries before Malleus’ hatching and Sebek’s birth. 

In the aftermath of Malleus’ overblot, once the tears had halted, once the scolding of a lifetime was bestowed upon Malleus and Lilia by Maleficia, Styx, and Professors Crewel and Trein alike, and once Lilia had swept Silver up in his arms and pressed affection and apology in equal measure against his hair and cheeks and they had talked and talked and talked long into the midnight hours . . . there had come a peculiar sensation, a tightness in his chest that seized around an emptiness that had not existed before, as if something had been rearranged within him and left the pieces not fitting together quite the same as they used to do.

Silver didn’t know how to convey it, the disconcerting dissonance that lingered like a haunting in the back of his mind ever since Malleus’ overblot. It would emerge when he least expected it, this strange feeling that would creep up in his veins like an unwanted and unwelcome visitor, heavy like lead in his throat as if he was viewing the mundane scenes around him through someone else’s eyes. Kalim would be eagerly chattering to him about a end-of-year party to celebrate the Headmage’s cancellation of exams in light of the recent events, Riddle handing him a brush to help care for the horses as they tried to step back into the rhythm of club duties for a semblance of normalcy, even when the Ramshackle Prefect would wave at him with a bright smile to gesture to the open seat at their lunch table— 

It was all he could think about, especially since he had asked the Headmage that the truth of his heritage not be shared through the school. Four hundred years weighed heavy and lonesome against his shoulders once he realized that had the fairies not intervened, he would never have known the life he now lived, the friends he’s since made. It would have been all too possible that he would have died in that cradle long before Lilia had ever found him, the bodies of his mother and father strewn over him in failed protection. 

Not even “Meet In A Dream” could spare him from the new kinds of nightmares that caught him in the deepest hours of the night, though now he can’t help but wonder if they were truly nightmares, memories, or a hazy mixture of the two. 

Where his other classmates merely assumed that his odd spells of silence could be chalked up to his still ever-present drowsiness and the cost of now rebuilding his magical reserves after utilizing his unique magic so many times that it too was a miracle that he did not overblot from sheer usage alone, certain members of Diasomnia could not be so easily fooled. In fact, it had been Lilia’s suggestion that Silver make the journey out to Wild Rose Castle. The fae had recanted his decision to so abruptly leave, instead agreeing to finish out the year with them with the compromise of spending the summer in Briar Valley where he would reflect upon if he truly wished to fade from their lives without a trace. And with an almost singular focus on reaffirming the bonds of family that existed between them all, he would have been a fool to not anticipate the strain upon Silver’s heart from the cruel trauma of being exposed so forcefully to the harsh truth, a strain that he was all too familiar with knowing that no amount of conversation and apology could ease its ache. 

It was Wild Rose Castle that he had sought out to soothe his mourning heart, and it was Wild Rose Castle that bestowed upon him that which he holds most treasured and dear. Would it not do the same to an innocent who once resided within its very walls? 

The sympathetic coo of a passing mourning dove heralding the end of daybreak leads him back to the present, and Silver finds himself standing at the ghost of what had once been upon a time a cobblestone pathway up to the castle’s imposing gate, now a bramble-infested deterrent to any who might think to slip with ill intent beyond its walls— a pathway that he had no memory of, not even in Lilia’s dream, and yet stumbled onto it all the same as if his feet had always known just where it laid. Without thinking, his fingers rise and touch the slight bump of the ring concealed safely beneath his shirt, the warmth of it bleeding into his skin as if to reassure him that it too remembers the road home. 

Home.

Could he have once uttered such a word, looking at this hollowed out shell of grandiose splendor? Home conjured up a roughspun blanket, worn and frayed beneath his fingers, the scent of dew heavy upon sunlit grass, the warmth of a hand gentle upon his head and a voice like the moon itself singing a lullaby with a tenderness learned and all the more lovely for it. These memories that he held dearer than any trinket, could they have been so easily traded for a life of untold privilege and luxury, a life that would have placed him an equal to Malleus, to Leona? 

The empty eyes of the castle turrets before him stare at him without answers; the gap-toothed grimace of the eroding embrasures beckon him to find out. 

#twisted wonderland #twisted wonderland spoilers #twst spoilers #twisted wonderland silver #twst silver #lilia vanrouge #twst lilia #diasomnia #lettie writes

[imaginesofeverykind]

Witches Brew ~ Chapter 1

Warnings: HEAVY mentions of blood/gore, magic described as visceral, catholic-centric monotheism demonised, gore themes, Aegon being the epitome of ‘omg i’ll do whatever except tell mum’, Body horror, 18+ Minors DNI

Tags: DnD-Esque style AU, Targaryens aren't royalty but they are Noblefolk, some things are purposefully vague :S :S

Chapter Song: Go Tell Aunt Rhody (RE7 soundtrack) - Michael A. Levine, Jordan Reyne

Summary: To practice magic is to slight God with the devil's embrace. It is evil, sin, consuming and the price one pays is never worth what one seeks. Yet people, in times of desperation often turn to desperate measures, in Aegon’s case, medicinal remedy is not an option. No healer can undo what has been done. But the Hag tucked away behind reeds, water topped with algae and the voracious bog may be able to. For a price.

Word Count: 3.8k

Series Masterlist

Vicious rapping squanders the peace and quiet of a relatively silent part of the swamp. Moonlight splits off, cutting through the canopy of overgrowth that shields a peculiar abode entangled within the trunk of an elder tree. The crickets sing among the toads’ baritone croaks until they cease, abiding by the loud pounding on the wooden door that barely stays on its hinges, splintering from wood rot.

”Please!”

A guttural plea, desperation lingering atop the vowels. No one ever came to the decrepit hut unless they were on the brink, teetering the veil of life, quite literally on death's door. But death hardly answered, in its wake, oftentimes stood you; for those who braved the trek.

He had almost given up, muscles begging him for rest, for a modicum of reprieve from the toil it took just to arrive at the steps of a stranger's hut. The weight, the pain, it was enough to finally buckle his shaky grime covered knees, splinters embedded themselves into the palms of his hands the moment his hands hit the wood beneath him. 

“I need —,” a whimper, is all that managed to escape his throat. His eyes flickered to the body beside him — not body, he wasn’t dead yet — to his brother laying beside him, laboured breaths that sucked through his barred teeth in discomfort. 

Lips curled into a snarl, he brought his fist down on the decking one final time, “open the door you fucking wretch!” 

He nearly cowered when the door yanked open, yellow light spilling out into the dark bog from the hearth that roared inside. No one stood in the frame of the door, no one beckoned him inside the derelict home and despite this, he rose to his feet, scraping his newly acquired trousers. There was little energy left in him, just enough to drag the mauled body of his brother - one that inched closer to the afterlife - over the threshold of the hut.

”Sit.” 

He spun on his feet, nearly tripping over the pile of wood stacked beside the hearth when his eyes landed on you, who had appeared, simply materializing from nothing. It was only mere seconds until he was set on you again, a frantic torment that willed him near you, “Hag, you must help him!” Despite his weary disposition, he demanded help.

A nobleman. You think, taking his appearance in. Both men donned the same white hair, similarly crafted attire that screamed wealth and you are automatically aware of who was inside your abode. The township off the Kings Road comes to your mind, owned by a Lord as it had been for the past century.

”Well?! Must I get on my knees?” He was angry, that much was clear, but he was more afraid above all.

You waved dismissively, though not toward the stranger, the Lordling. The table of apothecary jars and dissected creatures vanish, though they never are truly gone, and you gesture for the man to place his injured companion. He’s confused at first, most people are when they come to you. Magic was no longer what it was, you could feel it wane the harder religion sought to destroy it. He most likely has never seen it this close.

But he silently obeys, with great effort hauling his brother up on the table and like you had before, appeared behind him as silently as the fog that began to seep through the crack beneath the door. He flinched away instantly, you fought back a sly smirk but your focus was on the man with long matted locks. The hair was a brilliant white, the same as his brothers, identical as the Lord of the closest settlement, but it was marred with the crimson syrup of blood.

You bring a finger to his mutilated face, your pointed nails more akin to talons than that of humans, they threaten to crack the white porcelain of his skin. Swiping a long line down, coating the pads of your fingertips in blood and bringing it to your mouth for a taste. Bitter. The able bodied man recoiled at the sight, but you pay him no mind as you examine the injured one.

His eye was gone. That was a shame. You were fond of eyes as payment.

”Can you heal him?” The man beside you asked, voice small, almost childlike and feeble. ”Name your price, make him whole again and I’ll — I’ll give you whatever you want. Fix him.” His anguish raked through your ears and rattled against your mind like razor sharp teeth, your neck instinctively lolling from left to right as if to ward off the discomfort that followed.

”They’ll know.” You answer cryptically, caressing the side of the younger man's face much like a mother would when tucking in a babe for the evening.

“Can. You. Fix. Him?” His patience was wearing thin.

You sigh, turning to face him properly for the first time since he arrived. Violet eyes. Magic touched his very heritage and yet his own kin sought to erase it, the irony was not lost on you. “He will be different.” You say as a warning, a politeness he certainly didn’t deserve yet you gave it anyway.

Anger overcame him, outstretching his hands and coiling his fingers around the scruff of your filthy dress to yank you toward him. You happen to catch the brief glint of silver, but you had caught it, the blade with your hand wrapping around it to stop it from piercing your chest. Not that it would have damaged your heart, you wonder if his intent was to scare or if he simply forgot which side the human heart resided.

The blade cut through your skin, rivers of red beginning to run down your wrist. The pain is welcome.

“Fix him. Or else I’ll drag you to Oldtown where you can burn in the circle you filthy animal.” 

Animal. As if you were no longer good enough to be likened to a person, a human person capable of human things. ‘They fear what they cannot control,’ the voice is recalled into your mind, a vague memory of the past resurfacing as though it meant to reassure you.

Your lips twist into an awry smirk, and the second he blinks you have once again dissolved through his hands like an apparition. Reappearing by his brother's side, sliced hand outstretched to let your own blood drip tantalizingly slow over the unconscious man’s face.

In your other hand is a surprisingly ornate steel flask, an eyesore amongst the natural clutter. Whatever liquid you have delicately poured down the man’s throat is sanguine, syrupy thick like honey. You sense there is something not quite right mere seconds before the man begins to convulse violently, gasping for air that he cannot breathe.

”What have you done?!” Nostrils flared and ire rising, the able bodied one charged toward you like a boar gone rabid. 

You grew tired of his impetulant outbursts, whispering a soft incantation with hurried hand flourishes and his movements ceded. Burnt into the wooden boards around his feet, still smoking with specks of orange embers were runes, etched into a circle. Something felt off, the air reeked of acrid mildew mixed with copper and you knew instantly what triggered the reaction.

Ignoring the binded man’s threats you let the magic sing to you, caress you, consume you while softly speaking in a forgotten and forbidden tongue.

The windows and door fly open, inviting in a malstrom of wind, tempestuous and bludgeoning, the centre it wishes to converge is at the body on the table still choking, still clawing at himself for air. His spirit dwindles at every garbled breath but you sense his will and you could feel his fight, he was a warrior through and through even in the face of imminent mortal peril. Not many of those who seek you, offer the same resoluteness. 

The older brother is driven to shield his face from the vacuum of wind battering him against the unseen magical force which keeps him in place. Fear was evident in his eyes, perhaps even a touch of regret and guilt though you don’t linger too long as you shout a final mantra, holding both your forearms with formidable strength that is unbroken until the last word passes your lips, you break your grasp.

And then suddenly, the gale force of destruction dissipates.

Silence follows. And you are sat beside the young brother, placing a paste across the part of his face which had been torn away viciously. “What attacked him?” It was the first time you had spoken so directly, but it was because you knew the answer, the nobleman before you couldn’t possibly know what lurked through the mangroves and stalked beneath the stillwater.

He doesn’t appear to comprehend the question at first, muttering to himself a litany of false truths to explain what had happened right in front of him. His very own trembling brings him back from his prison of thoughts as his gaze lifts cautiously to meet yours, “a Direwolf.”

“How did you know it was a Direwolf?” You ask instantly, predicting that he would say as much. No matter, you step over to the cabinet that housed jars filled with all sorts of assorted components for potion making or spell casting, the moon light coming through the window casting an eerie shadow on the workspace.

”What else do you call a giant fucking wolf, what does it matter?” He grew restless again.

You dripped a small phial of black liquid into the mortar filled with other ingredients with great haste, eyes curiously peering out the window looking at the moon as you grimly sigh and mix together what’s been obtained. “It matters,” you grit, trying to grind the remainder of the paste, “the difference between a Direwolf and what attacked him is an exceptionally vindictive blood curse.”

He blinked at you, “what?”

You discard the mortar and cross the room swiftly, shelves littered with bones, glowing rocks and a variety of ceremonial looking daggers. Though magic and its very history were being erased by the ‘new god’, you still hoped those within the settlement weren’t entirely sheltered. 

“He will know no master lest it is the moon, he will know no anger stronger than wrath, he will know only pain and isolation.”

The expression that fell across his face told you all that was needed; He understood fully what was at stake, just as you had moments before. Though his resolve hardened and he met your gaze once more, “cure him. Whatever it takes, I do not care!” Both of you knew he was in no position to demand, not when he was still held in place by unseen magic and you had proven many times how easily it was to simply disappear.

And that is what you did, if only briefly, shooting him a coy smile before vanishing and leaving him in ruination for the moment. In the silence, forced to look at his brother made his lip tremble. He hoarsely called out to him, shaky words choking in half sobs to beckon him awake and rip him from unconsciousness to no avail.

”He’s not here,” You softly say, causing him to jump when you reappear and brush past him. “His soul is in limbo, he won’t hear you.” But I can, you think, the energy sings to your soul in a gentle hymn and your blood sings back to it. In your hand a lock of silver hair clasped in your fist, having come from where you disappeared to, though it caused immediate alarm for the man. 

He pointed a finger at your hand and grimaced, his bottom lip still trembling but no longer from hopelessness. Though he doesn’t ask the question out loud, you know what he’s thinking and you were certain he wouldn’t like the answer regardless of how you explained it.

“Whatever it takes,” you gently repeated his words and it was enough to silence him, for far longer than you thought was possible. Though the silence was welcomed, encouraging concentration while you handled the spellcraft with the care and love that had been taught to you. The woman in your memory that provided warmth and affection was not your mother by blood and yet she lived through your very essence as if she were.

She was there with every spell, whispering gently and coaxing a power buried deep within you. She was in the walls of the hut, imbuing you with much needed protection from creatures and men. And she was here, watching you through omniscient delight as you dedicated part of your essence to a stranger and his injured brother.

The serenity only just takes the edge of tension away, as if you weren’t tending to the impossible feat of near resurrection and stitching a man whole together once more. Life was fragile, mortality was inevitable even to those who yearn against it but magic could manipulate it enough even if it took great energy. It wasn’t without drawbacks, though. Transactional in nature, to undo what has been done required blood magic, the type of magic you were versed well in but it almost always came with consequence.

’What is taken, must be given back’ the words of your ‘mother’ echoed superfluously everytime your duty required meddling with the laws of nature. Perhaps that was why many travelers or townsfolk revered you as a hag, if not for the way you dressed or looked or lived, then for your duty as an indiscriminate arbiter of unfairness and misfortune.

Magic was fair, balanced and it obeyed karmic laws, this was why you cradled such energy. Life was not, it was often unfair and that much had been made clear the moment your real mother left you in a swamp to be taken by whatever monsters prowled in search for their next meal.

So you do what needed to be done - if only a little self serving to you personally but - you give back the injured man what had been clawed away and take something from his family locked away in their fortress within the walls of their beloved township. Not without a final twist in the knife for the older brother who demanded your help many hours ago. Appearing beside him like a shade, gripping his wrist abruptly and slicing a line across his palm to draw blood.

He attempted to fight back but he was bound, he could only wince and complain while you squeezed the blood into a medium phial. When you had finished, he snatched his hand back, holding it to his chest as if to soothe the pain and grimaced at you almost childishly, “you could’ve asked.”

A faint smile tickles the corner of your lips, though it was no matter of if his words were amusing or his mannerism when he calmed down were fascinating, there was still a task at hand. 

The final part of the brutal rite fell appropriately on the witching hour, where the crow sings thrice while the moon is still high. To complete everything, you dropped several dribbles of the brother's blood into the injured’s mouth and finished off your words of sacrilege.

”He will recover,” You announce, finally after what seemed like hours upon hours of the sounds of your transfixed mumblings and careful spell work.

The man hadn’t heard you at first, in fact he had barely registered the runic circle by his feet had disappeared quite some time ago which meant he was no longer bound in place yet he still remained as if he were. But the only thing that broke him from his trance had been the shallow breath followed by his younger brother lurching forward in a confused panic.

No longer was his face torn, eye gouged, the only indication of that was the faint pink scar that remained. His eyes — both, set on you and he surged forward straight toward your neck. Not that you could blame him for being in such a state, though it would be rather humorous to allow him to indulge in his urges and let him throttle you, you step out of his reach like an alluring treat that only served to frustrate him.

The older one flung himself forward, fretting over the younger and the tension immediately dispersed into quaint relief. Though it lasted no longer than a matter of moments, chaos stalked the two like they were messengers from the god of chaos himself, the energy between them repelling from one another like static in a storm. You could merely watch on in light amusement at the bickering duo.

“— I already think so low of you and yet you exceed expectations once more. Bringing me to this devil whisperer's den?!”

”Well I was simply not going to bring you home marked and dying!”

“If you must lie that you care for me dear brother, at least have the conviction to not pretend you had my interests at heart when we both know you wish to save your skin. Now I have to explain to mother why I stench of sin.”

You laughed, quite loudly it had broken the two from grappling one another to look over. The glimpses of lives you often see when people stop by are often times quite enlightening, just as it appeared in the present between two quarrelling brothers. One who thirsts for recognition and appreciation while the other wishes to disappear and fade to obscurity.

“Do we amuse you, hag?” The younger ones eyes set on you, his grimace was apparent as he did little to hide his contempt.

“Quite.” You hum, barefoot toes curling into the splintered wood while thinking aimlessly. No words followed, not when your gaze cast on the elder who had gone a shade lighter in his face, his limbs beginning to quake and tremble. Cracked lips curling into a smile as you watch him collapse to the floor, writhing in what one could assume was unrelenting pain, the type of pain that embedded itself into a person.

“Aegon — Brother!” The younger falls to his brothers side and you watch curiously, how interesting the dynamic was between the brothers. Their resentment ran deep yet there was still a matter of love beneath it, a bond that weaved itself between them despite such obtuse differences.

The younger was furious, shooting his deadly gaze at you with nostrils flared and he lunged at you, this time for mere entertainment, you let his hands wrap around your neck and press you hard against the cabinet. “You fucking monster! What have you done to me! To him?!” He spat, rightfully so, you thought that someone as pious as him would befall such a fate, though from the little information you’ve gathered on the two, Aegon — as you now know him — did not share such piety.

A weary smirk pulled at the corner of your lips, choking out, “I am no monster, little lordling though it pleases me so, to bestow a mark on your family who seeks to reject their very own heritage.” 

The screams and pleas of Aegon in the background fuelled this one’s anger, “we’ll have you burnt for that —“ His hands tighten their grip, leaving you to his mercy for now in his hands like a ragdoll force to move at his whim, jerking you forward and then slamming you back into the cabinet. Glass shattered from the impact around the both of you but your focus remained on him, the only thing to do in the instance was laugh and so you did.

“Quite the ferocious brute you are — you’d have made a fine servant to the moon, though I cannot say the same about your brother.” His hands squeezed down on your windpipe with malicious intent but you remain unperturbed despite the immense pressure building within your head. Like a bubble about to burst.

The elders' whimpers of pain droned on in the background, mixing into the symphony of nature that carried on throughout the marsh. You had a little too much fun toying with people, if they were to treat you a certain way, who were you to not at least get amusement from it? 

You laughed, bringing a fist full of powder up and flicking it in his face before disappearing through his fingertips like grains of sand. The powder served distraction enough, staggering him back and you silently thank your motherly figure for always ensuring you carried turmeric. Even if it was to ward off bad spirits only.

When you reappeared, your lips barely skimming the shell of Aegon’s ear as you whisper a soft incantation, it felt lewd and profane but at once his pain ceased. The wrinkling in his forehead and face softened while beads of sweat trickled downward, threatening to sully his eyesight by falling into it.

In your hand was the phial of blood you had taken from Aegon, the other held the scruff of his neck. His brother only just recovered from having powder flung in his face, the searing and burning had barely stopped when his eyes settled on you, hovering over Aegon like an enchantress with ill intent.

You crushed the phial in your hands, glass cutting the insides of your palm mixing two bloods together, placing your bloodied hand to Aegon’s sweaty forehead and began muttering swift words. You turned to the younger one, haggard and crazed with a look in your eye that seemed to elicit fear in both of them, raising a clawed hand up you pointing directly at him.

“I have done what is asked of me, to unmark and unburden you. And the cost has been paid. He —“ you look down at Aegon’s fearful eyes, and something in your mind whispers to you to show mercy, it is not your voice, rather hers the one who taught you the ways of magic, “he may now be a servant of the moon but he is bound to me.  Every lunar cycle when the moon is at its fullest he must come to me lest he be made an example from the zealot’s who poison your minds with promises of false salvation and piety.” You were still rather on the theatrical side, not truly enforcing a blood bind on him. And yet, it had the desired effect. Fear.

“And if he doesn’t?” The younger asks in mock defiance, serving as a mask to hide the fear so prevalent in his eyes.

“Then when you pray at night you better hope your false god listens.”

——— Taglist ———

Lemme know if you wanna be tagged for the next update! :D

@karlachs-soldier

#imagines #imagine #fanfiction #aegon targaryen #aegon ii targaryen imagine #aegon ii targaryen x female reader #aegon ii x reader #aegon targaryen x reader #house of the dragon

[weaveandwood]

Midwinter in Waterdeep: Part One

Gale/Tav | Angst & Pining | Read Part Two | Read Part Three | Read on AO3

Summary:

After the Netherbrain defeat, she thought her life with Gale was all wrapped up in a neat package with a beautiful bow. Life in the tower with its schedules, routine, and walls ended up not being for her. Over a year later, she finds herself on a job in the city again near the Midwinter Festival, searching faces in the crowd.

She found herself searching faces she passed on the street. None of them were him, of course, but did she want them to be? Had his schedule changed in these many months? She purchased a sweet roll at a food cart, her favorite one he had taken her to almost every tenday. Some things don’t change. She thought once that she could, that she could adapt to living in the city for him, for love, thinking adaptability was her strong point. She was mistaken.

AN: A quick one shot inspired by a song. I don't know if this is a sad AU standalone or if it will work its way into my main fic. I've had this idea rattling in my head for about a week. Nothing but angst and some pining. EDIT: This is now the first part in a three part story

She didn't know why she took a job in Waterdeep of all places. It was the one city she wanted to forget about in the entirety of the Sword Coast. Her memories of the place ran the gamut, from the highest, happiest bliss to the lowest, most soul-wrenching sadness. 

“Will you join me in Waterdeep as the newest member of the Dekarios clan?” He asked in the Elfsong Tavern, on one knee, more nervous than he needed to be. 

“This is my tower, welcome to your new home, future Mrs. Dekarios,” he said with a smile, crossing the threshold.  

“Is everything okay? You feel distant ever since Withers’s party, my love.” He had a sad look on his face, knowing the inevitable was coming. 

“Let’s cancel the wedding.” He entered his study, barely acknowledging her.  

She had left not long after that while he was teaching at Blackstaff Academy, a note on the entryway table for when he returned. The silver ring he had purchased for her upon their arrival in the city acting as a paperweight. 

I’m sorry. I can’t do this. 

That was over a year ago. Now, she found herself back in the city after signing a contract for what turned out to be a relatively easy job for some quick gold. Desperate times, desperate measures. Turns out being the “Hero of Baldur’s Gate” didn’t go far outside of Baldur’s Gate. Her contract paid for one more night of lodging, so she went on a stroll from her inn down the main street toward the docks. 

Dangerous. Tempting. Stupid. 

She found herself searching faces she passed on the street. None of them were him, of course, but did she want them to be? Had his schedule changed in these many months? She purchased a sweet roll at a food cart, her favorite one he had taken her to almost every tenday. Some things don’t change. She thought once that she could, that she could learn to love living in the city for him, for love, thinking adaptability was her strong point. She was mistaken.

She pulled her thin wool coat tighter around her as she kept walking toward the waterfront. Waterdeep was cold this close to Midwinter. Snow was starting to flurry, people were hurrying around with packages. She turned the corner onto a street lined with large houses, his tower near the very end. 

Dangerous. Tempting. Stupid. 

She looked in windows as she walked by, illuminated with the golden light of candles as families and friends got together for celebrations. If she had never left, would she be at one of these parties, laughing as Gale’s arm draped over her shoulders? Would he be regaling everyone with tales of their grand adventure, or of something an apprentice had done at Blackstaff Academy? Would he finish the story by kissing her hand or cheek, as he loved to do in public? 

Had he found someone else? Moved on? A new future Mrs. Dekarios in the tower, one who is best friends with Tara and Morena, slotting into their life with ease and grace, much better than she ever had a hope to? Is he better off not knowing her anymore? 

She didn’t let her thoughts wander to him often, if at all. Tears threatened to form in her eyes - from the memories or the wind she could not say for sure, but she’d blame the wind anyway. The sun was starting to go down, and her inn was in the center of the city. She could handle herself when it came to physical threats, but the cold was getting more and more biting without the sun to lessen its sting. Just a couple more, then I’ll turn around, she thought. The houses down here were so pretty with their decorations. She smiled to herself halfheartedly. This could have been her life. 

She could hear the celebrations from the house two doors down. That would be the one she turned around at, she decided, wanting to attend their celebration from the outside, if only for a moment. She looked in the window from across the street. The front room was indeed full of people, each with drink in hand, laughing and cheering for someone. She laughed to herself as she saw the illusion of fireworks inside the room, setting the room alight with sparkling magic fit for a midwinter celebration. She missed magic. She saw the crowd part, presumably for the subject of the cheers. 

Her eyes widened. Her breathing quickened.

His hair was longer, a little more grey at the temples. He still tied it up halfway. He still had his beard. The creases by his eyes were a little deeper. 

He was looking right at her, frozen, his brown eyes just as wide as hers. 

She turned quickly to make a hasty escape. She knew it was tempting the gods to come down this street, but hadn’t that been the point? Hadn’t she become addicted to the if only during her time in the city?

“Stop!” she heard his voice behind her. She got three houses down before she felt a hand grab hers, stopping her in her tracks. “Wait. Please,” he said, panting.  

Dangerous. Tempting. Stupid. 

She turned around.

#bg3 #bg3 gale #gale dekarios #bg3 fanfiction #gale fic #gale x tav #gale x f!tav #gale x auroria #my writing #baldur’s gate 3 #gale of waterdeep #I’m actually so proud of this I think it’s my best writing to date #midwinter in waterdeep

[kouvisart]

Just watched Disney's "Wish" and here is how I would rewrite Magnifico's character arc and the movie.

*Spoilers Ahead*

I understand that the audience and the movie wanted to make him a fun, campy villain as reminiscent of the older Disney villains, but what they established was the opposite. The movie is trying to do two things with him: being sympathetic and being outright evil. These two are difficult to combine, and it is clear that they didn't how to do that.

They not only gave him a tragic past that was never elaborated on, but his descent literally isn't himself, but of a magic evil book that makes your eyes green. They had such a clear setup to pursue why he would use it now of all times, but they didn't. People can be asshole narcissists without being evil. And it is clear he did care for Amaya, and the people of Rosas. So the movie needed to push him more and give him some struggle of morality. Unfortunately, this route will turn him into a tragic villain. If they wanted true camp, they needed to make him always evil, and was always using the wishes to power himself up. But that is for another day.

"HIS MOTIVATION"

One of the weaknesses of Maginifico is that he has no clear motivation. And if it he does, they don't line up with what his surroundings are. When the power of Star nearly made the wishes in his chamber fall and the city shake, he was pretty paranoid that something was effecting his magic. Or overpowering it. Then when his people started questioning PLUS demanding more wish ceremonies, you can see why he is so irritated by them and thinks they don't respect him. When they basically gamble away their wish VOLUNTARILY and don't actually respect him as a king, more like a wish granter. He even said something akin to, "that is all you ever think about is wish ceremonies?" And the crowd responds with yes.

To further show his descent more, there should be another scene where he is just alone, without Amaya there. And his eyes are involuntarily drawn to the magic book. Widened, and mesmerized, his irises turn green and suddenly he snaps out of it. Hinting that the book, despite behind the glass, can draw people towards it. Beckoning almost and using their most innate desires. Now lets see how his motivations tie into the infamous villain song.

"THIS IS THE THANKS I GET"

What I'd change would be the must needed tonal shift in the second half. The songs stays way too poppy and doesn't clearly identify his corruption. The moment when he nearly gives himself to the book. It seems so simple, but the this section of the song really shows his reluctance, and that he thinks what he is doing is a necessary evil.

"I didn't wanna do this I swore I'd never do this But I'm hypnotized by how these pages flip 'Cause I refuse to have my power stripped A potion, a spell, a summon, a curse? Anything to make that light reverse To this book, I don't wanna be tethered, but Desperate times call for desperate measures Brr, where was I? Oh, yeah"

Instead of the "brr, where was I?" line, I would make the music stop, and Amaya's voice could be heard from behind. Freezing Magnifico in his tracks. The green around him disappears, and it is only him and his Queen, surrounded by nothing but themselves. She sings softly to him. A reprise of "At All Cost."

His subconscious knows it's wrong to use the book (as seen in the first two lines of the bridge and the last two lines, offset 1), so it conjures up Amaya, who tries to remind him of his good. The song grows in distortion as Amaya begs, yet he feels pushed to this predicament.

Going back to his motivation, it is hinted he wants control because in his eyes, the only way to protect everyone is if he oversees everything. But that doesn't mean he thinks his powers would be stripped. I think this is the one line that gives hint at a motivation that really doesn't fit his character, " 'Cause I refuse to have my power stripped." There is no hint throughout the movie that his magic is weakening, and when the people demanded and disrespected him, he is more irritated than antagonized. Instead, it should be he is afraid he doesn't have enough power. He feels he isn't powerful enough to stop whatever magic is happening in the kingdom, and knows the book will grant him this to achieve what he wants. Which is to protect Rosas "at all cost."

The goal here is to make his worries justified but his actions an overreaction. And make it a descent into madness than suddenly becoming evil out of the blue.

MOTIVATION CONT.

Also, to up the stakes because there is literally none, for when Asha sneaks into his castle to retrieve Sabo's wish, she accidentally releases all of them, even the violent ones. So we can have a character parallel between Asha and Magnifico where they think they are both doing the right thing, and are using overreactions for issues that could've just been brought up peacefully.

During their truce, he sees just how dangerous people can be with violent wishes, and the will they have to do them. Slowly making him angrier and angrier and further justifying to himself what he he did. After they are forced to work together to bring back order, the evil book has already taken its toll, and he comes to the realization of why is he even doing this for the people who don't even respect the man that gave them a safe haven. That without him, it would have descended into chaos long ago. He starts to extract the wishes involuntarily out of people, trying to keep them safe from themselves. But as he does, he takes it into himself for safe-keeping and ends up voring them. Growing in madness and in power as a misplaced, extreme martyrdom.

Now for the ending. I would either have the evil dispelled from him, but he dies from the magic exhaustion. Or to go the route of the movie and have him trapped, while Amaya, instead of being nonchalant about her husband's predicament (which is weird in the movie since it is shown they love one another yet now she doesn't care?). Who thanks Asha and tells her she will find a way to free her husband and rid of the curse, even if the book says there is no way to reverse it.

#disney #disney wish #king magnifico #asha #queen amaya #rant #text #disney movie #disney villains #rewrite #He had so much missed potential

[instarsandcrime]

Worried Sick

So gonna start with some honesty here. This might be the most self-indulgent thing I've ever written. My theater gay ass couldn't keep away from an interpretation of a subplot from G//uys//and//Do//lls//. The idea of someone getting so worried over a Big Thing(tm) that they end up with a psychosomatic cold until the problem is resolved got me. Also Ade/laide's La/me/nt was the first thing that awoke the kink in me, so there's some BIG inspiration taken from that song and scene overall.

SO. I decided 'hey, why not' and now Lu/ci/fer gets to suffer because he definitely was not a mess when Li/lith was pregnant. Featuring a few of @glitterrosesnzz headcanons because his ideas are chaotic and I love that dearly.

Enjoy! ❤️

---

It was six months into Lilith’s pregnancy that Lucifer stopped fussing and fretting over her. Instead, to her lack of surprise, her husband had decided to spoil her rotten. And although he was increasingly sweet– and she didn’t mind a bit of pampering now and again– old habits died hard. Centuries of serving Lilith in Eden had led to the occasional reminder that yes, she was safe. And yes, her fallen guardian angel needed to step away from his duties once in a while.

Sadly, this routine was not limited to using the stairs.

"Lucifer, I'm fine."

"But Lilith–!"

"They're just sore ankles, my love. Nothing to worry yourself over." The queen giggled as she pried her husband’s grip from her waist, kissing the backs of his hands affectionately along the way.

"Okay. Gotcha. Stairs good. Ankles bad but also good. Say no more." Lucifer pulled back, wringing them as they walked. Desperately trying to keep boundaries without bursting into flames. "It's just. I mean. If you trip and fall you could get hurt. And if you get hurt the baby will get hurt! A-and if that happens– snff!"

"Then it's a good thing I won't." She added, gesturing to the bottom step beneath them.

"Oh." The obsessive rambling cut itself at the stem, an embarrassed flush blooming on his face. "I, um. I see that we've made it."

"So we have." Lilith said with a fond look. She continued her journey down the hallway with her head held high– caretaker skittering to the front and walking backwards as they went.

"Lily dear, if I could just mention one more thing?"

"It’s alright, Lucifer. Speak your mind."

"Much as I hate to say it, you've been working for hours, and bending all day might hurt your back! Ugh.” He shuddered for extra emphasis, “You should be resting, not signing documents for some stuffy Goetia noble."

"And if I were confined to writing in bed, wouldn't I still be upright?" Lilith pondered aloud.

“Well–”

“And those downy pillows can only do so much.”

"Well– well yes, but! But, I…ah, shit. I did it again, didn’t I?" Lucifer mourned. Entering the queen’s large, lavish office, the demon rushed to pull out a seat for her. “Fine, fine. You win. I trust you.”

“Good boy.” Lilith purred as she graciously accepted, leaning back to peck him on the cheek. Watching with deep affection as the great demon king all but melted into a lovestruck puddle. "You know, I have a question of my own."

"Yes, my beloved?" Lucifer’s voice sung like windchimes, still stuck in his reverie.

"How are you feeling?"

"In perfect condition, Your Highness. With just a snap of the ol’ fingers, anything in the universe will be yours. You just name it!" He smirked, adding a quick little bow for good measure.

"Ah, no. What I mean is," Lilith’s gaze softened, "are you feeling anxious about the baby?"

The air around the king of Hell froze just short of ten degrees.

"I...w-well...oh, geez. That's a-ahh...a cohh! Complicated question, isn't it?" Lucifer laughed nervously between light, hiccuping breaths.

"A simple yes or no would suffice."

"Nnnnooo..." He drawled, scratching lightly at his arm.

"...Oh. Alright." His wife answered simply, turning to her paperwork.

"Alright?" 

"If you say you are well, I will trust your judgement." Lilith picked up her pen, tip hovering just above the parchment as she peeked a glance from behind. "Although, I was wondering. Have you thought of a name for our little girl yet?”

"I! Well! Um!" He discreetly swiped at his nose, "You're certainly coming up with...w-with– Ahem! With those hard-h-hih! …hhhhitting questions today, aren’t you?"

"Then what would you propose we do for her new crib? Any toys in mind?" The queen asked, very much aware of the other losing struggle that was worsening by the second.

"You always like t-to...to think...ahehhh...aheadD'SHH'hhiu! T'shhhiew! Etch'SHIEW!" Ribbons of fire poured from between Lucifer’s fangs, and he slapped a hand over his mouth to tamper it.

"Goodness, bless you!" Lilith went to stand, but Lucifer quickly waved open a portal before she could stop him.

"Gotta go for a– kaff! a sec!" He croaked between smoking coughs, "Be back soon, I promise! Don't-- kaff kaff! Don't get up, just stay off your feet!"

And with one last flickering outburst of a sneeze, the portal closed behind him.

Alone and left to her own devices, the queen only shrugged and pushed herself upright. Well. Better late than never to confront this, she supposed.

The bathroom door slammed in a hurry and, disaster temporarily abated, Lucifer slumped against it. With a hoarse sigh he shed his illusion like snakeskin, checking the mirror for what lay underneath. Puffy eyes with dull yellow pupils and sickly red sclera. Beads of sweat rolling with every wave of nausea. Scarlet cherub cheeks shifted to gold, glowing with a feverish holy blush. Groaning over a sudden realization, the fallen angel pulled back his collar to observe tiny stars that peppered the ends of his shoulder blades to the tips of his pointed ears. Ugh, and he thought he got rid of those pox-like symptoms when his form changed. He peered under his gloves and uh-huh. Yyyep! This sucks.

Stopping to scratch his cheek, he threw open the medicine cabinet and snapped his fingers. In an instant the shelves and edges of the tub were lined with vintage bottles and beakers, assorted in colorful rows. Mortar and pestles collected in the sink, covered in all different types of thick, herbal powders. Wadded tissues overflowed a once-empty wastebin, and Lucifer quickly snatched one from a nearby box to blow, wincing at the touch of his raw nose.

"Ughh. Okay, where did I leave off?" Another flick of the wrist and piles of stacked books littered the floor, each one marked with all sorts of angelic and demonic symbols. Sitting on the counter he began to read, cotton cloth pressed to his face. "Six months of this. Unbelievable."

He read aloud half-heartedly with another soft sniffle, "Angelic flu. Patient may experience bouts of nausea that make me want to die a second time, the sudden urge to cough up a fucking lung, a rash made of stardust because of course I still get that down here, an itchy nose that won’t quihh…hihhhh...! Hih-hih-hhhit'SCHHH! It'SHIEW! HIT'SHH’HHIEW!" He fumbled to catch his book before it could hit the ground, breathing a sigh of relief. "Whew! Don’t talk about the fourth thing. Got it."

Tugged along to the instructions he opened his other palm, producing an ornate teacup that graciously fell into an equally fanciful saucer. Amber apothecary vials lifted themselves, pouring small helpings of this and that as he continued. "An easy remedy to cure the chronic organic symptoms of," his voice soured, "a feeling of insecurity and frustration caused by withheld duties-- oh, for Heaven’s sake!"

He threw the book to the ground with a loud clatter. No matter how many fancy words are written, no matter how many diagrams are shown, no matter how long he’s waited and waited around for this wonderfully delicate life to come into this world–

“ET’SCHH’HHIU! Snff! Ugh…”

He's seen the same damn result every time! It's– it’s just a small case of the sniffles. That’s all there is to it. Nothing more, nothing less.

"Lucifer?" A knock on the door interrupted his thoughts. "Is everything alright? I heard something fall."

Shit!

"Just a mo-ment!" Lucifer winced at the way his voice cracked, threatening to break down in a coughing fit. Biting the bullet he downed the tea in one gulp, waving away the medical concoctions and used tissues to another existence. "I, uh– um– spilled a drihhh-drink!"

His breath suddenly hitched and he fought the urge to drag a hand down his face, silently swearing when the remedy somehow made things worse. Every inhale burned with a strong tickle, and he pinched his nose and sniffed hard in a desperate attempt to settle it.

"You spilled a drink in the bathroom?" Lilith asked, voice tinged with quiet amazement.

Lucifer cringed as he finished the magic touches on his starry spots, "...Yes?"

The door clicked, and his guest stepped through the threshold with the sweep of her wrap dress. She circled every nook and cranny, taking in its shimmering appearance. Her gaze moved to her husband– put together and pristinely dressed, boasting a huge grin. In short, everything around her was absolute perfection.

How unnerving.

"I suppose you will be joining me in my office?"

"Your-- oh!" Lucifer nodded stiffly,  "Of course, of course! I just need more ti...t-tihhh...time– Ahem! Oh dear, 'scuse me. Had a little bit of a t-tickle there."

"I would love to invite you back," Lilith’s brow furrowed, "but it might do you well to take your own advice and get some rest."

"Hm? Did I do some...s-somethihhh...hih! S-something I shouldn’t have?" He swallowed, fighting the urge to close his fluttering eyelashes.

"No– at least, not until today. I hate to do this darling," His wife crouched, holding a handkerchief of her own, "but you missed a spot."

Before he could think Lilith wiped at the angry flush that brightened the bridge of his nose like it were a smudge of dirt, and the reaction was immediate. Lucifer gasped, eyes lined with irritated tears. "W-wait! Let's talk abouhhh...a-about thihhh…!"

"Poor thing." Lilith sighed, moving to brush the rim of his nostrils. "It's so sensitive now, too."

And with that, she kissed the tip, helping her husband hold the cloth as he snapped at the waist.

"Het'shhh! 'Tchiew! 'Tsshhh! Hit'chh-tshh!-tshhh-het'shhh! Heh'TSHHH! H-hih...H-hih!...waihhht-- 'tshh-tch! slow dowhh- down-- Hih'kschh! please-- Het'Schhh!" He begged to himself, sadly to no avail. His illusions went down, and so did his strength. "Hih-hih-hit'SCHH'HIEW! HT'SCHHH-'Tsh!-'TSH! 'TSHHHIEW! Hehhh-Ht'CHT! HET’TCHHH'hiew-TSHHH'HIEW! H-hehh- c-cad't- Het'CHHHIEW! stoh-huh!...st-stohhp...HIT'SCHHH'HHIU! Hih-hih-Hih! Hhh...ghhh..."

A slender finger pressed just underneath his twitching nose, and all that was left of the uncontrollable fit was a shaky, tired breath. "Thadk you. Snff!"

He blinked his vision into working order, bashfully taking the handkerchief to let loose another blow. All the while gentle claws stroked loose, damp locks back into place.

"How long has this been going on?"

"Three-- kaff! Th-three days."

Lilith raised an eyebrow.

"One month?"

She crossed her arms. “Try again.”

"...Six months." He cleared his throat. "But that doesn't matter! I don't have any responsibilities at the moment, and you're taking the brunt of well-- everything! Your work, the pregnancy. You should be focusing on yourself, not worrying about me."

"What? No!" Lilith took a seat on the porcelain rim of the tub, scooping the fallen angel into her lap with a warm embrace. "No, no, don’t neglect yourself for my sake. You have every right to feel nervous too."

"Nervous?"

"Of course." She urged, "Nervous that you may be a bad father, perhaps?"

"Wh--" Lucifer huffed out a laugh, scratching at his neck. "Don't be absurd! I-I don't think about that! Nehhh...heh! Snff! Never."

"Oh?" Lilith tilted her head curiously, "So the rambling, fussing, and conveniently timed illness means nothing?"

"Nnnnope! Nuhh-snff! Nothin’." The demoness nearly jumped out of her skin as large pillars of books reappeared in a flash of holy light.

"I just stopped my search at angelic flu-- which was a bust, by the way.” Lucifer continued, picking up a book to smack the cover in frustration. “That eliminates most heavenly illnesses. I didn't check curses yet, but I've got a hunch it's some type of plague. Those are all the rage on Earth these days. Actually, when we start using the stroller, should our little girl be outside on walks when another case carries over? She could get sihh-hih!...s-sick just from br-brea- snff! breathing. Can you imagine–…imagine thahh...th-that?"

"Darling." She tilted his chin upwards with a teasing smile, breaking him out of his thoughts. "Be careful. Talking about the baby too much will send you into a fit."

"Pfft! What, me? Noooo! Sure, I just think about her once in a while and wor-- consider! Consider the fact that I might mess up. And when I consider the fact that I might mess up, I tend to...to sn...s-sneehh...! Heh!"

Lucifer pushed himself from her grip, pitching helplessly into slowly soaking fabric. "Het'chiu! Hih'tchhh'hiew! Hihhh...hih! HITCHIEW!" With every sneeze his demon horns grew until they cradled Lilith’s cheeks.

"I warned you, didn't I?" His beloved huffed, rubbing a hand on his back while his breaths began to calm.

"Ughhh…Sorry 'bout thahh-hah-h-hhhah! HAT’SHHHIEW! HET’KSHHHOO! Hhheh…hihhh-hih!…ohhh…" He moaned, punctuating his misery with a loud, gurgling blow.

"If it helps break this 'curse' in any way," Lilith scratched at the base her patient's horns, and his twisted expression finally relaxed, breathing a dreamy sigh. "I think you'll make a great father."

"Mmm? Why's that?" He slurred, leaning into the touch.

"Because our child isn't born yet, and you've already worried yourself sick over her." Wide eyes snapped open, and Lilith pursed her lips to bite back a laugh.

"Ugh, that pun was terrible. Even for me." Lucifer pouted dramatically, collapsing against her. 

“I love you too.”

#snz #snz fic #ha//zb//in//ho//tel// #lu/ci/fer #li/li/th

[cambion-companion]

Dark Waltz

Part 2 here

Inspired by the song: Dark Waltz by Hayley Westenra

In celebration of 2,000 followers I wrote a oneshot/drabble of the reader needing to seek comfort in the only person she feels comfortable baring her heart to. I got a little carried away so there is an 18+ only warning for this one.

I do want to continue this in a Part 2 just with pure filth haha but fluff for now

Tag list: @fuckinglittlekitten@bored-and-nerdy@echos-muses@moni-cah@mothertower@runningmunson@gabrieletargaryen@weskamoe@andreeasancheez@fleur-foudroyee@bcon24@tresefitzgibbons@lovesickwildcat@samblackblog@tinykryptonitewerewolf@thesapphirequeen@ohsehunbabyy@bitch-biblioklept@drawing-kitty1@scarletttargaryen@themartiansdaughter@blue-velvet-valentina@megatardisbaby@roseglowx@gotjonsa1@flowerpotmage@sirenofavalon@darylandbethfanforever9@enchantedpendant

Word count: 1,014

Aemond x f!reader | fluff | comfort | light smut toward the end, not explicit

Your soft footsteps padded down the dimly lit stone hallway.  Your cold feet sunk deep into the plush rugs, the hanging tapestries seeming to come to life in the dancing shadows cast by the flickering torchlight.  

You hugged yourself for warmth, wearing only your thin nightshift, the tear tracks still fresh upon your cheeks.  Your eyes were swollen from how long you’d been crying, along in your chambers of the Red Keep.  It was one of those nights, when the demons that haunted your memories came back to torment your mind. When all of your failings and insecurities, the hurt suffered alone and in silence for so long, caused the old aches in your heart to reopen.

Your one source of comfort lay just at the end of this hallway, through the heavy oaken door you found yourself stopping in front of, raising a hesitant hand to knock.  Perhaps this was a bad idea after all, you should gather what remained of your good sense and return to your own bedroom.  The desperation to ease the aching in your chest, to find out if your feelings could be more than a fleeting fantasy, spurred you into action.  

You rapped your knuckles upon the wooden door, a quick sharp sound.  Losing your nerve, you quickly turned and hastened back the way you’d come, stopping frozen as a soft voice called to you from behind.

“Y/N?”

“Aemond.”  Guilt constricted your throat as you faced the prince, his long silver hair disheveled, looking at you with sleepy confusion.

He beckoned you closer, touching your upper arm lightly when you approached. “Is all well?”  He peered closer at your puffy face. “Come.”  Aemond glanced behind you to the still empty hallway before pulling you into his chambers.

It was dark, your eyes taking a moment to adjust, soft moonlight spilled from arched windows across the carpeted floor.

“I couldn’t sleep.”  You felt Aemond’s hand lightly rest upon the small of your back as he guided you further into his room.  

“I gathered as much.”  He walked around you, tilting your chin up with a long finger to better look into your face.  “Is there a specific reason I hear a knock at my door in the middle of the night only to find you fleeing the scene?”

Your face flushed, grateful for the darkness of the room as you gazed into his handsome face.  You and he had become fast friends during your stay at King’s Landing, Aemond had been the one peer you felt comfortable being yourself with. He had become your closest confidant and ally, especially after you had coaxed him into revealing what lay underneath the leather eyepatch he wore at court, revealing the beautifully faceted sapphire.  

His violet eye flicked between your own, measuring your every change in expression as you stared at each other, the heavy silence conveying more than what words could ever achieve.

A look of sympathy creased Aemond’s brow, and your own face crumpled, tears falling freely from your eyes as you fell into his arms, a large hand cupping your head against his chest.

“Who has done you this hurt?  I will have them repay your pain tenfold.”  Aemond placed a gentle kiss to your crown.

You hugged your arms tighter about his waist, breathing in his scent of smoke and leather.  “I just need you to hold me, promise you’ll never leave me, even if it’s not true.”

In a fluid movement Aemond scooped you into his arms, moving to the large bed before depositing you onto the mattress.  You scooched over to give him room as he reclined next to you, pulling you tight against him.  The moon lit his hair in silver radiance, the rest of his face lay in shadow as he wiped the tears from your cheeks.  

He brushed his thumb along your trembling lower lip. “I will never leave you, Y/N.”

A different emotion swelled within you, another tear leaking down your face. Aemond swooped down to kiss the droplet away, his lips trailing to the corner of your mouth before he pulled back. 

“I have trusted you with the secrets I keep most jealously, and you have not turned away.”  Your heart stuttered as Aemond’s hand came up to rest atop the curve of your waist, gripping lightly. “I would never cause you harm of any kind, Y/N.”

Almost as if you were lost in a trance, you reached forward, cupping Aemond’s jaw in your hand, leaning up into him slowly.  He made no move to stop you as you tilted your head, your gaze dropping to his parted lips.  His hand trailed up from your waist, across your shoulder, to grip the nape of your neck, guiding you closer until your lips brushed, your quickening breaths intermingling.  

You pressed further against him, your tongue sweeping into his mouth as you deepened the kiss with a low groan.  Aemond’s fingers tangled in your hair, hot lips moving against yours with increasing intensity, his low sounds of pleasure reverberating against your own chest.

You bit his lower lip gently, before breaking away, molten heat pooling in your core at the expression he wore, the strands of moonlit hair messily falling across his angular face.

“Tell me what you need.” Aemond’s eye was almost pleading as he searched your features.

“I need you.”  Your breath trembled, knowing the both of you danced along the edge of a great precipice.  “Make me forget everything, everyone before you.”

“As my lady wishes.”  Aemond’s lips found yours once more, his touch tender but with the evidence of barely restrained passion he kept in check for your sake.  “Roll over.”  He breathed against your panting mouth, moving over you as your stomach pressed into the soft mattress.

“Do you trust me?”  You felt his weight shift atop you as Aemond’s hands ghosted down your sides to the hem of your nightdress.

“With my life.”  Your voice was thick with desire, raising your hips to help him guide your shift up your body. “With my love.”  A moan escaped your lips as you felt Aemond’s mouth upon your neck, sucking bruising kisses to your tender skin. “With my heart.”

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