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mediumgayitalian · 1 month

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———

By all accounts, Will knows what he’s doing.

He still drives like a godsdamn maniac.

“Do you want us to die?” Nico hollers, cheeks aching from the force of his grin, belly flipping at the peal of Will’s laughter.

The bike is exhilarating, as Will weaves it around cars at unbelievable speeds, working with the bike like it’s a part of him, like it’s not a separate thing he has to move. He steers it with a natural ease Nico’s only really seen in some of the best pegasus riders in camp — he knows the machine intimately enough to anticipate how it moves, how it reacts. It really is an extension of his body.

He left any panic about gripping onto Will somewhere in Long Island — to let go would be suicide. He has to hold on to stay onto the bike, to know to lean when Will leans, to tense when he tenses. Besides that, he’s having fun. He’s not the one driving, so he’s free to rest his helmet on Will’s back and watch as the world whips by — dizzying, really, as the speed of the bike making the green-budding trees melt into the bright blue skies, mix with the tar black asphalt, glow under the sparkling sun. The whole world looks like sidewalk chalk after it rains, a swirling mass of colour and streaks as artistic or more than what it was before it was washed away. The only indication that they’re actually going anywhere rather than standing straight in the middle of a kaleidoscope is the spots of roadside green that pop up every now and again, or a heavy lean to the side and Will switches lanes.

As they pull out of New York, Will starts to slow down. The dizzying mass of colours calms until everything’s at a slow spin, as Will mellows out to a speed that can be registered on a mortal odometer. With less wind whipping all over, Nico can actually hear him.

“Better than a flying chariot?”

Nico grins. “Definitely.”

“Another great thing about this is that it has a CD player. Two-nothing for the sad hunk of wood.”

By great thing Will of course means the same four songs I’ve been obsessed with for a month playing over and over and over until you are ready to launch yourself off the bike and join the dead raccoon at the side of the road, but that still doesn’t manage to ruin it. Something about driving top speeds in the early spring air makes it hard to be annoyed about annoying.

(Or maybe it’s the way Nico can feel Will’s muscles shift every time he moves, or how he winks every time he catches Nico’s eye in the mirrors, or the lowkey kind of sinful the way he straddles the seat. But Nico is quite happy sharing a name with a river in Egypt, so he ignores these fun facts and continues to delude himself, an art in which he is become quite wondrously skilled.)

Somewhere between Jersey and Delaware, the traffic picks up again, so Will shouts for him to hold on and cranks up the speed. Nico clenches tightly around his waist, squeezing his eyes shut, this time, and listens to the roar of air as they shove through it fast enough to rival sound. When they’re drifting, again, Nico can feel an incline, and looks up just in time to watch Will exit off the highway.

“Are we here already?” he shouts, incredulous. He knows his ADHD makes him bad with time, but jeez — it can’t have been more than an hour, an hour and a half.

“Not yet,” Will says, barely having to raise his voice as they come to a stop, heel of his boot clicking on the pavement. He checks both ways and then, once nothing comes around the bend, pushes off and guides them down a winding back road, tipping around curves and speeding down hills. Nico’s stomach bottoms out every drop, and he can’t clamp down the giggle that pushes out his throat, as ridiculous as it is. Luckily, Will’s giggling, too.

In a few minutes, they pull up to an old, rusted gas station, with signs so old they’re hand-painted. Will kills the engine and flicks out the kickstand, pulling off his helmet and shaking out his hair. It’s such a tangled mess that Nico can’t help but reach out and tug on a lopsided curl.

“I didn’t think this thing needed gas.”

“It doesn’t!” He pats a dark piece of glass in between the handlebars. “It’s solar-powered. But I figured you could use a minute to stretch your legs, and frankly, if I don’t eat something soon I genuinely might cook you.”

“You forgot to eat today, didn’t you.”

“…No.”

As soon as he speaks, his eyes start to water. His throat swells. He holds his breath for a noble four seconds, and then starts wheezing.

Nico sighs heavily. “Dumbass.”

Hauling him upright by the collar, Nico drags him towards the little corner store. This, at least, is familiar. Will gets caught up in his work easily, and forgets to do things like eat or move or, on one particularly amusing occasion, breathe. (Just tipped right over, one day, onto the floor, mid-poultice. There is a chip on the side of the stone mortar to this day. Nico, Will’s other friends, and his siblings take shifts bringing it up to dunk on him properly. Last he checked, Lou Ellen commissioned Jake Mason to make a plaque to hang on the infirmary wall, memorializing the incident forever.)

“C’mon, stupid. Let’s get you a sandwich. And Benadryl.”

“I’m honestly fine,” Will wheezes, cheeks swelling slightly.

“Stop talking,” Nico orders. “You’re making it worse.”

Wisely, Will clamps up. That, or his throat is starting to close. Either is likely.

His stubborn determination to continue lying despite being literally allergic to it would be impressive, if it wasn’t so irritating.

A little bell rings by the door when Nico pushes it open, making the person sitting behind the counter look up.

“Ah,” they say sagely, folding up their newspaper. “Demigods.”

Immediately, Nico’s on alert. Before he can draw his sword, though, Will lifts a hive-spotted hand in a wave.

“Hey, Berchio,” he croaks.

The person at the counter — Berchio — smiles ruefully.

“Benadryl?”

Nico nods hesitantly, still a little wary at the stranger, but Will is starting to keen over, now, and Nico didn’t think to bring an Epi-Pen (since the allergy is totally avoidable, William, you are your own worst enemy), so he’s running out of options. “Please.”

Chuckling to themself, Berchio ruffles around a shelf by the checkout counter, locating the familiar bottle after a minute — Will gets himself into these situations a lot, he has a serious twizzler problem and should consider getting his own stash instead of lifting it from the Hermes cabin and then lying about where it went — and rolling towards them. The spokes of their wheelchair have little skull charms on them that make a pleasant tinkling noise as they spin, making Nico trust them instantly. He should get Chiron wheel beads. That’s sick as hell.

“Here, kid. Drink water, too, you’re going to dry yourself out.”

Will garbles out a thank you, choking down the medicine. As all meds do with Apollo’s children, lucky bastards that they are, it works quickly, and in minutes he’s breathing right again.

“Gods, I love oxygen.”

“You are a human disaster,” Nico informs him. “Like, hugely.”

Will takes a sip of his water, pondering that. “Is that more embarrassing for you, or for me?”

“Why the hell would it be embarrassing for me?”

“Well, since you like me so much.” Nico chokes. “I might be a disaster, but at least I don’t have a crush on one.”

“All this wheezing,” Berchio sighs. “This must be Nico?”

“The one and only,” Will says cheerfully. He reaches out and touches a warm hand to Nico’s throat, immediately clearing his airways. Now no longer struggling for breath, Nico darts out and punches him, hard, on the arm.

“Ow! Meanie!”

“You are such a derp-faced dweeb,” Nico hisses, fully aware he’s red in the face. “Why are you — why are you this way.”

“I’m gonna tell Chiron you were bullying me!”

“Tell him! I’ll tell him you were the one to sprinkle instant mashed potatoes all over the grass before it rained, not Cecil!”

Will snaps his mouth shut. “I told you that in confidence.”

Nico smiles smugly. “Well, that’s on you. My loyalties are about as secure as my parent’s relationship.”

“If you two are finished flirting,” interrupts an amused voice, making both of them jump. Berchio watches them with their arms crossed, eyebrow raised in a similar chiding way to Chiron last time he caught Nico attempting to sneak an entire tray of brownies from the kitchen (mark his words — as soon as he can shadow travel again, no other camper will be seeing a brownie as long as they shall live). They shake their head, tutting exaggeratedly. “My, my, Will, I’m beginning to understand why you mentioned him every time you opened your mouth. I figured you liked him, but this is ridiculous.”

For once, Will is the one to flush crimson. He stutters something entirely incomprehensible, gesturing vaguely towards Berchio, and then frantically towards Nico, and finally squawks something about trust and the breaching of it. He goes red to the very roots of his hair, clamping his own mouth shut mid-sentence and scowling something awful.

Suddenly, Nico gets it. This is why no one ever leaves him alone. Oh, he is loathe to give the assholes he’s friends with credit, but…

When does he ever get to see Will — confident, easy Will — go scarlet?

“So you like me,” he says, shit eating grin stretching across his face. “Oh ho ho ho.”

“Oh, shut up,” Will snaps, without any heat. “Last time we played volleyball you got a concussion ‘cause you couldn’t stop staring at my chest and took a ball to the face.”

“That — it was — that hit was malicious,” he sputters. “And how is it my fault you’re always ditching your shirt at the first available opportunity like some kind of whore? I couldn’t not look!”

“Avert your eyes, then, scoundrel!”

“I — don’t call me a scoundrel! You’re a scoundrel!”

“You’re both late, is what you are,” Berchio interrupts again. “Will, I assume you’re running an errand?”

Still a little flushed, Will nods. “Yes. Thanks, Berchio. We’re picking up parts in Roanoke, I just stopped for some food.”

“He forgot to eat this morning,” Nico pipes up. He figures that Berchio seems comfortable enough with Will that they can act as a disappointed authority figure, which will make Mr. Daddy Issues Solace crumple like a castle built on a pillar of sand — he needs the humbling. (Also, Nico will get him on a healthier track or die trying. It’s not fair that he gets to be a big hypocrite about good diet and eating and sleeping habits and then turn around and act a fool. Someone needs to watch out for the idiot, or he’s going to get himself killed, and then Nico is going to have to spend the rest of his life in the Underworld, yelling at him.)

“William.”

Nico’s theory is proven correct. Berchio stares at Will with the perfect mix of disappointment and concern, immediately triggering the scramble-to-please expression on Will’s face. He practically stumbles over himself trying to follow after him and get fed.

“Are you happy with a sandwich, Nico? I know Will’ll eat anything that even remotely looks like food, but most of us have standards,” they tease.

Nico snorts at Will’s offended pout. “Yeah, a sandwich is more than fine. Thanks, Berchio.”

After handing them both a sandwich they pull from one of the many fridges in the little convenience store, they guide them outside, parking their wheelchair next to the curb they sit on and joining them in a little picnic.

“So how do you know each other?” Nico asks, gesturing between the two of them.

Will answers first, because Berchio, who is a polite person with manners, takes the time to swallow their food.

“I stop here all the time,” he says, garbled, making both Nico and Berchio wince. Nico takes the initiative to kick him.

“Stop being disgusting and explain yourself without showing off the contents of your mouth,” Nico threatens, “or I’m going to stab you again.”

Will swallows, sticks out his tongue, and continues.

“First time I used the bike, I got it into my head that I should go visit my mom. Would’ve been fine, except I was thirteen and hadn’t been outside of camp in six years and got chased by a pack of empousai the second I left the city, basically.”

“I was collecting herbs and sensed him coming,” Berchio explains. “He crossed the borders I have set up; I hid him here. Now he stops by whenever he’s travelling to chat.” Berchio smiles warmly. “I appreciate the company.”

Will grins back. “Me too! Plus, I very much appreciate the herb exchange. Speaking of which, I have your goldenrod.”

He digs into his jeans pocket, pulling out a bundle. He hands it over to Berchio, who accepts it gratefully, handing over their own bundle to Will.

“And your witch hazel.”

“Berchio’s an Ipotane,” Will explains, catching sight of Nico’s furrowed brow. “They’ve been doing this healing stuff for centuries. They’re real good with salves.”

Nico shakes his head fondly. “Even when you’re being cool, you’re a nerd.” He gestures to the bike. “Taking your secret motorcycle to visit your secret mentor to learn more about healing. Gods, it’s like Apollo made you in a lab.”

“You take that back! I contain multitudes!”

“And now you’re quoting famous poems, dear gods, try to prove my point better, why don’t you —”

“Blah blah blah!”

Nico grins at him, rolling his eyes, and Will is just as playfully dramatic with his bit lip and hidden smile and the hair he tucks behind his ear like he does when he wants to touch somebody but isn’t sure if it’s invited. Nico answers the question for him, reaching out and flicking his knuckles as an excuse to touch his hands. Will takes it, beaming.

“Thank you for the food, Berchio,” Will says when they finish, leaning down to hug them. “We gotta get going, but I’ll be back in a couple weeks. I had a dream about an outbreak, so no doubt the infirmary will need restocked soon.”

“Bring your boyfriend next time,” Berchio suggests, grinning when Nico goes red at the term. “Watching the two of you was not unlike one of Sterne’s famous productions.”

“I take offence to that,” Will says haughtily.

“Good. You needed humbling.”

“Nobody appreciates me around here!”

Nico bites back the I do that threatens to escape his throat. Gods, he’s so embarrassing. Whoever taught him how to speak should have to pay for their crimes.

They head back to the bike, waving goodbye to the Ipotane and speeding off. The drive the rest of the way down south is much calmer, bellies full and energy somewhat spent, and it helps that there’s no traffic. Will cruises, keeping time with the sun that’s inching across the sky, ignoring Nico’s suggestion to attempt to race his dad. They arrive in Roanoke in good time, following Nyssa’s scrawled directions to the parts shop.

The shop is old, visibly, paint peeling and smelling strongly of car grease. As Nysa predicted, the person they speak to — a mechanic, by the look of her jumpsuit — doesn’t ask so much as a single question at the two teenagers rolling up to her doorstep, heading to the greasy shelves of car parts and grabbing what they need with a shrug.

“Well,” says Will slowly as she piles them on the counter, “that’s…more than I anticipated.”

Nico looks at the stack of twisted metal. He looks at the bike. Finally, he looks at his dumbass friend.

“Solace.”

Will scratches the back of his neck. “Yeah?”

“Solace, tell me you have space to put this stuff.”

“Well, we can try the seat compartment?”

Nico buries his head in his hands. “Solace.”

“What!”

“You know what, lughead! We cannot do the one thing we came here to do! Gods!”

“I usually go on supply runs for the infirmary, okay!” Will cries. “That stuff is way less bulky! I forgot to compensate!”

Nico groans. At this point, they’re going to have to bus back, or something equally as stupid. And what are they gonna do with the bike? Gods, if Nico was here by himself and also maybe possibly with Reyna, who could share her strength, he’d just —

He stills.

“Oh, no,” Will says, pointing a stern finger, “oh, no, di Angelo, I know that look, you have been expressly banned —”

“Relax,” Nico grumbles. “Don’t you trust me?”

“With everything,” Will says automatically, then flushes for the second time that day. “But that is not the point —”

Deciding he will return to that later — and he most certainly will — Nico darts forward. Before Will can stop him, he puts both hands on the pile of parts, lunges towards the nearest shadow, and shoved them in, withdrawing as quickly as he can manage.

“Nico!”

He waits.

“Oh, you fuckin’ — you goddamn son of a mother!”

He checks his hands — still solid.

“I am going to smash you flat an’ feed you through a goddamn juicer! You fuckin’ heart-stopper!”

He grins. “I told you I could do some Underworld magic.”

“Underworld deez fuckin’ nuts!” Will stomps forward, grabbing Nico’s hands to do his own inspection. “What part of doctor’s orders are you missin’, huh? You think I wanna watch you fade again? You think I wanna —” His voice cracks, hands tightening around Nico’s wrists. Nico softens immediately, smug look melting into something gentler.

“Will.”

“You coulda died, Nico, you coulda faded to — to nothin’.”

“Will.” He flips his hands so his palms meet Will’s, and squeezes, smiling gently. “Feel my vitals, dork. Am I fading?”

Will exhales. “No.”

“Am I close?”

“…No.”

He squeezes again. “I’m fine, Will.”

“You scared me.” The anger in his voice has faded into something soft — something afraid. Suddenly the hands on his wrists feel more clingy than anything, and a twinge of guilt goes off in Nico’s stomach.

“I’m sorry.” He squeezes Will’s hands one last time, and when that doesn’t do much, lets go to wrap around his cheeks, instead, forcing him to meet his eyes. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“I don’t mean to restrict you,” Will says softly. “It’s just — I worry, is all.”

Nico taps their foreheads together, smile pulling at his face. This, he can — this he can deal with. This version of Will, soft and nervous and caring, makes it a lot easier to slide his fingers into the mess of Will’s curls, to run his thumbs over his cheekbones and feel him shiver.

“Would that have anything to do with the alleged crush you have on me?”

Will grins. “It might.” One of his hands comes up to rest on top of Nico’s, brushing over his knuckles. “All your moonin’ after me had me looking twice, I guess.”

“You’re such a dick,” Nico scoffs, and yanks him down to meet him in the middle, laughing, swallowing his smile and relishing in the warm press of their bodies. It’s — gods, it’s everything, it’s a thousand times better than he imagined, and at the same time everything he expected. Will smells like wind and sunshine and his lavender shampoo, and his hands are roughened from all the antiseptic he has to use, and his lips are surprisingly chapped, but the press of his cheeks is soft, and the feel of him is overwhelming. It feels, as cliche as it is, like the final burst of a firework after watching the smokey trail of the rocket with bated breath, watching it crest the night sky before exploding, finally, amongst the stars, it’s like —

A cleared throat startled them apart.

“Anytime y’all feel like paying for those parts, it would be great.”

Will grins sheepishly. “Sorry,” he says, pulling out the money Chiron gave him. His grin turns sly, and Nico’s knees turn to jelly. “My boyfriend’s just super distracting.”

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dhampling · 3 months

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butter gn!reader, 2.5k

Astarion and his legendary beauty. Old hunting ground turned safe haven. A halo of well-aged tavern dust floats atop his perfect head in the sunlight and you couldn’t be more in love if you tried.

you and the vampire spend a short gloaming sun discussing marriage outside the Elfsong.

word count: 2,538

crossposted on AO3 HERE

read the tags and decide your fate!

He’s softer this evening and the room is fuzzy.

The smell of richly slow-roasted meats & seasonal field greens slapped up high on battered dishes and lathered with fresh salted butter, topped with baby mint, with window-grown rosemary; with truffle salts and crushed peppercorns. Red wine gravy. The open kitchen and the overworked barkeep with sweat glistening at his cheekbone.

Chalices lift from sticky dark tables, sleeves animated in shades of burgundy & emerald moving yellowed, peeling playing cards to chests. Hands joined in prayers of gratitude and glory. Extra chairs for those held close. Laughter; lilting as the bounce of those who whirl around the open floor to the sound of the bards, folding over in some giddy stupor and barreling back to the bar for more.

You nurse a now-warm pint of Balor Ale with eyes closed, calm in empty contemplation as the city smells and sounds wash over you. A late summertide tapestry.

Though people mill about the bar frenetically and the sounds from inside the Elfsong are as raucous as ever; it all knots together to form a sweet, almost melancholy ambience.

Nearby merchants bellow late-day deals on (mildly) heat-foetid produce. Peals of children laughing as they bomb through the cobbles.

Occasionally you’ll flit your lazy eyes open to find him amongst the throngs of people inside.

And in perfect view, he lounges on the back support of an open booth seat Karlach occupies.

Other party members dot similarly around the bar area and the wine flows free as the Chionthar among them. Legs crossed one over the other and cool hands coloured in late amber - one to support, the other to hold the stem of an ‘aged’ Rosymorn Firewine which threatens to spill a little overside as his arm moves in conversation.

From this angle he’s captured beautifully in the gloaming tenday light and from his slightly straightened poise it’s clear he knows that you’re watching for him.

A voyeur.

He’d question your intent, right by your ear, in a sing-song voice so sinfully rich it’d go straight to your head; before chortling in that one silly way he knows never fails to make you smile and capturing you - his darling dearest - in a kiss for the ages.

Astarion and his legendary beauty. Old hunting ground turned safe haven. A halo of well-aged tavern dust floats atop his perfect head in the sunlight and you couldn’t be more in love if you tried.

You see he looks to you after what seems to have been a joke told by one of the group, eyes heavy lidded with joy and the worn creases by his eyes a little deeper by the day. Checking in. You join your friends when you want and are gratefully received on those many occasions, but you revere your time alone. He holds back because he doesn’t want to upset you in the slightest.

Despite reiterating that he is forever welcome to join you in said alone time - and all puns entailing your ‘ alone time ’ whispered in a soft silken purr aside - you feel it in the way he speaks to you.

A fruitfly hums by your ear. You swat it away and look to him once more.

Astarion’s eyes are back on the group.

He listens to stories beyond your earshot and smiles, lolling his pretty head back and dipping to sip from his glass often, the tips of his ears twitching ever so slightly as he does. You clock the sparkling glassware as opposed to the standard tavern-offering pewter chalice and grimace. A heavy bell rings from one of the gilded towers in the near distance.

There’s a cathedral near where you’re from - you remember your visits there as a young thing. The height of the tallest spire seemingly miles above your tiny skull. Ribbed vaulting and lancets. You’d marry him there, when he’d let you, in one of the smaller chapels just off the aged cloister walkway.

The old stone reminiscent of so many who’d loved in all sorts of mangled, patchwork ways before you two were even a thought.

You’d find a way for the sun to forgive him once this was over, so he could stand in the light of a stained rose window and feel faith in something the way those born into religion do.

A reception bursting at the seams with old friends at the Elfsong. You could dance yourselves to the point of a tired stupor with reason enough to do so. A celebration.

Travel across Toril and find a way for him to be able to stomach real food, maybe. Have a cake with marzipan and trifle with rich sherry-soaked sponge for the guests. For him.

His lips show the faintest touch of a wine singe as he looks from Wyll and across to Jaheira, squinting in the sun before standing to - presumably - head to the bar.

You close your eyes again and somewhere in the middle distance, bells continue to ring. A dopey grin as light heeled footsteps approach.

“I think everyone was beginning to wonder if we’d had a tiff.”

Astarion sniffs gently and sits - almost slumped - toward you before leaning in for the kiss.

His lips open lazily to meet yours over and over again, skimming over the back of your teeth with a tannin-stained tongue and all the urgency of a tenday rest. A cold thumb brushes over the apple of your newly freckled cheek.

A carafe of freshly corked wine on the bench before you both, glassware and a plate with warm bread. The butter you’d smelled earlier.

“Could’ve come to me sooner, lover.” You pose with a slow blink, holding his arm still at the wrist to keep his hand to your burning face.

Foreheads meet. The sun beats in the back and the still early evening air is interrupted by the faint buzz of insects and far-off children.

“I know. I do. You just looked so very deep in thought. Our heroic leader.” He jokes, emphasising ‘heroic leader’ in a mock grizzled tone before his head leaves yours and bringing you into his torso with his arm around you.

His stillness feels reverent.

He doesn’t jostle, not a single gesture. You steadily pour two glasses of Firewine from the hefty carafe and sit back into him again.

“I was thinking about you.” You say in earnest while moving to toy mindlessly with the hand draped over your shoulder.

“Hm?”

A flicker - his eyes are on you, a familiar burn, a fire poker. He knows that he’s often the subject of your pondering (if your word is to be believed) and has spent days of his own considering what that could mean.

On nights where his tongue sours with centuries of fermented scorn and his bedroll soaks through with thick, cold sweat; your mind is a fertile meadow and he resides as naught but a simple buxom milkmaid - giving and dense and virile atop dry grassy knolls and by stony running rivers, rutting and riding and suckling and spilling with bare teeth brushing shining cheekbones and dirt smears on thighs. Dimples on cheeks. Eyes of green and silver, blunt teeth.

“You. I was thinking about you.”

Astarion looks into the oncoming twilight. He rests his head to the side on yours, then nestles in a little. A sigh.

From that meadow however, there’s a house with a thatch roof in the far distance; in which he sits by a roaring fireplace in comfortable clothes of his own choice and you, bundling through the door with a basket of fresh produce to stew in hand.

Those lips alone capable of crafting a euphoria akin to a godsly blessing on him.

One bedroom; perhaps two.

Maybe even three.

“How so, my sweet?” He speaks with the familiar measure of a thousand yard stare.

He doesn’t make the voyeur joke you’d seen so vividly in your mind’s eye, nor does he collapse around you with both arms at either of your sides and his chin on your head; burying kisses into your hair and cackling maniacally.

His laundry must’ve dried on the balcony in your party’s quarters during the blazing height of Flamerule. Ruffled shirt linen, crisp and earthy.

“You want to know how I was thinking about you?”

A soft intake of breath.

“Yes.”

You shift a little to look to the Lower City further down the hills and pathways of Baldur’s Gate, the span of the Chionthar and its banks now lit with flaming torches.

The racket continues inside the Elfsong with songs being sung; food arriving at waiting tables and being spooned, hot, into hungry, wet mouths. Sweat slickened palms joining in prayer. Yellowed cards downed and reshuffled, hands dealt. Bards plucking at lutes and lyres on streets and in parks just far enough away.

He looks to you as you roll your tongue around the inside of your cheek. Soft round eyes seeking permission to dream alongside you.

‘I was picturing a wedding. Our wedding. In the cathedral back near home - I’m sure I’ve mentioned it before.”

Though it hasn’t been left to sit long enough to aerate, you take a long sip of wine and a cloying film of carnelian remains on your tongue.

His eyes sharpen.

“You didn’t just propose to me, did you?’

He quirks a brow.

‘Really, darling? Here?’

He gestures to your surroundings while feigning disdain and reaching for the other glass. You begin to shake your head.

‘Come on now, little love. Not even a ring?”

Astarion drinks. His voice is lower. You roll your head back in loving laughter and wriggle yourself from his grasp, buttering a chunk of bread before popping it cleanly into your mouth.

”You want a ring?’

A sip. A smile.

‘Go nick one. You’re the rogue here.” You quip, chewing still on the crust and wiping your fingers on a scrap of cloth.

He brings them to his lips and licks clean any trace of salty butter, kissing each pad of calloused flesh attentively before sipping from his glass.

“Thieving my own engagement ring? How very sad.’

Spare hand gesturing once again to the tavern in such a blasé fashion it would make you cringe if you still put any doubt into his estimation of you.

‘This whole thing.”

His brows furrow in jest, the corner of his mouth pulling at a quick smirk.

“Steal one for me, then.” You suckle at your wine, keeping the vessel close pressed to your lips lest their wavering seriousness give your smile away. Astarion studies you.

“You’d accept a stolen ring as a sign of promise? Of intent to marry?” He queries, though not sounding as airy - nor aghast - as he likely means to.

“Depends who stole it.”

He looks back to the city in the distance. Silence between the two of you.

“What were you picturing in that pretty head of yours? The wedding.”

His hands roll over one another nonchalantly as he says the word. Wedding. The glass sloshes. He’s toying on the precipice of serious, a scene he can’t quite play at comfortably yet.

“Oh no no no, my love. You’ll recoil. It was far too homely for your tastes.” You shake your head animatedly, waving your hands in emphasis.

He leans in towards you; a sordid grin. He’s comfortable now. The warmth in which his shirt dried vividly present.

“Oh go on, darling. Make me squirm. Tell me every fang-rottingly flaccid detail and I’ll absolutely hate it, I promise.”

You choose to forget the face of endless night this evening.

The anticipated fast approaching absence of the tadpole means - most likely - the rescinding of Astarion’s ability to walk in the sun, to bask under the stained glass rose in the chapel; or to waltz in a quiet midday embrace atop the Elfsong veranda.

“Can I trust you to be as absolutely appalled as I imagine you’ll be?” You whisper, saccharine in mock secrecy.

“I swear it. Hand on undead heart.”

He lingers barely above you, solemn; a voice of liquid gold.

You let the silence hang.

“A chapel’

He winces.

‘Cold and draughty in some early morning moment - a choir elsewhere in the building, not close enough to be loud but not far enough to have their verses be wholly indiscernible in song.”

“Go on.”

“Maybe a little austere in tone owing to the nature of the environment, but each moment feels anticipatory. A small - no, intimate - service, fast but…’

You tap your fingers on the dry wood of the bench. Trying to recall the exact sentiment.

‘Eager. Full of devotion so sickeningly true it literally fizzes below the surface of the flesh. Both of us.”

Now you sip, content. Astarion looks into the distance

There are no burdens pertaining to the ‘Absolute’. Life is being lived and the day feels as if it is ending only for another one - just the same - to rise in its place tomorrow. The idea of fighting and peril waits for the morning chimes. An unspoken agreement.

“I keep forgetting I can make choices like that now, truth be told. To commit myself to something with no intent other than that which I decide.”

He’s wistful. A little contemplative. Fingers tapping away.

“There’s no rush, my dove.’

Eyes back on you, hand reaching for yours.

‘Besides - for the trifle I pictured at the reception; we’d need to solve your little taste problem first before I’d dream of allowing such an indulgence to go to waste.”

Astarion coughs, a glint in his eye.

“You’re questioning my taste now?”

“Oh, absolutely. Look at your choice in partner.”

He laughs softly.

“You're an insufferable thing.’

Your fingers & knapsack are both heavy already with stolen gems, as are those of every friend you’ve met along the road. Rings of onyx, quartz; once personal keepsakes & now your plunderer’s spoils. He’s like a magpie whilst rummaging through burlap sacks and rotten barrels. Token pieces without rhyme or reason.

He knows they’re worthless to sell on, anyway.

‘Who knows, though. I might like that. Once I know who I am again.”

Wobbles his head. Examines his pristine fingernails, buffing them softly against his blouse.

“Did you just accept a proposal that you fictionalised in the first place?” You gulp the last of your glass before refilling it swiftly.

“No. But now, you’ve got me thinking.”

“Pray tell?”

He looks at you, eyes now awash with mischief.

“Though I absolutely adore the vision of you on your knees for me - you know I do pet, hush now - I also like the idea of claiming the pose for myself. In a way that’s meaningful for me.’

He sips. You remain in place, hushed.

‘I’m not a details man, my love.’

Eyes on you.

‘Don’t do it for me. I want to. Once we know where we are.”

You beam at him. Pinpointing the moment he turns from rogue to butter, a soft smile on his face. Sincere in the last of the sunshine.

You’re not hinting, and you’d never intend to. When - or if - you’ll tie the knot is as asking the length of a piece of string.

The road which brought you to this very bench, however; has been one fraught with similar nonsensical questions.

#astarion x reader #astarion #fluff #not smut #my writing #one shot #talk of marriage #gender neutral reader #i think #should be anyway #soft astarion

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duskiers · 2 months

Text

Echoes of the Heart

> percy / reader

> In the midst of a brewing storm at Camp Half-Blood, you confront Percy Jackson with your feelings

> angstish .. hurt comfort idkk enjoy tho 🐟

‿︵‿︵⊹‿︵‿︵⊹‿︵⊹‿︵🫐︵‿⊹︵‿⊹︵‿︵‿⊹︵‿︵

The air was thick with the scent of a storm brewing, a tangible tension that mirrored the tumult in your heart as you stood facing Percy. Camp Half-Blood had always been a place of safety, but today it felt like the epicenter of your own personal storm.

"You just wouldn't understand, Percy!" The words tumbled out, a mix of frustration and despair. You had been bottling up your feelings, feelings that seemed to pale in comparison to the monumental struggles Percy faced. How could the hero of Olympus, the one who had faced gods and monsters, understand the silent battles you fought within?

Percy's expression was a mix of hurt and confusion, his sea-green eyes clouded with concern. "Then make me understand" he pleaded, stepping closer despite your instinctive step back. "I thought we were friends...more than that, even. Why won't you let me in?"

"It's not that simple, Percy." Your voice broke, betraying the turmoil inside. "You have the world on your shoulders. My problems...they're just drops in the ocean compared to yours."

"That's where you're wrong," he said firmly, closing the distance you had put between you. His hand reached out, hesitating for a moment before gently tilting your chin up to meet his gaze. "Every drop in the ocean counts, [Your Name]. And your problems matter to me, because...because I care about you. A lot."

The sincerity in his voice, the intensity of his gaze, it broke down the walls you had built around your heart. Tears welled up, blurring the edges of his figure, as the weight of your bottled-up emotions started to pour out.

"But how can you care about someone like me? I'm not a hero. I'm not brave or strong. I'm just...me," you whispered, the words barely a breath against the gathering storm.

Percy's smile was soft, a balm to the rawness of your soul. "You are brave, in ways you don't even see. You're strong because you're standing here, despite how you feel. And you're you—that's what makes you matter. To the camp, to the world, to me."

In that moment, the world seemed to narrow down to just the two of you, standing in the heart of an impending storm, finding comfort in the eye of it all. Percy's words were a lifeline, pulling you back from the edge of despair, reminding you that you were not alone, that you mattered.

"I don't know what to say," you admitted, the fight draining out of you, leaving a vulnerable honesty in its place.

"Just say you'll let me be there for you," Percy said, his voice gentle. "Let me help carry the burden, like you've been there for me."

The promise in his words, the offer of shared strength, it was more than you had hoped for. It was the assurance that your battles were valid, that your feelings mattered, and most importantly, that someone cared.

"Okay" you agreed, a small, tentative smile breaking through the storm within. "I'll try. Together?"

"Together." he confirmed, his smile matching yours, as a peal of thunder rolled in the distance, less threatening now.

In the heart of Camp Half-Blood, amidst whispers of a coming storm, you found a haven in Percy's care.

#꒰ ঌ 🪧 ໒ ꒱#percy jackson x reader #percy x reader #pjo x reader #pjo #pjo angst #percy jackson comfort #percy x reader angst #percy jackson angst #percy jackson fluff #percy fluff #womp womp #idk what im doing #hehehe #:3

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dilemmaontwolegs · 5 months

Text

The Bucket List - Bucket Moments || CL16

Warnings: fluff WC: 1.2k Main Story || Death Scene || Two Years Later || Bucket Moments || Five Years Later

1. Sleep under the northern lights

Charles found another blanket in the storage box and draped it over your shoulders as he joined you in the clearing.

“Have you ever seen something so beautiful?” You asked the question quietly, fearful that your very voice could disturb the peace of the night. Overhead, green and orange light danced to the music of the universe that you could almost hear.

“Every day,” Charles whispered too quietly for you to hear. Swallowing the lump in his throat he recorded the northern lights illuminating the wonder on your face. You were mesmerised as you reached for the colour like it was a ribbon you could catch if you were quick enough, but it slipped through your fingers.

“Make an angel with me, Cha,” you giggled as you tossed the blanket aside and fell back into the snow. Charles fell down beside you and waved his arms like you made him do whenever he took you skiing. “I could stay frozen here forever.”

“Me too, mon ange.”

8. Go to India for the colour festival

“Don’t you dare,” Charles warned as you filled your fist with a dark blue powder. “Amour!”

You bent in half with the burst of laughter that cut through his faux annoyance and his own laugh joined yours. His white shirt was splattered with the colour of his biggest competitor and you grinned as you took a photo, sending it to Max. A burst of powder hit your front and you gaped at the explosion of red clouding your vision before it cleared to reveal Charles’ smug face.

“That’s better,” he hummed as he pulled you into his arms, the colours of the rainbow dusting your face as he dipped his head down to yours and kissed you. “None of those Red Bull colours for you, mon ange.”

A peal of laughter sounded as you were pushed apart and Lorenzo ducked between you, a burst of yellow hitting Charles and raining over you. “Sorry, chére!” Arthur apologised as he bolted off again, chasing the eldest brother.

Charles wrapped his arms around your waist as he stepped up behind you, watching his brothers race through the energetic crowd to find Joris and Pierre. His soft laugh warmed your cheeks as the three guys made an absolute mess. “Snow fights will never beat this.”

Your eyes widened with an idea. “Imagine colouring the snow balls!”

“Except yellow,” Charles pointed out, chuckling as your nose wrinkled at the idea.

“No, definitely not yellow,” you agreed. “But it would be funny to prank them if you did…”

Charles turned you in his arms and smiled fondly as he wiped away some of the coloured powders from your cheeks. “I love that mind of yours.”

“Just my mind?”

His eyes trailed over your shirt that was no longer white and his pupils darkened by the second as he bit his lip and continued to survey you with a look of hunger. Slowly he dragged his eyes back up until he reached your face again and released his plump lip from his teeth. “Yes, just your mind.”

He rocked back on his heels with a loud laugh that came from deep in his stomach and you gave him a little push against his chest. “Cha!”

Your feet disappeared from the ground as he picked you up and your hands came to rest on his shoulders as he looked up at you in awe. “There is not a single part of you I don’t love, mon ange.”

12. Teach Charles to cook

Charles would rather go swimming with sharks again, and he had not enjoyed that. He knew it would be a hell of a lot better than what you were about to make him do though.

“I look stupid,” he complained as he placed the toque on his head.

“You look stupid?” you laughed, pointing to your own head. “I have a hairnet on and I don’t have hair. So put your big boy pants on and let’s go, class is starting.”

You had debated trying to teach Charles to cook yourself but after a few mishaps and burned tea towels you decided you needed professional help for the task. This culinary school for beginners promised that it could teach even the most incompetent cooks to master the basics and most importantly, pasta.

Thankfully putting Charles in a class setting made him focus and take note of the instructions. You could always count on him to become the teacher's pet and by the third lesson you watched with pride as he kneaded the pasta dough to perfection.

“Can you dust a little more flour please?” he asked as he held the dough up.

“Yes, chef,” you saluted as you took a handful and scattered it over the bench. “Oh, you’ve got a little something on your cheek.”

“Can you get it?” he turned his cheek towards you as you tossed the rest of the flour at him. “Non…run.”

You turned and squealed as he grabbed a handful of flour and gave chase. “You’re going to get us expelled!”

He ignored you as he herded you into the huge pantry and you armed yourself with an egg in each hand. “We have ourselves an old-fashioned standoff, huh?” he teased. “It’s a good thing your aim is terrible.”

Charles moved first, showering you with the flour, and you launched the first egg. He deftly dodged it by jumping aside but it put him right into the trajectory of the second and it splattered over the chef’s jacket he wore. He looked down at the bright yolk and slimy whites that dribbled to the floor before looking back at the door where the chef was standing with a red face.

“Both of you, out of my kitchen now!”

You tried to keep a straight face as you shuffled through the mess without slipping over and rushed to grab your handbag. “I can’t believe you got us expelled!” You burst into laughter as you exited the building and raced Charles to his Pista in the parking lot.

“Me?” he laughed as he caged you between the car door. His eyes sparkled with amusement and he couldn’t help stealing a kiss when your happiness was as pure as it was in that moment. “Since I ruined our dinner plans, what would you like to eat? And please don’t say pasta or I will take you over my knee and spank you.”

“I mean, don’t threaten me with a good time,” you winked. “How about cake? You are already wearing half of the ingredients.”

#charles leclerc x reader #charles leclerc fanfic #charles leclerc imagine #charles leclerc x you #f1 fanfic #f1 imagine #formula one imagine #formula 1 fanfic #formula one fanfiction

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fayes-fics · 1 year

Text

Teacher Bridgerton

2k Celebration Masterpost

Pairing: Benedict Bridgerton x fem!reader, Modern AU

Summary: Modern AU Benedict, primary school art teacher

Warnings: none... fluff, dad!Benedict

Word Count: 830

Authors Note: Last of my 2k follower celebration drabbles. This is for @guiltywaves with the prompt of art teacher Benedict (ask here). i had to end with some soft dad!Benedict, Unbetaed. Enjoy! <3

“Is this right, Mr Brid-etun?” a boy holds a piece of paper aloft, struggling to enunciate the last name a little, wiggling in his tiny chair.

“Daniel, this is art,” Benedict explains softly as he drops to kneeling next to the little boy. “There is no right or wrong; just whatever you want to draw, do that. And please call me Ben.”

The boy looks at him wide-eyed, almost suspicious. “Are you sure?”

“Yes, I am sure. I am your art teacher, remember?”

The boy nods solemnly and reaches across the low table for a crayon.

“Fank you, Ben,” he murmurs, a little peek of tongue at the corner of his mouth as he draws an arc in bright green.

Benedict smiles at the little boy and then stands back up to survey the cheery art room filled with 5-year-olds, preoccupied with crayons and their imaginations. It never fails to make him happy when Reception Year has its lesson every Wednesday morning. And not just because of one very special person it contains.

He never saw himself as a teacher, but a 2-month volunteering stint at summer classes on a whim became a temporary placement the following term that somehow became a job. That was seven years ago—he has never felt more content.

“Uncle Ben, I drew a cat!” a voice pipes up proudly, and he turns around to see Mary Bridgerton beaming up at him, holding a picture of what could possibly be a cat. It's a bright purple circle with rather demonic-looking red eyes and lightning-bolt yellow whiskers.

“Mary, that's very… colourful,” he offers diplomatically, bending down to ruffle her hair. “But remember, I'm just supposed to be Ben at school; I'm Uncle Ben at home,” he whispers as his brother's youngest child taps a finger to her nose with a wink, her pretty brown eyes shining as if agreeing to safeguard some grand secret.

“I want to draw a car,” Mary’s friend Lila sighs wistfully.

“You can do it, Lila. Here,” Benedict hands her a blue crayon. “Try with this. I can help if you get stuck. I’ll be right here. And look, it's blue, just like your Mummy’s car.”

Lila rolls her eyes. “Yes, I know, Daddy. I’m not colourblind like Uncle Colin,” she replies dryly, eliciting a peal of laughter from Mary. She is often far more mature than her years, and she is growing up so fast that sometimes it terrifies him.

“Lila!” he admonishes quietly. “Remember, you must call me Ben when we are at school! And Uncle Colin isn't colourblind; he is just clueless about how to dress himself,” Benedict adds with slight relish.

“But Mary just called you Uncle Ben,” Lila retorts, drawing a quite impressive version of a blue car for her age—Benedict's heart wells at the sight but schools his expression the best he can.

“It was a accident!” Mary pipes up, indignant.

“It’s okay, Mary,” Benedict soothes. “Just remember to call me Ben at school if you can.”

She agrees and returns to her art—starting on a quiet terrifying-looking green dog.

_____

“Mummy, look!” Lila runs up to you as you walk in from work after a long day, the delicious scent of garlic and herbs greeting you as soon as the front door opens.

She is holding aloft a remarkable drawing of a blue car. Very much like the one you just climbed out of.

“That's wonderful, Lila!” you compliment as you drop your work bag and take the paper from her for a closer look, kissing her cheek before she runs back to the kitchen table excitedly.

You wander in after her, admiring her handiwork, to be greeted by your husband feeding your baby boy in his highchair as dinner simmers away on the hob.

“Somebody is taking after her Daddy,” you smile indulgently, leaning in to kiss his jaw as you watch his face light up with joy, seeing what you have in your hands. He turns his head to capture your lips instead.

“I am so ridiculously proud; she's my star pupil. That's bad to say, isn't it?” he confesses over your lips, grimacing slightly in an utterly enchanting way.

You chuckle, nuzzling his face, enjoying the slight rasp of stubble. “It's just fine, Mr Bridgerton. I do believe it’s okay to play favourites if the class contains your own daughter.”

“I'm just glad she draws better than Mary,” he confesses, keeping his voice soft enough that Lila cannot hear.

“That bad, eh?” you laugh, dropping a kiss on your son's hair as he mashes banana into his own cheek, burbling happily.

“Stuff of nightmares,” he shudders, and you can’t help but giggle.

“Well, I'm certainly not telling Anthony,” you warn, wrapping your arms around his shoulders as his twine around your waist, pulling you into his comforting embrace. “Or Kate.”

“Yeah, me either; I’ll give Mary a gold star and lie at parents' evening,” he jests into your hair.

“Smart man, teacher Bridgerton.”

Benedict taglist: @makaylan @foreverlonginguniverse @iboopedyournose @colettebronte @aintnuthinbutahounddog @severewobblerlightdragon @margofiore @writergirl-2001 @heeyyyou @enichole445 @enchantedbytomandhenry @ambitionspassionscoffee @chaoticcalzoneranchsports @nikaprincessofkattegat @baebee35 @crowleysqueenofhell @bridgertontess @fiction-is-life @lilacbeesworld @angels17324 @broooookiecrisp @queen-of-the-misfit-toys @eleanor-bradstreet @divaanya @musicismyoxygen84 @benedictspaintbrush @miindfucked @sorryallonsy @lilithseve @cayt0123 @hottytoddyhistory @truly-dionysus @fictionalmenloversblog @zinzysstuff @malpalgalz @panhoeofmanyfandoms @kinokomoonshine @causeimissu @delehosies @mlovesbridgerton @m-rae23 @last-sheep

#benedict bridgerton fanfiction #benedict bridgerton #benedict bridgerton fluff #benedict bridgerton x reader #benedict bridgerton x female reader #benedict bridgerton x you #benedict bridgerton x y/n #benedict bridgerton imagine #bridgerton fanfiction #bridgerton #bridgerton imagine #bridgerton fluff #bridgerton x reader #bridgerton x female reader #2k follower celebration

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angelltheninth · 1 year

Text

The Dullahan Boyfriend Experience

Pairing: Male!Dullahan x Fem!Reader

Tags: nsfw, smut, cunnilingus, rough oral sex, hair-pulling (for both), mouth fucking, party, blowjob, praise, deepthroating, cum eating, facial

Word count: 1.3k

Ao3

A/N: I wanted to post this on Halloween, I am so late! Not enough smut with dullahan's either. They have a detachable head! That has so much potential!

Halloween was the one day of the year where you could go out with your boyfriend and not get weird looks. If anything everyone just assumed it was a really fancy costume, and when he took off his pumpkin head they just thought he was a head shorter.

Well the pumpkin was a mask, he wanted to go as the Headless Horseman, but his head trick was in his nature as a dullahan. It was his secret. Your secret.

"Thank you for going to the party with me. It'd be pretty lame if I showed up all on my own." Not to mention the endless teasing you'd be subject to from your co-workers.

"Of course darling. I'm happy to have went with you, especially on a beautiful night like this. But are you sure you want to stay with me tonight? I'd be more than happy to accompany you home." He pealed off the pumpkin mask as you walked on the dimly lit path, revealing very pale, almost ghostly skin, shining green eyes in pools of black and neatly combed back black hair that ended in a low ponytail. "What? Something on my face?"

"No. You're just really pretty. I missed seeing your face tonight." You stopped in front of him, cupped his face and leaned in for a kiss, "I've been wanting to do that all night."

Even though he was a creature of the night you thought you saw something akin to a blush dust his cheeks, "Me too darling."

"And," You pop his head off and bring it close to your lips, "There's something I've been wanting to try with you, if you're feeling a little frisky tonight."

His eyes widen a little. He was a cute and shy most of the time but when it came to your more intimate activates he's been known to go a little harder and was very enthusiastic to try out new things with you.

"What did you have in mind?" Oh he definitely blushes when you whisper it to him, "Oh! So then you want us both to... and your dress... you're not wearing anything underneath?" You nod and smile into the next kiss, "And you're okay with doing it here?"

You nod again, "I am, and I've been eager to get started since we left the party." You hand him his head back and lift your dress up so he can see how wet you are already. "See? Don't you want to have a taste?"

"Yes." He says breathlessly even though he doesn't really need to breathe in the first place, which will make what you have planned next even better. "I do. I could eat you all night my darling." He hands you head as he throws his coat down next to a tree for you to sit on. He gives you a small bow as you take a seat, ever the gentleman. "Even then I'd never get tired of how sweet you taste. I swear I will never-" His next word is muffled as you bring his head between your legs. You watch as his hands go still in the air, surprised.

"Such a sweet talker. But I need that talented mouth for something other than words right now. Please."

Hearing you plead in that sweet voice, and even more so seeing how excited you are for this, how much you want his mouth on you makes his shyness melt away in an instant. "You have me." He whispers against your folds and gives you a slow lick, "You have me, all of me." He hastily unbuckles his belt and palms his erection, trying to get himself hard as quickly as possible. It doesn't take much when you taste so sweet on his tongue already, when you're leaning back with your mouth hanging open in pleasure.

How can he resist such an invitation?

Already closing his eyes in anticipation he stepped closer to you and bend at his knees so you could suck his cock properly. The moment he felt your tongue licking the underside he had to lean against the tree for support, his need coming in the form of a muffle grunt between your legs.

You could clearly imagine his face, twisted in pleasure, as you stared sucking him off, easily taking him in your mouth while his closed around your clit and have it a firm suck. "I can't get enough." He spoke, drunk on the taste of you already, "You make me feel so good darling. I want to be with you all the time. I want to make you feel good too."

You responded by pushing tugging on his hair a little and moving him further down. He got the hint and pushed his tongue deep, as far as it could go, licking, prodding, tasting you as he pleased.

One of his hands ran through your hair and pushed you just a little too soon, "Fuck! Sorry!" He stammered and tried to look at you only to hear a small laugh.

"It's fine. You can be a little rough sometimes, I won't break. I promise." You hummed against his cock, kissing up and down the length before taking him back in your mouth, moaning as you started to taste more and more of his cum on your tongue. A few more well placed licks on the tip and he was coming into your mouth, his hips snapping forward wildly and desperately while his mouth closed around and lapped at your pussy.

"Keep doing that. Make me come on your tongue." You mewled as you pulled back, causing his cock to slap against your chin, his cum dripping down onto your breasts. "Close!" You gasp when he taps on your sensitive clit with your tongue and drags his tongue in a slow circle around the little bud of nerves and finally back down into your cunt, pushing you past the brink and making you ride his face through your orgasm. Not once did he stop what he was doing, easing you through it as well as the aftershocks.

"You alright darling?" He asked, still between your legs. You only gave him a hum in response, to which he chuckled to. "Can you pull me up? I want to kiss you." Ignoring the fact that he was kissing you, but not in the spot he was asking.

"Are you? Your knees look a little wobbly." You comment as you bring him up to see just what a mess he's made of you and how much he's shaking too.

"Oh! I'm alright!" He quickly pulls his pants back up and kicks his legs from side to side. It looks pretty ridiculous when he doesn't have a head on. "See? Good as new. Can I have a kiss now?" God was he cute when he asked it like that.

How could you say no to that?

You couldn't. Despite both of you still tasting like each other you pulled him close and kissed him. You held him there until you needed to breathe, something you envied him a little for not needing. "You're so cute. I love you so much."

"And I love you too my darling. Do you uhm... maybe want to go again? Not here, on a bed perhaps?" He blinked and avoided your eyes as if he wasn't just eating you like his favorite dessert a minute ago.

"Is this your way of asking me to spend the night? Because if so then the answer is yes." You watched a big smile dawn on his face and saw him pump his fist before offering you a hand, "Such a gentleman." You commented when he pulled out a handkerchief and wiped his cum clean from your body and then his own face. "Oh, I guess I need to give you your head back."

"I like you holding me actually. Your embrace is always so warm." He gave a dreamy sigh as he began a slow walk, you right by his side, feeling as happy as can be.

#monster x reader #monster romance #monster boyfriend #monsterfucking #monster lover #dullahan x reader #monster imagine #monster x human #monster x girl #monster smut #dullahan smut #monster fic #monster bf

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treason-and-plot · 7 months

Text

When Anita returns ten minutes later Joël has Alice on his lap at the kitchen counter and is feeding her one of her favourite meals, black bean banana mash, from a green and orange bowl. Anita sits down next to them. A dollop of food lands on Alice’s cheek and she gives a high-pitched peal of laughter.

“Oopsy- daisy, silly Daddy,” coos Joël. Anita suspects that Joël has deliberately staged this delightful domestic scene to dilute any residual feelings of anger she might be feeling, and it’s almost worked, the bastard. She presses her lips together to stop herself smiling and tries to inject a forbidding tone into her voice.

"I want you to know that I do understand your reasons for quitting your job, but I still wish you could have talked to me first," she says. "Especially as your decision affects the whole family."

"I wasn't going to call you at four in the morning," says Joël, feeding Alice the last spoonful of food from her bowl. "Anyway, Monica paid me double time and a half in cash for last night's shift, like she promised, even though it nearly killed her. And I still managed to earn over §100 in tips, so it wasn't a complete waste of time." Alice starts clapping, as if in approval. "See?" says Joël, kissing the top of her head. "Alice thinks §100 is a pretty good effort, don't you, gorgeous girl?"

§100 is barely enough to keep you in nappies for a week, Alice, thinks Anita, her hands clenched tight in her lap.

"I'll start looking for another bar job first thing Monday morning," says Joël. "Okay babe? You don't have anything to worry about."

But Joël getting another bartending job, in all likelihood in an establishment where a lot of the customers will be young, attractive, intoxicated women, is something that Anita is now extremely worried about.

#joël #Anita #Alice #back to Bridgeport #5 years later #sims 3 #sims 3 story

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ann-writes-universes · 1 year

Text

Hell Hath No Fury (Eris x Reader) SMUT

A/N: First time writing for Eris, be kind <3

Based on this ask

Warnings: SMUT SMUT SMUT, Angst! (Slight mention of suicide at the very beginning)

W/C: 3k exactly

If you had known what this war would have meant for you, for your family, you would have killed yourself before it started.

Staring out the window of your forest home, wrapped in nothing but silken sheets as you awaited your mates return you wondered what it felt like to be a female like Mor, or Feyre, fighting alongside the people they loved.

You supposed Eris would never let you find out.

He was terrified of losing you, this much you knew. He often woke at night panicked that you had disappeared, desperately tossing in the sheets trying to get to your sleeping form not far away. On these nights, he would cling to you until dawn broke and he was sure you were real.

When war came, his fears only grew. Grew so immensely that he begged and pleaded with you to stay home. To let him fight for you this time as you had fought for him on those nights. This was different though wasn’t it?

Waiting on a soldier to return from war was a much more difficult feat than soothing him back to sleep.

Rain pelted the windowpanes and the sky beyond your forest home grew dark. The house was so quiet these days, so void of life, so void of love.

You had only seen your crimson haired lover once since the beginning of this mess with Hybern, and that night had been filled with fucking and sobbing so intense you were sure you would never recover.

That night was months ago, and his side of the bed had grown cold in his absence. He had written to you, of course. The letters were piled up on your nightstand, stained with tear smudged ink. From what he was allowed to write, the conflict (as he called it) was at a standstill.

‘There are no winners or losers in war Starfire.’

He had written to you once, and you supposed this much was true. Death and destruction would reside no matter the result of this war, you only hoped that your mate would return, outcome be damned.

As the sun began to find her home in the western sky you pealed yourself from bed. The emerald green sheet stayed wrapped around you as you exited your once shared bedroom and made your way towards the kitchen for tea.

You hummed a pleasant tune, one that had been played by Beron’s orchestra the night of your mating ceremony all those years ago. You stirred your tea, thinking of the memory fondly.

Perhaps a book would take your mind off of things.

Turning to walk back to your bedroom you let out a strangled scream. The mug you held fell to the floor and crashed against the hardwood in an explosion of scalding water and clay.

“Azriel, you frightened me.”

The shadowsinger was dressed in head-to-toe black leathers, a dark hood dripping with rainwater covered a majority of his face though his large wings and glowing syphons clued you in on who he was. Shadows swept across the floor and into each individual room of your home, seeking out any company you may have had. When he did not make a noise, you grew concerned. You tightened your grip on the sheet around you and stepped backwards.

“Azriel… why are you here? Is Eris hurt?” Panic seeped into your voice and at this the shadowsinger looked up, his honeyed gaze finding your wide-eyed stare.

“Eris is fine, if not a bit concerned on where his loyalties lie.”

“What do you mean Az?”

You sent a tug down the bond, a question to your mate’s health that was met with a loving stroke in return. Your heart rate slowed only minutely.

“I apologize for this (Y/N), this is the last thing I wanted to do.” Azriel whispered, his shadows retreating within him once more.

You began to sweat then and backed up further, the small of your back being met with the counter behind you.

“Azriel you’re scaring me, what is going on?” You choked out. The next tug you sent through the bond was blind panic, like a drowning man grasping for a rope. Azriel didn’t even respond, just surged forward and slammed your head into the upper cabernets so hard that your vision blurred and faded.

“I’m so sorry.”

And then the world was spinning into nothing.

You awoke in a room that was entirely foreign. A window was opened somewhere, and the scents of jasmine and vanilla clued you in enough as to where you were. Gone were the familiar scents of pine and woodsmoke.

Your head was throbbing, a deep and painful throb that had you groaning and rolling over in the bed that did not belong to you.

White silk wrapped around your form and the fabric felt suffocating, too hot, too constricting, too foreign.

There was a forceful tug sent down the bond that had you gasping for air and sitting up stick straight in the bed. It was dark outside, the night sky lit with millions of stars that danced happily in their places.

In reply you sent down a panicked tug.

The effort to get out of the bed was excruciating, and when you were met with nothing but a locked door the fear you felt was beginning to be replaced with anger, thick and furious.

“RHYSAND. I KNOW YOU CAN FUCKING HEAR ME.”

Your screams were accompanied with banging on the oak door until your hands were bleeding and your nails were cracked. You collapsed to your knees and let out a choked sob. What the fuck was going on? These people were supposed to be your friends.

“(Y/N) you must know I am sorry. I have sent a healer to the palace. They should be there soon. This was a last resort I am so sorry.”

Rhysand’s voice filled your head and you snapped up your guards instantly.

“Fuck you Rhysand.”

Was the only reply you offered before effectively cutting off any further communication.

War was effectively driving you all mad it seemed. That was the only excuse you could come up with for the High Lord of the Nightcourt. Despite that possibility fear and anger had tight fists on your heart.

As promised a healer came, winnowing into the room as though you would have killed them for opening the door. As if you would have known how to escape if it was opened.

You let the pretty, pale haired healer do her work, it was not her fault you were here.

Sometime during her work a great series of screams began to filter down the hallway beyond your prison. Men, screaming and fighting, throwing things and hitting one another.

The healer (her name had been Tea maybe?) grasped your hands tightly and made to stand in between your frame and the door as though her lithe body would have been able to protect you from any incoming harm.

And then you felt it.

Anxious, fearful, tugs pulling on the bond growing stronger and stronger by the second.

You let out a strangled laugh and ran to the door, resuming the pounding and screaming, effectively destroying all the work the healer had done on your hand’s moments before.

“ERIS, IM HERE.”

You were crying again, desperate to lay your eyes on him, to go home. Frantic footsteps sounded beyond the door and the next tug on the bond was enough to bring you to your knees.

“Move away from the door.”

And oh, gods it was him.

You stumbled away from the door. The healer herded you in a corner, as if the fae that would enter was going to bring the two of you harm.

With a great slam of his shoulder Eris was tumbling into the room, followed shortly by Azriel who’s face had seen better days.

Eris looked frantically around the room and when his eyes landed on your form huddled in a corner his shoulders relaxed. Rushing to you he pushed past the healer and fell to his knees before you.

His hands cupped your face and his jaw tightened when he noticed the nasty bruise forming on your forehead and the blood that was caked into your fingernails. A low growl left his throat but was quickly cut off when you threw your sobbing form into his arms and clung to him desperately.

With no further words the red headed male lifted your body to his chest and stood, cradling you to him tightly. You tucked your head into his chest and inhaled the earthy musk that was solely him.

“Tell Rhysand I will be back later to discuss this bullshit.” Eris growled, presumably to Azriel. “Touch her again and I will not hesitate to ruin this alliance. I will fucking kill you.”

And then he was winnowing you away. To Home.

He didn’t hesitate when you were safely in the walls of your home. He fell to the floor of your living room, still cradling you, and began to sob. His hands stroked your hair and ran deftly over your body, terrified that you were not really there, just a trick of the imagination.

“I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry.”

He repeated over and over, his face buried in your hair, his tears dampening the strands. You were shaking, clinging to him with every ounce of strength you had, terrified that he would leave the moment he knew you were alright.

The two of you stayed like that for a while, a teary-eyed mess on your floor. He only moved when the sun began to rise, and your body had stopped producing shuddering sobs. Gently, ever so gently he carried you to the bedroom you had been sleeping in alone for so long. And gently, ever so gently he lowered you into the sheets, retrieving a new comforter from a closet somewhere. After removing his leathers, he slid into the sheets beside you, pulling your frame into his with one arm.

The two of you slept that way for what seemed like days. Your bodies exhausted from fear and anxiety thicker than mud.

When you finally peeled your eyes open, it was pitch black in your room, and the only sound was Eris’s breaths coming in short and fast, a sure sign he was deep in a dreamland. You rolled over to face him and found comfort in the delicate image that was his sleeping figure. Sleep was one of the only moments where your mate’s features were relaxed. The curve of his jaw was slack, and his mouth was not set in its signature straight line. His brows were lowered and the furrow in his brow had dissipated entirely. You ran a thumb over his lips and curled further into his side, desperate to have him closer.

The hand that was slung over your waist tightened its grip and began to rub soothing circles in the exposed skin.

“I am so sorry Starfire…” He whispered; voice groggy from sleep. His eyes were still closed when he pressed his forehead into your own. The furrow had returned to his brow and his jaw was tight once more.

You stroked his hair, drawing your hand down to cup his chin and force his gaze to yours. Despite the darkness in the room, you read his face easily. He was terrified, angry, and confused.

“You have nothing to apologize for Eris, those actions were not your own, but the actions of a man crazed by war and desperate to keep his people safe.”

“Do not defend him lover. His actions are inexcusable.”

“I know, but I don’t want to think about it. Please.” You swallowed thickly and found the hand that was still rubbing circles into your waist. Locking eyes with your mate you took his hand in your own and guided it to the dampened apex of your legs. “Not when I have not seen you in months.”

When his fingers made contact with the wetness there, he released a low growl and captured your lips in a kiss. It was gentle, a silent promise that harm would not reach you again.

He did not hesitate in giving you what you want. Slowly, he began to rub circles into your clit, sliding his fingers through the wetness there.

You released a breathy moan into his mouth and the male swallowed it greedily. He guided you onto your back, stripping you of the remaining clothes you had on before continuing his ministrations.

His lips found purchase on your neck and began to trail downward, his free hand stroking your side, eliciting the most delicious shudders he had ever felt.

“Eris… please.” You whispered, fisting his auburn hair in a hand and urging him downward. The male chuckled but did not fight you, and when his lips finally made contact with your aching core the only thing you could do was roll your head to the side and gasp into the silk of your pillow.

He hummed at the wetness he found there and began to suck and lap at it greedily. Each sweet little moan you emitted urged the fiery male further, and by the five-minute mark he was grasping your thighs so hard his knuckles were turning white and your legs were shaking.

You were grasping and pulling for purchase anywhere the sheets, your skin, his hair, anything to ground you to this moment as he inserted a finger and began to stretch you relentlessly.

“I- I cant…” Your words were like smoke in the wind, completely lost against the work your mate was putting in. The coil in your core was beginning to tighten deliciously and your breaths were labored and short. You could feel him smiling against your sex, coaxing that moment of bliss from you greedily.

“Give it to me Starfire, just one and I’ll let you sleep.”

And the sound of his voice, gruff from misuse, sent you over the edge with a scream. You were convulsing, thighs trapping his head between them, though he didn’t seem to care. He pumped his fingers into you slowly through your orgasm and shifted until he was hovering over you, watching your pretty little face scrunch and pant.

He kissed the bruise on your forehead, fading now from that tricky little gift of advanced healing. He drug his lips across your shut lids and pressed gentle kisses behind the shell of your ears. His hands had left your aching core and were rubbing soothing circles into your hips. Your own hands were tracing his spine, playing with the soft locks of hair at the nape of his neck, and drawing constellations in the freckles on his shoulders.

“I don’t wanna sleep Eris.” You whispered into the skin of his throat before pressing a hard kiss into the junction of his collar. He groaned lowly and settled in between your legs, pressing his length firmly against your core.

“What do you want then? Tell me and its yours.”

But you didn’t want to tell. You wanted to show. With deft hands you reached into the blankets and guided his lengthy member to your core, and with a heel you shoved his hips roughly until he was sliding into you with a groan. Caged between his arms you had no choice but to watch as his face contorted, and his eyes squeezed shut at the feeling of you around him for the first time in months.

“Wicked little minx you…” He shuttered, dragging a hand through your sweaty hair. Your only reply was a soft moan and a smile as he began to thrust slowly.

The sun was rising and it painted your room in a sweet light that allowed you to see him fully for the first time since the debacle at Rhysand’s home.

“Youre so pretty.” You whispered, reaching a hand up to cup his cheek. And he stuttered. His hips stopped momentarily as he watched you below him, practically glowing in the soft morning light. There was a gleam of sweat on your skin that made you shine and your lips were parted ever so slightly, yet you had called him pretty?

“No no. I am lucky. Incredibly lucky.” He replied, and much to your pleasure he resumed his ministrations and leaned down to kiss you feverishly.

It was overwhelming how good it felt to be joined so intimately after so many months apart. So overwhelming in fact that you were approaching your second orgasm rather quickly. Eris knew this, felt your legs tighten around his waist and felt your heart rate pick up through the bond. He smirked slyly and slid a hand between your sweaty bodies to rub quick circles into your clit, a sharp contrast against his torturously slow strokes. You bucked against him with a mewl and he chuckled, nipping gently at your ear.

“I’ve missed your pretty little noises.” He muttered into your neck, sucking marks into the skin there. You searched for some witty response, but one roll of his hips and your eyes were in the back of your head and your jaw was slack.

His rhythm was becoming disjointed and his pants were growing into groans and growls so deep that his chest vibrated against your own.

He thrusted once more, hard and deep, and you reached your peaks together in a symphony of moans and pants and sweat slick skin.

Eris didn’t even bother to pull out, just rolled to his side and pulled your back into his chest so that he could spoon you and play with your hair. You released your breath and intertwined your fingers with his own.

“I love you.” You whispered, pressing a kiss to his hand. His fingers gently squeezed your own before he wrapped his arms tightly around your midsection.

“I love you most, Starfire.”

And as you began to drift off into that blissful slumber once more your auburn-haired lover began to plot.

There was a score to settle with the High Lord of the Nightcourt, one the Vanserra son would not soon forget.

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itsbubbleteataro · 2 months

Text

Down the well and into hell? (2/?)

Paring; Platonic!Alastor x fem reader

Warnings; Alastor being Alastor, Angel being Angel, swearing

Description; exploring the grounds of the new cabin you have recently inherited, you find an old well. A well that seems to go on forever. After falling down it you find yourself, a human in hell. after being taken in by Charlie and Vaggie they warn you to stay away from Alastor. But what happens when the human decides that the overlord just may be the key to safety and possibly home?

"Woah woah there, no. Look Alastor, if you want to stay as the manager of this hotel you can't go around trying to make deals with our guests"

Vaggie says, her voice firm as she stands up placing herself between you and the stag like demon.

Alastor's smile remains as he presses his lips together forming a thin line resembling a grinch smile as his ears press to the back of his head. He hums, sounding atune to an off key bee before he snaps his fingers. A grand looking vintage chair poofs its way into existence with swirls of green smoke.

"Very well Vaggie, if you so insist"

He responds as he takes a seat, one leg over the other, his staff held close in one of his hands as Angel dust speaks up.

"Ok sugar tits, you got a looooot of explaining to do. How in the hell did you a human, end up in well, Hell?"

You can feel the room's eyes shift to look at you as Charlie motions for you to tell your story. Taking a deep breath you tell them about the cabin you had gotten from to ur grandfather, the old water well you were so foolishly leaning over, all the way up to the moment where Charlie and Vaggie found you.

As you finish up your story a small yet very fast blur of neon pink and yellow flies by who Charlie clears up is the maid Nifty. You again, nod your head really unsure how you're even wrapping your head around the fact that not only hell is real but also your own old well just so happens to be a one way ticket straight down.

Taking note of your weary eyes, Charlie helps you up off the couch,

"Oookaaay well you seem tired. Let's get you up to bed so you can get some rest. I think I should have a change of pajamas that should fit you. Here come this way"

Hand in hand the two of you head up some stairs that creak under your weight. Charlie opens up one of the many doors on the third floor, motioning for you to go ahead and go inside.

You manage a smile and walks inside, taking in the ripping wallpaper, the neatly made bed, the two windows that look out onto pentagram city.

Spinning on your heels you face Charlie,

"Thank you Charlie. This is the nicest anyone has been to me all day. And thanks again for dealing with that, uh, dog looking guy?"

The two of you exchange a smile,

"Oh don't worry about it! It's okay! Really, don't worry about it! Oh! It looks like Vaggie has already warned you about Alastor, good, so that's one last thing off my list. I'll be back in a bit with some pajamas! Make yourself at home!"

Charlie starts to close the door before she pokes her head back in,

"And don't worry! We will get you back to Earth. If Alastor can't figure something out I'll get my dad involved"

With that, the door closes and you are left alone with your thoughts. Deciding to look around the room a bit, you are very please to discover that it has its own bathroom with a shower. Peaking through the shower curtain you find that the appropriate toiletries are already stocked.

Pealing your dirty shirt off you start the shower water and close the bathroom door. You look at your exposed half in the mirror and frown, finding all kinds of bruises and now dried cuts that litter your arms and chest. Shaking your head you free yourself from the rest of your clothing before hopping in the shower.

Sighing as the warm water hits your back, you think about the fact that the well exists on the land your grandfather passed down to you. Wth a hum you think about how strange it is as massage shampoo into your scalp.

Why did your grandfather have such a well in the first place? You remember him always being on the strange side, always spending his time in the cabin, his nose stuck in a book seemingly obsessed with a the thirst of knowledge.

It clicks as you wince your hair and begins to rake your fingers through it. You're in hell, the literal afterlife. Judging by the sheer amount of people that you have seen on your walk from where you fell up to the hotel there's a very good chance that your grandfather could be here. You won't lie to yourself, you do feel a bit giddy about being able to talk to your grandfather again, but remind yourself that he most likely has the key to you returning home. But just how would you find him? A human in hell just from the sound alone is a recipe for disaster.

With a sigh you shut the water off and reach for a towel, deciding that it would become tomorrow's problem and not tonight's problem. Your body screams for you to just lay down as you exit the shower and wrap the towel around yourself.

Walking out of the bathroom you are pleasantly surprised to see that Charlie has dropped off a silk nightgown for you. You finish drying off your person and your hair before slipping it on. You do a little twirl infront of the mirror to take a look at it.

It's really nothing special but you think it's quite cute. The sleeves of it are thin, maybe a few centimeters thick (spegetti straps), the nightgown itself made from a white silk. A small bow sits in the center of the neckline. The bottom of the nightgown has a lace trim, making you smile at the simplicity of it all.

Hanging up the towel and shutting off the lights you crawl into bed, allowing sleep to take you much quicker than you thought.

****

You wake up some time in the morning, your body still with the dull ache as you climb out of bed. You pull a blanket around your shoulders as you trudge down the stairs, making a mental note of what stairs seem to creak more than others.

The smell of cinnamon wafts through the air as well as a wondrous sound of sizzling. Following your nose you find Alastor in the kitchen, coffee brewing in the older looking coffee machine.

The stag's suit jacket lays draped over a chair with his leather gloves piled neatly on top. His Staff leans against the chair, playing a soothing jazz mix from the 1930s. Alastor's sleeves of his dress shirt has been rolled up to his elbows. A plain apron lay over his dress shirt and pants as to not dirty them while he cooks. Your eyes quickly dart to his form, taking note of a stag looking tail before your gaze returns to the breakfast he's cooking.

Stepping closer you can tell he hears you based off how his left ear flicks, picking up on your footsteps.

"Why good morning (Y/n), care for some breakfast? I was just finishing it up before I head out to an overlord meeting"

He greets, not even turning around to look at you as he flips some of the French toast he's been cooking for who knows how long as his shadow goes to fetch two mugs, pouring coffee for you and himself.

"Wait overlord meeting?"

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

Thank you so much for reading! I should be posting pt 3 tomorrow? I'll be doing a char study for a request so hopefully I get to posting a few more things today!

#hazbin hotel #hazbin alastor #alastor x reader #x reader #(y/n)

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evandarya · 1 year

Text

A Bird in the Hand is Worth a Talon in the Brush

{Read on Ao3}

Talon doesn't remember who he was before the Green. Sometimes, when the cold seeped into his bones and made his whole body ache he'd have flashes of memory. A man ruffling his hair, a woman smiling at him. Crystal blue eyes crinkled at the corners in joy.

Talon doesn't remember joy. He remembers blood and bodies twisted in unnatural ways and screaming and a voice calling for him in a language he doesn't speak anymore.

Talon doesn't dream. There is only the green and the cold and the memories. Sometimes he thinks it would be easier without the memories.

Talons weren't supposed to feel. They were supposed to be dead. He was better. Being better meant he wasn't dead, not all the way. Being better meant he felt it when the Green was pumped into his veins. He felt it creeping along like liquid fire, burning the ice away every time his sarcophagus opened. Talon pulled himself out of his Sarcophagus and knelt before the two scientists who created him and the Master.

"It isn't ready." The short one in teal said, "It still has too much independence.”

"You said six months, Mrs. Fenton." The Master said “I have given you eight. This pet project has cost a lot of money and we need to see results."

"If we could just have a few more weeks–" the big scientist in orange said. The Master cut him off.

"I have given you as much time as I can. Now," the Master's voice changed to the tone he used when addressing Talons. "The Court of Owls needs you, Talon. Rise." Talon stood. The Master was wearing a white mask, but Talon didn't look him in the face anyway. "The Court of Owls has sentenced Bruce Wayne to die."

"Then he is dead."

—

Talon was better. Being better meant he could learn easier, and adapt better. Being better meant he could blend in with not-Talons if he needed to. He could hide his too-green eyes and too-cold skin behind a human mask. He could go where other Talons couldn't. He could go to a party disguised as the Master's son. He could be Daniel Masters until he needed to be Talon. He didn't like being Daniel Masters. Daniel Masters made the memories worse.

"Ah, Vlad!" Talon looked over to where Bruce Wayne stood, surrounded by people. The Master's hand on his shoulder reminded him of what he already knew: not yet. Bruce excused himself from his group and approached the Master. He swayed as if he had been drinking, but Talon couldn't smell any alcohol on him.

"I'm surprised to see you, and with a child, no less," Bruce said. His words slurred together, but his eyes were clear slate blue, piercing into Talon's crystal mask as if he could see the green beneath.

"My son, Daniel." Masters said. Talon held out his hand for Bruce to grasp.

"It's nice to meet you, sir."

Bruce smiled at him, and it was warm and welcoming and reminded Talon of the man from before the Green. Talon hated him for it. "Please, call me Bruce. Oh, Margaret! Please, excuse me, Vlad, Daniel. Enjoy the party."

Talon watched him go, planning which ribs he would slip his dagger between.

—

Crystal blue eyes met Talons from across the room. He knew those eyes, remembered them scrunched almost closed as a ringing peal of laughter rang out. Now they stared at him in recognition, confusion, suspicion, and…rage. Talon wanted to run. The boy with the crystal eyes was coming toward them, and Talon wanted to run from the memories he was bringing with him, but the Master would not allow it. Talon did not need to see what the Master could do if he failed this mission.

"Richard, it's nice to see you again." The Master said a hand placed on Talon's back.

"Mr. Masters, it's been a while. I didn't know you had kids." Dick -no- Richard said.

"Hi, I'm Daniel." Talon didn't extend his hand to shake Richard's.

"I'm Dick. Are you hungry? I can show you the best things on the refreshment table." Dick didn't wait for a response, just grabbed Talon's hand and pulled him along behind him. Talon looked over his shoulder at the Master. In his eyes, he could see the warning and the order. "Don't mess this up, or else."

Dick shoved a plate piled high with food into his hands and led him away from the party. Gone was the bright smile and friendly demeanor. In its place was an icy calm that would make any Talon jealous.

"Kon san tu, phrala?"* The phrase was nearly whispered in a language Talon used to know before the Green.

"I don't understand."

Dick was disappointed but hid it behind a smile. "I'm sorry. You remind me of someone I lost." Dick popped a sausage ball in his mouth before stating "I haven't seen you at one of these things before."

It wasn't a question or an order, and Talon didn't know how to respond. The Master wasn't in sight. But Talon was adaptable. He could learn. He was better.

"I've never been to one of these before." Talon picked up a sausage ball and popped it into his mouth like Dick had and nearly choked. Talon ate. His human mask required sustenance, usually in the form of high-density nutrition bars. One time when he was a new Talon the scientist's daughter mistook him for a human child and gave him chocolate. It was sweet and delicious and smooth and creamy, he still remembers it when the cold gets to be too much. The sausage ball was nothing like the chocolate. It was warm and savory and salty and spicy with a crisp exterior and a soft and oily center. The flavor burst over his tongue all at once and it was all he could do to swallow it down. Dick gave him a concerned look as he coughed, but offered him a glass of sparkling grape juice that was sweet and cool and refreshing with bubbles that tickled his nose.

"Never had a sausage ball before, either, huh?" Dick asked with a smile. He was…teasing him?

"No, not that I can remember. It's good."

"If you think that's good, you should try the bacon-wrapped jalapeno poppers."

Talon wanted to try all the foods before he went back into the ice.

—

People started leaving the party. Talon excused himself to the bathroom. He couldn't pretend to be human any longer. It was time to be Talon. Once Talon was alone he let his human mask fall. His black hair became white, the expensive suit was replaced with a sleek black uniform with white gloves and boots. His vivid green eyes glowed from behind the lenses in his hood. Gravity left him and he floated a few inches above the ground. Some Talons had weapons, but he was better. The ice in his veins solidified into daggers, throwing knives, and swords—any weapon he needed at a moment's notice at his fingertips.

All that was left for him tonight was to finish his assignment, then forget about blue eyes squinting in mirth, forget the familial feeling in his chest as Dick laughed. All he had to do was slip a knife into Bruce Wayne's ribs.

Talon stalked Wayne, an invisible predator, and an unwary prey. It would be easy to finish his mission if Wayne wasn't surrounded by people. Everyone at the party had to say 'goodbye' before leaving, then he supervised the cleaning crew. Then, finally, Wayne went to his study.

"I know you're there." All traces of the man from the party were wiped, replaced with a soul-deep weariness. Talon was about to reveal himself and finish the mission when the desk chair turned.

"I know what I saw, Bruce. It was him." Dick said.

"I understand wanting to have him back, but bud, you have to look at it objectively," Bruce said.

"Then we'll look into it, but I know what my brother looks like."

"We can't make any moves until we have tangible proof."

In response, Dick put a glass in a plastic bag on the desk. "He used this glass all night. Prints and DNA."

"Okay, I'll run it. Go to bed, Dick."

Bruce closed and locked the door behind Dick. Silly. Locks don't work on Talons. Not when they are in the room already. Not when they can walk through walls. He sat down at the desk chair with a heavy sigh and picked up the glass.

Finally, Talon floated behind Wayne and made himself visible.

"Bruce Wayne." Talon saw Bruce look up in the reflection of the dark computer monitor. He met Talon's glowing green eyes but didn't jump or scream. "The Court of Owls have judged you, and sentenced you to die." Talon manifested a long icy knife and stuck it through the desk chair. It should have punctured Wayne's lung, but only pierced empty air on the other side of the expensive leather.

Wayne had somersaulted over the desk and landed facing Talon.

"Who are you?"

"I'm Talon."

"They're using children now?" Wayne sounded angry.

"I am Talon. Talons are not children." Talon threw a knife right at Wayne's heart, but the man moved again and the knife embedded in the wall, cracking the plaster.

"How did you get in?" Wayne was edging toward the fireplace. Talon let him grab the fire poker. It would do nothing to save him. Talon has learned to take the pain of iron and make it rage.

Talon didn't answer, instead, three more knives flew at his target, the poker knocked away two, but one embedded itself in Wayne's shoulder, and ice spread around the wound.

Wayne attacked with the poker like it was a fencing saber. He could have dodged the hit, but the attack left Wayne open. Talon moved into the attack and the poker pierced his side as he stabbed forward with a knife, aiming at Wayne's fourth rib. Wayne twisted at the last second and Talon hit only air. Wayne yanked on the poker, still embedded in his body, and pulled Talon forward. Talon turned intangible and the poker slipped from his side. Red and green blood splattered on the white carpet as Wayne caught his balance. Talon suppressed a pained gasp.

"Did that hurt?" Wayne growled. "Talons don't feel pain, or bleed"

Talon attacked with fists and knives and anger. Wayne matched him blow for blow, targeting his wounded side. One good hit landed that had Talon doubled over gagging. Wayne wasted no time pulling his hood off, revealing his white hair and green eyes.

"You're not a Talon."

"I'm better."

"You're a child! I can help you."

"Help me by dying." Talon lunged again, and Wayne twisted out of the way and ran to the grandfather clock in the corner of the room, Talon quick on his heels. The clock slid away and Wayne bolted down the hidden stairs. Talon flew behind him, knives embedding themselves in the stone and stairs as Wayne dodged. Wayne was speaking, but Talon couldn't hear him.

The stairs opened up to an enormous cave, and Wayne vaulted over the railing and onto a platform with a massive computer. Talon flew after him and slammed into his back. Frustratingly, Wayne only stumbled and didn't fall. He reached over his shoulder and grabbed Talon by the back of his suit and slammed him into the ground. Talon only had a second to go intangible and fall through the platform before a fist connected right where his face had been. Finally, he sees Batman instead of Wayne.

Talon popped his head up through the floor and watched as Wayne scanned the area, wary. Like a shark through the sea, Talon flew towards Wayne and grabbed his ankle, pulling him through the floor. They grappled as they fell, Wayne targeted his injured side to keep him from turning intangible until he was slammed back first into the next platform, all of Wayne's weight landing on him, forcing the breath from his lungs. Wayne stood above him and Talon rolled into his hands and knees, coughing and spitting the acidic-iron blood from his mouth.

"Stay down," Wayne said. "I don't like hurting kids."

"I" Talon wheezed "am Talon!" He got his feet under him and stood. His side was burning and he could feel warm blood trickling down his leg. Wayne looked sad for a second before he moved, pushing Talon back. He tried to gain ground, but Wayne kept pushing. Too late Talon realized Wayne was guiding him. With one last kick, Talon was knocked back into a containment cell, the door slamming closed behind him as the small room filled with freezing air.

—

Talon hated the cold. He wasn't like other Talons. The cold didn't put him to sleep, but it made him slow and stupid. He couldn't access his powers in the cold, the scientists made sure of it. There was a cot and a blanket in the cell, but Talon sat on the floor. Blankets were for humans.

Wayne had left once he was sure Talon wouldn't be able to leave the cell. Once he was gone Talon allowed himself to press his hand to the wound on his side. It was bleeding sluggishly now, and deep breaths pulled pained gasps from him. He sat for six hundred and fifty-two breaths before an old man in a suit and mask appeared before his cell with Wayne, now in his Batman mask.

A beep sounded and the old man spoke into the intercom. "Young man, I'd like to come in and treat your wounds. Would that be okay?"

"I heal fast," Talon said, pressing his hand into the wound.

"Are you already healed?" Batman asked.

"No." It would take him at least a week to heal from this fight if he finishes the mission and gets back to the Master. But he’s stuck in this cell, with the cold seeping into his skin.

“If you aren't already healed, you should let us treat you, so you don’t get an infection.”

“It won’t matter.” Talon was getting sleepy, his eyelids were getting heavier by the second. Without the Green, he could feel his human mask creeping toward the surface. He was going to change soon, then he’d freeze or bleed out. Or Batman would finish him off. He should. Talon would.

Batman and the old man shifted to look at each other. “What do you mean by that?”

“I failed.” he blinked his eyes open, moisture gathering on his eyelashes and freezing quickly. “Talons don’t fail.”

“You’re a child,” Batman said. “Failure is expected from children, that’s how they learn.”

“I’m a Talon,” he said. His eyes slid closed and he couldn’t pry them open, he felt his human mask take over as he was pulled into the freezing darkness.

—

When Talon came to he was warm. Warmer than he could remember being in his entire life. There was a soft blanket over his body and he could feel that he had been changed out of the fancy suit and into warm and comfortable clothes. He was comfortable, which means something was very wrong. His eyes flew open and he sat up quickly only to groan in pain as the wound in his side protested. Strong hands guided him back to laying down.

“It’s okay, Daniel, lay back. Everything is okay.”

“Not Daniel.”

Well, I’m not calling you Talon.”

Talon opened his eyes again and took stock around him. He was still in the containment cell, but it wasn’t freezing anymore. He had been moved to the cot and an IV was in his arm. He made a move to remove it, but his other arm was stopped by soft restraints. Dick was the only one in the room with him. “I am Talon.”

“Talon isn’t a name, it's a title,” Dick said. “If you don’t like Daniel, I can call you whatever you want, but I refuse to call you Talon.”

“You shouldn’t be nice to me,” Talon said. “I’m supposed to kill Bruce Wayne.”

“Yeah, that's why you’re restrained and sedated.”

“I have to kill him. If I don’t the Master will–”

“Do nothing. Bruce left an hour ago to hunt down Vlad Masters and the Fentons. He’s going to go away for a long time.”

That didn’t make sense. Why would the Master go away? Talon failed, he needs to be punished. “Why?”

“Kidnapping, illegal human experimentation on a minor, child endangerment, child abuse, conspiracy to commit murder. I could go on. You don’t have anything to worry about, Danny, they can’t get you here.”

Danny

The name settled into his bones and felt right. He remembered crystal blue eyes laughing as he flew in the air.

“Good job, Danny! You’ll take center ring before you know it!”

“Dick?” The name fell from his lips like a plea. A question he didn’t know how to ask behind the word.”

“That’s my name!” Dick said with a grin stretched thin over some other emotion Talon–no–Danny couldn’t name. He wanted to know.

“I think I know you,” he started slowly. “From before I was Talon. There was an elephant and ropes and lights and music.” Dick was watching him with serious eyes. “Did you know me?”

“We are waiting for the blood test to come back,” Dick said, his fingers twitching like he wanted to grab Danny’s hand, but grabbed his own hand instead. “But I had a brother. We were separated after our parents died and he went missing.”

“I don’t know if I can be a brother. I only remember being Talon.”

“It’s okay. I can teach you how to be a brother.”

Danny felt his face stretch into a smile slowly like the movement would break him if he wasn’t careful. “I think I want that.”

Dick’s smile could melt even the ice in Danny’s veins.

—

The blood test came back at the same time Batman did. Danny could hear the old man, Alfred, berating him for going out with an injured shoulder, but his face softened when they both came around the corner to see Dick asleep, half on and half off the cot. Danny was carding his fingers through his hair, enamored with the silkiness of the strands, but he stopped when the two adults entered the cell.

“He fell asleep, I didn’t do anything to him.” He said, pulling his hand away from Dick.

“I believe you. I wouldn’t have allowed him in here if I thought you would hurt him,” Batman said.

“He said the Master was going to go away.” Batman nodded, even though Danny hadn’t asked a question. “Did you bring the sarcophagus?”

“No. It was destroyed in a fire, along with all the Fenton’s research,” Batman said.

“Oh. What- will you freeze me in here?”

“You're not getting frozen,” Dick mumbled from where he lay, face half smashed into Danny’s leg. “We have plenty of beds up in the manor.”

“But Talons are frozen when they aren’t needed.”

“You aren’t a Talon. You’re Danny,” Dick said, sitting up and wiping a bit of drool from his face.

“Danny Grayson,” Batman said, holding up a piece of paper.

Dick’s eyes got huge and a smile spread across his face. “For real?” At Batman’s nod, he launched himself at Danny, wrapping his arms around his torso and squeezing until Danny hissed in pain. “Sorry, I forgot about your side.”

“And concussion and multiple spinal contusions,” Alfred said with a pointed glare at Wayne.

Batman grunted in response but looked a bit sheepish.

“It'll heal,” Danny mumbled into Dick’s shoulder.

—

“Come on, Sparrow, keep up!” Robin called across the rooftops. Danny laughed and ran toward the edge of the roof, ready to leap into the air after his brother. Flying over the rooftops was different from flying as Talon, but Danny loved running the city with Dick. He loved going home to the manor and eating the delicious foods that Alfred cooked and sleeping in the warm and soft bed in his room. Sometimes, when he woke up at night from memories of the Master or the scientists he would climb up to the roof and look up at the stars. On those nights, Bruce would find him after a little while and sit with him. He was learning to love those moments, too.

Sparrow ran as fast as he could and overtook Robin, finishing the race on the edge of the roof above where the Batmobile was parked before he froze.

“Sparrow? Something wrong?”

“Someone’s stealing the tires,” he said, pointing out the tiny figure in a red jacket, not nearly warm enough for the changing weather.

“Oh, we should go say ‘hi’.” Robin didn’t wait for a response and grappled down to the ground behind the thief. Sparrow didn’t bother with a grapple, just allowed his Talon mask to slow his decent enough so he didn’t hurt himself.

Maybe next time they go out he’ll point out the kid with a camera that follows them around.

#Danny Fenton #Danny Phantom #Dick Grayson #Talon #Court of Owls #Dc #Detective Comics #Dp #Dp x Dc #dpxdc #DPXDC #DP X DC #fanfic #crossover

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ravenvsfox · 8 months

Text

something electric in the blood

hey woah it's my birthday again! this year I've decided to subject you all to the tfc superhero au that's been in my back pocket for 2 years. feedback would be a very chill birthday gift, but I'm also just happy to be here (not letting this story languish in a textedit file)! ok! rock on etc

________

Neil’s mother could call a monsoon down from a crisp blue sky. Her power was tearful and tormented; she was always wreathed with rainwater, a grey veil obscuring her face.

Neil’s father was righteous electricity. His power was a fork in a wall socket. He went off before he was even born; his lightning struck his mother dead from the inside out. A killer before he even entered the world—a born murderer.

Mary spent the first few months of her pregnancy wishing quietly for a miscarriage, petrified of a fatal lightning strike from the storm brewing inside her. Lucky for her, Nathaniel was never anything like his father. (He takes solace in this many times, when he’s old enough to understand how dangerous his powers can be.)

Long before he was Neil, he could cradle sunbeams in each hand, whistle for hail, and bend fog around his enemies like blindfolds. He could cover his footsteps with peals of thunder as he ran, and wash away crime scenes with downpours.

When his mother was killed, he struck their car with lightning over and over, and watched the white flames burst the windshield and warp the metal. He set the beach on fire all around him, staggering and tearing his hair, smoking the sand into glass and then cutting his feet to pieces as he ran.

He kept running for months after that, his powers spilling like loose change out of a hole in his pocket. And he was so determined to survive that he no longer had a say in which parts of the weather he wanted, like—instead of checking specialty books out from the library, he was pulling down entire shelves by accident.

Now, in the final stages of his weather sickness, he finds himself screened behind fog and ice most of the time, tidal waves dragging anyone who comes close, sunlight pouring in and out of his body like fever. Most urgently, an electrical storm is always very, very close to the surface; lightning is thick in his nose, tickling his throat, writhing half-formed above him in the veins of clouds. He’s afraid it will make a weapon of him, when he’d give anything to be something else.

Read on AO3

_______

The stranger finds him in an abandoned mall, at the tail-end of his breakdown. Neil had filled the first floor up to his waist with rainwater, filtered down through the caved in ceiling—a shattered skylight that he had ripped lightning through like a hacksaw. He'd beckoned clouds down over all of the windows and finally slept, exhausted, in the eye of the storm.

The man appears out of the blue, drenched, in the foodcourt-turned-swimming pool. Water laps around his belt and bleeds up his shirt. His hair is plastered to his forehead and his expression is unreadable. Neil peers at him steadily across the water. Reflections of the graphic 90s wall decals float innocently between them.

“Neil, I bet.” He wipes his wet hands on his shirt. Through the water, Neil can see his boots grinding against broken glass. “Call me Wymack.”

Neil unfolds his legs, letting his feet dangle from the table he’s perched on. He waits patiently for violence. “How do you know who I am?”

Wymack smiles, half-cocked, maybe a little pissed off to be up to his waist in Neil’s mess.

“Not every day that a storm eats a shopping mall.”

“I asked how you know who I am,” Neil reiterates, “not if you have eyes.” His voice is raw from misuse. Everything is kind of echoey and green, in this washed-out mall of his.

“Alright smartass. I’ve had you flagged for a while,” Wymack says. “I keep tabs on supers who I think might be a good fit with my Foxes. We’ve known the general shape of you since you flattened that barn in Ohio.”

He narrows his eyes. “There’s no way you could connect me to that.”

Wymack raises an eyebrow. “You’ll notice I said flattened. As in levelled. As in hailstones the size of kittens. In the middle of August. Who else has that kind of power? A functioning dairy farm, Josten. It was a slaughter.”

Neil flinches. “Fine,” he mutters. “I know. Why are we talking about it?”

“A ruined barn, a glass beach, a total whiteout in the middle of a grocery store, this castle in the clouds you’ve hooked up for yourself? Seems like a pattern. Seems like a breakdown, actually. My job is to step in when a super loses their shit, and I think we both know you fit the bill.”

“So what happens now?” Neil asks slowly. He’s struggling to keep his voice even, but he can feel thunder brewing, metabolizing in his gut. “You take me to superpower rehab? Give me dampeners and lock me in a basement? Fuck off.”

Wymack looks unimpressed. “Talking out of your ass must be another one of your special powers.”

Neil scowls.

“Look,” Wymack starts, wading two steps closer. “I’m offering you an opportunity to be a part of a team of people like you. We all know the heroes and villains model is psychotic, but shit, powers are made to be used. We use ‘em. Find people, fix things. Or break things, if they’re not working right.”

“You’re vigilantes,” Neil says.

“No,” Wymack says, breaking out in a wicked grin. “We’re government mandated. Barely. My team is powerful. It’s in everyone’s best interest to let them hunt criminals so they don’t become them.”

“You left out the part where we’re all already criminals,” an entirely new voice says. It takes a moment for Neil’s eyes to adjust to the fact that it belongs to someone standing directly in front of him, having materialized seemingly out of thin air.

Neil clambers backwards, and a little taser beam of lightning ricochets perilously close to the water they’re all standing in.

This new stranger is so close that he can see the tawny colour of his eyes. He’s short, nearly chest-deep in the water, with a shock of blond hair and a chalky, sullen face.

“Jesus, Andrew,” Wymack complains. “How long?”

Andrew’s static expression twitches, and he’s a foot to the left without straining a muscle.

“Don’t fucking pause me when I’m talking to you,” Wymack says, nonsensically.

“Were we talking?” Andrew asks. “I forget.” He circles Neil carefully, nearly soundless in the water.

Neil frowns, still in the slippery process of righting himself on the table. His shoes screech against a flaking metal chair.

“Speed?” he demands. It comes to mind immediately, the way Andrew is sort of flitting like a hummingbird, punched out of reality and then clipping back in somewhere else. Neil has always been obsessed with the straightforward usefulness of super speed.

Andrew’s gaze turns shrewd.

“Wrong brother.”

“Excuse me?”

“Settle down. He’s green, Andrew,” Wymack interrupts. “He doesn’t know shit about the Foxes.”

His eyes flicker to Wymack and back. He glitches, and Neil’s neck is wrenched to the side by an open-handed slap to the face. His vision blurs. Lightning strikes the roof.

“Interesting,” Andrew murmurs.

“Christ,” Wymack exclaims, “what have I told you about antagonizing volatiles?”

“You can manipulate time,” Neil breathes, holding the back of his hand to the pain-flushed apple of his cheek. Andrew snaps his fingers and disappears.

“He can manipulate my patience,” Wymack says, turning a slow, sloshing circle in the water to scan the balcony overlooking the food court. His eyes focus suddenly, and Neil follows his gaze to find Andrew lounging at the top of a long-broken escalator. Wymack sighs. “Quit showing off.“

Andrew blips directly behind Wymack, who trips a little bit, slapping his hands uselessly into the water to find purchase.

“Could you turn this to ice?” Andrew asks coolly, stirring the water with his index finger.

Neil shakes his head. “Once it’s out of the atmosphere I can’t really do shit with it. What else can you do with time? Reverse it or—“

“There’s only one button on my remote,” Andrew says simply.

“Not that I’m not enjoying these pleasantries,” Wymack says. “But I’ll take an answer now, Neil.”

“You called me a ‘volatile,’” Neil accuses.

Wymack rolls his eyes. “I’ll let you in on a little secret. Every single one of my Foxes was classified as a volatile when I found them. It’s not an ugly word.”

He thinks of his father splashed through the news attached to that word, of being hunched over a police scanner full of dirty voices hissing volatile spotted, in pursuit of volatile, volatile resisting arrest. It was always about putting down anyone with powers before they could even think about being empowered.

“Depends on who’s using it,” Neil says. He shivers, and it snows a little, a miniature avalanche like something off of a disturbed tree branch. Andrew puts his hand out into the flurry, producing a fistful of slush that he promptly chucks at Wymack. It collides wetly with his chest, sticking there momentarily like a pathetic badge.

Wymack looks skyward. “Give me strength.” He seems to realize that the sky is Neil’s domain when a few more errant snowflakes catch in his hair, and he shakes them off, disconcerted.

“If I come with you,” Neil starts. “Can I stay anonymous?”

“Sure. We’ll get you a mask,” Wymack says, stone-faced. Neil can’t tell if he’s joking or not. He squints. Wymack sighs. “Look kid, I don’t care what you’ve done up until exactly now. You leave here with us, we officially work together. That means I accommodate you. I get you what you need to function. A place to sleep. Doctor visits. Dampeners if you need them.” Neil bristles, but Wymack powers on. “And in return, you work for me. Help us keep things balanced.”

Neil looks at him for a long, searching moment, feeling the snow blowing out of his chest, a sudden spring thaw. His sneakers are soaked, and the thought of a place to sleep where the weather can’t find him is so tempting.

“Fine,” he says. “I’ll do it. But how do I know—”

He’s barely spoken when he feels a strange vertigo, a retreating, phantom pressure, and he realizes he’s been transported instantaneously to the back of a car. It’s indescribable, the absence of even a blink between one set of surroundings and the next. He feels like he was in some sort of virtual reality and his headset was ripped off.

“Fuck,” he gasps.

“You ask too many questions,” Andrew says.

“You moved me here?” he demands. Andrew looks at him blankly, as if this should be obvious. “I can walk,” he grits out. “Don’t waste your powers on me.”

“I was tired of your babbling,” he says. “You already agreed to come with us. The Foxhole needs us more than you need your self-punishing little enclosure.”

Neil glowers out the window, his fingers itchy on the unlocked door handle. A dozen metres away from their spot in the faded tarmac grid of the parking lot, Wymack is wedging open the defunct automatic doors at the mall’s entrance, emerging in an absurd flood of rainwater.

“If the ‘foxes’ are so capable, shouldn’t they be able to take care of themselves?”

“You would think,” Andrew says wryly.

Wymack wrenches the handle on the driver’s side door, but it just snaps back into place, locked. Andrew twirls the car keys on his middle finger.

“Enough,” Wymack says, long-suffering. He raps on Andrew’s window until his fingers jangle, and he and Neil realize at the same time that the keys are now dangling from his wrist. (Andrew’s middle finger is still raised.)

Climbing inside the belly of the car, Wymack jabs a button on the console and the headrests whack down and catch Andrew and Neil both on the crowns of their heads.

Andrew makes an affronted noise. “We have a guest,” he says.

“We have a time crunch,” Wymack says. “Not that that’s ever meant anything to you.”

“Renee will take care of it.”

“She shouldn’t have to,” he argues, turning the key in the ignition and pulling out of the parking lot before the tide from the mall can roll out to meet them.

“What does Renee do?” Neil asks.

Wymack meets his eye in the rearview mirror. “She deals with a frankly inhumane amount of bullshit, mostly.”

“I meant—“

“I know what you meant,” he gripes. “I was getting to that part. You’re going to have to learn at least an ounce of patience if you’re going to—“

“She’s a shifter,” Andrew says.

“A shapeshifter,” Neil repeats incredulously. He’s so frantically jealous for a moment that he has to bite down on his tongue.

“She can turn into pretty much anything with a face,” Wymack says.

“You’re joking.”

Wymack rolls his eyes. “I wish I was.” He takes a hand off the wheel to jab a thumb at Andrew. “You think one of him is bad, imagine three of him underfoot.”

They lapse into silence for a moment as Neil considers this. Scrubby spring scenery whips past, Wymack taps an absentminded tattoo on the gearshift, and Andrew sits utterly, perfectly still at Neil’s side.

“What do the rest of the Foxes do?” Neil asks, badly feigning nonchalance. He’s calculating how much of this could be useful to him, the ways he could co-opt supernatural speed, stopped time, or a thousand disguises. The possibilities are staggering.

“They should probably tell you themselves,” Wymack says, slanting another knowing look at him in the mirror.

Andrew snorts.

Neil narrows his eyes. “What, are they bad?”

Andrew glitches into the passenger seat, and Wymack nearly loses control of the car, clipping the horn with one flailing hand. “Last time he got too comfortable with the secret identity reveals, Kevin made him walk out into traffic.”

Neil absorbs this like a punch to the stomach, thinking of miscalculated lightning and swift punishments, a father with a bolt in each fist.

“Don’t listen to him,” Wymack says, “It’ll rot your brain.”

“I’m telling the truth,” Andrew says simply. He flicks a circle of beads dangling from the rearview, and less than a second later, they’ve disappeared.

“Jesus suffering christ,” Wymack says. “Put those back.”

“What?” Andrew says blankly, and Neil considers that any of these glitches might represent minutes, hours, or days where Andrew has been suspended, alone, in time.

He wants to ask him how long he can stay outside of time, if he ages in the infinite space between seconds, or if it’s as peaceful as it sounds to be the only moving thing in the universe. Instead he asks, “How do you make someone walk into traffic?”

Wymack sighs. “Well, if you’re Kevin, you get inside their head and tell them what to do.”

Andrew glances backwards. “Your worst nightmare, I would imagine.”

Neil’s neck is hot with anxiety just thinking about it, but he sets his jaw, defiant. “You don’t know me.”

“No,” he agrees. “But I know what someone who’s afraid of their own powers looks like. And I know how easy it would be for Kevin to set you off like a firecracker.”

Neil wordlessly rolls down his window and calls down a hailstone the size of a baseball.

“No more powers in my car,” Wymack snaps, deftly forcing Neil’s window up so he has to snatch his hand back, dropping the ice out into the street. “Honestly, it’s like I’m running a daycare.”

“You don’t have a power?” Neil asks.

“I have the almighty ability to withstand annoying questions.”

“Excuse me if I’m curious about how a powerless stranger tracked me all the way to nowhere, where my—where no one else thought to look, just to enlist me into his knock-off suicide squad.”

“Well first of all, let’s make one thing absolutely fucking clear,” Wymack says, twisting in his seat, one hand steady at the bottom of the wheel. “Just because someone can’t—or won’t—use any superpowers, it doesn’t mean they’re powerless. If you listen to a word I say to you today, let it be that. Got it?”

They watch each other for so long that Neil starts to feel uneasy. The car should’ve drifted off the road by now. Maybe Andrew’s correcting their course by increments. Maybe Wymack actually has a banal, embarrassing kind of GPS power that keeps wheels to pavement.

“Fine,” Neil says, clipped.

“Good. If you call Abby powerless, I guarantee she’ll give you an earful about nursing school.”

“Who’s—“

Andrew makes an irritated noise, and when Neil looks up at the sound, he’s disoriented again by an instantaneous shift in light. His head snaps to the right, and he finds Wymack dumped unceremoniously beside him in the backseat. Andrew is busily turning the engine off up front, and a sleek, black parking garage is spread out around them, like a high-tech hangar in a sci-fi movie.

“Chrissake,” Wymack says. “Give me the keys.”

“You have them,” Andrew says tonelessly, and then he disappears. Wymack sighs and starts working on disentangling the keys that have just been magicked onto one of his earrings.

“Does he move other people around like that very often?” Neil asks.

“When the mood strikes him,” Wymack says, kicking the door open and swinging a leg out. Outside of the car, he continues, “he used to say that things have different weight, when they’re paused. All that shit like gravity, velocity, friction—they function differently when time isn’t affecting you.”

“He told you that?" Neil asks. Wymack nods. "Huh. Wouldn’t have thought he’d be so forthright.”

“Amazing what sobriety can do to a person.” Wymack holds up a hand before Neil can speak again. “More on that later. We have a facility to tour.” They’re approaching the subtle seam of a door in a broad expanse of wet-looking dark concrete. Neil hadn’t even been able to make out that it was a door until it was close enough to touch.

“Right now?”

“You have something better to do?”

Neil shrugs. He was kind of hoping to be shown somewhere dry and windowless, but he can play house-tour.

Wymack puts his thumb to an inconspicuous tab jutting out of the near-invisible door-frame, the mechanism beeps and clicks, and the the wall sinks inward.

“That was the main lot, this is the atrium.” The door folds itself away like a bird’s wing, and Neil follows his host into a dark hexagonal space, black walls and cubbies like something from a locker room, everything lit up at the seams with artificial techno-orange. “We usually meet here before a mission, gear up and ship out.”

Neil rolls his eyes at Wymack’s back. Between the faux-military slang and the wannabe spy movie facility, the benefit of the doubt is already stretched paper-thin.

The hallway ahead is long and uniform, with identical corridors extending in either direction every ten paces. They come across a series of matching but modified outfits behind glass, displays full of black, orange and white leather, bulky looking jackets, masks, caps and gloves, boots and holsters.

“Gear,” Wymack says, lingering at the farthest case, a petite, broad-shouldered suit with a full mask, strappy vest, and brass knuckles on a hook. Wymack taps the glass. “Each of these cases opens up into a personal changing room. You’ll get a custom suit. Probably something water-proof and—“ he purses his lips against a smile. “Shock-resistant. Hope you like rubber.”

Neil examines a suit with thick, elbow-high gloves and an ornate half-mask. “I don’t really care what I wear.”

“Glad to hear it. Some of my Foxes were not so flexible.”

“Someone say flexible?”

Neil looks up just in time to see a shape drop from an air-duct overhead, like paper spit from a printer. When it hits the floor, it’s a person.

“What the hell,” Neil says flatly.

The newcomer grins. He’s tall and wiry, and his hair is gelled up into deliberate-looking peaks. Even with a complete, three-dimensional heft to him he seems stretched out, like a teenager still growing into his legs. He offers Neil a friendly hand. “Matt Boyd. And you’re the new recruit, Neil, right?”

He nods, accepting the handshake. He glances meaningfully upward. “That can’t be more than a half-inch gap.”

Matt laughs, obviously pleased. “They don’t call me Flex for nothin'.” His hand becomes putty in Neil’s grip, and when Neil tries to extract himself, Matt has him in hand-handcuffs.

“You could escape anything,” Neil marvels, half-gawking at the unseemly image of Matt’s taffy-stretched, bisected hands, slithering back and becoming whole.

Matt looks sideways at Wymack, still smiling. “He is fresh. Still has the capacity for surprise. That’s kind of nice, actually.”

Neil’s shoulders hitch upwards, defensive. “It’s been a while since I’ve met new supers.” His mother had kept him in the most oppressively average and un-stimulating hideaways she could. If he ever met supers it was by accident.

“Well that ends today, dude,” Matt says. “We see crazy new shit pretty much all the time.”

“I’m starting to get that.”

“Your thing is weather, right? You got a demo in you?” Matt asks slyly.

“You don’t have to do that,” Wymack says quickly, but Neil is already feeling his way skyward.

They’re underground, but he can still kind of always sense the atmosphere, whispering in from outside through filtered air or natural light. It’s as simple as finding a loose end and tugging.

He blinks, and suddenly, the hallway is a wind tunnel. It’s just a little air show, but still, the gusts are so intense that Wymack has to take a step back and steady himself against the wall. Matt whoops joyfully, his immovable gelled hair whipping back. He uses his stretch powers to balloon outward like a parachute, and the wind catches his rubber body and drags him twenty feet down the hallway.

Neil rolls his neck, satisfied, and the wind dies out. “If we were above ground, I could give you a real show.”

“I don’t doubt it,” Matt says, jogging breathlessly back towards them. “Man, we’re going to work so well together. You can be the wind beneath my wings.” He quirks a genuine smile at Neil, who relaxes in spite of himself.

“Don’t you have crime to stop?” Wymack asks drily, and Matt rolls his eyes.

“I mean, if I can’t stop some trouble, I can always make some.” He swerves unnaturally out of the way, laughing, when Wymack reaches out to cuff him over the head. “See you soon, Neil,” he calls, taking one enormous stride to the very end of the corridor, around the corner, and out of sight.

“Everyone shows off for newcomers,” Wymack says, pushing steadfastly ahead. “Please don’t give them the weather-works every time.”

Neil shrugs. “He asked for it.”

“Yeah, and you’re a real people pleaser, huh?”

The tour trundles on, through the tunnelling halls of a facility that is slowly revealing itself to be as well-appointed as it is well-hidden. They pass through a wide-open common kitchen area with enough dining space for twenty; an enormous training gym outfitted with targets, mats, a reinforced spectator box, and a fully stocked library of weapons and armour.

There are a couple of available sleeping quarters, spartan, but outfitted with sturdy furniture, clean bedding, and storage like Neil has never even thought to ask for; a lounge with a beaten-looking couch and chairs, a smaller kitchenette, an entertainment system, and a pool table; and a professional-grade medical station, equipped to hold what looks like the entire team at once.

Neil meets a laser-focused Abby Winfield in the med bay, where she’s tending to a surly Andrew look-alike with a bruise-mottled grimace on his face. Aaron’s gaze darts and slices like a bird unsettled from its perch when Neil enters the room.

Neil asks him if he ran into someone’s fist, but he doesn’t rise to the bait, just casting a haughty look down Neil’s rain-soaked jeans as he hops from the exam table. Abby seems to realize what’s coming a moment before it happens, because she waves a still uncapped tube of ointment in one hand and says, “Aaron, don’t, I’m not—“ but he’s already blazed from the room, head-spinningly fast.

Wymack shrugs an apology for their intrusion, and Abby sighs, offers Neil a surprisingly generous smile, and shoos them from her office—but not before promising a full physical exam for their newest team member.

Neil swallows his instinctive horror to being examined in any capacity, and forces himself to follow Wymack out from the exposing light of the medical hall. From there, they find their way to an imposing set of steel double-doors at the heart of the labyrinth.

“Mission control,” Wymack says, scanning them seamlessly inside. Neil can tell from the quality of his voice that this is the tour’s grand finale.

It’s a massive space, tech-ed out, and the obvious hub for the entire operation. There are sprawling screens full of moving data, a huge table, lit up from within, with stray files and blueprints littering its surface. There are also towering rows of black filing cabinets lined up against the far wall, a computer system too complex for Neil to understand most of its controls, and a couple of inconspicuous doors leading to what must be private offices.

“We do most of our planning here.” Wymack gestures towards the network of screens and keyboards. “Comprehensive database, files on every super in the country, past battle strats,” he nods towards a white-board over by the meeting table. “Individualized training schedules. My office over there.” When Neil follows his sightline he finds a woman standing in the doorway, arms crossed, eyes level and keen. Neil waves awkwardly, and her mouth pulls charmingly to the side like a swept curtain. “And that’s Dan Wilds,” Wymack finishes.

“The most important part of the base, right boss?”

“If you say so,” Wymack says, but he's smiling.

“Nice to finally meet you, Neil Josten. Gotta say, I was pretty impressed by your glass beach.”

He tries not to grimace at the thought of it. “Thanks,” he says. “It was accidental.”

She laughs good-naturedly until he doesn’t join in, and then she raises both eyebrows. “‘It was accidental,’ he says. Like he didn’t change the geography of half the East coast.”

“It’s not modesty,” Wymack says. “He really doesn’t know what kind of trail he’s been leaving.”

“I don’t really like to look—back,” Neil says.

Dan’s eyes glint. There’s something sturdy and well-balanced about her, like a broadsword. “Well. Amen to that.”

“Wait, why did no one tell me he was here already?” someone exclaims, bursting in from the double doors behind them. Dark-haired and animated, the new guy is wearing a hyper-casual graphic crop top and joggers, and when he sees Neil properly, he says, “oh christ, your aura.”

“He means to say, hi, I’m Nicky,” Dan says.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, for sure, hi, I’m Nicky,” Nicky says, waving a distracted hand. “I can’t believe how fucked up you feel.”

“Excuse me?” Neil says, face burning, caught (as he often is) between anger and shame.

“I feel what you feel,” he says, with some relish. “No wonder we’re having inclement weather.”

All of Neil’s gauges go haywire—instant panic. It’s even worse than Kevin’s supposed powers of compulsion. The thought of all his hard-won habits, straight-faced lies, and tooth and nail emotional regulation being undone by a little empathy is too terrible. Like a bad joke.

Wind whistles in his ears. Dan winces sympathetically as Nicky makes a wounded noise and grabs his own skull, staggering backwards. A wave of energy flows visibly through the air from his body, and Neil feels it impacting his own chest. Suddenly, he feels calm and docile as a lamb. He sits on the floor exactly where he is.

“Hey,” Wymack snaps.

“Nicky, stow the powers, okay. You know most of us vollies aren’t empath-compatible,” Dan says.

“I’m sorry, I—“ Nicky’s eyes screw shut. Immediately Neil is in control of his body again, and he slides sideways, panting. “I wasn’t ready.”

“What did you do to me?” Neil demands. Somewhere above ground, thunder grumbles.

“I’m sorry,” Nicky says again. “It’s an instinct sometimes, I swear I can’t help it.”

“He gave you an emotional sedative,” Wymack says, crossing his arms. “Nicky can manipulate feelings.”

“But I don’t,” Nicky interrupts. “Usually. I didn’t expect it to feel like a war-zone in here all of a sudden.”

Neil stands, and starts to stalk threateningly towards Nicky, but a hand closes in his collar and lifts him clean off the ground.

“Let’s not escalate things,” Dan says, holding him easily aloft. “Nick, will you promise to turn off the charm when Neil’s around?”

Nicky puts his hands up in surrender. “Done and done.” Softer, he says, “It’s actually—nice to meet you Neil.” He smiles sheepishly, and Neil shakes his head in dull disbelief. A total stranger just took the full force of the storm at the centre of Neil’s consciousness, and he’s still smiling at him like he’s not a monster.

Dan sets Neil carefully back on his feet, and he shrugs out of her grip, putting several paces between himself and everyone else.

“I understand powers that happen without your consent,” Neil says slowly. “But if you mess with my emotions again I’m not responsible for what’ll come out of the sky.”

Wymack holds up a staying hand, moving between them. “Alright, alright, enough posturing for one day.”

Nicky looks flushed and upset, but as Neil watches, the air around his body shifts and undulates as a new wave of power is compressed inwards. His expression slackens, hazy. “It’s okay. I don’t intimidate easy.”

Neil blinks at him. “You can turn your powers on yourself?” he asks, putting his own discomfort on ice.

Nicky smiles. He seems to be following Neil’s mood at a distance, matching him beat for beat. Neil’s not sure if it’s a byproduct of his abilities or a true personality trait. “Sure. I can chill myself out if I can’t sleep, get pissed before a fight. I don’t do it very often though, it can get intense. Draining.”

“How do you know if what you’re feeling is real? How does anyone around you?”

Nicky’s smile twitches. Neil suspects he’s stepped on a nerve. “It’s not a memory thing. My power lets people know its been there. It’s why I can’t tell anyone to forgive me, or love me, or anything. They would know better.”

“Eh, I know better,” Dan says, walking close enough to rope Nicky in by the shoulders. “But I do it anyway.”

“Aw shucks,” Nicky says, clearly pleased.

“And you’re—super strong?” Neil asks, eyeing Dan’s thick upper arms.

‘Something like that. I can nudge gravity where I want it.” She looks slyly at Wymack and he uncrosses his arms, taking a step backwards.

“Don’t do it.”

“Come on, not even for the new guy?”

“Dan,” Wymack warns.

“Alright, fine,” she says, hands up. She looks to Neil. “Just know in your heart that I can lift the boss with one finger.”

“It’s a real crowd-pleaser,” Nicky agrees, perching on one of the many data-projecting desks, capped with swirling, changing screens. “But what about you, Stormy Weather? What’s your story?”

He frowns. “I thought all of you knew everything.”

“We’ve seen the highlights reel,” Nicky says. “We don’t know you, though, not yet.”

Not ever, Neil thinks. He plans to treat this like a workplace that he clocks in and out of. After hours, he’ll stay warm and remote in a fog where no one can find him. It’s safer that way.

“I know him,” Andrew says, and Neil looks over to find him cross-legged at the centre of the conference table. The interior glow makes him look haunted, lit ungenerously from below. Andrew tosses a baseball-sized hailstone into the sleek stretch of floor in front of Neil. Preserved, somehow, from when Neil summoned it in the car. “He’s a storm chaser with an attitude problem.”

“Where the hell did you get that?” Dan asks. Then, pinching the bridge of her nose, “never mind, actually. The less I understand the monster, the better.”

“Excuse my cousin Andrew,” Nicky starts. Andrew looks away, apparently bored. “He thinks it’s funny to scare people shitless.”

“I don’t see him laughing,” Neil says tightly.

“His sense of humour was dropped on its head as a child,” Nicky replies sadly.

“Okay, I’m calling it,” Wymack interrupts. “I’m sure you’re exhausted, Neil. Whole lotta new faces today. You’ll meet Kevin, Renee, and Allison when they get back from mission.”

“When will that be?” Neil asks. He’s already paranoid that the shifter will appear to him without him knowing it.

Wymack shrugs. “When it’s done. In the meantime, I don’t want any more gratuitous powers in my base. No throwing shit, no lightning bolts, no—“ Andrew blinks across the room, perilously close to Neil’s side, jaw craned up to examine his face. Neil looks down instinctively, and finds Andrew’s eyes boring into his own. “No pausing me, Minyard, I’m dead serious. If I have to repeat instructions for you again it ain’t gonna be pretty.”

“What was that?” Andrew asks, but Neil’s pretty sure he’s fucking with him, because Wymack just sighs.

“Get out of my sight, all of you.” They all start to disperse, Dan back into Wymack’s office, Nicky over to the doors that lead hall-ward, Andrew into thin air. Wymack catches Neil’s eye. “Get some sleep, okay? See Abby for pills if you need ‘em. We’ll get you something dry to wear.”

“Thank you,” Neil says stiffly.

“Don’t thank me yet. Tomorrow we see how you play with others, and that’s never pretty.”

“Is that a threat?”

Wymack looks tiredly to the largest screen in the room, beyond the place where stats and mission details are spinning in space. “More of a promise, really.”

Neil follows his gaze to the focal point of the screen, where a hundred thousand tiny golden lights are scattered into a world map like beads. Supers, embroidered into the dark fabric of the world, punched into time by some celestial power source or trick of science that they'll never understand.

All that running, all that wishing to disappear, and he was always just a dot on this map. There was never a reality where he was going to be able to hide forever. Not even in the eye of a hurricane. Not even in an underground bunker. And if he can’t conceal his powers, he might as well control them.

He looks back at Wymack, feeling like a season on the cusp of changing, a monsoon shaking itself dry. “Let’s get started.”

#I've been tinkering on this for years and for what!!!#my weather boy neil must finally see the light of day #the foxhole court #aftg #tfc fanfic #andreil #mine #if ppl want a second chapter speak now or forever hold your peace #anyway love you

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littlestarlost · 1 year

Text

eve, in the garden (an avatrice ficlet)

Ava is generally fascinated by all the things Beatrice does, but it’s all the fruit that finally sends her over the edge.

Beatrice, who slices her apples into perfect sixteenths and peels mandarins while keeping the skin in one piece.

Beatrice, who always rests the strawberry against her lips before taking a bite, as if in reverent prayer.

(It’s a look Ava has only seen when they're in the throes of passion, and when Bea eats strawberries.)

Beatrice, who eats green grapes by peeling the skin off first, using only her teeth and tongue.

(Ava makes herself come just by grinding her thighs together, panting hot into the corner of the pillow so Beatrice won’t wake up.)

Beatrice only buys things when they’re in season, so it isn’t until the first nip of October that she brings home a pomegranate. She actually brings home five—only one of which is going into the chutney she wants to try, but they were on sale—and as Ava helps put away the groceries she can’t help but drift towards them. Spending twelve years unable to feel has made her a glutton for novelty, even to this day; the chance to feel something new is still a shining golden treasure. Her sensory-hungry hands are immediately drawn to the pomegranate’s taut flesh, the healthy weight of it in her palm, the way something gives just a little under the surface when she applies the slightest pressure.

“How do you eat these?” Ava asks, her mouth already watering for some reason. “Is the skin good? Can I just go full apple, or this another rambutan situation?”

Beatrice laughs, her joy like pealing bells on a Saint’s day. “Not quite, but there is kind of a trick to them. Would you like me to show you?”

Ava nods. “Yes, please,” she says, voice low. She can’t help herself when Beatrice shows her things.

They have to finish putting the groceries away first—Beatrice, as always, is an edging queen—and then Ava has to do the dishes she left in the sink from this morning. But eventually things are to Beatrice’s liking (Ava would do a million dishes just to see that specific calm smile), and they stand together by the sink: Beatrice filling a bowl with lukewarm water, and Ava with her chin planted on her hands like a brat.

“Watch this,” Beatrice flashes the tiniest smirk, twirling a paring knife between her fingers before stabbing it into the top of the pomegranate, cutting a neat circle around the calyx and removing it as casually as she might kill a man with her bare hands. “Now, do you see the white pith inside, in between the seeds? You have to peel that off, and it’s often easiest to do in water, like so.” She slices a few straight lines down the pomegranate before submerging it in the bowl and cracking it open like a spine, which sends a delightful shiver down Ava’s own back.

In Beatrice’s hands, everything becomes holy. The water bath is a baptism, the squirt of juice blooming blood-red like a temple crowned with thorns; the pith floats to the surface like clouds as the arils sink to the bottom of the bowl. They don’t pop out of the pomegranate easily; Beatrice has to coax them off the pith, her thumb stroking the seeds until they submit. She pulls up a handful—tiny seeds, once held in bondage and now freed, pearly pink and nearly translucent around the edges. The water runs through her fingers in rivulets.

“Here,” Beatrice breathes, as if speaking too loud might shatter the moment. She takes an aril from her cupped palm and raises it to Ava’s lips, her fingers lingering as Ava’s tongue darts out to receive it. “Close your eyes.”

Ava obeys, eyelashes fluttering as she bites down on the tiny seed. There’s a burst of tart-sweet juice on her tongue, a gentle crunch—refreshing and intriguing and gone far too soon.

“Delicious,” she groans with pleasure.

#warrior nun #avatrice #ava silva #sister beatrice #warrior nun fanfic #more to be added later #i just wanted to write something with 666 words today and this is that #pomegranate inspired smut to follow on AO3 probably #stay tuned #ava has definitely thought about all the ways beatrice eats everything

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bun-lapin · 4 months

Text

The Gingerbread Gauntlet (part 3)

Summary: The housewardens have a gingerbread house competition

A/N: I meant to post this part yesterday after dinner but things kinda got away from (>_<) Sorry about that! In any case, here's part 3! Almost at the end~! <3

Part 1 - Part 2 - Part 3 - Part 4/END - AO3 (whole fic)

Word Count: 1.2 k CW: crack, silly, shouting, insults, mild swearing, candy/gingerbread

The group of housewardens silently watch Azul fumble blindly with the second half of his gingerbread construction for the next few minutes. After watching him splatter icing all over his shirt sleeve and then nearly knock a glass bowl of gumdrops onto the floor, Vil sighs wearily and shakes his head, “I know I insisted earlier that we must all build our houses without any outside help, but this is frankly becoming almost too painful to watch. Azul, would you like some help? I could literally whip up a vision correcting potion in just a few minutes if you ask me to.”

Azul squints in Vil’s general direction and flashes him a strained smile, “While I appreciate the offer, I’m afraid I must decline. A potion from the famous Vil Schoenheit sounds a bit too pricey for me.” He lets out a short laugh filled with puffed-up bravado and adds, “Besides, as you can see, I don’t even need my glasses for this kind of work! I can operate on instinct alone when it comes to food competitions. Things are going just swimmingly!”

Holding up a gingerbread cookie decorated with teal frosted hair and mismatched eyes, Kalim lets out a wheezing kind of giggle and says breezily, “Nice pun there, Azul! And good job telling Betta-chan-senpai the facts! We don’t need no stinkin’ potion!” Holding up another, almost identically decorated cookie, Kalim continues in a smoother and more refined tone, “While I agree with my brother’s enthusiasm, I would like to point out that you have icing on your sleeve, Azul.”

After glancing down at his sleeves, Azul nonchalantly pulls a handkerchief from his pocket and begins to wipe the icing away. Squinting over at Kalim, he remarks, “I assume those two cookies are supposed to be Jade and Floyd? What sort of candies did you decide to decorate them with?”

Kalim lets out a bright peal of laughter and holds the cookies closer to Azul for him to see better. “I decided to get a little creative this time and decorated them with flavors they like! So for Jade, I used dried mushroom pieces and for Floyd I used bonito flakes dyed with food coloring!”

Azul recoils away from the cookies with a look of thinly veiled revulsion on his face. After quickly regaining his composure, he clears his throat and remarks, “Those are some very… interesting choices for decorating cookies.”

From his seat at the end of the table, Riddle looks up from his work with his eyebrows raised, “Kalim, gingerbread cookies are traditionally decorated with sweets. Your choices seem to be more on the savory side.” As he finishes his statement, one of his gingerbread pieces falls away from the overall structure and lands with a sticky splat into a puddle of icing. Riddle briefly closes his eyes in barely restrained fury and then picks up the offending gingerbread in a death-grip. He firmly presses it back into place and liberally pipes more icing along the sides.

Raising yet another cookie, this one decorated with dark-green icing hair and glasses made from licorice strips, Kalim asks in a familiar and slightly teasing voice, “Speaking of sweets, Riddle, do you need some help with your gingerbread construction? I’d be more than happy to give you some tips I learned in my family’s bakery.”

Riddle snaps back almost instinctively, “I certainly do not need any help, Trey–I mean, Kalim!” With a little growl of frustration he pushes his dangerously leaning and messily frosted gingerbread pieces together even harder and mutters to himself, “What am I, a child? As if I need any extra help attaching two cookies together. For goodness sake!”

Vil looks over at Riddle’s rapidly deteriorating gingerbread scene and shakes his head with a kind of weary sympathy, “I understand that the whole off-center, ‘leaning’ type of aesthetic is part of Heartslabyul’s unique charm, but this goes beyond the pale. Your design is just honestly not structurally sound!” Clucking his tongue a bit reproachfully, he turns back to his work and adds, “You’re the only one here who has a vice housewarden with a background in the pastry arts. Did you even consult Trey at all when you drew up that elaborate blueprint?”

Riddle’s face flushes a light shade of red at Vil’s words and he slaps a hand down on the table, narrowly missing his gingerbread pieces, and shouts, “I beg your pardon?! As I have said time and time again, I do not need any assistance with this!” The impact of Riddle’s hand hitting the table shakes three more gingerbread walls loose from his structure. Quickly grabbing the fallen pieces and squishing them together with another generous dollop of icing, Riddle shouts to no one in particular, “I am perfectly capable of building any scene I choose out of gingerbread and candy! I don’t need Trey to hold my hand for an activity as childish as this!”

Picking up a nearby spatula, Riddle points it at Vil in an accusatory way before using it to scoop more icing onto his gingerbread, “And while we’re on the concept of ‘structurally sound’, what exactly are you putting on your house right now? Is that an actual diamond?!”

Vil pauses for a second and then resumes his placement of a strawberry sized, white gemstone on one corner of his gingerbread mansion. Reaching into a large bowl filled with jewelry, he pulls out a gold chain and replies breezily, “It’s actually a white sapphire.”

“That–!!” Riddle slams his hand down on the table once more, dislodging a handful of peppermints that clatter noisily downwards to the floor. “You can’t use jewelry for your decorations! They’re not edible!” he shouts angrily, the shade of red on his face getting progressively darker.

Arching one eyebrow, Vil replies, “In my experience, no one ever eats gingerbread houses so everything might as well be inedible. I’m simply embellishing my gingerbread house with a small amount of jewelry for aesthetic purposes. The majority of my structure is made of gingerbread and thus, should meet the qualifications of the contest.”

Holding up a blonde-haired cookie wearing a large marshmallow hat, Kalim dramatically cries out, “You’ve outdone yourself, mon roi~! Your house is the very vision of elegance and loveliness! Beauté!”

Draping a string of pearls along the roof of the house, Vil smoothly replies, “Thank you, Rook. I know.”

Clenching his fist angrily, Riddle jumps to his feet and shouts, “You cannot–!”

His outburst is interrupted by the wet sound of several icing heavy gingerbread pieces toppling over the edge of the table and falling into a sad little heap on the floor. The soggy cookies have absorbed so much icing, they look more like thick pieces of wet cardboard and Riddle looks down with an unreadable expression on his face. Slowly raising his head, he gazes off into the distance above everyone’s heads and politely says, “Please excuse me.”

Swiftly turning on his heel, Riddle walks quickly through the cafeteria door and shuts it firmly behind him. A few beats of silence pass by as the group of remaining housewardens sit and listen. Their patience is rewarded when they hear a sudden, spine chilling scream of pure fury followed by the unmistakable sound of several fireballs being launched in the air. The room trembles from the amount of magical energy just outside, causing the table to violently shake for a moment. The tremors, combined with the weight of metals and jewels, is too much for Vil’s gingerbread house to bear and it collapses in on itself.

After silently staring at the ruins of his house for several minutes, Vil shakes his head wearily and reaches for more gingerbread. He mutters to himself, “Honestly, I’ve salvaged worse fashion disasters than this.”

-to be continued in part 4-

#they're having fun lol #twisted wonderland #twst #twst imagines #twst fanfic #twst housewardens #azul ashengrotto #kalim al asim #riddle rosehearts #vil schoenheit #bun lapin écrit

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lilpunkrock · 2 years

Text

Teach Me

Status: Drabble

Pairing: Jack Russell x Fem!Reader

Find my other Jack Russell works here and here.

AN: I cannot stop writing for this man. Thank you to my four years of high school-level Spanish and Google for helping me through this. I do apologize if there are any errors, I tried my very best!

Translations can be found at the end of the post. x

. . .

“¿Cómo estás?”

“Estoy bien, gracias.”

“¡Muy bien, mi amor!”

You flash a dazzling grin in response to Jack’s enthusiastic praise. The two of you sit on opposite ends of the couch, backs pressed against the arm rests so that you can face each other. When you had first asked him to help you learn Spanish a couple of months ago, his brows had jumped in genuine surprise. Little did he know that such a request had been on your mind for a long time. After all, your love for Jack had instilled in you a passion for learning about all aspects of his cultural heritage, and his native language was an integral part of that. While Jack had protested that, should you ever visit a Spanish-speaking region, he would be there to translate for you, you had politely declined. You wanted to be capable of standing at his side and conversing in his native tongue independently. Learning a new language was a challenge, sure, but the child-like glee in his eyes during your nightly practice sessions made the mental marathon worth it.

“Okay, another. What might you say if someone asked you, ‘¿Cómo puedo ayudarte?”

You pause, your brows furrowing deeply in thought. You knew the first word was ‘how,’ and ‘ayudar’ was ‘help…’ “Ummm…¿Estoy perdida?” you say hesitantly, a tentative smile playing on your lips.

Jack gives a scoff, rolling his olive green eyes in mock disbelief. “As if I would let you out of my sight. Still, muy bien.”

You give him a cheeky grin. Slowly, you slide one sock-clad foot across the couch to toy with the leg of his gray sweatpants. “Ayúdame, necesito encontrar a mi esposo.”

A low hum rumbles in Jack’s throat at your words—a soft growl. His knuckles whiten as he clasps his folded hands a little tighter in his lap. You nibble at your bottom lip in delight as a rush of blood warms his cheeks. He clears his throat hastily, pushing that deliciously possessive rumble back down his throat as he eyes you keenly. “Not yet, mi amor. Though that could be arranged.” At your bright peal of laughter, he smiles. “You are doing well. Have you been practicing without me?”

“Maybe just a little,” you say coyly. More like every day, sometimes multiple hours a day. Little did he know that the Babbel app currently held the record for the greatest amount of screen time on your phone.

A slow smile pulls at Jack’s pink lips, his olive eyes twinkling, crinkling at the corners. Gosh, his eyes. Oh how you adored catching them peek at you over the rim of a coffee mug, finding them tracing your features when you woke up in the morning, watching them gaze up at you as he pressed gentle kisses into your skin, eyelids heavy and love-drunk. The pleased look on his handsome face sends your stomach into a tailspin.

“Alright, let’s try something harder.” That adorable smile remains plastered on his perfect pink lips. “What might you say if we were going to a restaurant?”

You pause, pursing your lips, thinking carefully. “Tengo una reservación,” you say slowly, your voice straight and even.

Jack gives a soft chuckle, a sound as sweet as a lullaby. “That’s pretty good. It is a little too…English. But you are close, so close. Roll your tongue, mi amor. Like this.” You watch carefully as he brings the tip of his tongue to the back of his top teeth and gives you a demonstration.

For all your extra practice, this particular detail of the language was something you were still struggling to muster. Hoping to prolong the inevitable embarrassment you’d experience when attempting it again, you offer him a shit-eating grin. “I can’t help that you’re better with your tongue than I am,” you say jokingly, wiggling your eyebrows at him. Well, only partly joking.

Though Jack buries his head in his hands, the gesture barely contains his laughter. And good thing, too, because the sound of his snickers is music to your ears. Your eager eyes catch the sight of the slight crook in his teeth peeking out from behind his hands. It’s one of your favorite features of his; your heart swells three sizes at the sight of it. “Ay, Dios mío. You are such a tease.” With a long sigh, he collects himself, waving his hand at you as he smooths out his expression. “Come now, mi amor, try again. Curl your tongue to the top of your mouth, behind your teeth. Like this.” He demonstrates again, ever the emphatic teacher. “And then push the air out quickly. Come on.”

You roll your eyes good-naturedly at him. “Okay, okay. I’ll try it.” His eyes hold yours steadily as you thoughtfully bring your tongue to the back of your teeth. It takes a few tries and some re-positioning, but when you’re ready, you try it again, “Tengo una reservación.”

Jack’s expression brightens instantaneously, positively radiant, beaming like the sun. The sight robs the breath straight from your lungs. You think you could practice rolling your r’s forever if it meant continuing to make him grin like that. “¡Muy bien, mi amada! You did it! You are killing it! Okay, okay, another one. Let’s see if you can remember it this time, okay? What do you say if you need to find the bathroom?”

Shit. One of the most crucial phrases, and you’d been struggling with it for weeks. That last word always seemed to escape you. What was it again…? “¿Dónde está…la biblioteca?”

Jack smirks at you, his olive eyes bright and amused. “El baño, mi amor.”

You groan, throwing your head back in defeat. “Shit, that was library, wasn’t it? I’m not sure why I can’t seem to get that one.”

The gentle press of a warm hand to your knee draws your attention. Jack leans toward you, kneading your knee softly, a gesture that turns your legs to noodles and sends your stomach aflutter with butterflies. “Don’t get down on yourself, mi amor. You are doing so well. You should be proud.” His expression is affectionate, his eyes a doorway straight to his heart. You feel yourself relax, melding like clay into his hands. “I am proud of you.”

“Thank you,” you say quietly, cheeks flushed with delight. A slow smile pulls at your lips as you add, “You know, there is something else I’ve been practicing.”

Jack’s eyebrows reach for his salt-and-pepper hair. “Oh? What is it?”

You lean toward him, stopping when your noses are mere inches apart. “Eres un excelente profesor.” The words roll from your smiling lips, rehearsed many times over in preparation for this moment.

That beloved crooked grin of his is on full display as Jack smiles with glee. That smile could win wars—you just knew it. “Y tengo una estudiante muy hermosa y talentosa. Mi amada, eres una bendición.”

His words slip over you masterfully, spilling from his lips like spun silk. Your brain scrambles to identify bits and pieces, but overall, the picture is incomplete. “Ah, no entiendo, mi amor.”

Jack gives an amused chuckle, eyeing you with a mix of humor and adoration. “We will get there,” he says assuredly, giving your knee a brief squeeze.

You smile brightly at him in response. With your faces drawn so closely together, you can see every divinely-woven thread in his irises, from the green plains at their borders to the brown earth at their cores. His jaw is blanketed in a short stubble—“Please don’t shave it yet, I love how it feels beneath my fingers,” you’d begged him—and his lips are plush and pink. This close to one another, the air between you feels charged, electric, alive. Your skin prickles, nerve endings firing like live wires. Only his touch on your knee soothes you.

Your gaze slips from his hand to his eyes coyly. “You know, you are such an excellent Spanish teacher…” you murmur softly, sweetly. Your fingers trail up his arm with agonizing slowness, slipping into the tousled hair at the nape of his neck. When you thread your fingers through it and give a gentle tug, Jack’s pupils dilate instantaneously. This time, the soft rumble that reverberates through his throat is insistent, needy. The sound sets your skin aflame, turns your bones to jelly. “Maybe…there’s something else you’d like to teach me?”

When he swallows, it’s with the desperation of a man starved of food and drink. His Adam's apple bobs deliciously, his brilliant eyes watching you like you’re a feast in a famine. In this moment, you’re so glad you asked him to teach you Spanish.

With the swiftness of an animal and the grace of a man, he scoops you up into his arms, pressing a warm kiss to the shell of your ear. “Vámonos.”

. . .

Translations:

“¿Cómo estás?” — "How are you?"

“Estoy bien, gracias.” — "I'm good, thank you."

“¡Muy bien, mi amor!” — "Very good, my darling/my beloved!"

"¿Cómo puedo ayudarte?" — "How can I help you?"

"¿Estoy perdida?" — "I'm lost?"

"Ayúdame, necesito encontrar a mi esposo." — "Help me, I need to find my husband."

"Dios mío." — "My God/my goodness"

"Tengo una reservación." — "I have a reservation."

"Mi amor" — "My love"

"¡Muy bien, mi amada!" — "Very good, my darling/my beloved!"

"¿Dónde está…la biblioteca?" — "Where is...the library?"

"Eres un excelente profesor." — "You are an excellent teacher."

"Y tengo una estudiante muy hermosa y talentosa. Mi amada, eres una bendición." — "And I have a very beautiful and gifted student. My beloved, you are a blessing."

"Vámonos." — "Let's go."

. . .

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