#i CANNOT draw him with that in my head this is proving something to myself

[frodo-with-glasses]

More Reading Thoughts: The Passing of the Grey Company

EYYYY MERRY!! Aragorn! Legolas and Gimli!! I missed you guys! 8-D

“So four of the Company still remain.” Dramatic much, Aragorn??

“‘And then whither?’ said Legolas. ‘I cannot say yet,’ Aragorn answered.” *hums to myself* And whither then, I cannot say…

Legolas and Gimli don’t even wait to hear where Aragorn is going before they loudly volunteer to come with him. I love these dorks so much LOL

“But do not look for mirth at the ending. It will be long, I fear, ere Theoden sits at ease again in Meduseld. Many hopes will wither in this bitter spring.” Aaaaand Aragorn accidentally foreshadows Theoden’s death :-(

Literally Merry: “Welp, if I run now, I’ll die, so I might as well stay and fight.”

Aragorn, immediately, upon seeing an old friend again: IT’S HUGGING TIME

“Merry breathed a sigh of relief. …It seemed that there would be no need to die in Theoden’s defense, not yet at any rate.” Whoa, Merry, that’s pretty hardcore. Respect.

Yooo so these are all Rangers like Aragorn?? And Elrond’s sons are here too?? SICK.

All of Aragorn’s old friends, in fancy foreshadowing language, at once: “HI WE BROUGHT YOU A FLAG AND YOU’RE GONNA HAVE TO GO WAKE UP SOME GHOSTS”

Legolas calling Merry “Master Sluggard” for sleeping until noon X’-D Give me the Legolas and Merry roast battle STAT!

Tolkien quietly implies that Legolas and Gimli stood around talking to Merry while he got dressed. I don’t have anything to comment here except that casual platonic intimacy is delightful.

Evidently, the Rangers are here because of Galadriel ex machina.

Merry’s opinion of Theoden went from “I want to talk to you about pipeweed” to “I would die for you” in like .005 seconds and I am 1000% here for it

“Filled suddenly with love for this old man, he knelt on one knee, and took his hand and kissed it. ‘May I lay the sword of Meriadoc of the Shire on your lap, Theoden King?’ he cried. ‘Receive my service, if you will!’”

WOW that’s like a high-octane shot of unfiltered medieval chivalry right to the veins. I think the buzz in my head is my entire British ancestry all waking up at once in a patriotic fit. HECK YEAH KINGS AND KNIGHTS AND CASTLES MAN LET’S FRICKIN’ GOOOOOO

!!!!!!!!! HELLO??? All the Rangers wear their cloaks asymmetrically??? “Pinned on the left shoulder” it says. I’VE BEEN DRAWING ARAGORN’S CLOAK PINNED ON HIS SHOULDER THIS WHOLE TIME. The right-side one, not the left, but STILL. I DIDN’T FRICKIN’ REMEMBER THIS PART. DID I RECALL IT SUBCONSCIOUSLY AGAIN???? HEEEEHHHH??????

Pippin, constantly: “I miss Merry :-(” Merry, constantly: “I miss Pippin :-(”

Oooh the Rangers have been guarding the Shire, and the hobbits didn’t even know about it!! That’s so cool, man. Like guardian angels with mud-stained boots.

I have little to say about Aragorn’s story of looking into the Palantir except that I’m glad he’s had something to eat and I really hope he gets some sleep soon :-/

Ohhh so the Grey Company is Aragorn, Legolas, Gimli, and the other Rangers. The Three Musketeers and Co.

Eowyn: “Please don’t go.” Aragorn: “Sorry, no.” Eowyn: “You’ll die.” Aragorn: “No, I won’t.” Eowyn: “Then take me with you so that I can die too.” Aragorn: “Emphatically, no.”

Eowyn bemoaning the “part of a woman” is both startlingly modern and better than any more recent attempt I’ve seen to write the exact same thing. Eowyn doesn’t want to fight just because she’s afraid of seeming “lesser than the men”; she wants to fight because she’s afraid of living a purposeless life, of sitting around uselessly while the world is in peril and she feels she can help. Her motivation is a lot like Steve Rogers’ back in the first Captain America movie: “Bucky, come on! There are men laying down their lives. I got no right to do any less than them.”

Aaaaand Tolkien once again proves that he can absolutely write suspense and horror if he wants to.

Gimli is an interesting choice for a POV character here. I guess it makes sense, tho; he’s neither a Ranger nor an Elf, so the fear of the Dead is going to sit heaviest on him.

“Yes, the Dead ride behind. They have been summoned.” OHHHHH HOHOHOHO.

DUUUUDE. JUST. Okay so we all know that in the movie there’s this huge confrontation where Aragorn argues with the dead king to help them, right?? That totally makes sense story-wise; it’s a “trial” he has to pass to get their respect. But there’s nothing like that here. The trial is quiet, it’s understated; it’s simply the labor of getting through the Paths of the Dead and battling through that aura of fear to the other side. And you don’t know that the ghosts are following you until you’re leaving. Imagine being on your way out of a place called the Paths of the Dead, finally coming out of that horrible cave and looking up to see the stars, and when you finally think you’re safe, you turn around and see an army of ghosts following in silent procession. CHILLS, MAN. Just. CHILLS.

And now the Grey Company includes the ghosts apparently!

I have nothing to say about the people running away from Aragorn and calling him “the King of the Dead” except that it’s funny and chilling all at once.

The Stone of Erech really said ⚫️

#meriadoc brandybuck #merry #aragorn #legolas #gimli #theoden #eowyn #lord of the rings #lotr #my writing #assorted thoughts

[kjmsupremacist]

double exposure (yuta/taeyong)

During promotions for his first Japanese mini album, k-idol Taeyong meets one of his favorite artists, j-rock star Yuta. Though it starts casual, Taeyong begins to realize he may be in over his head, and struggles to reconcile his affection for Yuta with all the things that keep them apart.

Chapter 5 |   prev   next   mlist

Characters: Taeyong, Yuta

Genre: k-soloist taeyong, jrockstar yuta; romance, smut, angst

Warnings: dom/sub dynamics, smut, drunk sex, mild angst, homophobia mentions

Rating: Explicit

Length: 4.1k

taglist: @meowniee @flowerboykun​

I’m like pretty sure someone else asked to be added to this taglist but I cannot find that info anywhere now so if that was you or if you want to be on the taglist pls just reply to this post or send me an ask!! OTL

Taeyong finds himself facing yet another new experience. He’s woken up next to Yuta before, sure, but that was at Yuta’s place, in Japan, or in Taeyong’s little rental, not here in Taeyong’s home. He watches the rise and fall of Yuta’s chest, the gentle relaxation on his face. It seems surreal, almost—how could someone like Yuta want to spend his free time traveling to see someone like Taeyong? How could he want to stay? Want to sleep beside him and have meals with him?

But here they are. Yuta is in his bed, and Taeyong realizes with a nearly sick jolt that he wants to keep him here for a very long time.

That’s the thing, though, isn’t it? They don’t belong to each other. They could never; they could never belong to anybody. They belong to their fans, and the love they receive from the public comes with a price. And Taeyong knew that before he signed his contract, but he didn’t think at the time that he would need to worry about it. He had been young, broke, desperate for a chance to prove himself. So what if he sold his soul to the spotlight? 

But now… Taeyong traces his gaze over Yuta’s eyelashes, the line of his jaw. Maybe he wants his soul back. Maybe he wants it back so he can give it to Yuta instead.

Yuta blinks his eyes open, focusing on Taeyong, almost like the thought had summoned him. But if he can read minds, he doesn’t say anything. He smiles. “Hey, honey,” he whispers.

“Hi,” Taeyong whispers back. “How’d you sleep?”

“Really good.” Yuta covers his mouth to stifle a yawn, stretching. “Wore me out last night.”

This draws a giggle out of Taeyong, unbidden. “Me, too,” he says.

Yuta stretches out an arm and wraps it around Taeyong’s waist, tugging him close. “C’mere, baby,” he says, murmured against Taeyong’s collarbone. His breath tickles Taeyong’s skin; Taeyong giggles, combing his fingers through Yuta’s hair. “What are your schedules today? Are you free?”

“I’m free,” Taeyong says. “I’m free ’til next Monday. Why, what do you wanna do?”

“Oh, I dunno.” Yuta rolls on top of Taeyong, swinging a leg over his body and pinning him to the bed. “Was hoping for a quick tour of the city. Maybe you could show me a couple of your favorite spots. We could get a meal, then come back for some wine or something. Tomorrow if your friends are free, I’d love to meet them.”

Taeyong giggles again. “Tomorrow? Not today?”

“Want you to myself today,” Yuta says. “Not ready to share your attention yet, I just got it back.”

“You always had my attention,” Taeyong says softly. “Even if you were far away.”

“I meant undivided,” Yuta corrects, but he smiles down at Taeyong, eyes soft and warm.

“You have it,” Taeyong says.

“Good.” Yuta ducks down for a swift kiss, then rolls off Taeyong, pushing the covers aside and pushing himself to the edge of the bed. “Breakfast?”

“Yeah.” Taeyong wrenches himself from the comfort of his bed. “I was thinking we could go to a cafe? It’s not far from here, it’s one of my favorites.”

Yuta nods approvingly. “Sounds good to me,” he agrees. “Aren’t we gonna get followed, though?”

Taeyong gives him an almost sheepish look. “Ah, we might. Some of my fans are… overly enthusiastic.”

Yuta laughs. “That’s a kind way of putting it,” he comments mildly.

“I’ll tell my manager what we’re up to,” Taeyong says. “We can probably bring a staff member, but—” He glances at the clock. Half past nine. “It’s too early for lunch, and most people are already at work or at school. So it should be okay.”

“That’s right, I forgot it was a weekday,” Yuta says. “Vacation brain, you know.”

Taeyong rolls his eyes at him as he pads into his bathroom. “You’ve been on vacation for like one day,” he says, reaching for his toothbrush. Yuta’s laughter floats in from the bedroom, bright and clear. 

Half an hour later, they meet a staff member in the lobby of the building. They’re both wearing masks and hats, but they know better than to think that will stop them from being recognized. Still, Taeyong’s not too worried. 

His faith in the universe is not misplaced. Though a phone or three goes up as they walk down the street, and he notices a couple of girls tailing them, no one approaches; no one crowds. They get to the cafe without a hitch and find a table in a secluded corner. It’s mostly empty—it is ten a.m. on a workday, after all—so he and Yuta are free to peel off their makeshift disguises and enjoy their food in peace. 

“Anything in particular you want to see?” Taeyong asks while Yuta sips at his coffee. 

Yuta shakes his head. “I’m not particular. Touristy things I can always do in my own time, when you’re busy, so I’d rather do things I wouldn’t think to do by myself today.”

Taeyong nods. “I have a couple of favorite parks in the city, and then we can swing by this amazing street food place and pick up some takeout for an early dinner?”

Yuta smiles at him over his coffee cup, and Taeyong’s stomach flips like a fish out of water. “Sounds perfect,” Yuta says. 

And so they do just that. The day remains pretty peaceful. Fans keep their distance, and there aren’t a lot of other people out to begin with. Around three, they head to the restaurant to pick up their food so they can head back before things get too crazy. 

“Hey,” Yuta says while they wait for their order to be completed. “We’re trending.”

A very strange and unsettling emotion bursts forth in Taeyong’s chest. “We’re what?”

“On Twitter, look.” Yuta sounds vaguely amused. He turns his phone around and though most of it is in Japanese, one word catches his eye. 

#YUTAE.

“I guess people were taking pictures,” Taeyong says, looking at Yuta uncertainly. 

Yuta just shrugs. “Seems like it. Mostly it’s people happy to see we’ve met up again.” He tilts his head. “Some, though… I mean, you know how it is. But—anyway, we can look at it when we get back to yours.”

Fear settles like a small shard of ice in Taeyong’s stomach. Yuta doesn’t seem too scared, though, just bemused. He accepts their food from the cashier and nods for them to leave. Taeyong follows happily, eager to be out of the view of the public. 

He opens Twitter once they’re back inside and starts scrolling. “People are calling it a date,” he says nervously. 

But Yuta laughs. “They’re joking,” he says. “Didn’t they call it a date when Johnny treated you to dinner last month? Or what about the time you and Doyoung went shopping together?” Taeyong nods, realizing he might be overreacting. “The few people that aren’t joking will get laughed off their soapboxes, and things will settle. Why shouldn’t I come to visit my friend? Besides, who knows. Maybe we’re working on a collab.”

“Maybe we should,” Taeyong suggests. “Just as a cover.”

Yuta eyes him as he sets the food down on his table. “Oh, that’s the only reason you want to work together?”

“No!” Taeyong exclaims, but then he realizes Yuta is hiding a grin. “It’s a great excuse, though. All I really have to do is tell my management we were trending and they’ll already be dialing a composer.”

“Mm, and he has connections,” Yuta hums, grinning. “Alright, why don’t you eat? You can call your management in the morning.”

“I should call them tonight,” Taeyong says firmly. “If they don’t call me first.”

Yuta hands Taeyong a pair of chopsticks, eyebrows slightly furrowed now. “Do they monitor you that closely?”

Taeyong shrugs. “They just like to be on top of things. Whether it’s an opportunity like this, or a scandal, or whatever,” he explains. “I’m grateful for it. My image is everything.”

Yuta nods. “I guess it’s different for me,” he says. “My fans prefer me rough around the edges because it makes me real.”

Taeyong blinks. “That must be nice,” he says. “My fans want me perfect or they don’t want me at all.

“I doubt that’s entirely true,” Yuta says, “but I understand.”

Taeyong sighs. “Anyway, I would like to collaborate with you,” he says, “regardless of all of this. I’ve never done a rock concept, and I really want to try it. So it would be perfect if we could do a single together!”

“Of course we can,” Yuta says. “I’d love to work with you.”

Taeyong nods, feeling a faint blush rise to his cheeks. “Thanks,” he manages.

“Don’t be so worried, though,” Yuta continues, dishing some meat out for Taeyong, laying the pieces on top of his rice with a sort of absentminded kind of care. “Unless someone literally catches us fucking, no one’s gonna seriously believe the rumors. At least not enough for it to damage our careers. They could probably even catch us kissing, and no one would believe it. I mean, we do stuff like that as fanservice all the time.”

Taeyong gives him a confused look. “Do we?”

Yuta looks up, also confused. “I mean, solo artists like you and me not so much, because we don’t really have people to do it with, but, like, people in groups do. I dunno, the fans like it.”

“Uh, we do not do that,” Taeyong informs him. “We get a little handsy here, but we never kiss unless it’s by accident, like part of a game, or some kind of punishment for a game.”

“Oh.” Yuta laughs to himself. “I guess things are a little different.”

“Japanese idols do that?”

“I thought you were a fan!”

“I’m your fan; I don’t know everything about j-idol culture!”

“I’ve kissed members of my band on camera before,” Yuta points out. “Some of my dancers, too. Most of my dancers. Actually, I’m pretty sure the only dancer I’ve never kissed is the one I consider to be my son. You never saw any of that?”

Now that Taeyong thinks about it, maybe he has seen things. But he supposes he thought it was an exaggeration. “I guess I have,” he admits. “That’s common?”

Yuta shrugs. “Yeah? I mean, you know my reputation. It’s almost expected of me, that kind of behavior.” His expression turns a bit devious. “My fans are perverts, like me.”

Taeyong groans his protest, shaking his head. “Alright, well, you and I are not kissing where cameras can see us. Your fans might like it, but my fans would have a conniption.”

Yuta salutes crookedly. “You have my word.”

Taeyong sets his chopsticks down, standing. “Well, personally I’m ready for a drink,” he says as he makes his way to his fridge. “Soju? Beer? Wine?”

“Soju,” Yuta says. “Any flavor is fine.”

Taeyong nods, pulling out two bottles of plain soju and grabbing two shot glasses, bringing them back to the table. He cracks open a bottle as he takes his seat, pouring them each a shot and sliding a glass to Yuta, who picks it up.

“Cheers,” Taeyong says, clinking his glass against Yuta’s and then draining it. It’s good soju, smooth and clean and fresh, and Taeyong knows already that tonight is going to get a little messy. But judging from the way Yuta is watching him, Taeyong doesn’t think either of them will mind.

Taeyong can’t say exactly how, but they abandon their food at some point and he ends up in Yuta’s lap, hands running through Yuta’s long hair. He can’t say he’s surprised, either.

“I can’t blame them for wondering,” he says, “our fans.”

“Why’s that?” Yuta asks. His eyelids are drooping; he’s smiling at Taeyong in a lazy, almost self-satisfied way. His hands are on Taeyong’s waist. His hands are so warm.

“I mean, what was I supposed to do when I saw you?” Taeyong says. “Not want you?”

Yuta chuckles. “You fell right into my trap, honey,” he murmurs sweetly, leaning up so he can steal a kiss. “It’s not your fault. Of course you wanted me.” Another kiss. “Of course I wanted you.”

Heat floods Taeyong’s body; he kisses Yuta again, hands slipping from his hair to his cheeks. He holds Yuta close, though he has a feeling Yuta wouldn’t pull away even if he could. Instead, he feels Yuta’s teeth on his bottom lip. He whines softly, relaxing into Yuta’s touch. One of Yuta’s hands comes up to his jaw, thumb on his chin, coaxing Taeyong’s mouth open wider so he can push his tongue in.

Taeyong’s heart pounds in his chest, a loud thrum of desire. He’s sure Yuta can hear it, can feel it where his fingers rest so close to Taeyong’s pulse point. The hand on his waist has found its way under his shirt, the pads of Yuta’s fingers now pressed into the divots of Taeyong’s spine. Yuta kisses him like he owns him, mouth open and hot, dark and dirty. And isn’t it true? Taeyong, caught in the trap of Yuta’s beauty, laid out like a prize at his feet. Who else should own him?

Yuta pulls back, reaches towards the table. Taeyong follows him without thinking, confused, but Yuta presses his lips together, laughing.

“Yuta,” Taeyong whines.

“Take another shot with me,” Yuta coaxes. “Do you want another shot?”

Taeyong assesses for a moment, and then nods. He can have at least a couple more before he should stop, and he’s always liked feeling a little helpless. Yuta pours them shots, and goes to hand a glass to Taeyong, but Taeyong just opens his mouth, giving Yuta a plaintive look.

Yuta smiles. “Don’t choke, honey,” he says, raising the glass up.

Taeyong shoots him a sharp look. “I only ever choke on purpose,” he says cheekily, and then lets Yuta pour the shot into his mouth.

Yuta takes his shot and then sets the glasses safely back on the table before kissing Taeyong again. He’s gentler this time, though it’s no less filthy. Taeyong finds himself shrinking smaller and smaller in Yuta’s lap, letting Yuta move him into place. Yuta presses on Taeyong’s low back to make him arch forwards, then rolls his hips up to meet Taeyong’s. Taeyong moans softly as Yuta presses kisses along his jaw, nipping gently at his neck. 

“Probably shouldn’t mark you up, should I?” Yuta asks, breath warm against Taeyong’s skin.

“Want it,” Taeyong protests, but then he shakes his head. “But no,” he says regretfully.

“Someday,” Yuta promises, kisses soft, no teeth. “I’ll cover you in bruises.”

Taeyong moans in response, whimpering when Yuta rolls his hips up again. “Yu-ta,” he breathes. “Please.”

“Please what, honey?” Yuta asks.

Taeyong lets his eyes become pleading, wide and round and pitiful. “Won’t you fuck me?”

A dark haze clouds Yuta's eyes; he blinks back up at him slowly. “Of course I will,” he says. “C’mon. Let’s go to your room, it’s more comfortable.”

“But the food—” Taeyong protests as Yuta helps him to his feet.

“We can deal with it later,” Yuta says. “I’ll deal with it later. C’mon.”

Taeyong stumbles, grabbing Yuta’s arm for support. His body must have settled when he was sitting, but now he’s dizzy—not in a nauseous way, just in a clumsy, drunk kind of way. He giggles apologetically as Yuta wraps an arm around his waist.

“You okay, baby?” Yuta asks, coaxing him forward.

“Yeah,” Taeyong says, leaning into Yuta. “Just a little drunk, I think.”

“More than a little,” Yuta comments mildly as Taeyong sways. “Here,” he says after a moment. “I don’t want you to hurt yourself.” He reaches down, motioning for Taeyong to wrap his arms around his shoulders, and hooks his forearms under Taeyong’s thighs, hands spread wide for support. “Up, c’mon.” He lifts Taeyong in the air with ease. 

Taeyong crosses his ankles behind Yuta’s waist, tucking his nose into the crook of Yuta’s neck. He mumbles a thank-you, kissing his jaw as Yuta walks them down the hall to Taeyong’s bedroom. Taeyong is giggling by the time Yuta releases him on the bed; he clings even when Yuta tries to pull away.

“Let me go, honey,” Yuta says, smiling. “I need to get the lube.”

Taeyong acquiesces, settling into the comfort of his mattress while he waits for Yuta to come back. To his credit, Yuta is quick, back by his side in a matter of seconds with a kiss as an apology. He puts a hand on Taeyong’s waistband. “Hips up, please.”

Taeyong lets Yuta strip him, blissfully not helping, remaining soft and pliant. Yuta seems happy to manhandle him, rewarding him with kisses every time he manages to get rid of an article of clothing. 

Yuta lays him out, kissing down his body, and reaches back for the lube. He takes his time spreading it across his fingers, so it’s warm by the time he touches Taeyong. He pushes a finger inside, thumbing at the slit of Taeyong’s cock with his other hand to keep him distracted. Taeyong hums out soft whimpers, trying to ground himself so he can relax.

The second finger goes the same way, and then the third. Yuta takes his time with it, making sure Taeyong is nice and loose around him before he moves on.

“Stop complaining,” Yuta says when Taeyong starts letting out soft little impatient noises. “You’re gonna be sore tomorrow if you don’t let me prep you right. As it is, I’m worried about you.”

“I can take it,” Taeyong insists, even though he knows Yuta’s right.

“You’ll thank me in the morning,” Yuta replies steadily, continuing his slow and measured rhythm.

He adds his pinky, and works all four fingers in and out of Taeyong. The minutes stretch on and the wanting in Taeyong’s stomach grows and grows until he’s pretty sure he’s near tears, gasping softly, helplessly, until he’s sure he can’t stand it anymore.

But then Yuta pulls away with a kiss to his stomach, and reaches down to slick up his cock. Taeyong lets out a shuddering breath, relieved. 

“Wider,” Yuta says, nudging at Taeyong’s inner thighs. “Good. Relax, honey.”

It’s all the warning he gets before Yuta is lining himself and pushing in, slow and careful. It hardly burns, so Taeyong doesn’t have to worry about much. He reaches down lazily and strokes himself, giving a happy sigh as Yuta bottoms out.

“Good?” Yuta asks.

“Mm,” Taeyong affirms. “Full.”

“Good.” Yuta pets down his side, leaning over him. “Hi, baby.”

“Hi,” Taeyong whispers, watching him come close, fighting to keep his eyes focused. Yuta comes too close and they end up crossing; they both laugh.

Yuta rocks his hips, just the tiniest of movements, waiting for Taeyong to relax around him. Taeyong watches him, blinking repeatedly to keep his vision from blurring. Yuta has a hand in his hair, carding through it. “Pretty,” he says softly. “Always look so good when you’re stuffed full with my cock, isn’t that right?” Taeyong nods, a happy noise bubbling up from his throat.

As soon as Taeyong’s adjusted, the instant he lets a plea for more escape, Yuta grinds into him deep and dirty, and Taeyong can’t say anything at all. Yuta’s murmuring praise in his ear, so good, sound so sweet, my perfect boy. Taeyong lets his eyes roll back in his head, lost in the pleasure of it. 

“Still with me, honey?” Yuta asks and Taeyong does his best to nod.

“Mm-hm,” he says, loud as he can. “Mm-hm, still here.”

Yuta kisses him, licking into his mouth as he fucks him. Taeyong lets his eyes flutter shut, lets his hands flutter up and down Yuta’s back. How is it that even now, even here where Taeyong couldn't possibly have him closer, he still wants more? What else could Yuta give him?

Something real, maybe, something more than just fucking and a basic mutual attraction. A sliver of sadness works its way under Taeyong’s skin. He’s too drunk now to process the ramifications of that thought, too drunk really to even feel the sting of it. But it doesn’t change the fact that he’s thought it, that he’s taken a step too far, and now he’s in danger. Unbidden, a soft noise of want slips out.

Yuta misreads it. “More?” he asks, tone dripping with condescension. “You still want more?”

Taeyong considers that he should be a little more wary, but he can only nod. Of course he wants more, he’ll always want more when it’s Yuta. Maybe that’s just how this will always be.

He feels the warmth of Yuta’s palm on his cheek, and then fingers against his lips. He opens his mouth almost instinctively, letting Yuta press his fingers in against his tongue as he continues to rock his hips. Taeyong gags wetly, just for show, when Yuta pushes his fingers in deeper. He can taste the metallic tang of his rings; it fills his nose and mixes with the smell of alcohol, makes his head even foggier. 

He drools around Yuta’s fingers, his cock dripping out beads of precome. Yuta pants above him, sweat glistening in his hair and on his face. Taeyong’s close; he knows Yuta is too. And still, all he can think as he feels the heat inside him crest is I want more.

He comes with a soft cry, spilling wet and messy over his knuckles, coughing out moans around Yuta’s fingers. He feels like he’s sinking, exhaustion and the dizzy fatigue of being drunk a little too long making his eyelids heavy. Yuta stills inside him, and Taeyong registers the warmth of his release as he slips into unconsciousness.

He comes to only a moment later; Yuta has pulled out and is working on gingerly lifting him from the bed.

“I can walk,” he says, smiling when Yuta startles.

They wash up; Yuta leaves Taeyong in the shower to pack up their food so they can have leftovers in the morning. Taeyong takes his time, letting the water sober him up a little. It doesn’t bring clarity, though.

Isn’t their arrangement odd? Normally, when Taeyong hooks up with another celebrity, it’s a one- maybe two-time thing. Sometimes, if they cross paths again down the road, they’ll hook up again. But never has it been this intimate—or this serious. Yuta flew out to Korea to see Taeyong. Sure, he says he always wanted to vacation here, but Taeyong knows he wouldn’t have come if they had never met. 

Taeyong thinks about bringing it up to Yuta, but he can’t imagine that conversation. Somehow, he knows Yuta would shut it down immediately. Yuta doesn’t seem like the kind of person to get attached. For him, it’s just about sex. He wanted to see Taeyong again so they could do exactly what they’ve been doing, and that’s all. 

Then why does it feel so domestic? Taeyong gets out of the shower and wraps himself in his towel, poking his head out the door before he suffocates on the steam. He sees Yuta, dressed in nothing but his underwear, putting fresh pillowcases onto his pillows and making the bed. When Yuta notices him, he smiles. Taeyong manages a weak smile back and turns away. 

And all of this is ignoring the biggest issue of all—even if Yuta wanted something more with Taeyong, they wouldn’t be able to. Taeyong has a dating ban, and besides, they would be hunted like wild animals by the press, by their fans, by everyone if people found out. It would set the entire East Asian music industry on fire, and neither of them would survive it. It would be far too risky.

Taeyong finishes drying off and tugs on a pair of underwear, going on a hunt for his phone. He texts his manager, I’ll call you in the morning, but Yuta and I were thinking that we should collab. Thought it would be a good cover, and then sets his phone down and turns to his bed, clicking off the light. 

“C’mere, honey,” Yuta stage-whispers. In the dark, Taeyong can hardly make out the outline of his figure, stretched out under the blankets, arms open and waiting. 

This is all it’s going to be. This is all it can be. Yuta and Taeyong, staging public appearances and collaborations and flaunting their friendship to the fans, hinting that it might be something more but only in a fanservice way, and then coming home and having this—only this, just dinner and sex and a kiss goodnight. And nothing more. And it’ll sell, and the fans will get what they want, and their companies will get what they want, and Yuta will get what he wants.

And Taeyong will have to live with it.

#ksmutclub #nct-writers #neowritingsnet #cznnet #neosmutcollective #nshitty frathouse #works #yutae #nct #yuta #taeyong #nct fanfic #nct fanfiction #nct smut #taeyong fanfic #taeyong fanfiction #taeyong smut #lee taeyong #lee taeyong fanfic #lee taeyong fanfiction #lee taeyong smut #yuta fanfic #yuta fanfiction #yuta smut #yuta x taeyong #taeyong x yuta #yuta/taeyong #taeyong/yuta #yutae fanfic #yutaxtaeyong

[a-lonely-dunedain]

23 with Margim and Celeair?

ok sorry my brain was fried for the last few days BUT i finally was able to Do Something with this one!

this is the "Fun" Celeair Goes to Isengard AU, where Margim has to go undercover in her old Mordor armor to try to rescue him. still not 100% sure where I want to go with this one, but Lothrandir is involved and we might get to see him and Margim being friends at some point maybe if I ever write anything else here.

“Did they hurt you?” My question was redundant, the answer is clear enough just from the sight of him. None of his wounds seemed grievous, but the sight of blood and bruises on him told me he had been beaten cruelly before I found him. There is fury welling up in my heart at the thought.

Celeair does not know how to fight, he is a staunch pacifist and I know he would not so much as raise a hand against anyone –even men and uruks as evil as these– so any injury he received from them would have been nothing but cruelty for cruelty’s sake. This place is much too akin to Mordor.

“A bit… I do not think anything is broken, at least.” I suppose that is technically good news, though it is of little comfort to me. “I did not fight back, so they had little reason to hurt me… though, evidently, they did not need much reason.” he adds quietly, looking down at the bruises on his arm. I quickly glance around to make sure we are still alone. The guards have not returned yet. I produce a small bundle of food that I had managed to smuggle out of the guard house, and quickly pass it through the bars to Celeair.

“I cannot stay long,” I whisper, “it’s too risky to be seen speaking to you. But I will find a way to get you out of here, I swear it.” This is not the first time I have made such an oath to him, but I pray it will be the last. Celeair simply nods at me, no trace of doubt in his eyes. I wish the same could be said of mine.

“I suppose we’re lucky you still held onto that armor, I did not think you would have any further use for it.” he observes, ever the optimist.

“We would be luckier still if I never had a reason to don it again…” I mutter solemnly. Just then I hear heavy footsteps coming from further down in the cells, one of the uruk guards is heading this way. “Someone is coming,” I whisper quickly, reaching into the cell and holding his hand for the briefest moment, “I must leave for now, but I will be back as soon as I can.” I feel a light squeeze on my hand from him before I let go. 

I walk away, swiftly as I can without seeming suspicious, fighting the urge to look back at Celeair. 

As I exit the dungeons, head down and hood drawn, I consider my next move.

I heard some other prisoners escaped only a few days ago. That is both good news and bad news at the same time. Good news, for it proves that escape is possible, and that the eyes of the Wizard do not even see the entirety of his domain. But bad news, as it means whatever gap in the ring’s defenses they exploited has surely been filled by now and I will have to make my own. The task will only be made more difficult by the heightened security following the escape, but I do not have time to wait for it to die down. Or more importantly, Celeair does not have time. 

He will not last long here, and I have no doubt that the wardens intend to work him to death. 

I might need to throw around my weight as ‘Emissary of Mordor’ a little to see if I can get him a lighter workload. It would be a risky move, as I must avoid drawing too much attention to myself or else someone might start asking questions and realize I'm not a real emissary at all, but I need to buy us a little more time. There are few here who would be bold enough to question the authority of a Black-Númenorean –how I detest using that title– but even one person discovering the ruse would spell doom for both of us.

This whole situation is all too familiar in all the worst ways.

#idk if I'll ever write much else in this AU but we'll see #we shall see... #I think one thing I have decided is that Margim and Lothrandir were actually friends before this point #they likely met during Lothrandir's previous travels through Dunland but idk much more than that #so anyway Margim will Not be very happy to find out he's also been captured #anyway ty for the ask friend! #that was the last one woooo!! #now I can work on cleaning them up and posting them in an Ao3 fic :D #lotro #lotro fic #lotro oc #Margim #Celeair

[tenshindon]

last year my good pal mistook a ssj goku drawin i did for cloud so ive finally decided to use my abilities Incorrectly

#db #dbz #goku #son goku #crossover #i guess LMAOO #snap sketches #sorry the only DB drawings i do nowadays are memes of goku i guess #i havent lived this moment down every day i go to draw i hear in my head 'everyone you draw looks the same' #when i said 'i could take it' i lied no i couldnt and this is evidence of that #and i beat ff7 recently and i wanted to draw cloud so this doubles as an excuse #i CANNOT draw him with that in my head this is proving something to myself #ALSO i had my friends send me pics of goku and like #they sent a lot but i didnt wanna be here all night drawing cloud and goku so four will have to do #utterly cursed seeing cloud smile like My Man. Do Not <3 #thanks for the pics guys sorry for being a disappointment <3

[afriendlyblackhottie]

In Shut Up, you mentioned that the reader got pregnant through a one night stand and had to go through the embarrassing process of informing Chris through a friend of a friend...how did Chris initially react to the news? I'm sure he demanded a paternity test. Was he ever planning on not being involved in his daughter's life?

(A/N:idk where this came from but it’s short anyway. Beginnings of smut. Chris isn’t toxic for this but it’s because I cannot bring myself to write someone being mean to a pregnant person.)

You were surprised to see him let out a sigh of relief.

Maybe the proof that you weren’t lying to him. You could never lie about something this serious. You got that he was an actor and famous and shit which maybe is why you were so eager to prove it.

Telling him wasn’t that bad. Sure he was all shocked and shit. That was to be expected, but he seemed more concern than anything. When you asked about that later he just said that his mom would have fucked him up if she found out he’d been a dick about a thing like this. So it’s not like you’d been necessarily expecting him to freak out on you or anything, but still you are a little surprised.

It was when he pulled you into a hug, that you were totally caught off guard. “You’re not mad?” You asked trying to blink away tears.

“Nah,” he replied. “I’ve always wanted to be a dad. This may not be ideal, but I’m glad.”

“Really?” You asked finally letting it out. Stupid fucking hormones.

“Mhm,” he replied kissing the side of your head. “To be honest we didn’t even have to do this. I never thought you were lying,” he said. “I’m glad we didn’t wait. Now I’m gonna irritate the fuck out of you. You’re not gonna be about to life a finger.”

You laughed and tilted your head back. “Oh yeah?”

“Yup. Gotta make sure the mother of my child is good. Even if we’re not together.”

You nodded. “Yeah. Thanks.” You sniffled. “You know for always being here and shit.”

“Always. Call me and I’ll be here as quick as I can.”

His face got all soft. Fuck. Stupid, stupid, stupid fucking hormones. Have his eyes always been this blue? Did his hair always look that soft? Was he always this warm?

As you pulled away, placing your hand on your bump. Fuck. You looked away from him. Licking your lips and stepping back. “Do you wan-“

You didn’t even get the chance to finish whatever you were about to say as Chris grabbed your arm. Making your eyes draw back to his eyes by accident. Fuck why was he looking at you like that. Fucking bedroom eyes.

As his lips smashed into yours you tried to tell yourself to pull away. No do not hook up with your baby daddy whose just happy the baby is his. Then again why wouldn’t you. You should be happy that he was excited even though he’s only known you for three point five seconds.

“Chris,” you whimpered as he moved down to your neck, playing with the hem of your shirt.

“You remember that night we made Jellybean?” He asked.

How could you forget. The stupid hormones weren’t letting you. What was supposed to be a one night stand, ended up being the best sex you’d ever had. It really wasn’t a shock that you ended up pregnant. And this was the first time he’d even touched you since.

“Mhm,” you hummed with your eyes closed, anticipating his next move. 

“You were dancing in that little dress,” he said in a low voice. “Started shaking your ass all over me. Couldn’t get you alone faster.” He turned you around so he was behind you, whispering into your ear as he rubbed your stomach.

All of this was making you feel so overwhelmed. Like if he didn’t touch you right now, you might die but if he did you might melt. Ugh you needed something.

He seemed to know exactly what that was without you even needing to say anything as he started to undo your pants. Then led you to the couch where he sat you down in his lap, pulling you close then spreading your legs so he could get back to touching your increasingly wet pussy.

Oh fuck. This man was so dangerous. He should not be allowed to be able to touch you like this. Fuck you needed more of him. You could talk details later. It’s not like you needed to worry about cribs right at this second.

“I’m not surprised I put my baby in you on the first try,” he said. “My dick must really like you, Baby. I think it wanted me to keep you around.”

#fics by afbh #afbhblurb #Chris Evans smut

[needleandhammer]

From Simmer to Score

Pairing: Soft!Curtis Everett x Reader

Summary: Curtis is good with his hands. And other stuff.

Warnings: 18+ only, explicit, smut, oral sex, penetration, fingering, dub con breeding, unprotected sex, breeding kink sort of, size kink, petite!reader, Curtis' fingers

Word count: 4k

A/N: This doesn't really fit the prompt i chose from @stargazingfangirl18 's 5k Soft Dark Challenge: "You hire a local handyman to help you with a few home projects." But the prompt still inspired this. I wanted to take the prompt somewhere more explicitly dark but once again my contribution to this challenge turned marshmallow soft. This is an au, non-apocalypse au, normal life au, idk. Just self-indulgent. Also, it was a struggle finding a gif of clean Curtis. Because he's clean in this and not living on a train, i swear.

“Try again. Very good. Let’s have you run through the exercises and then we’ll take a look at the new homework."

At your smile, the little girl nods and quickly turns to concentrate on coordinating her footwork on the pedals of your old Altenberg while reading the notes in front of her.

You back away, heading to the kitchen for some iced tea. You nearly forget your other guest who sits at the table.

This is the third time he’s accompanied Wendy for her lessons. For a man of his size, Curtis makes no sound except the faint swish of pages turning in his book. Like before, he arrived with Wendy, nodded a greeting at you, waited for your invitation to the kitchen, and then spent the entire hour silently reading.

You pull the fridge door open and pour tea into three glasses. You quietly slide one towards him. Curtis’ eyes flicker up to you, brilliantly blue, and he gives you a low murmur.

“Thanks.”

You’re about to return to Wendy when you hear your name in Curtis’ smooth baritone.

He nods to the notepad left on the table. “I, uh, noticed your reminder to call for maintenance. Something wrong?”

“Oh.” You tidy up the table, sheepish at being caught procrastinating house chores. “Just needed a second look at the water heater. The repair company came by and we tested things out when they were done, but the next day I had no hot water.”

You grimace, thinking of taking another cold shower.

“If you’re okay with it, I can grab my tool bag from my car and take a look,” he says.

You’re not prepared for the offer. “I wouldn’t want to impose.”

He shakes his head, no hesitance. “I don’t mind at all. As long as you don’t.”

“I mean. I-I would really appreciate the help.”

Your time with Wendy ends after you review practice goals with her until her next lesson.

Curtis joins you two. “Hot water is running again.”

Your jaw drops and you skip to the kitchen. Hot water pours out of your faucet. You return, unable to resist grinning widely at him.

“Thank you, Curtis. You’re a lifesaver.”

“Curtis taught my dad everything about fixing houses!” Wendy chirped. He offers her a crooked smile.

“Do you have everything?” you ask your young pupil.

While Wendy thanks you and you help her pack, Curtis watches on with a faint curve to his lips.

“Edgar’s changing over to late shifts for the next couple of months. I’ll probably be driving Wendy to lessons again.”

You nod. “Sounds good. See you both then.”

After they leave, you enjoy a glorious steamy shower and then you settle onto your couch with a plate of leftover grilled veggies and fish.

Reviewing your schedule, you consider taking on one or two more students. It was years ago that you gave private lessons to help pay for college. Nearly a decade of moving between a few jobs, you are now in a quiet suburb working with a team of digital designers. The job allows you to work from home half the week, a flexibility you take great appreciation in. The professional stability encouraged you to return to music and to helping others develop their musical interests.

Wendy is your only student at the moment as you want to ease into taking on this additional responsibility. You smile, recalling your initial meeting with Wendy and her father, Edgar. Her father’s bubbly energy is such a stark contrast to Curtis. Edgar opened up quickly, sharing that he and Wendy’s mother were no longer together, that he would support whatever Wendy wanted to do. There was a perpetually youthful vigor to the room when Edgar was present.

Wendy calls Curtis, Uncle, and his adoration for her is clear. He barely said two words when he was here the first time. It doesn’t bother you. You get the impression Curtis purposely tries to not draw attention to himself, and you can empathize with that preference for tranquility.

_ _ _ _

It’s a windy day, heavy with rain clouds, the next time Wendy and Curtis are over.

“I saw your screen door was down. Planning on replacing it?” Curtis asks when you wrap up with Wendy.

“Nah. I was just going to look up what I would need and try fixing it myself.”

“It’s kind of heavy.”

His tone doesn’t imply any skepticism aimed at you and you’re not offended. You’re used to people calling you ‘small,’ though you’re not small so much as you’re short. You like to think you take up ample space. You also admit strength is not something you have in abundance. Your whole life you relied on family and friends for a lot of literal heavy lifting. But Curtis already helped you out once.

“I could fix it up.”

“I won’t ask you to do that.”

“It’s no bother, really. I’m happy to help out.”

He promises to be quick about it. While he works, Wendy happily practices on your piano.

“I have Oreos,” you announce.

She pauses to grab a cookie. “Thank you so much for letting me practice longer.”

“Of course, dear.”

She chats a bit about her upcoming birthday plans, as children are wont to do.

Curtis pops his head in. “All set. Do you want to take a look?”

You follow him out back. Swinging the screen door on its hinges, you nodded appraisingly.

“I suppose it passes inspection.” You look up with a cheeky smile, pleased to see Curtis’ lips twitching. “Thank you. Really, Curtis. I do wish you’d let me pay you.”

He shakes his head. “It’s nothing. Besides, you’re great with Wendy. I’m grateful for that.”

You can tell he loves Wendy just as much as if he was her father. “In that case, I shall give Wendy her next lesson for free.”

He blinks at you, trailing behind as you make your way inside and calling out to Wendy.

Curtis has resigned himself to a quiet, bare life. He doesn't think he wants anything much. He has Edgar’s loyalty, a result of the brotherhood he formed in his impoverished teen years. They survived together, looked out for each other. Once Wendy came along like a little star burning in a smoggy midnight, Curtis counted himself lucky to witness the little girl growing up. A chance to help nourish one seed.

The first time he arrived with Wendy at your home, Curtis couldn’t help listening in on the entire lesson, making no progress in his book. Your clear voice, your generous encouragement. You, light on your feet moving so swiftly. You, barely reaching his shoulders yet mighty in spirit, curvy and sensuous. Curtis had an urge to lift you in his palms to be stored safely in his pocket.

_ _ _ _

And so things follow. Wendy diligently learning and Curtis primarily accompanying her, taking his place at your kitchen table. You come to enjoy his steady, grounding presence just a couple steps away from you and Wendy.

Now and then, he’ll notice some upkeep you’re doing – a leaky faucet, a box of new light bulbs on your counter – and volunteer his assistance. You are reluctant to put him to work, sure that he spends enough of his days working and doing chores in his own home and besides these are tasks you can handle even if you find them tedious. Curtis is always gentle in his offers, always obtains your permission first. As time goes by and you grow less shy about accepting his help and he grows more comfortable in your space, you realize working with his hands is second nature to Curtis.

It doesn't take long for Curtis to admit to himself he wants to be near you.

Curtis doesn’t meddle. He doesn’t mingle. He doesn’t have any interest in widening his social circle. He is aware you thrived on your own for a long time, just like him; and like he has Edgar and Wendy, you have a small close-knit group of friends. Lending a hand to you doesn’t count because you are like him.

Maybe this is why he lets his guard down under your roof. There is something kindred in your calm nature that his soul responds to. Under your roof, no silences need to be filled; no pretenses forced upon him. Your invitation to rest is unspoken – he hears it and almost weeps. The more time he spends with you, like two wavelengths in tune, the stronger his urge to insert himself. To fix, or in some way leave his mark on your home. Curtis doesn’t have any interest in widening his social circle. Lending a hand to you didn't count. Until he cannot help it. He doesn’t reach out for you, doesn’t try to prove you’ll curve perfectly within his arms; but he’ll ensure your softness can curl up in a sturdy home and delight in simple pleasures.

One evening, when Edgar works later than usual, you ask if Wendy and Curtis would join you for dinner.

“Nothing fancy. I have some noodle soup and salad. Curtis, can you call Edgar to meet us here?”

Wendy sets the table. Curtis assists with the food.

He’s quick to cup your hand in his when it's nicked with a knife. You can’t help leaning into him as he runs your finger under water, wraps it in clean paper towel. He finishes with the salad, making you sit at the table.

Edgar joins you all, tired but quickly gaining energy with food and a few sips of wine. You are full and warmed by their company. While Edgar cheers on Wendy while she practices from her book, you feel Curtis’ fingers curl over your hand. His thumb brushes over your cut. You share a smile with him.

_ _ _ _

You settle into your little Toyota only to find it won’t start. It stumps you because you never had issues with this car before. You have no experience with car maintenance and don’t know the first thing to check for an engine that won’t wake.

Calling Curtis to see if you can reschedule, he insists that he can swing by to pick you up.

He had called you, his voice almost shy. He wanted to surprise Wendy for her birthday with a piano and asked for your help.

You direct Curtis to the string instruments shop in the city’s downtown area. The two of you are greeted by a sales staff upon entry. When asked, Curtis looks to you, wordless, so you do your best to describe to the salesperson what you're looking for.

There are several options of acoustic and digital instruments. You give little demonstrations on a few pianos that you consider reasonably priced.

“Curtis, check this one out.” Your hold on his sleeve is loose and propels him towards one of the upright Baldwin pianos.

“I think any of these would suit Wendy. The sounds are clear, and they don’t take up too much space. The salesperson said this one is second-hand and it’s in really good shape.” You press a few chords, then look up at Curtis with a smile.

He looks at you, gaze gentle. “I’m not worried about price. I’ll take whatever you recommend.”

That was his general response when you asked his opinion during your time in the shop: he was up for anything you recommended. Other than that, he trailed behind you so that the salesperson assumed you were the primary purchaser. Much like in your house, Curtis seemed to try hard to not draw attention. Oddly, you didn’t think anyone in the same room with him could help noticing him. Even with the dark apparel he favored, Curtis’ reserved nature can't hide all the intensity and strength just thrumming beneath the surface of his tall imposing build.

You convince him to sit beside you on the bench. He’s never played before, but humors you and tries random combinations of thirds with you. You watch his hands – clean, wide, with thick fingers – hover and slide along the keys.

He nudges you.

“Sorry. I was just impressed your sausage fingers are quite nimble.”

A half-hearted glare. “Thank you. For coming with me.”

“If I say you’re welcome, will you take a look at my car when we get back?”

He stays for dinner.

It starts raining and you have to rush out to gather hanging linens. He helps and you both run back inside. You're giddy at his eagerness to assist, resulting in damp clothing on you both.

“Oh, let’s dump it here. I’ll fold it tomorrow.” You are happy to leave the laundry in a pile on an armchair, in too good of a mood to care.

You catch him with his attention on you, a look so soft you have to look away, walk blindly a few steps. His touch is on your arm, turning you around just as you reach the piano.

He dips his head low to press chapped lips to yours, capturing your lips more, closing in to envelope you in his heat.

Curtis’ hands grip your hips with a quick jostle against the piano, prompting a slur of bright notes ringing from the keyboard that you are pressed against. And then he’s hitching you further up and firmly in his arms. His tongue licks against yours. You slant your open mouth, inviting him to taste, to devour you from the inside out. Your legs wrap around his waist like you belong there, tethered to this point in time. There’s no past or future, only Curtis, only feeling safe and real in his arms now now now.

You barely register Curtis moving, tipping you onto the couch cushions to hover over you so close. You can’t remember burning for someone like this. You can’t remember much of anything, focused on Curtis, solid and unyielding between your thighs, muscles buzzing with raw strength.

You want so badly to know more of him. Your hands wander shamelessly under his shirt, sliding up his wide back, grazing under to squeeze appreciatively at his pecs only to be called south by a narrowing of hair that leads you on until you bump his belt buckle.

You’re distracted by the tease of hot kisses he drops along your neck. There’s something sweet, vulnerable in how you allow him access to the delicate skin there. It makes Curtis bury his nose against the crook of your jaw, a long moment for him to whisper something like a prayer, before his tongue swirls and he nibbles your ear lobe. Your high pitched gasp hastens his desire. Your shirt is gone. Your bra untangled from your arms. Your breasts, oh, Curtis takes a mouthful of one fleshy breast, sucking greedily when you moan, breathless and aching now.

You claw at his shirt until it too disappears. You wriggle to help Curtis pull your pants and underwear off. Your legs want to yank him back to you, but he braces himself to allow just a bit more space between you both than before.

“Let me.” It’s almost a growl, and you want to say yes, but you want to kiss him more. You’re clinging by his neck, drinking from his soft lips, until you both part to draw breath.

His hand caresses your cheek, sliding over to slip two fingers into your slack mouth. Your tongue swipes at them, lips close to suck them in, eager to touch and taste any part of him. Jaw tight, Curtis pulls his fingers away and down. Down. His hand spans large over your curves and you hold your breath, grit your teeth. One finger saturated with saliva, sinks into your cunt. You swear you can feel more arousal dripping from you to soak his hand and he adds another finger, drawing short whimpers from you as his fingers withdraw and plunge in. God, you won’t ever tease him about his fingers again because they’re perfect. Agonizing in their quest to undo you.

His voice is husky groans, wanting so bad to feel your oh so tight cunt around his cock. Soon.

He tortures you, adds a third finger. You’re riding them, whimpering as he pumps them in you and parts the digits to stretch you. His weight slides away and you can only grasp at his hair, you’re barely glimpsing his head between your legs before you arch high when his thick wet tongue swirls and licks your folds, dialing up the white hot blooming inside you. His fingers curl just enough inside to press that patch against your pelvis that strings you tight as a bow. Pressing insistently, scratching with finger pads, until you burst and all you can do is chase more of that pulsing pleasure, humping against his face. Your hips quiver while Curtis laps at your slit.

His sucks grow gentle, thumb teasing your bud, helping you come down from the intense high.

You sigh his name.

“I’m here.”

“I want you.”

His arms wind around you, holding you tight while he kisses you. You can’t remember feeling anything better than being cradled like this as Curtis languidly kisses you.

He’s not rushed to move from you, so you cling to him and he loves you for it. Yes, he’s hard, but he wants to savor this. Already high on the sensation of your soft flesh underneath him, your thick thighs tight at his waist, your quiet hums of pleasure the evidence of his thorough work.

He ran from his past, from early years strife with despair, washing away those memories like dust and grime. He thought his life of isolation was one that moved him forward; but he has been stuck all this time.

Seeing you care for Wendy, Curtis realized he wanted that. He wanted what his friend had. He wanted you, and the precious something conceived between two souls that sing for one another. Soon. He’ll make your sweet little body his to protect, to warm through the nights.

_ _ _ _

“Thanks so much for having us for dinner,” Edgar says. He was been watching Wendy run around your humble backyard, chasing butterflies and searching for little frogs. He turns to you with a toothy grin. “And for your help with the gift. Wendy’s going to flip. I’m lucky to have you and Curtis both around.”

Your smile is just as affectionate. “Happy to have you here. Although,” your smile turns sly, “I’m a little disappointed that your special lady friend didn’t join us.”

“Curtis,” Edgar mutters under his breath. Curtis is washing dishes at the sink and pays no mind to any half-hearted curses directed at him.

Your brow arches, urging Edgar to talk as he can't help an embarassed grin.

“Well, she was traveling for work, unfortunately. But I know Wendy doesn’t mind her.”

The girl has whispered to you that Edgar’s girlfriend is beautiful and she wished she would become her new mom; this you keep to yourself, not wishing to embarrass or pressure your friend further.

“I’m happy to hear that.”

Edgar’s eyes slide sideways, quiet for a moment before he jumps out of his seat and heads to the door leading to the backyard. “I’ll just…uh…” He exits, trailing off without finishing his sentence.

You sigh and take another bite of your cake, indulging in the moist chocolate flavor. Glancing up, you find Curtis watching you. His attention is singular, a warm simmer in those bright blue eyes, causing you to freeze except for your tongue that finishes sweeping over your upper lip. His gaze narrows, grew weighty, tracking your tongue as it retreats into your mouth. He pushes away from the counter, steps close until he is able to drop to his knee beside your chair. One strong yank has your seat turning so you face him.

The door creaks open again.

“Well, the sun’s getting low so I think we’ll head home and wind down.” Edgar announces with his daughter close at his side. He has a boyish grin on his face, pulling Wendy towards the front of your house. "Wendy, say good bye.”

“Isn’t Curtis leaving too?”

“Oh, I’m sure he’ll leave when he’s ready.”

“Have a good night, you two,” you say, walking with them to the front. Though Edgar is still cheerfully thanking you for the meal and insisting you stay inside and not see them off.

“You go on and just have a good time, both of you.” He sends a wink your way. You shake your head at him. “Curtis! You be a gentleman now.”

Quick as he can, he has Wendy secured in the car and they are on their way.

“Huh.” You lock the front door before turning to find Curtis. You can tell he wants to roll his eyes at Edgar’s antics. Instead, he closes in on you.

“Are you worried about me not being a gentleman?” he murmurs. His fingers hook under yours loosely.

You smirk. “I’m worried about you being too much of a gentleman.”

That smolder returns to his gaze. For a second, your body shivers, overwhelmed and you side step him, if only for a moment’s relief from the heat of his eyes.

You reach out. He takes your hand.

Once you’re down a layer, he grows even hotter seeing the mesh and lace number you have on. A tantalizing tease with the hard peaks of your nipples veiled in barely-there maroon. Just daring him to unwrap you. So he does.

His mouth leaves a wet trail seeking sensitive spots on your neck, you breasts, your thighs. Even as he moves, he still covers nearly all of your body, his heat and weight drowning you in want.

Your shudder has him grazing his beard up the inside of your thigh so that you arch and plea for his touch. God, all your uninhibited responses spur the blazing hunger in him. Curtis peels the mesh underwear down, impatient for a taste of you. His mouth waters, catching wafts of arousal and then he’s sucking and lapping your wet pussy. His rumbling groan is like a physical nudge that bows your back, and you remain rigid in the air at the sensation of his thick tongue pushing into you. Wide shoulders part your legs, shifting until your thighs rest on vast muscles.

You rock against him, keen at the hard sucks. Two fingers dip into, fucking you and rubbing with a dizzying rhythm that brings you over the edge.

With little effort, he holds up your hips and you feel a pillow slide under you to angle you higher. Then his muscled arms hook under your knees and he finally lines up and rocks forward. The tip of his cock parts your folds. Your breath hitches. His cock slides in, forcing your walls to stretch, to mold tightly to his girth.

“Curtis” – your hand was going point to the little bedside table with condoms.

Instead, you’re gripping a blanket. Gasping as he withdraws and your pussy tries to hold him in.

You mumble against his lips, incoherent. “The…inside..”

And then he feeds you his length again. And again, that delicious, addicting friction.

"Yes, inside," he agrees softly. "Like this."

With every pump, the spark catches and blazes higher. Curtis rises onto his knees, thrusts harder, watching your eyes flutter open and shut. He’s panting with the pretty picture of a needy you. He grips your thighs. As if his life depends on how tight he clutches you. Concentrating hard, his eyes drop low. Fuck. He can see your pussy clench, your puffy outer lips suckling his cock. Curtis swears your little body is refusing to give him up, and you’re wet but your cunt squeezes him so tight he has to drive harder into you to avoid slipping out.

You’re not even aware of your breathy moans, so turned on by his groans, the rough thrusts he gives you. There’s no grinding. Curtis can tell he’s rubbed against your g-spot and he keeps his snapping hips angled just right, one callused thumb circling your clit too lightly. And then your breaths stutter, your legs seize, your back arches. Curtis grits his teeth, keeping the exact same pace, draws out the storm of your pleasure. It’s so consuming, you lose your voice.

Just as you are able to breathe again, able to sense the physical realm around you, Curtis speeds up, bucking hard with low grunts, powering into you.

A high gasp – you feel him flood you. He drops to press his chest to you, still pumping his release into your clenching walls; and it’s too much, his cock merciless within your sensitive channel. He can’t help it, even as your legs start writhing with his unrelenting stimulation, even as he hears your hitched whimpers.

He finally stills. His lips find yours, tongue stroking deep.

Long moments later, his name is gentle, falling from your lips. “We didn’t use protection.”

Curtis nuzzles you, rubs his nose along the planes of your cheeks. Returns to suck your bottom lip. “It’s okay,” he whispers.

There’s a soft frown upon your brow that he kisses, and then scatters more kisses on your face.

“But, what if?”

“I want you. I want everything with you.”

You’re barely able to react as he nips hard at your collarbone and then rolls his hips. He’s half-hard inside you. You’re quickly losing yourself in Curtis, overwhelmed by the combination of his hungry mouth on your skin, unyielding clasp on your thigh. His thrusts persist, pins you in place, lights you up and scorches you. You’re right where he wants you, whining for more more more.

Now with each beat of his heart, Curtis has his mind’s eye on the prize. He’ll have you over and over. And you’ll grow a piece of him inside you. You are the way forward. You are his.

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

A/N: Hurrah, this one felt like it took forever. I blame Curtis. He didn't give himself up to me easily. Let me love you, ya broody boi! Thank you for reading!

#curtis everett #curtis everett x reader #smut #fanfic #siris5ksoftdarkchallenge

[lillianastras]

“Hit Me With Your Best Shot” -- The Darkling x Reader

Pairing: The Darkling x Reader (no surprise here)

Warnings: none, I think

Summary: The Darkling and his second spar in the morning, after he starts to doubt her abilities have worsened over time.

A/N: I feel so great that I actually used my own experience in martial arts for writing this. Also, I’m so empowered by all the great feedback I’m getting from you guys. If anyone has requests, please send those my way!

“Rule number one,” he says, “Only take a break after saying you need a break. Otherwise I won’t know and will wipe the ground with you.” Her eyebrows shoot up and he has to fight a smile, glad he caused the reaction. “Rule number two,” he continues, hands behind his back, his wrists wrapped in cloths, to numb the harshness of his blows. “No Small Science. Whatever you do to me, you do it with your own two hands.” “That was just plain filthy.”

This time Aleksander grits his teeth, not appreciating the interruption. She is standing in the middle of the training grounds, arms crossed in front of her chest, the same irritated expression on her face since she had woken up. He could tell she was looking around, looking for an opportunity, an excuse to leave. Yet, there is little chance that anyone else is up this early, except by the pair of guards by the gate.

“The Drüsskele attacks are getting more aggressive than ever,” he hisses , trying his best not to raise his voice at her. “You need to know how to defend yourself when they hold your hands apart.”  It’s not happening again, he thinks. The years have passed, but even time didn’t manage to blur the memory of Luda bleeding out on the ground. “I know how to defend myself!” She hisses back, and the Darkling gives her a cold stare.

“Ivan said he managed to tackle you to the ground several times yesterday.”

Her lips curl in disdain, but not for Ivan, he knows. She likes the Heartrender probably as much as he does, which came as a surprise at the start. He is rude and harsh, but even he manages to crack the occasional smile to two in her presence. That’s just how she is.

No, he thinks, the grimace just proves the truth in his words. Her skills had deteriorated, and she needs to get herself together. For her own good.

“Ivan is bigger than me,” she mumbles, but her eyes are staring at the ground. Even she realises this is a poor excuse, if any excuse at all. 

“They are always going to be bigger than you. And I might not be there to have your back at all times.” It might not matter, he thinks bitterly, and his hands ball into fists, even if I am.

“Alright.” The easy agreement comes as a surprise, although easy might be an understatement. She gave her best efforts to keep him in bed this morning with gentle caresses, suggestive whispers and kisses down his neck. But still, he had dragged her outside as quickly as he could and she was sour ever since.  “Let’s see if you get to wipe the ground with me.” She adds and he knows he managed to annoy her.

She takes her battle stance, her guard up and the Darkling sighs, eyes turning to look around. The sun is starting to rise higher in the sky and he realises he has little time left, just because no, Aleksander, you cannot ruin my reputation by throwing me around in front of everyone. Soon, people would start waking up, ready to start the day and they would have to leave training for tomorrow, when he would have to bring himself to say no to her advances again and… No. They have to start today.

She raises her eyebrow at him, challenge barely veiled, and he takes a deep breath, letting the thrill of the upcoming fight wash over him.

His first punch is not that fast, he knows, and she manages to dodge it with ease. Her elbow slams in his chest in return and was most probably going do force the air from his lungs if he hadn’t tensed. He is forced a step back. When he looks at her, there’s a small cold smirk growing on her face. She isn’t that out of practise after all. The Darkling squints his eyes and starts to pay more attention.

This time she doesn’t wait for him to charge, and when she aims her foot for between his legs, he knows he had touched a nerve. He blocks the kick with his forearm, but he doesn’t bother stop the grin that is slowly stretching on his face. Quick as a cat, he closes the distance between them, taking a tight hold of her wrists, their faces so close she could head-butt him in the nose if she wanted to.

“Is that why you’re so irritable all morning,” he asks, letting out a quiet grunt when she stomps on his foot, but he doesn’t let go. “Because I wouldn’t sleep with you?” This time he manages to move his foot in time and she groans as she misses. “For real?”

“No,” she answers quickly, too quickly, and he grins even wider, because her reaction is so petty, that he can’t really help himself. “You’re putting way too much faith in your ability to —” 

He doesn’t let her finish and puts his foot behind hers, giving her a harsh push. She looses her balance and falls ass first on the muddy ground, shock written on her beautiful face.

He grins down at her, reaching out a hand to help her up. She finally comes back to her senses and looks around, her pants and shirt far from clean, mud covering her hands. She grits her teeth and whispers something under her breath, and Aleksander recognises Ivan’s name, followed by a string of curses. She then glares up at him and stands up on her own, ignoring his open hand. 

“Again,” she demands, squinting her eyes against the reddish strays of the morning sun. The Darkling attacks again, this time not holding back as much as the first time. 

He doesn’t realise how much time passes, punches delivered and blocked from both of them, until they are both panting messes, sweat dripping from their foreheads and sticking strands of hair to their skin. Aleksander allowed himself a moment of distraction, glancing around the training grounds. The palace was slowly coming back to life, voices heard from inside and the occasional kefta-clad figure running around the place.

“Scared someone will see that you’re getting your ass kicked?” Her guard is up and he can’t see the shit-eating grin that is plastered on her face, but he can practically hear it. It’s amazing what an hour of good sparring can do for one’s mood.

“You wish,” he calls back. “Final round?”

“I thought you’ll never ask.”

A smile creeps its way on the Darkling’s face. He takes slow, careful steps to the side, circling her, and her eyes follow him, not even blinking. Yet she is too focused on his movements that she doesn’t notice him close the distance at all. Just like he intends. 

She is so surprised by the sudden attack, that she barely fights back when he grabs her wrist and gives her a harsh tug. He bends it behind her back in a swift motion, enough to trap it between his body and hers. 

His free hand goes straight for her throat, fully pressing her back against him.

She tries to wriggle out of his grasp, but he presses her forearm slightly upwards and she hisses in pain, giving the hand that is wrapped around her throat a few quick taps, to let him know she surrenders. He stops the pressure on her arm, but doesn’t let go just yet. He leans in, his breath tickling her ear. “Not too bad,” he whispers, and he has to remind himself that they are out in public, “but you still have much to learn.”

She finally releases her, and grins when she turns around and her eyes are a little hazy. She takes a deep breath and when her gaze finds his, she shakes her head at his smirk, her hand rubbing her wrist to dissolve any pain.

“Careful General,” she lowers her voice to a whisper and theatrically looks around, as if to make sure no one is listening. “Someone might actually see you smile.” She sighs. “Can we call this a draw?”

He outright laughs at her audacity. “A draw? You didn’t win even one round!”

“I disagree.” She shakes her head and gives him a cocky raise of her eyebrow and a wave of her hand.“Plus that last one was hardly fair.”

His gaze hardens. Even though the last round really was more playful than aggressive, he had managed to disarm her and have the upper hand after all. If it wasn’t his hand around her throat, she’d be dead. She needed the practice.

As though she reads his mind, she rolls her eyes. “I won’t admit that you were right.”

He snorts a humourless laugh. He doesn’t really expect her to.  “But we continue tomorrow.” It’s neither a request, nor a question. It’s an order from a General to his warrior.

She sighs and he knows she’s about to murmur some complaint. Shockingly, gives in with a shake of her head and after a long observation of her clothes, ruined from the mud, she mutters a quiet. “You’re the boss.”

He grins. “I’m the boss.”

#shadow and bone #sab #shadow and bone fanfiction #the darkling #the darkling x reader #the darkling imagine #aleksander morovoza #aleksander morozova x reader #general kirigan #general kirigan x reader #six of crows #six of crows fanfic #soc #ben barnes #ben barnes imagine #ben barnes fanfiction

[iovchlde]

the problems with dating advice.

maybe asking venti for dating advice was a bad idea— a conclusion you’d come up with after many failed attempts. scheme after scheme, try after try, and it seems that diluc still is unaware of your affections. and now it’s up to you whether you give up or to pursue him one last time.

in which venti plays as a (cheeky) matchmaker for you and diluc.

pairing.

diluc x gn!reader

genre.

fluff

author’s note.

it’s so rushed TT written at 12am, unrevised at like the last fourth of this fic because my eyesight was starting to get wonky :((

a cheeky smirk splays across venti’s lips as he watches you hunch over on one of the tavern’s tables, seemingly wasted. on any other day, he might’ve been slightly bothered by the fact that he’d have to assist you back to your quarters by himself, but the concerned glances that come from a certain red-headed man across the room tells him that he need not to worry. this situation is, actually, quite perfect for what he had in mind for you— a last attempt to confess to the man you’ve been pining for, for god knows how long. “are you sure you’re going to give up?” he asks you, and you throw a half-hearted sneer at him.

“yes,” you drawl out, not in the mood to deal with any more of venti’s foolproof plan to make diluc fall in love with you. if anything, it’d made you even more of a fool, and the annoying snickers from donna from your failures are the last thing you need at the moment. “i’m starting to think that it would’ve been easier to just get over him.”

“really?” he asks in a rhetorical manner, bringing a hand to his chin. the look on your face is anything but impressed, and he simply grins at you. “i’d like to think that we were quite successful. diluc seems even more fond of you now, and maybe, even harbors some sort of feelings for you.” venti implies, and you simply shake your head at this. you sink in your seat— you’re starting to think that maybe you and venti have some contrasting definitions of what successful is.

“ah yes,” you agree sarcastically. you wince at the memory that flashes across your mind, bringing fingers to your temples as you rub at them. “because suggesting to carry his papers for him, and then tripping over a pebble right after is such a charming move. if i was him, i totally would want myself too after witnessing that first-hand.”

“well,” he hums. “if we ignore that part, then we were mostly successful in charming him. if i didn’t know any better, i’d say that he thinks your clumsiness is quite cute.” he says, and you grunt at him.

“you’re delusional,” you say.

“i’d prefer being called a creative visionary,” and you almost roll your eyes at him— had it not been for the fact that your headache was quite persistent.

“just— hand me that bottle, if you will,” you gesture to the one partially out of your reach. your arm is practically covering half the width of the table, but it’s placed at the edge nearest to venti, and you stretch to reach it. “i need to wallow in my struggles just a little bit more.” the last few words are emphasized, to make a point.

venti carefully eyes diluc in his peripheral view, watching the man get more agitated at your reckless consumption, and in the most obnoxious voice he could muster, “have a little more. this might drown out some of your sorrow.” there’s a silence as venti pauses. he then purses his lips, muttering under his breath, speaking in a low tone only he could hear. “but it surely won’t drown out the massive hangover the day after, though.”

you sigh in thanks, oblivious to the afterthought, reaching for the bottle.

“that’s enough drinking for you, tonight,” you hear a deep voice fill your senses, and before you could reach for the almost-empty wine bottle in front of you, diluc snatches it up swiftly into his grasp. it doesn’t fully register in your mind who it is, and you pay no mind to him. you let out a whine of complaint, reaching for the bottle in his hands, to which he holds out of your reach. “i think it’s best venti walks you home now.”

a frown is evident on venti’s face at this, and he almost bites back that he’s simply too weak to carry you. though, diluc would not be a fool to believe this, given that he’d assisted you multiple times before. but in a rush of last-minute genius, he grins proudly to himself.

“perfect timing,” venti exclaims gleefully, jumping up from his spot across from you. he wipes off the imaginary dust that coats his clothes, tugging at the fabric to straighten out any wrinkles that might have been there, and he flashes diluc an odd smile. “i was just about to head out, but i’m afraid that i have... other matters to attend to. i was concerned that no one would be able to take them home, but now that you’re here, my worries are purged. i simply cannot thank you enough, master diluc. farewell!” and with that, venti makes a quick escape to the tavern door, saluting at the taller man.

diluc simply shakes his head in dismay at the bard, before drawing his attention back to you. you’re slumped over, in a position that he thinks may be uncomfortable— the edge of the table is digging right at your ribcage, and your arms are lazily thrown about in a way that would cause stiffening after a while. he towers over you, his arms crossed over his chest as he wracks his brain. “i see that we’re left with no other choice here.”

he hoists one of your arms over his shoulder, to which the rest of your body bonelessly falls against him.

“let me have one more drink,” you tell him, and he simply ignores your words. “i’ll pay handsomely if i have to.” and at those words, he throws you a firm and stern look, one that has the words dying at the tip of your tongue.

he holds you as you navigate the small interior, taking extra care not to crash you into tables and chairs.

“charles, i’ll leave the tavern to you for a bit.” diluc calls out to the man standing at the bar, wiping away at the newly cleaned wine glasses, motioning to you— practically folded in his arms. “i won’t be out for too long.” he nods at diluc in acknowledgement, and diluc finally pushes the door to the tavern open.

the chilly wind is a stark contrast to the heat inside the tavern, slightly musty and suffocating with the smell of wine. you peel yourself off of the man slightly, embracing the wind and relishing in the way it hits against your warm skin. diluc, nonetheless, keeps a tight hold onto you to prevent you from toppling over yourself.

something he’d witnessed one too many times before. (and admittedly, found entertaining.)

it’s silent between the two of you as you walk back to your house. not a word is said— diluc doesn’t really know how to strike up a conversation with you, and your mind is a little too fuzzy to initiate an intellectual chat. your clumsiness proves your point; you almost stumble as your foot stubs right into a pebble, falling forward ungracefully, and diluc finds himself pulling you flush against his body in instinct. an unknowing blush creeps up on him, and he lets out a silent breath of relief at the fact that it was dark out.

“always so clumsy,” he chastises, but mutters it more to himself rather than to you, and you grin lazily at him.

“you know,” you say lowly, and out of the blue— a way of filling the silence. judging from the way your words are starting to become more tired and slurred, you most likely won’t remember whatever you’re saying by daybreak, and he can’t help but sigh. “don’t tell this to him, but i’m really fond of diluc.”

he gauges that you’d had one too many to drink, given that you couldn’t even recognize him.

“oh?” he raises a brow at you, a little taken aback by the sudden… confession? he isn’t really able to tell. (the word fond has many insinuations to it, and he’s not about to conclude that you’re head-over-heels for him.) “i’m sure diluc is fond of you too,” he humors instead, but you simply shake your head at him.

“no, not like that. as in, i’ve been trying to catch his attention for months, type of fond for him. i’ve even been getting advice from venti— to which i highly suggest not to, he has really bad advice— just to come up with ideas to impress him. you’d think that after trying so hard, he would at least notice. but no. he’s such an intelligent man, but so painfully oblivious when it comes to things like these.” you tell him. “i have a few things i’d like to say to him, but simply too nervous.”

“and what if i say that i like you?” he asks, testing the waters. you stare at him, bored, and a certain drunk cloudiness hooding your vision. “what happens then?”

“i’m sorry,” you start off, partially grumbling. “but i like diluc,” you confess again, tone sounding slightly apologetic.

a grin almost breaks out across his lips, and an amused expression paints his features. “it can’t be helped,” he says, deciding to humor you just a little longer. “now, do you mind sharing with me the things you plan to tell diluc?”

of course, he plans on having you confess tomorrow— when you’re a little more sober, just for safe measure.

#genshin impact #genshin impact fluff #genshin impact x reader #diluc x reader #genshin diluc #diluc fluff

[iliveiloveiwrite]

I find myself travelling back to you // Simon Basset

Request: Could you possibly write a Simon Basset fic where maybe the reader is like a childhood friend and he bumps into them and they talk and catch up with maybe some romance or something - anon

A/N: My first Simon fic! I am a little uncertain of this as I am not sure whether I have Simon’s character down yet. I hope you all like! Thank you for requesting, I hope I have done it justice.

Pairing: Simon Basset x Fem!Reader

Warnings: childhood friends, pining, mutual pining, fluff, some angst, she/her pronouns, female reader.

Word count: 3.8k

There was not a cloud in the sky as you made your way through Mayfair after having turned down a carriage. Instead, you chose to walk away the morning, happy to feel the warmth of the sun through the layers of your dress.

The streets had started out as quiet; a few souls here and there, but they soon grew busier and busier as routines were started. Dodging bodies here and there, you found it hard to be annoyed at the crowds – the weather too perfect for your mood to be sullied.

A flash of deep red amongst the crowd has your eyes and body on alert; the sound of a deep voice has your ears pricking. “Simon?” You call out, eyebrows furrowing as you spy a familiar head of hair making their way through the crowds.

“(Y/N)?” The man in question answers, eyes wide as he takes in your form.

“It’s been so long,” You whisper, staring into his brown eyes. “I suppose I should call you ‘Your Grace’ now. I was sorry to hear of the passing of your father,” You comment softly, not overly sorry for the death of the man who had mistreated his son so poorly but offering your condolences as a form of social etiquette.

Nodding his head, Simon smiles at you. “Thank you,” He gestures to the elderly lady on his arm, “I am sure you remember Lady Danbury.”

You smile widely at the elderly lady as she grins back at you. “Of course I do,” You laugh, “We meet at least once a week to have tea.”

If possible, Simon’s eyes grow wider to the point where Lady Danbury snorts. “Really now, Simon. Did you expect us ladies to go our separate ways when you left the country?”

“Of course not,” Simon drawls, amused by the elder. “I just didn’t realise you had a close relationship.”

“Well we do. That reminds me,” Lady Danbury pipes up, “I will not be able to make our tea appointment this week, dear (Y/N). My grandson, Gareth, is visiting.”

“Of course, Lady Danbury. We can always rearrange to the following week.”

“Nonsense,” She declares, slamming her cane onto the ground, “Simon will meet with you.”

Casting your gaze to the tall gentleman, it is not hard to miss to the surprise in his eyes. Shaking your head, you state, “I am sure the Duke has more pressing issues than tea with an old friend.”

Lady Danbury opens her mouth to protest your point but is beaten by the Duke. “I have nothing so pressing that cannot be rearranged. I shall meet you tomorrow, I assume Lady Danbury knows the spot.”

With a nod of your head, Simon smiles. He reaches out, grabbing your gloved hand and presses a kiss to the back of it. “Until tomorrow then,” He promises, stepping away from you with Lady Danbury in tow.

“Until tomorrow,” You whisper, watching the strong figure of your childhood friend walk away from you.

Glancing up at the still cloudless sky, you wonder how it is possible that the world keeps spinning when your own has changed so much. Simon left the country years ago, and even then, contact with the man was few and far between. He had left for school and seemingly left you behind. The very fact that he was happy to have tea with you sent shockwaves through your body; not a word for so many years and then this out of the blue.

Now glaring at the sky, you wonder whether there wasn’t a larger game afoot. One that had you reuniting with the childhood love that had left you a bereft teenager; it had you hoping you would not be left a heartbroken adult.

------

The pleasant weather was to continue, you thought to yourself as you sat down in the drawing room. Despite the calmness of the room; the sweet sound birdsong outside of your window, your stomach would not calm. Instead, it was threatening to make a mockery of your breakfast. A missive had arrived late yesterday evening from Lady Danbury explaining that Simon would indeed be calling on you for the promised tea.

Smoothing out your pale blue skirts, you wish desperately that you had brought something to keep you occupied as you wait for his imminent arrival. You curse the fact that you left your latest cross-stitch upstairs in your room, having worked on it late into the night. You could have used it to the pass the time to keep your mind busy.

“The Duke of Hastings,” The butler announces, startling you slightly, stepping aside for Simon to stride into the room.

Simon smiles widely as he spots you standing by the table; he rushes over to you, reaching for your hand, placing a lingering kiss to the back of it before straightening. “(Y/N),” He greets, breathless as if he had rushed all the way over here.

“Simon,” You answer, smiling just as widely.

Following his lead, you take a seat at the table, waiting for the tea service to be brought up.

“How is Lady Danbury?” You question, trying to fill the time for the service to arrive.

Simon laughs. “It seems she is on the warpath. Her grandson, Gareth, arrived this morning still out of sorts from the previous night.”

“No!” You gasp, “He’s barely of age!”

“That is what dear Lady Danbury was reminding poor Gareth as she swung her cane at him. I thought I better leave before her attention and her cane turned to me.”

“A good decision to have made.”

“Definitely,” Simon agrees, “As I was leaving, Gareth was promising his grandmother not to touch another drop of alcohol again though I doubt that promise will stick.”

“Poor Gareth,” You lament, thinking of the times you had been on receiving end of a lecture from Lady Danbury. “She does love him so though.”

“She does,” Simon states, “I remember his birth. It feels so long ago.”

You hum in agreement; wondering how quick time had flown by. Gareth was to be part of the next generation of society; he was to bring it into its future, especially if his grandmother had anything to say about it.

“How long have you been home?” You ask, pouring the both of you some tea now that it had arrived.

“I travelled to Clyvedon to settle things there before journeying down to London. I’ve been back in England just short of a month.”

“Oh,” You murmur, trying your best not to feel hurt that he hadn’t actively sought you out. After all, it had been years since you had last spoken. No correspondence had been exchanged throughout the duration of his travels; Lady Danbury had been the one to update you on where Simon was in the world. He hadn’t written you a single letter despite the long friendship that you still held dear. Instead, it had been an utter coincidence, a meeting in the streets that had proved to you he was still alive and breathing.

“I wanted to come see you,” Simon states, feeling bad about the broken sound that had left your mouth just now. He wasn’t one to talk so openly about his feelings, but he found himself needing to explain to you that he hadn’t stopped thinking of you since he stepped foot on English soil.

“Did you?” You question, sounding very much as if you did not believe a word leaving his mouth. By the unimpressed expression on your face, Simon knew you did not believe him.

“I did, but I got so busy. There were estates to manage, ledgers to balance and announcements to be made. By the time I landed in London, I was so thoroughly exhausted that I simply wandered to Lady Danbury’s home and fell asleep on her chaise-lounge. She wasn’t impressed.”

You snort before realising the impropriety, “I can imagine.”

Simon laughs entertained by the thought of Lady Danbury’s face when she found him snoring away on her chair. “As punishment, she made me accompany her on a walk… where we ran into you.”

“What a punishment,” You drawl.

Simon rolls his eyes at your tone. “I like to think of it as a happy coincidence.”

“Then I shall look at it in the same manner.”

There was something different about the man sitting across from you. Was it how he held his spoon? How he stirred his tea? Had the years abroad moulded him into a new person, one you could barely recognise?

Simon held himself entirely different to how he would when he was younger. His posture, perfect. His stance, brimming with confidence. It takes you aback somewhat as you take in the changes the years away at school and abroad have placed on his body.

Would your friendship still stand after so long apart? Is Simon simply placating Lady Danbury by having him meet you for tea? He talks such pretty words; can form sentences that leaves your mind in a spin, but this is the same man that had left the country without so much as a goodbye in your direction.

Reaching for your tea, you distract yourself from such intrusive thoughts. The tea clears your mind; letting you form a blank slate in your mind. “Enough talk of the past, no matter how recent,” You declare, “You left so long ago and came back a new person. It seems I need to get to know the new one.”

Simon smiles at you from his place across the table. “The same could be said for you too.”

You smile though it doesn’t reach your eyes. You don’t mention how you had spent the last few years turning down every marriage proposal offered to you due to your heart belonging to another even in its broken state. “Time is a marvellous thing,” You offer instead, grabbing a small cake from the stand.

“Indeed,” Simon murmurs, eyes following the cake from the plate to your mouth. Despite the time that had passed, his feelings had not changed. They had grown stronger instead. By now, Simon truly understood the meaning of absence making the heart grow fonder. All through his travels, he had cursed himself for not asking you to join him. Through every country, principality and dominion, Simon wondered how it would be for you to be there with him, experiencing the wonders of it all.

“Where was your favourite place to travel?” You ask, leaning forward slightly, “I’ve never travelled further than France.”

Simon nods, remembering your trip abroad with the same pang of sadness he felt back then. He knew logically that you were sat across from him, yet the longing in his body did nothing to help repress the urge to reach out for your hand across the table – to touch you so he would know that you were there, and this wasn’t a figment of his imagination.

“I think my favourite place to visit was Greece. I stayed on the mainland for a while before eventually making my way around the islands. Each island had its own charms, but there was one that had me questioning whether I could live there for the rest of my life. It was so calm, so quiet. Not even the thoughts in my head could distract me from its serenity.”

“Do you miss it?”

“The island?”

“The travelling.”

Simon sighs, staring out of the window as he thinks of over his answer. Eventually, he says, “I miss the sights and the people. I miss the smells and the food. However, I do not miss the time zones. There were moments where I didn’t know what time it was, let alone what day it was.”

“It sounds as if you had a magical time,” You sigh, trying your best not to think of Simon in the desperate heat of the Mediterranean.

“It had its moments,” Simon admits, thinking of the hours he had spent in markets, trying local delicacies and drinking traditionally made coffee. He had adored every second of his travels; he hadn’t minded the odd illness that came along with a new environment when there was so much to learn and so much to experience.

“Will you be travelling again soon?”

“It depends,” Simon answers.

“On?”

“On whether I find anything to keep me here.”

Silence falls over you both as you take in his words, trying to find the meaning of them. Taking a sip of your tea, you wonder whether your friendship with the Duke would be enough to keep him grounded at home for longer than a few weeks at a time. Your heart skips a beat at thought that you might not be enough; your feelings for the Duke had never surprised you. They had not surprised Lady Danbury when you showed up on her doorstep in floods of tears after Simon had left for the continent; she had simply welcomed you into her home with words of comfort and reassurances.

“Will you be attending Lady Danbury’s ball later this week?” You ask, needing to take your mind off that terrible evening.

Simon chuckles, placing his teacup on its saucer. “I shall be in attendance. I find it hard to turn down Lady Danbury. Will you be there?”

You nod, thinking of the dress you had made special. “I will. I’m quite excited if I’m to be honest.”

“Why is that?”

You shrug, “The theme, the music, the company. Lady Danbury never fails with her balls.”

“She does not,” Simon agrees, remembering the grandiosity of such events before he left to travel.

“So I shall see you there?” You ask, your voice hopeful as if daring to wonder whether Simon would attend before no doubt leaving the country once more.

“You shall. Would you save me a dance perhaps?” Simon asks, his usual mischief alight in his eyes.

You smile widely, “Always.”

--------

The rest of the week is spent in anticipation; desperate for the hours to quicken so you could walk through the home of Lady Danbury to find Simon already waiting for you. A hopeless dream, but a dream, nonetheless.

The Duke of Hastings remains on your mind for the rest of the week. One chance meeting and one organised tea and it seems that the man had made his home in your mind and brought to life the feelings you were certain were dormant.

With those feelings in mind, you prepare for Lady Danbury’s ball knowing full well you were about to spend the evening in the presence of Simon, but also watching the mothers of London’s available fawn over him as if he was a prize to be won. It was enough to make your blood boil.

Ridding yourself of such anger, you enter the home of Lady Danbury.

Lady Danbury never spared any expense when it came her to time to host the event of the season. She knew that it would be reported on, that it would be spoken about. She also knew that there was a chance that many matches could be made that night; so no expense could be spared in the battle for love matches among the ton.

The sight of the ballroom takes your breath away as you enter. Lady Danbury had chosen the theme of the moon, stars and sun – asking her guests to dress in colours relating to either. Your navy blue skirts swish together the further you walk into the room, distracted by the moon and star decorations hanging from the high vaulted ceilings.

You’re so enraptured by the scenery that you do not hear the footsteps approaching or the whispers of the women beside you. It isn’t until you hear him call your name that you turn your gaze from the silver decorations.

“Simon,” You greet with a smile, “How have you been?”

“Very well,” He replies, “And yourself?”

“I’m fine, thank you for asking.”

“You look wonderful,” Simon compliments; eyes raking up and down your body.

Your skin heats at his rapt attention; flashes of heat soaring through you as your mind begins to think of all sorts of scenarios where you could keep his eyes on you for much longer. “Thank you,” You answer, voice breathy, “You look very handsome too.”

“Would you do me the honour of dancing with me?” Simon asks, voice quiet in the loud room.

Nodding your head, you take his outstretched hand and allow him to lead you onto the dancefloor where many other couples are gathering.

Simon’s hand is soft on the small of your back; soft but insistent as it brings you closer to his own body. Wrapped up entirely in him, you find it hard to concentrate on the steps of the dance, easily being led around the dancefloor by the man who had captured your heart before you had even known the meaning of the word.

A large smile spreads over his face as he spins you out and brings you back. A surprised laugh leaves your lips as Simon spins you once more; the delight settling deep within your bones, melding to become a memory that would always be with you. Simon’s own laughter soons join yours and before long, neither of you are paying much attention and custom – the both of you having far too much fun in each other’s arms to be aware of the looks and glances being sent your way.

As the music fades into silence, Simon’s grip on you loosens reluctantly. He doesn’t want to let go of you; doesn’t know when the next time he can hold you this close will be. If he could, he would steal you away right now, but etiquette and his title demands he be a gentleman.

With a strained smile, Simon bows at you once before turning away without a word. So deep in his thoughts, he doesn’t see you escape to the gardens before it is too late.

------

The gardens at Lady Danbury’s home had always been spectacular, but in the night, they were even more magnificent. Despite the shadows of night, you were not scared as you walked down the paths, fingers absently brushing over the flowers of delicately blooming flora.

Rather, your mind was occupied by the one man who had returned into your life after such a sizeable absence. Simon had danced with you tonight, and every aspect felt so perfect. The way his hand covered yours; the way his palm felt pressed against the small of your back. Bringing your hand to your mouth, you hide the smile on your face as you think of the way he had laughed with you as he spun you across the floor. He had looked so young; so carefree, as if he hadn’t the weight of the world on his shoulders.

“I wondered where you had wandered off to,” A voice sounds from behind you, startling you.

“Simon!” You gasp, clutching your chest, “You scared me!”

He chuckles, holding his hands up in surrender as he steps closer to you. “That was not my intention,” He promises, his smile wide.

“What was your intention then?” You ask, an eyebrow raised in challenge.

“I wanted to ask you a question should you allow it.”

“We are alone,” You remind him, “We should move inside.”

“Please,” Simon pleads, “It won’t take long.”

You pause your steps. The cool night air settles around you as you wait for Simon to ask his question.

“Why did you never marry?” Simon demands; his eyes blazing with the need to know. “I know you had proposals; Lady Danbury even told me so.”

“There was never anyone good enough,” You confess, fisting your hands in the skirts of your dress to keep yourself from reaching out for him. “I tried. I really tried, but I always found myself thinking of you or wondering about you. Even though you never wrote, I still fell in love with you.”

Simon inhales sharply; not expecting your confession. You hadn’t expected to be so honest, but your heart was in control of your mouth; your mind taking a backseat on this one. Your heart had yearned after this man since you had learned the very definition of the word ‘love’.

“Why did you never write?” You ask, finally verbalising the question that had plagued your mind since the moment he had left.

He remains silent, so you repeat your question with a firmer voice. “Why did you never write, Simon?”

“If I had written to you, I would have come home.”

“Would that have been so bad?”

“I needed to get away, I had to leave. To do that, I had to cut strings with you, or I never would have become the man I am today. I never would have become worthy of you.”

“It is for me to decide whether you are worthy of me, Simon Basset. I have found you worthy of my love since you were ten years old and getting caught hiding a fish in the footmen’s bed if you must know.”

“For that long?” He asks; his voice a mere hoarse gasp as he battles with this new information.

“For that long,” You affirm.

“I always found myself travelling back to you,” Simon admits, “I would be in the furthest corner of the world and my mind would question why you were never by my side. On my last trip, I found myself packing my belongings with you on my mind before I had even made the decision to return home. My father was part of it, I’ll admit. But you… you were the whole reason why I returned to London.”

“What does this mean?” You ask, confused and emotional over the night’s confessions.

“It means I no longer want to travel the world if you are not by my side. It means I want to court you and follow the traditions of society. I have two loves in my life: travel and you.”

“You love me?”

He nods, “I have since I was a teenager.”

“I love you too,” You respond honestly, seeing no reason to lie in a moment like this.

“So,” Simon sighs as your words settle over him like a balm over an open wound, “Shall we do this properly? Courting and the like.”

“I think I would. I think we could start right now,” You whisper, stepping closer to the man who you felt certain was the love of your life.

“Right now?”

You nod you head, smiling widely as you reach for the lapels of his jacket. “I think we could start this very moment with a kiss. What do you think?”

Simon glances from side to side, checking for witnesses, “Only if you promise not to kiss another.”

“I don’t think that would be an issue,” You admit happily, “Kiss me, Simon.”

He doesn’t need to be told twice.

*******

Bridgerton Taglist: @heloisedaphnebrightmore @dreaming-about-fanfictions @now-its-time-for-a-breakdown @janelongxox @aspiringsloth20 @wallwriterstuff @magicalxdaydream @darkestbeforethedawn16 @gryffindors-weasley

#simon basset x reader #simon basset #bridgerton fanfiction #bridgerton #simon x reader #bridgerton imagines #simon basset fanfiction #simon basset imagines #duke hastings x reader

[dumdumsun]

And Dusk

A/N: Just a heads up, the sensitive content in this chapter will be marked "<<<<<<" as the beginning and ">>>>>>" to signify the end. The racial slurs used in this chapter were targeted towards African Americans (and still are) and I chose these because I, myself, am African American and used them as a sort of “default” for any POC readers. ⚠️Please, never use these towards anyone. Whether it be in a “joking” manner or not. They are hurtful and were created to be that way⚠️ I wrote this chapter the way I did to bring awareness. Proceed with caution. Much love ❤️

Warnings: ⚠️racial slurs⚠️, violence, mentions of guns and dying/death

Word Count: 3707

—————————————

Chapter 3: The Frankel Footage

Shaking himself out of his shock, Five stood from his seat and hurried after his brother, grabbing onto his arm and stopping his strides. “The hell is wrong with you, Luther? I just told you the world’s gonna end in ten days!”

“Yeah, well, you’re always saying that.” Luther nonchalantly spoke before moving away, but Five intervened yet again.

“And so far, I’ve been right.” He hissed as Luther sighed and shook his head.

“Look, you want to go save the world? Knock yourself out, alright? I already got a job.”

“Wait, you work in this shithole?” The boy furrowed his brows.

“Yeah. Well, my boss owns the place,” Luther only received a nod from his brother, so he clarified. “I’m his body man.”

But this only made Five even more confused. “What’s that? Like, a masseuse or something?”

“Okay, you can make fun all you want, but I take good care of Mr Ruby.”

“Wait, Ruby. The Jack Ruby? The gangster who shot Oswald.”

Despite Five’s concern, Luther proudly smiled a smug smile as he glanced over at his boss. “Yeah. The one and only.”

“Well, it finally happened,” Five sighed. “That gorilla DNA has finally taken over your mind-”

“Hey, watch it, alright? Jack’s a good friend-”

“And you’re Number One. Numero Uno. Remember?”

Luther clenched his jaw and shook his head. “There is no Number One. Not anymore. Not in 1963,” When Five stared at him in disbelief, Luther sighed again. “Look, I’ve been stranded here alone for a year. What did you expect?”

Five scoffed. “I get it, alright? You watched Pogo die, the world exploded, and I marooned your big dumb ass in time. I’m sorry, okay? But I’m asking for your help, Luther. The Umbrella Academy needs you.”

“It doesn’t need me,” He slowly spoke to draw out his words. “It never did.”

“Luther, honey,” The waitress from earlier approached the two. “Jack’s about to lose it on some half-wit. A little help?”

“Ah, shit,” He groaned and began walking away. When Five tried yet again to stop him, he whirled on him, his lips pulled into a thin line. “Listen. You’re the genius who said we should jump, right? You’re the one who got us stuck here. And you’re the one who brought Vanya. So, if there is a doomsday coming, she’s probably the cause. And if I was gonna do something about it, it sure as hell is not gonna be with you. That’s (Y/N)’s job, being dragged around into your messes-”

“I don’t drag her into anything.” Five swallowed, blinking rapidly.

“Yeah? Well, she wasn’t stuck as a thirteen-year-old and constantly worrying about her kids until you showed up. I’m surprised she isn’t sick of you yet.” And with that, he stomped away to his boss. This time, Five let him go, his words sending a pang through his chest as he thought back on it. Grabbing his drink, he sighed and shook his head.

“Dad should’ve left him on the moon…” He muttered, taking a sip of his drink before moving to leave his seat. When he felt his jacket snag on something, he looked down to see an object in his pocket. Taking out the tape, he frowned and turned it over.

Date: 11/22/63

Subject: FRANKEL FOOTAGE

<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<

This world was unfamiliar to (Y/N). She knew she had to have been somewhere in America, but she didn’t know where. The cars, fashion and stores bringing the street she walked to life told her she had to have been in the sixties. But she didn’t want to believe it. Surely Five hadn’t time travelled that far? She had to have been dropped during some type of sixties-theme festival. But the voices suddenly beside her quickly prove her doubts wrong.

“What do we have here?”

“Looks like we’ve got ourselves a lost little colored girl.”

Tensing, (Y/N) continued her way down the sidewalk, slightly speeding up her pace, but the men fell into step beside her with ease, flanking her sides.

“You’re on the wrong side of town, girl.”

“Yeah, we don’t like coons around here.” One of them hissed right in her ear. Her eyes welled up with tears before the other shoved her forward.

“Gon now, get!” He ordered as if she were a dog. She realized that’s how they had seen her. An animal. Nothing more. Tripping on a crack in the sidewalk, she fell to the ground, smacking her face on the concrete. She choked out a sob as the two men cackled. And to make matters even worse, she felt the pitter patter of raindrops start to freeze her skin.

(Y/N) gasped out in shock when the men spit two wads of saliva in her face. She knew she must’ve looked a mess with spit and tears sliding down her cheeks and blood oozing from her nose. She hiccupped on her sobs and began to stand, much too tired from her previous fight with Vanya and literally being dropped from the sky to successfully do so. The men backed her up against a wall and one fisted the front of her vest before a voice called out.

“Take your hands off of my child!” Whipping around, the men were half expecting to find another target, but (Y/N) coughed and sputtered nonsense upon the person her gaze fell upon.

“M-Mom…?”

Before her was Grace, but… she wasn’t robotic in any sense. She could tell by the raw anger etched into her features. She took a brave step forward. “I said. Take your hands. Off my child.”

And that was another thing: her accent. (Y/N) was immediately comforted by the stern southern accent the woman shared with her attackers. It was a voice she never thought she needed. The two looked between Grace and (Y/N) with smirks. “You mean this lil ol’ jigaboo-”

“Is my daughter. Now you let her go before I call the police.”

“Woman, I don’t care if you call the police-”

Grace took it upon herself to step closer and grab the child by her arms, yanking her into her warm embrace. (Y/N) immediately latched onto her, quivering in her hold. The men scoffed and shook their heads, beginning to walk away. “Make sure to keep that thing on a leash if you’re gonna have it out, ma’am.”

“Oh, fuck off.” She growled before turning and walking back in the direction the girl came from. As they walked past the alleyway, Grace took out a handkerchief and began wiping the girl’s face clean of what the raindrops hadn’t already washed away. “It’s alright, hun, they aren’t gonna hurt you anymore.”

“T-Thank you.” (Y/N) sobbed and gently held her nose in pain. Grace crouched in front of her and gently held her face in between her hands.

“Don’t thank me, darlin’, it’s how everyone should be treatin’ you ‘round here… Where are your parents? I could take you to ‘em.”

(Y/N) thought for a long moment, watching as the rain soaked Grace’s hair and clothing. The woman didn’t seem to mind as she watched the girl before her swallowing thickly. (Y/N) skimmed over her current choices. She didn’t have any choice.

“I don’t have parents. I-I don’t remember them…”

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

“I’m tellin’ you, Reggie, she’s highly intelligent for a child her age.” Grace proudly presented (Y/N) to the man she had grown fond of over their time working together. (Y/N), however, was frozen in her spot. Sir Reginald Hargreeves. The man whose death she had wished upon for years, whose death had finally graced her existence, was back in her life. She flinched at the disapproving look on his face, much too acquainted with it by this point in her life. “And she’s very respectful. Talented, too, this girl can speak several languages.”

“You seem rather fond of this child.” The man observed as Grace squeezed her into her side.

“She’s my pride and joy.”

“And you cannot remember anything of your past, child?”

“N-No,” (Y/N) shook her head and stared down. “Not a lot. J-Just my name and birthday.”

Reginald hummed and stared her down with an unreadable expression. When she met his eyes again, he was crouched down to her level, his monocle clutched in his fist. “(Y/N), was it?”

“Yes.”

“It would be an honor to have your presence within my home, along with your mother.”

“O-Oh, that’s okay-”

“I insist. Besides, you have been living with her for almost half a year, correct? It is highly unlikely that she will share a home without you.”

“He’s right about that, hun,” (Y/N) glanced up at Grace, who was smiling warmly at her. “I’m not leavin’ you.”

(Y/N) could have cried.

And she did.

One year later, (Y/N) had been living quite the comfortable life with Grace and Reginald. She had been introduced to the ape, Pogo, for the second time since Grace first started working with him. As much as she loved being around the chimp, it brought back so many memories. She almost felt silly, looking after him sometimes knowing he had done the same for her in the original timeline.

Her relationship with Reginald was nothing she ever expected. He was gentle, well as gentle as Reginald Hargreeves could get, he cared for her, spoiled her, even. She wouldn’t have to ask for anything half the time. If he were to overhear a conversation between her and Grace about a dress she oh-so wanted, it would suddenly be laid out on her bed the next day. She usually had a say in dinner meals every Thursday and Sunday and Reginald listened intently whenever she would voice any discomfort or concerns with her living conditions. (Y/N) never had a real father, but she assumed this is what it was like to have one. She never wanted to let go of it.

For her birthday in 1963, she was surprised that he had actually gotten her a present. As she entered the parlor, she was met with the tiniest bark and an even tinier golden retriever, bounding up to her. She gasped and stopped low, letting him jump into her arms. She let him lick her face and giggled in the joy it brought her.

“Your mother said you would like it. Though I would never allow dogs in my house, I have come to understand that there are rules I must bend for you, my child.”

(Y/N) turned to her father. Yes, father. Reginald, also growing quite fond of their father-daughter bond formed between them, decided to adopt the girl. As much as his beliefs and his deep distaste for children protested. There was just something about this child. Or perhaps it was Grace’s insisting, reassuring him that he would make a wonderful father. (Y/N) was very hesitant at first for her own reasons she never shared, but eventually came around to the idea of being his daughter again.

This was the same Reginald Hargreeves who locked her in a dark room for five days straight, but also an entirely different man. Perhaps it was her fascination with the differences, or maybe she just wanted a real father for once.

“Thank you, Dad.” She softly smiled, the man nodding in response.

“But this is your pet, (Y/N). It is your responsibility. I will not find it in my study, in my bedroom, you are to train it yourself-”

“Can you-”

“And no, I will not help you pick out its name.”

The girl softly groaned and looked back down at her new puppy. Looking into its eyes, she smiled softly at a distant memory as a small child.

“Welcome to the family, Mr Pennycrumb.”

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

(Y/N) groaned when she felt the sunbeams of the early morning sunrise hit her eyelids, coloring her black vision with the stinging fire of orange. Rolling onto her other side, she stretched her blanket over her head. They were yanked away the next second, causing a whine to leave her lips. “Mom… Five more minutes.”

“I let you sleep in long enough, hun, it’s time to get up. You have a date with Preston this afternoon.” Grace gently pulled her daughter to sit up, giggling quietly at her look of disgust.

“Preston? Seriously?”

“Yes, seriously, let’s get goin’.” Grace patted her leg and walked to her door, waiting patiently. (Y/N) sighed and rubbed her face, letting her feet slide into her slippers. As they descended the stairs to the kitchen for breakfast, Reginald could hear his daughter’s sleepy complaining from his place at the table.

Setting his utensils down, he turned his head in their direction. “My child, how many times throughout each week must we have to repeat this conversation?”

“Until it starts making sense.” (Y/N) stepped into the dining room, now in her robe, and crossed her arms over her chest. Reginald sighed and stood from his chair at the table.

“You are one of my greatest accomplishments,” He began towards her. “There is no doubt in my mind that you would make a fine successor. I do not believe you will need a husband. In fact, you would be better off without another individual holding you back from what you are truly capable of.”

“But?” She raised a brow.

“But… I have grown to know you more than I expected… and I know that you would need someone to help manage your finances you inherit once I am gone. Preston is a fine young man who was born into this life, made into this life. He will take good care of you.”

(Y/N) knew there was only one person in this world who would truly take good care of her. But he wasn’t here, and she needed to play the part as the amnesiac adopted daughter, so she huffed and nodded. “Fine… I’ll go…”

“Thank you-”

“But only if Mr Pennycrumb can go, too.”

“Very well, but you will not be gifted another animal if you lose it.”

The outing wasn’t entirely bad. (Y/N) didn’t mind the picnic or the art museum, it was the company that made her blood boil. Preston is anything she would have expected out of him. This had been their seventh date, tenth of the ones he planned. (Y/N) sought out any opportunity she could to cancel on him to save herself from the unbearable three hours she would have to spend with the kid. He was arrogant, smug, selfish, narcissistic, and overbearing. Of course, this was not the Preston he presented to her parents. No, to them, Preston was ‘a fine man with a bright future ahead of him’, or as Grace would put it, ‘a delight to have around’. He laughed like a drunk, talked like a husband, and smelled like a man. All at the age of fifteen. (Y/N) had to remind herself on several occasions that she was mentally the older out of the two and to not stoop to his level when he got under her skin.

“Don’t you think, (Y/N)?” The voice brought her attention back to the boy beside her. She looked up from the grass they had been strolling through. When she hummed in question, he amusedly scoffed and side-step closer to her. “Never mind. I should have known you wouldn’t have been interested in politics.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” The girl raised a brow. At her confusion, he laughed and gently tapped the side of his head.

“You’ve always got that head of yours in the clouds. Or turned behind you- like right now.”

(Y/N) turned her head away from where she had been looking over her shoulder. “What? Sorry, Preston, I’m a little preoccupied today.”

“With what, exactly? You don’t seem to be the type of girl to have very many issues. Nothing to worry about.”

“And you wonder why I don’t listen to you.” She sighed as her puppy ran in between her legs, rolling in the grass once he was a few paces in front of them. Preston frowned in distaste and shook his head.

“You should really keep that thing on a leash, sweetheart.”

She inhaled deeply and closed her eyes, clenching her teeth as she folded her hands behind her back. “Really now?”

“Really. You know, I’m not very fond of dogs, so I’m not sure how it’ll work out once we’re married. I think we should get one after we have kids, you know? Just so the kids could grow up with it.”

(Y/N) quickly turned her head to the left, pointing out across the street. “Preston, would you look at that?”

“Look at what?” He gullibly looked in the direction, (Y/N) quickly checking the area before almost silently singing her tune. From her shadow, her clone formed and robotically walked behind the two. She quickly switched spots with it and ordered the clone to walk with Preston before scooping her puppy into her arms and rushing off in the opposite direction. Once she was behind a diner far away from their date location, she let out a sigh and gently patted her dog on the head.

“Were you sick of it, too?” She chuckled. Resting the back of her head against the brick wall she leaned on, she let out a slow breath and began to relax. The sound of guns cocking had her head snapping up so fast, she swore she could have dislocated it. Just down the end of the line of stores were three white-haired men, one in a milkman uniform, training their guns on her. (Y/N) didn’t waste a second tucking her dog in front of her and spinning around, charging down the opposite direction as bullets whizzed past her. She dodged them the best she could, jumping a few feet in the air at the ones that threatened to take their place in her feet. It was like a dance; the twisting, spinning and jumping, and she was to perform this dance until one of those bullets killed her if she didn’t find a way out soon. Sliding to the side of a clothing store for cover, she gently shushed her pet as she caught her breath.

The three sets of footsteps eventually found their destination and rounded the corner with skilled quickness, shooting at the girl until she was nothing more than a bloodied corpse on the ground, bullet holes lodged in almost every inch of her body. The three men nodded to each other and turned around, making their way out from behind the stores.

(Y/N) had already been down the street from her house by the time her attackers found the clone in her place. She couldn’t have been bothered to check herself for any wounds, too worried about Mr Pennycrumb’s potential bullet wounds. But the pup was perfectly, happily nuzzling into her arms and wagging his tail. This left (Y/N) to ponder.

Who the hell were those men?

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

“Is it on?”

“I don’t know.”

“What do you mean, you don’t know? There’s an ‘on’ button. Just- There’s something over- that jigga-ma-thing, whatever.”

“I hit the jigga-ma-thing!”

“Okay, well, just- Give it to me. I know how to do this.”

“Alright, here, here. Hurry up.”

“Okay, alright, let’s see…”

Lila didn’t look up from her task of painting poor Elliott’s toenails, his bindings he received after threatening the trio with a gun preventing him from moving too much. Which was beneficial to her, as it kept her from ruining the paint job. She softly smiled as she listened to the argument between the elderly couple on the film Five and Diego were intently watching. “They’re so cute,” She commented. “I love old couples. I’m always so proud of them for not murdering each other.”

Ignoring her, Diego turned to his brother from his seat on Elliott’s counter. “Why are we watching this?”

“Shush.” Five replied, eyes trained on the film before him, searching for any clue to the approaching apocalypse, brows furrowed in concentration.

“Yeah, I… I’m Dan Frankel. And…”

“I’m Edna Frankel.”

“...Edna Frankel. We are in Dallas, Texas, to see the president. Today’s date is November 22, 1963.”

Five nodded as everyone’s attention was brought to the projected screen before them.

“That’s six days from now.” Lila spoke as Elliott thrashed about more against his bindings. Diego sat forward in interest.

“Holy shit. This is it. The grassy knoll. Kennedy’s about to get shot. How do you have this?”

“Hazel died to get me this footage,” Five answered. “It must be the key to stopping doomsday.”

“Hazel…?” Diego frowned, remembering the man he spent hours searching for and planning to kill to avenge the death of Eudora Patch.

“Long story.”

“What’s doomsday?” Lila looked up at the boy.

“Longer story.”

“What exactly did he say to you?” Diego asked as Lila turned her head back to the film.

Five shrugged. “Well, he was killed before he could explain. But whatever he wanted us to see, it’s on this film.”

“This is very exciting.” The old man smiled before the sound of gunshots and screaming could be heard, the camera moving around in blurs due to the shock of the old woman filming.

“Oh, my god!”

“Oswald…” Diego whispered, setting his knife down as Five leaned in closer.

“The president!”

When the camera was steadied to record across the street, Five and Diego both stiffened in their spots at what their eyes caught. “Oh, no…” Five breathed and moved behind the projector, rewinding the film and scooting the cart backwards to zoom in closer. The room was silent as Diego stood to his feet and Five rounded the cart before standing beside his brother, directly in front of the film. “This can’t be…”

“Okay, you gonna fill me in now, boys?” Lila glanced between the two. “What the hell is this shit we’re watching?”

But she was ignored yet again.

“No, that’s impossible…”

“Clearly, it’s not.”

“What… What is it?” Elliott muffled past the gag in his mouth.

A beat of silence went by before the two Hargreeves whispered in unison,

“Dad.”

—————————————

Taglist: @unfortu-nate-ly @sapphicsyn @m00n-sh @starcurrent @alexander-hamilhoe @youcandalekmyballs @wonderlandfandomkingdom @yrdadjstcallsmekatya @sm0kingcrack @a-t-h-r-e-e-n-a @moatsnow @bubblegumflamingos @starstormssymphony @meowiemari @magicalgothpandamaker @simping-4-fictional-men @hehehehannahthings @harrystylescherrie @rhain3 @himikaphoo @zerocanonlywriteshit @xxeiraxx @camerondiaz48104 @isawachickeninatree

#the umbrella academy #umbrella academy #umbrella academy x reader #tua #tua x reader #tua fanfic #tua five #five hargreeves #five hargreeves x reader #number five #number five x reader #five x reader #of starlight #and dusk

[teamxdark]

He’s Not Here

More masquerade content but what’s this at the end???

In the grand castle ballroom, surrounded by soft golden light and the countless nobles clad in shimmering fabric, King Arthur was so bored he could cry.

This wasn’t what this night should have been; it was a masquerade party, an opportunity to hide away his identity and mingle among the people 一 okay, the nobility, but he would take what he could get 一 like he was a person instead of a king. Finally he had a chance to dance around until his legs ached, to eat food without worrying about the repercussions to his image should he dare speak with his mouth full or use the wrong spoon, to hold conversations that weren’t about politics or finances or how he was doing the best-or-worst job looking after an entire kingdom with a myriad of people with different needs and opinions. 

So how was it that, out of everyone in that room, he was stuck listening to some dull-voiced stag drone on and on about the rising price of grain?

“This is why pricing is tricky, you have to account for the pests before you ship it out and…”

Arthur fought the urge to dash away, but the instant he tried, he knew he would give himself away. His speed was renowned throughout the land, alongside his golden armor and brilliant blue spines. Those, at least, he had taken care of; Merlina had spent the better part of an hour adjusting his coloring to a warm orange and growing out his spines to disguise him beyond the limits of a simple mask. She had tried so hard to give him a chance to have a night off without people instantly worrying for his favor or trying to get something from him… only for him to be trapped all over again.

Arthur would have happily made an excuse to leave, if the stag would only let him get a single word in. His conversation “partner” seemed not to need to breathe, droning on and on in an endless monotone, offset by the cheerful music and bright lights and flashy costumes.

I’ll never be free of this.

“And now that the price is rising, it leaves me in a strange spot, you see. On the one hand, I sympathize with the people who cannot afford my wares, but on the other hand, it means more profit for myself and my own family.”

Chaos above, Arthur wished he hadn’t bumped into this man. His fingers tapped restlessly against his leg, mildly quelling the urge he had to just flee, to drop everything and everyone he had ever known and flee into the night and into the unknown.

“Not to mention, the cost of labor--”

“Mind if I cut in?”

Arthur’s head snapped over to the new voice, endlessly relieved at the interruption, though the stag continued to drone on, the odious voice still grating his ears even as the king faced the bold newcomer.

It was a tiger clad in elegant black clothing with silver accents, extending a hand out to him, and even though Arthur was eager to take it and be whisked away from this living nightmare, something about him made him take pause. His eyes took in the white fur streaked with blue, the slowly flicking tail that reminded him of Sir Percival 一 was it common among all cats? 一 and the eyes looking gently back at him.

He trusted those eyes. It was the look that they held, a look that reminded him of… 

Arthur mentally slapped himself. He’s not here, he reminded himself as he finally took the hand offered to him.

“Yes, please.”

The tiger seemed to brighten just a fraction at his approval, and he led him away from the trappings of boring conversation to the dancefloor, and Arthur had to try hard not to think about how this felt like being rescued by a knight. Especially not…

He’s not here.

The king was jostled from his thoughts as his new partner started to fit him into a hold, and a brand new anxiety washed down upon him as he tried to remember how to reciprocate the hold. Dancing lessons had never been high on the list of priorities when it came to running a kingdom, and yet somehow Arthur was expected to be able to social dance like a pro when his days were filled from dawn to dusk with meetings and drafting decrees and submitting notices of approval until he passed out on his bed. Arthur swallowed, trying to remind himself that stumbling during a dance was still preferable to listening to that one-sided conversation…

...but his partner didn’t dance like a professional. Well… he did, there was no denying his grace and timing, but he didn’t dance like he expected Arthur to be one as well. The steps were simple, the turns basic, and Arthur’s mind swam in relief as he realized that, somehow, this stranger was leading him through steps that he had managed to pick up on through trial and error.

This chance encounter was proving to be everything he needed.

The stranger led him carefully around the floor, maneuvering slowly around other people rather than weaving expertly between them like so many other couples did. If Arthur closed his eyes, he could easily pretend that he was practicing his basic steps with his brother, or his friends, or his--

He’s not here.

And yet…

Yet it was so easy to picture it, even as the peals of laughter surrounded him and washed into his subconsciousness like a spark of delight for him to enjoy. The strong hold, the careful footwork, the calculated rhythm…

Lancelot…

Arthur’s eyes opened, and though he saw stripes they were the wrong ones, and the bittersweet feeling of missing someone dear to him almost caused him to heave a sigh.

He had it bad, and he knew it. His greatest knight and closest ally and dear friend… Sir Lancelot was beyond compare. From questing as youths to his coronation, and in every disaster thereafter, Lancelot had been there, his pillar of strength in a tumultuous world, always standing nearby to passionately defend him or to spare him a quiet gesture of support. Lancelot had protected him from danger, defended his honor, strived to keep his spirits up for years and years…

Arthur had never considered himself one for romance, but as years went by, Lancelot had claimed more and more of his thoughts, attention and affection until the knight unknowingly held the king’s heart firmly in his hands. Too many times to count had Arthur been struck by the urge to grasp his hands, to sing out the words in his heart to him, to draw him close and see if he could make such a powerful knight’s knees buckle below him with a kiss alone…

One song changed into the next, and Arthur, too swept up in his fantasy, didn’t let go of the stranger, didn’t notice the slight lull in their dance, and so the dream kept going.

Lancelot wasn’t there, but Arthur could lean into this stranger’s hold on him, follow his dance, focus on his attire, concentrate on the energy he exuded, energy that reminded him so strongly of his Lancelot, and Arthur’s mind could so easily turn his dream into something more substantial. An illusion for him to drown in, just like this masquerade offered.

The music kept swelling, the sweet notes tickling his ears and driving him even deeper into his dream like he was in a trance. He kept dancing with the man that reminded him so much of his beloved that a second dance turned into a third, and Arthur clung on to his dream, not even registering that it might seem strange until--

“I mean no offense, but surely there are others who would want to dance with you?”

Arthur blinked, and the dream shattered as the man in his arms shifted back into a stranger. The king’s feet stilled, his gaze dropping to his feet. Arthur had to fight back waves of embarrassment and disgust at himself before he could answer.

“Forgive me, but the way you dance…”

HE’S NOT HERE!

“...it reminds me of someone dear to me.”

“O-Oh.”

His companion seemed at a loss, and Arthur held back another sigh, counting the beats in his head before pulling him along for the next dance, leading him in a very basic, repetitive step around the floor.

“I apologize,” Arthur murmured, knowing that there wasn’t much he could do to salvage the situation. At this point, he could only offer his apologies and an explanation. “I know it’s not fair on you, to imagine you are someone else, but…”

A look of hurt passed over his dance partner’s face, and goodness, even that reminded him painfully of Lancelot.

“...but you remind me so much of him.”

Arthur’s eyes swept over his partner, taking in the paradoxical way that he looked completely unfamiliar and yet he still somehow managed to feel so much like his dear knight. Perhaps the dream hadn’t fled from him quite yet, because now Arthur’s yearning mind was searching for any and every chance to convince himself that this was, somehow, Lancelot whom he was dancing with.

“You dance like he does,” Arthur thought aloud, as his partner remained silent. “Careful and precise.”

Your movements… I know them like I know my own.

“Pardon my asking,” the stranger returned, “but why do you not dance with him tonight?”

Like a weight to his soul that would never truly leave, Arthur’s melancholy came back to embrace him. “Ah… he isn’t here.”

He’s not here he’s not here he’s not here--

“Or at least…”

Arthur looked into the stranger’s eyes, his desperation to go back to his dream nearly choking him with emotion as the tiger’s eyes widened at the sudden look directed at him.

“...I haven’t recognized him, yet.”

Arthur knew it was terrible to put such a fantasy on a stranger at a party, but he wanted so badly to believe that this man was Lancelot. Arthur wanted to believe the ludicrous ideas his mind was supplying him with, that somehow this was Lancelot in front of him, disguised beyond all normal means. The tiger in front of him appeared to fluster, his mouth parting as though wishing to speak, though no words came forth.

“You have stripes like he does, too,” Arthur murmured softly, thoughtfully, and yes, he truly was reaching for every last detail in his pathetic attempt to turn what he had in front of him into what he wanted to see.

“If it pleases you,” the tiger finally said as the third song changed into a fourth one, “I… am not opposed to you pretending that I am he.”

Arthur smiled at that, feeling suddenly hesitant at the idea, now that the stranger, as kind and helpful as he had been, had given him his consent to mentally transform him into someone else, to be a player in this dream of his. It was sad, and unfair, but Arthur knew sadness and injustice. He tried to battle it every day, slowly changing and updating laws as they became outdated, but everything went so slowly and people only kept crying out in pain and Arthur wanted just one day, just one, to take ahold of something that he wanted and to cherish it.

“Thank you,” Arthur whispered as he stepped further into the stranger’s hold, feeling warmth overtake him as he confessed his truth. “I have loved him for a great long time and… perhaps this is the closest I shall get to what I dream of.”

Because that was all this would ever be: a dream.

He’s not here.

Arthur’s eyes closed as his head dipped down to rest on the tiger’s shoulder, a soft smile spreading over his muzzle as he noticed that he was of a similar height to Lancelot, and the dream came back in full swing. Arthur’s arms wrapped around his partner, blocking out any consideration to the lack of spines on his back, and the king focused on his heartbeat as it hammered in and out of sync with the other’s.

“I understand the sentiment,” his partner whispered in response, and Arthur had to hold back what was either a laugh or a sob, morphing it into a hum on its way out.

You speak like him, too.

And so the king held his partner as tightly and tenderly as he would a lover, humming along to the song as the masquerade around him faded into nothing. There was nothing, nothing in his dream, but himself and his Lancelot as they spun around slowly.

He’s here. He’s here, I can feel it.

Arthur’s dream permeated his mind, overtaking his consciousness, and as the fourth song faded into oblivion, he finally let out the sigh he had been carrying all night.

“Lancelot…”

Two pairs of feet stilled as both parties realized what had just been said, and one final word jolted the king from his dream.

“A… Arthur?”

He was here all along.

#Smash speaks. #Arthurlot. #satbk #I DID IT I WROTE SOMETHING AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA. #No editing we write and post and pass out.

[watchmegetobsessed]

can you please write something with Harry about spending the morning with him and it's cute and fluffy thank you!!

a/n: morning harry is THE BEST

word count: 889

masterlist

“Good morning, Love.”

This is the sound of angels. It has got to be. The raspy murmur, the little huff at the end and the warm, soothing touch of his palm on your naked back, there’s only one explanation to the feeling it brings to the pit of your tummy. You’ve finally gotten to Heaven.

Smiling into the pillow you peek an eye open and see your boyfriend’s squished and sleepy face next to yours, lying on his side as his fingers are carelessly drawing little patterns on your back, using your bare skin as his canvas, the warmth of his fingertips is the brush, paining you red all over your body with his touch.

Though you’ve been dating for a little over two months now, today is the first day when Harry could spend the night and neither of you have anywhere to be until late in the noon, giving you a lazy morning to spend together, your very first one, and it fills your heart to the fullest.

Scooting closer you lift your head enough to smack a sloppy morning kiss to his puffy pink lips, his arms curl around your frame as he pulls you on top of him, chests pressing together as you grin down at him from under your lashes.

“Morning to you too, Handsome,” you sigh, so in love with the man lying in your bed, wearing absolutely nothing but his morning daze. It’s a sight every person should see in their lifetime, but you are way too jealous to share this gorgeous view that’s only for your greedy eyes. “Hungry?”

“Very,” he smirks and you know he meant it in a different way than you intended the question.

“I mean for breakfast,” you chuckle, pressing a soft kiss to his chin.

“That as well.”

“How about pancakes?”

“Sounds great,” he hums, pulling you down for another sweet kiss before the two of you slowly force yourselves to leave the comfort of the sheets.

You put on your silky robe while Harry throws on a pair of clean boxer briefs as you make your way to the kitchen where you instantly put on some coffee to brew, grabbing two mugs from the cupboard.

Moving to the fridge you grab all the ingredients you need for the breakfast as Harry checks something on his phone sitting on a stool at the kitchen island. When the coffee is done, you bring the mugs and the fresh energizing magic drink to the island to sit with him a little before the two of you turn the kitchen into a warzone making the pancakes and of course, you bring the milk with you. Filling up the mugs halfway you are about to pour some milk to yours when Harry’s voice stops you.

“What are you doing?” he questions, as if you were holding a dead chicken over your coffee, not just a box of milk.

“I’m making my morning coffee?!”

“You drink it with milk?” he grimaces, putting up such a dramatic act that you can’t help but roll your eyes.

“Yeah, it’s too strong for me to drink just plain black coffee.”

“I cannot believe my girlfriend is one of those who ruin coffee with milk. Do you put creamer and all those sweet stuff in it too?”

“Just sometimes,” you chuckle as Harry gasps. “What? Stop acting like it’s a crime!”

“It is a crime, Love. Ruining a good black coffee with all those unnecessary stuff,” he shakes his head with a sigh.

“What are you, the coffee police? Just let me drink my coffee in peace!” you laugh and pour the milk in anyway.

“You know, I think we should take a break, reevaluate what we want in life, come to terms where we are heading, because I can’t really see myself with someone whose coffee contains more milk than actual coffee.”

“Didn’t know it would be a deal breaker, next time I meet someone it’ll be the first thing I tell about myself after my name,” you smirk at him, taking a sip from your mug.

“Next time you meet someone?” he asks, clearly upset you are thinking about meeting other people.

“What? Didn’t you just say we should have a break?” you innocently blink at him, beating him in his own game.

Harry smirks at you slyly and grabbing the stool you are sitting on he pulls you closer to him, so he can place your legs over his thighs, his hands sliding up your bare knees and thighs until they reach the hem of your robe, his fingers playfully wandering under the silky fabric.

“Break is over, we are back together, stop thinking about meeting others,” he firmly states making you laugh.

“And what about the coffee issue?”

Harry lets out a long, exaggerated sigh as he leans closer and kisses your lips gently.

“I’m willing to make a sacrifice and close my eyes every time I see you pour milk in your mug.”

“How generous,” you smirk at him, bringing your drink to your lips as you take a sip from the milked up coffee.

“Just so you know how much I love you,” he grins, so full of himself.

“Oh, it proves it a lot, you’re right,” you chuckle before he leans in again and steals another quick kiss.

#harry styles #harry styles blurb #harry styles fluff #harry styles oneshot #harry styles one shot #harry styles x you #harry styles x reader #harry styles x y/n #Anonymous

[underragingwaves]

This is a mid-4x10 ‘missing scene’ between Frankia and the timeskip, of sorts, which serves as a small window into Ragnar’s disappearance. It also serves as a way to introduce Thora long before she encounters Hvitserk on the docks in 5B, as she admitted in canon that her family was already around in Ragnar’s time. I found myself wanting to give Thora more in the way of backstory, which this piece allowed!

I wrote this fic as a part of @mercurygray’s great Blind Dates OC Fest, which basically is “write a short story that introduces a new character to an existing fandom and establishes them as a leading person worth paying attention to”. There are bonus points for playing them opposite a character you don’t usually write, haha, so my choice for Ragnar checks out beautifully! 

And now, I would very much like you all to meet Thora’s mother... 

leavetaking

There is something to be said for a loss.

Granted, she had wanted the old dog to live a little while longer. He’d been good the way all dogs are, watchful but prone to getting underfoot, and there had been strong pups twice. He’d stumbled into the sheep pen on midday the day before yesterday, then flopped down amid the fleece they had already gathered at that hour to breathe his last amid the warmth. It had been a fine death, even when Thora had squalled about it for a moment and Gunnar’s eyes had stormed with something wild at the sight.

Svala hopes it will be the last loss of the summer, even though one of her ewes is favoring her right leg and a neighbor’s cat has not been seen in five days. Losses somehow seem better in winter, though the ice makes too much work out of digging a grave for burial. It’s easier in a darker time, when one can explain the loss through cold and less forgiving weather, though she is careful not to let her children know such things yet. They do not yet need to learn that the shortening days mean a good deal of fear, no matter how strong a harvest has been.

She thinks she might teach Thora such, this coming winter, and the thought constricts her lungs enough to affect the next breath. Svala shuts her eyes as air escapes her in a shudder. Her belly flutters in response, like bubbles of air rising upon the water’s surface, and her breath steadies before the last ripple fades. She will birth a child, perhaps two if this feeling in her belly proves right, and more lambs have survived spring than in the years before. Perhaps winter will still be kind enough to allow her to teach Thora the loom-weave that keeps everything warm, though her daughter’s skillful tablet-weave would make her more suited to learning how to dye the wool for decorative bands instead.

Svala’s eyes open to the sight of a decision that must be made at this hour. She cannot contain her frown, nor the swift way in which she rises to her feet. Her hands are at her knife and scissors before the figure in front of her becomes a vaguely familiar one.

She draws herself up to her full height. Lifts her chin. “Can I help you?”

The man doesn’t startle. She spots a smile, slow with disuse, then a glint of something that warms his icy eyes. He carries no braid or hair save his beard, though his head is marked with faded blue swirls that lend him a warrior’s stature better than the stoop of his shoulders can. Svala’s nose wrinkles when the wind carries a sickly stench amid the scents of leather and fur woven around his garments.

“Are you Svala?” His diction is as slow as the smile that has yet to curve around his mouth in full. There’s a swooping rise to her name as he speaks it, as though the bird she is named for can be set free with the lilt of his tongue. “The weaver whose work is admired in all of Norway?”

Svala allows herself a laugh, throaty and dismissive, as her hands drop away from her weapons. “That is my name, yes,” she affirms, “though I will not speak of the admiration of all of Norway.” Such way, after all, lie pride and downfall that her mother and grandmother had sternly warned about. She tilts her head in contemplation of the man before her. “I am not surprised that my name has reached Kattegat, however, and your ears soon after.”

His flinch is barely there, but it is enough. She almost laughs at the sight. Almost asks him if he truly thinks he is beyond recognition, here, though she has only ever seen him from a distance. She knows the careful tilt of his wife’s smile far better, fond as Queen Aslaug is of cloth and garments made by Svala’s family, but she also knows the stories that have come from Kattegat of late. None of them make sense to her here, where the only worry is for the winter, but she sees their reflection in his face before he schools it to impassiveness.

There’s a demand to his voice when he speaks next. “I require a sail.”

Just one. Not something for a fleet. She thinks the boat will be small, barely enough for more than ten people, and the oars used more than the sail itself. No other thing than that would make sense, but Svala has long learned to ask after even the most obvious of demands. It is rare for men to provide the whole of a story, though she thinks the man before her still might. First, however, she must be the one to question.

“For you, or for a crew?”

He spreads his arms wide as though to indicate an answer. It’s just me, he seems to say, though no words come. His next gesture is for a mast that is smaller than the ones she has grown used to weaving for. His eyes flash blue as his gaze turns wider-eyed. His face is no longer tinged with the paleness of exhaustion that seems to have settled in his limbs.

There was a time men came from far and wide to hear him speak. Her own husband, Torvald, still raises a cup to memories of the man who now demands her service. She remembers hearing him the once, before they set sail for Frankia, as dear Floki had invited her whole family to the feast in honor of the sails they had woven for this journey. She had thought she understood then why the world around him seemed to bend and sway for him like reeds at the water’s edge. Had thought of it as the gifted weave of words some men carry, with every slip of their tongue one of mead and honey, but Svala feels it even now that he does not speak at all.

“It will take time and coin,” she says, unwilling to bow to the dance of light in his eyes. “I have the makings of such a sail on the loom, but it is at least two moons away from completion. If I start such a small one fresh, it will be four moons ere it is finished.”

“The one you are already weaving,” he says, voice lilting to curiosity, “whose sail is that?”

“Mine,” she shrugs, “until payment is made. There is always a wish for sails.” She raises an eyebrow. “I would think Ragnar Lothbrok would know such a thing, hm?”

Svala decides she likes the crinkle of his eyes, though she cares not for the sharpness of his smile. She would yet say more, but the swift patter of feet and her daughter’s breathless appearance soon after carry more importance than any word she might speak to a king.

“Móður, come qui–oh.” Thora’s eyes go wide as she locks eyes with Ragnar. Any urgency slips away from her daughter as she slows her run to a walk and then finally to a halt. There is a breath, then another, and then Thora blinks and turns to Svala again. “Alma ate some of the little cakes again, and Gunnar chased her out, only he fell into the…” Her daughter’s nose wrinkles. “He smells, móður.”

“The goat,” says Svala, for Ragnar’s benefit when she catches the slight raise of his brow, “and my son.” She chuckles as she folds her arms. “Always trouble in my house.”

“And you, little one?” asks Ragnar, as Thora shifts from foot to foot in front of them. There is something softer in his gaze as he regards her daughter’s muddy knees and almost-loosened braids. “Are you trouble for your mother, too?”

Thora’s smile is bright. “Sometimes. When my fingers fail the weave.” Her eyebrow raises rather imperiously. “Are you a customer?”

“If your mother allows me the honor to purchase a sail, yes.”

“If you take a sail, mother will need your name. To weave safe passage into its fleece.”

“I am certain your mother knows how to weave old Sleipnir,” laughs Ragnar, and his face almost transforms into that of a younger and far more mischievous man. “If I return in three moons time,” he says, then, “will you leave such a weave by the water’s edge?”

Svala holds out a hand. “If Sleipnir pays what the weave is due,” she says, rather archly, inflecting the name with all the derision she can muster, “then the water’s edge will be a seeker’s treasure.”

Ragnar’s hand is warm, calloused, heavy in her own. His fingers squeeze a wordless agreement to the terms, then allow her fingertips to brush against the band around his wrist upon which he has sworn all his oaths. And even he, so set to wander, so determined to not reveal his true nature at this hour in his life, would know better than to break such a thing.

His voice is a rasp to her ear before he breaks away. “The first of your coin will come after the next moon.” His swift gaze locks on Thora only a moment, with something of old loss visible in the tightness around his eyes. “Take care of your mother, hm?”

Svala does not turn to watch him go. Resists the urge to bow her head and bend before him like all others before her have been swayed to the whims of this one man. Already her mind is on the weave, which will require a different pattern to suit the terror that encroaches at the edges of her vision. There is something of leavetaking in the weights she envisions will set such a sail to right, something of darkness in the thread itself that she has yet to dye proper, and she knows Thora will knot the edges with the smaller bindings she could produce even in half-slumber.

Her clever daughter, after all, is not fooled by a mention of Odin’s eight-legged horse. She can tell as much from Thora’s frown, then from her words that come as slow as Ragnar’s own smile did.

“Who is he, really, móður?”

“That,” says Svala, feeling rather as though she is akin to the old dog that had swayed its way into the sheep pen and died amid the fleece, “was King Ragnar.”

Thora’s arms wrap around her own body, as though visited by a sudden chill at the sound of his name. Svala almost reaches for her, almost draws her so close to her belly that it will feel as though her daughter’s heartbeat is still within her body, but something in her gaze gives her pause.

“I will not tell Hvitserk.” Thora’s voice is a hush. Her eyes are bright, too bright, and her mouth twists into the harsh line of need overriding desire. “He does not need this. Not after what Ubbe said about his dreams.”

“Tho–”

Her eight-year-old daughter needs to learn the loom, or so Svala decides when Thora’s chin tilts up and her words become the ice of winter. “I will not tell him. Old Sleipnir can do that himself, once he comes home.”

“And what will you say, hm, when Ragnar’s eldest sons are curious about the sail when they come to fetch you and beg you to join them for a swim again?”

Thora shrugs. “That it is woman’s work. Woman’s worry. Ubbe will understand, even if Hvitserk doesn’t,” she smiles, gap-toothed and assured of the world in a way only the very young still are. “His mother is teaching him, like you teach me.”

Svala’s hands find the first almost-undone braid in her daughter’s hair. “And what sort of thing would that be?” she asks as she undoes its remnants and begins a new weave within Thora’s hair. “What am I teaching, now?”

“I will know,” lilts the soft voice in reply, “only once the sail is done.”

“I will need your knots,” decides Svala, to a flurry of motion deep within her belly, “if we are to weave safe passage for a man like that.”

“For a king like that,” corrects Thora idly.

Yes, for a king like that. Svala nods as she wraps the first of many braids in her daughter’s hair and fastens it. Fear swoops into her hands and sets them to trembling long before winter can take hold. She begins the next braid as they walk, back to the farm, back to her other child’s goat-shaped predicament. Reminds herself that it is only ever one foot in front of the other, and only worry allowed for what she can control in this very moment. I can only hope his sons will never require a sail such as this in your time, my child.

#vikings #ragnar lothbrok #thora #svala #blind dates oc fest #urwfic #art by me

[stopeatingwhales]

particles x damon albarn

the lyrics to this song are genuinely so beautiful, like i honestly cannot describe enough how much i adore this song my goodness

Pairing: present day damon x reader

Warnings: none :D

Word count: 1.881

Requested by anon <3

༉‧₊˚✧

It had been two months since I had last seen him. Two whole months since he had set foot in our home; two whole months since he said goodbye to leave for tour. The home that we shared had began to inhabit a sense of eeriness, some nights the walls began to feel as if they were closing in on me, trapping me from any interaction with the outside world, as if to hold me hostage by my own insanity, although other nights the space felt extremely large, almost too big for one person to be able to waste their nights alone in, encapsulating my mind in a constant conflict of obstructive thoughts, forcing me to overthink every tiny detail that was conveyed on the pale stained walls, the wooden floorboards, the arrangement of the furniture, resulting in many a time of me moving around heavy tables and chairs until the image of the room settled my mind’s anxiety. Allowing distance to get in the lines of mine and Damon’s relationship, it was simply uncanny that I was going to miss him; he was the carcass that kept me sane, the being that granted me peace in myself, ease on my mind to prevent such mania from enrapturing my brain, the person that engulfed me into a stupor of adoration and affection that one could never understand the authentic strength until felt - what some perceive as paramour, true love, something so overstimulating that once separated such thing desperation beguiles you to surround yourself with, only a mere sensation of emptiness is all that is felt inside, as if your limbs are damaged, your insides constantly in a state of sickness that you are convinced you’re in need of some form of professional assistance, but it is simply the alchemy, the poison of the apprehension that captivates you from the estrangement from your significant other. Though that wasn’t to say that wasn’t proud of Damon; I embraced fondness and admiration for everything that he did and was so dedicated in doing, his talent and immense knowledge for the art form that speaks to you demonstrated his ability to move millions of people, uniting as one in concerts, all touched from the same, simple string of melodies, proving his true gift and genius that is inside his brain.

I tried to pry my thoughts away from the excitement that had been seeping into my veins from the fact that he was returning home today, in an attempt to focus my mind on whatever had been showing on the television, but there was no use. To be cradled in his arms was all that I had longed, the thought clouding my brain almost every single night that I had thrown my body onto the linen sheets, trying to wrap my body around the duvet to replicate the specific warmth that had enveloped my body when in his arms, his body completely dominating mine, his hands running through my hair gently, apologising with a kiss on the top of my head when he accidentally pulled too roughly, my face buried in his chest as a blush would suddenly creep onto my cheeks, our embrace fulfilling me with a nest of blooming butterflies in my body, a poignant sensation of nervousness and reverence for the man that had me cooped up in his arms, the same feelings that would embody you whilst walking past your first crush during primary school, accidentally brushing your hands against one another’s, sending your mind into overdrive as if to think that the person was the love of your life. Such emotions never left, and I doubted that they ever would; supposing that is true love, he could make me feel like a little girl squealing over her teenage idol because of how perfect he was, just from being himself.

“I’m home, love,” I heard a voice call out in the hallway, accompanied by the soft slam of the front door, the tone of voice lacing a certain amount of raspiness, perhaps from a cigarette that had just been inhaled. My head instantly turned to the door of the living room, eyes settling upon the sight of Damon, who had a small grin curved on his lips, his gaze captured with joy and desire, perhaps from gratification towards the understanding that the tour had finally ended, as well as the fact that he was able to finally see me once again - my expression equally reciprocating his happiness. Instantly jumping from my seat on the couch, I rushed over to him as I threw my arms around him, resting my ear against his chest, listening to the soft pattern of his heartbeat. As usual, his arms wrapped around my figure, tightly embracing my body, the swarm of butterflies breaking out of their cocoons, my limbs growing weak from the recognisable thrill of affection that I had desired for far too long, and had sadly not received. Feeling his lips grazing against the top of my head made my mind go fuzzy, my cheeks flushing a heat that made me feel as if I was under the beating warmth of the sun during the summer months. This is what he does to me. “How’ve you been darling? I see you’ve rearranged the place, again.” he mumbled into my head of hair, my mind still relishing in the pleasure of being in his arms again.

“I’ve missed you,” I replied, reluctantly pulling my arms away from the embrace, in order to gawk at him. A gentle chuckle rumbled from his throat, though his features accentuated pity, understanding how I must’ve felt being away from him for so long. Lightly taking hold of one of his hands, I dragged his arm, guiding him to the sofa, where both of us sat next to each other. “You were gone for so long!”

“I know love, I’ve missed you so much,” he replied, squeezing my hand in reassurance. “At least I’m not gone for any longer though.” he added, his lips curving slightly as I nodded, a similar grin planted on my lips.

“How was the tour then?” I asked, pulling his arm to wrap it around my shoulders, my body already aching for more attachment to him. “The videos I’ve seen online made it look very good.”

“It was great, honestly. Loved every bit of it.” he replied, the grip on my shoulder tightening as he attempted to haul me closer to him. Humming in agreement, I placed my head on his shoulder, cradling the moment we shared together, the moment that I had imagined and adorned each and every night he was absent, cherishing every single time that he was able to be in my presence. I depended on him greatly, as did he, and though that may be a toxic strand which can only result in turmoil; our appreciation for one another held such poise that it would draw us closer together each and every time we had conjoined together after months of being separated. “I’ve actually got something to show you.” he added, shifting from our hug and slowly stepping to his feet, taking his hand in mine, his soft but coarse palms gripping onto mine ever so slightly, urging me to stand up too. “Come with me.”

Following him closely, we headed towards his studio. I had forgotten the last time that I had set foot in it; usually I would leave Damon to work on his craft alone, since having me prance around messing with all sorts of instruments and controls wasn’t going to provide much assistance. As well as that, sitting in the room, knowing that he was away and would be for many days on, would only make me yearn for his presence more, which is the last of what I would need when not being able to fall asleep. Though whenever he would call me into the room, he would always show me the most beautifully crafted symphony, in which he would perform it so effortlessly, as if it was simply created from the top of his head at that moment. Talent like his was so scarce; it would only prove to me that it’s something you are gifted with at birth, like an extremely high intelligence quotient - he always had ideas running through his mind, melodies that would be formed from a simple tap of the table in front of him. It was a wonder in the fact that he seemingly never got burned out with creating music, it was evidently his passion, and it touched me that he would constantly ask me for my opinion on his music, as it always resonated with him, always held such importance.

When we walked inside the studio, I followed him to the grand piano that was standing by the corner of the room. I kept my body upright, behind him, as he pulled out the black stool underneath, moving it back slightly in order for him to sit on it. “Over the tour, I had some free time, so I wrote this song, it’s called Particles,” he began, his voice quiet, as if it were intertwined with a certain anxiousness about what he was about to perform. “It’s still a work in progress, but I wanted to know what you thought of it.”

As I admired his fingers softly grazing the elegant, pale keys of the piano, the melody that in which played forth me instantaneously sufficed me in a trance, bewilderment encompassing my my mind as I listened to the sounds of the alluring chords echo throughout the room, bounce off the walls, the waves of noise crafting mountainous regions of goosebumps to prickle on the bare skin exposed from my forearms. Sculpted with such elegance and formality, my mouth fell agape as he played with such ease - in that significant moment, I was subdued to his music, hypnotised into his magnificence; I could do nothing, absolutely nothing, except admire the grace that fell from his lips once he started singing. As I allowed my gaze to drift onto his face, I gawked at his demeanour, his eyes almost screwed shut, his face almost frozen in place as his body rocked back and forth to the melody that was omitted from the piano. Every word, every string of lines carried a lugubrious essence to it, a tone laced with such beautification; obvious that there were deeper implications behind said lyrics. Each line that escaped his throat exemplified the nature of what earnest fervour, authentic devotion and expertise can embody. Such melody, paired with his voice embodied with pure ethereality, as if I was being greeted by a herd of the most quaint angels, welcoming my soul into the seven heavens. A beam crawled onto my lips, my heart thumping at a million miles per hour from the amount of love I carried in my body for the man in front of me.

Once the song ended, a moment was held in the atmosphere of mere silence, as if to take in all that was felt, all that had vibrated through the sound waves and blessed my ears. Shifting his body so he could connect eyes with me, a gentle, welcoming smile tugged on his lips. “That’s for you.”

#thank u anon <3333333 #damon albarn x reader #damon albarn #blur #blur band #90s #britpop #gorillaz #my imagines #my writing #fanfic #fluff #fan fiction

[bonjour-rainycity]

Home Again

Prompt: Domestic bliss/a day in the life (Content Challenge Day 2)

Pairing: Haldir x Female Reader

Rating: T

Word count: 2164

Warnings: Maybe I pushed the ‘T’ rating a little. There’s nakedness but like...tasteful nakedness? Also lots of kissing. And suggestions. And so much fluff. 

A/n Welcome to Day 2 of my content challenge! You can find the challenge’s masterlist here and my personal masterlist here. Happy reading :) 

Light shines into my closed eyes, and, mumbling in annoyance, I roll over, smushing my face into the pillow.

The ellon to my left chuckles warmly, wrapping an arm around my waist. “No, no, meleth nîn. Now that I know you are awake, I shan’t let you escape my attentions.”

I laugh as Haldir leans over me and peppers my face and neck with tiny kisses, encouraging me to roll onto my back. After much giggling and futile attempts to return to sleep, I comply, allowing him to kiss me fully on the lips. I sigh into the kiss, wrapping my arms around his shoulders and pulling him closer to me.

“I’ve missed this,” I breathe, closing my eyes when Haldir places a gentle kiss on my collarbone. “Three months is too long.”

At this, he raises his head, showing me the apology in his eyes “I know. I am sorry for leaving you for such a time, but I cannot ask it of my wardens and not hold myself to the same standard.”

I take one of his hands in mine, fiddling with his fingers. “You are much too honorable for my liking, Marchwarden.”

His playfulness from earlier returns, and he wraps his arms under my back. “I take offense! I shall have to prove to you that I am no such ellon.” With that, he releases his knees, dropping his full weight on top of me.

“Haldir,” I laugh, trying to push him off of me. “You must move, I cannot breathe!”

He buries his face in the crook of my neck, and I feel his smile against my skin. “Now what were you saying? I doubt an honorable ellon would try to squish his wife.”

“I shall have you arrested for attempted murder,” I gasp, elbowing him in the ribs and kicking at his shins.

He grins languidly, but relieves the pressure on me slightly. “And who is going to carry out this arrest? I am, as you say, the Marchwarden of this realm.” He raises a haughty eyebrow. “And I have no intention of incarcerating myself.”

I bump my nose against his, earning myself a soft smile. “Then it seems I shall have to lock you up.”

Haldir’s lips drop to mine, and he kisses me with a passion that has me quite willing to stay in this bed all day. “Such promises she makes,” he teases, and then seems to reign himself in. With a final, much more innocent kiss, he rises to his knees, offering me a hand. “Would you like breakfast?”

I enjoy my first full breath in minutes and take his hand, following him out of the bedroom. “You have been at the borders for three months. Sit, and let me cook for you.”

He does as he’s bid and, while I gather ingredients, he perches on one of the high stools that faces into kitchen. He does not stay on his side of the counter long, though, and soon wraps his arms around my waist, holding me closely against him as I cook.

There’s a knock on the door and Haldir and I exchange questioning looks. With a raised eyebrow, he releases me and walks through the talan to the front door. It’s not long before I hear the jovial greetings of Orophin and Rumil, and, smiling to myself, I retrieve two more plates from the cabinet.

Haldir enters the kitchen, his younger brothers in tow. “Do you mind, my love?”

“Not at all,” I grin, pulling the ellyn in for hugs.

“Of course she minds,” Rumil laughs, pressing a quick kiss to my cheek before sitting on a stool. “Her husband only just got back last night, and now she’s got a kitchen full of guests. I’m sure she’d much rather be f—”

I hurry to interrupt the youngest of the three, carefully placing some fruit on his plate. “You know you are both welcome here any time, I—”

“Relax, Y/n,” Orophin laughs, holding up a hand to stop my protests. “Rumil and I do not plan to stay long. We only wanted to see our brother, make sure he’s in one piece.”

“And have breakfast,” Rumil declares, mouth full of bread. Haldir rolls his eyes and darts a quick hand out to shove Rumil’s head towards the counter. Rumil only just keeps his head from connecting with the wood, and ducks around Haldir’s outstretched arm to push at his chest.

“Enough,” I laugh, sitting down with my own plate. The two eye each other with amused suspicion, but otherwise obey.

The four of us inevitably get on the topic of Haldir’s time away, and he regals us with the more entertaining stories from the borders. Before we know it, the morning has passed us by, and Orophin and Rumil must rush away to attend to their duties.

Haldir closes the door behind them, then pulls me into his arms. “Thank you for putting up with them.”

I snort and lay my head against his chest. “You know I love them.”

We stay there for a few minutes, wrapped in each other’s embrace. Haldir eventually pulls back and pushes me in the direction of our bedroom. “Change into something suitable for hiking. I’m taking you to the woods.”

I do as requested, rolling my eyes as I go. “You ask so politely.”

“It’ll be worth it,” he calls after me, and, because I can hear the excitement in his voice, I decide to believe him.

{***}

Two hours later and we are still walking.

“You know, I was only joking this morning, but now I think you might actually be trying to kill me,” I huff, struggling up the millionth hill of our hike.

My husband only laughs, reaching for my hand. “We are minutes away, meleth.”

To his credit, Haldir was right. Not five minutes later, the ‘trail’ ends and we stand on a cliff, overlooking a deep pond. I glance between Haldir and the water in delight — he knows how much I love a swim. “How did you find this?”

He shrugs like it’s nothing, though his chest puffs out. “I came across it during a scouting excursion a few weeks ago. I’ve been thinking of taking you here ever since.”

“I’m grateful,” I smile, leaning my back against his chest and pulling his arms to encircle me. He tightens his grip and starts a trail of lingering kisses up and down my neck. “It’s the perfect day, too,” I mumble weakly. The sun is shining, the air is hot, and a dip in the cool, clear water is just what I need.

I notice, perhaps belatedly, that neither of us brought proper swimming attire.

But it seems Haldir has planned for that.

He doesn’t stop his kisses when he speaks against my neck. “Take off your clothes.”

I let my eyes flutter shut. The sound of his voice and the way he sucks on my pulse point leaves me with no desire to protest. I pull at the ties on my tunic, and he follows suit. Soon, we are both undressed completely, standing naked in the shining sun.

Haldir pulls my mouth back to his, and, absently, I remember that, though we are in a secluded area, the woods is not necessarily private. “This area is unknown?”

His lips twitch against mine, and he pulls back so I can see his assured smile. “No one is around. No one will know we are here.”

That’s good enough for me. I wrap my arms around my husband’s neck and move to kiss him again, but he scoops me up in his arms, grinning wickedly.

Oh no. “Haldir-”

With a confidence that’s both infuriating and wildly attractive, he winks…

And steps off the cliff.

The water is much colder than I imagined, and I shriek the moment it touches my skin. Haldir finds this quite amusing, though I note with a smirk of satisfaction that a shiver runs up his own spine.

Not so invincible.

With that in mind, I wriggle out of his arms and splash as much water as I possibly can in his direction.

For a moment, he looks so utterly betrayed that I feel a twinge of guilt.

But then he lunges me, and all sympathy disappears.

He grips my shoulders firmly and shoves me under the water. He lets me up almost immediately, but the damage is done.

He’s submerged me in the freezing water twice already, and I cannot let that go.

I jump at him, but his skills on the battlefield apparently apply also to water fights, and he is much too quick for me. He places one arm behind my back and the other behind my legs and brings me into his arms, cradling me against his chest—despite my struggles.

“There, there,” he laughs over my protests. “Deep breaths now.”

I glower at him and manage to get a hand free, splashing a spout of water into his face. He raises an eyebrow, replacing his carefree laughter with the trademark Marchwarden Stoicism.

“Is that the best you’ve got?”

I lift my own eyebrow, meeting his challenge. “Release me and find out.”

He opens his mouth to retort, but the wind rustles the leaves, and he tenses.

I freeze against him, knowing Haldir well enough to see that, in the slight noise from the moving greenery, he has found cause for concern.

“What is it,” I whisper, but he raises a hand, cautioning for silence. I purse my lips together and strain my ears, trying to hear the forest as he does. Centuries in the trees have made him hyper-sensitive to every rock, leaf, animal — and intruder.

I gulp, tightening my grip on his shoulders.

Without warning, Haldir plunges me into the water once again, and I sputter, finding myself pressed against the cool skin of his back.

“M-Marchwarden,” a voice stutters out.

Oh Valar.

I’m suddenly painfully aware of how naked I am.

“Erlan,” Haldir sighs, giving the young ellon a displeased stare.

I recognize the name. Erlan is the newest member of Lothlórien’s Guard, only just having come of age some twenty years ago. Haldir says he is inexperienced, but shows promise, and frequently does week-long stints as part of the forest patrol.

“I-I am so sorry, Marchwarden. I did not mean—” While the elf stumbles over his words, Haldir tries to discreetly lower his hands to cover the essentials, but the movement draws Erlan’s eyes. Realizing what he’s doing, Erlan jerks his head upwards, staring safely at the sky. “Oh my, I am so—”

“Just leave, Erlan,” Haldir grits out, the pink twinge to his cheeks slightly damaging his commanding tone.

Erlan tries for a respectful bow, but as he bends, his eyes lock with mine and he yelps, straightening quickly. Haldir shifts to block me completely from view, raising an arm in Erlan’s direction. “Go!”

Erlan nearly runs into a tree in his haste to escape, and the hilarity of the situation overrides any embarrassment I might feel. I laugh, wrapping my arms around Haldir’s middle, encouraging him to turn in my arms. He does so, though his eyes scan our surroundings suspiciously.

To distract him from his anger, I press kisses to his chest, and, eventually he relaxes in my arms. Once I know his ire has passed, I rest my chin against his sternum, looking up at him with a wide grin. “I thought you said no one would find us.”

He fixes me with an unimpressed glare, the redness returning to his cheeks. “I will be speaking with him first thing tomorrow morning. His observation skills are—”

“Still in progress,” I interject, dragging my hands up his chest until I reach his shoulders. “Go easy on the poor ellon.” Using my grip, I pull myself up, wrapping my legs around his hips.

This seems to put him in a much more favorable mood, and he hums softly, laying his head against my shoulder. “I suppose you’re right. It could’ve happened to anyone.”

“Exactly,” I smile, pleased that I still have the ability to distract him like this even after a century of marriage. “Though I do believe that no one will be intruding upon us now, since Erlan is there to warn them.” I brush my lips against his shoulder, hinting at my intentions.

“My, you are smart,” his chuckle rumbles against me, and I dip my head to meet the lips that soon quirk teasingly against mine. “I knew I kept you around for a reason.”

I pull back, leveling him with a glare that rivals his own.

He attempts to school his expression, though he retains a mocking glint in his eye. “Intelligent and terrifying. I think I’ve hit the jackpot.”

I dip a hand into the water and flick it back towards his face, effectively wiping away his smug expression. “Do shut up.”

Laughing once more, he pulls me back to him, picking up where we left off.

I love having him home.

Even if I definitely plan on half-drowning him before we leave.

A/n So does anyone else adore Haldir, or is it just me? 

Likes, comments, and reblogs mean the world to me! Let me know what you thought and if you would like to be added to a tag list :) If you have any questions about the challenge, feel free to message me/submit an ask!

Challenge participants*: @game-ofthe-company @grunid @themerriweathermage @errruvande

*As far as I know. Please let me know if I’ve missed someone!!! 

#bonjourcontentchallenge #lotr #lord of the rings #tolkien #haldir #haldir of lorien #haldir x reader #haldir x female reader #haldir x you #haldir x y/n #haldir x yn #orophin #rumil #haldir imagine #lotr fanfic #haldir fanfic #lotr fic #haldir fic #lotr reader-insert #lotr female reader #tolkien fic #tolkien fanfic #haldir fluff #haldir x reader fluff

[ginazmemeoir]

for @gopikanyari - i couldn't draw them but i did write this fic.

tagging @taareginn @momo-all-the-way @dragonfairy1231 @aadyeah @weird-u @holding-infinity-and-a-book @aloomu @carmen-riddle @mango-pickle

Everything slows down. All I feel is my breath, the sweat trickling down my face, and the tension in my hand dissipating as I release the knife and let it fly. It strikes the dummy with a ‘thwack’, and I keep staring at it. Miss. Again.

My father didn’t consider educating his youngest child, a girl, in the art of warfare. So after getting married to five men, all brothers, in a strange twist of fate, having near death experiences in the forest and at my husbands’ home in Hastinapur, I decided to instruct myself. Swords made me feel confident, bows and arrows made me feel like a hero in an epic, but knives? They made me feel like a toddler playing pretend. And yet, Drona, my husbands’ mentor and father’s sworn enemy, insisted on teaching me in “the art of the blade”.

I lean against the wall, wiping the sweat off using a cloth, and head for a bath. As I exit, my maid Malti approaches me, her face writ with worry. “Um… uh… Your Majesty…” she stutters. I place my hand on her shoulder and calm her down, “What happened Malti? Something in your family?” I ask. Instead, Malti hands me a card. I take it from her, beaming at the seal – a dolphin encircled by a peacock feather – Krishna’s emblem. I greedily tear the elaborate wrapping, desperate for the kind of raucous and “unladylike” interaction that I only got with Krishna. My eyes skim over the letter’s contents, and my heart sinks. “Impossible,” I mutter, clutching the letter in my hand, “my husbands promised me complete fidelity. They cannot remarry again.” Malti, her voice trembling, then uttered the words which my feeble brain couldn’t read, “Your Highness, the invite was delivered by a member of the Dwaraka council. Prince Arjuna is getting married to Subhadra, Lord Govinda’s sister.”

The streets of Hastinapur are jubilant with celebrations, as their prince returns with his new bride. All over the city, repairs were done, and frivolous, expensive structures were erected, all in an effort to show the audacious wealth of the Kuru empire. The cheerful, flower and gold bedecked exterior hid the internal deformities. Suyodhana’s maternal uncle, Shakuni, or as everybody called him in the land – the snake – fumed at what had transpired (from what I gathered Suyodhana was to be wed to Subhadra, who had eloped with my husband); King Dhritarashtra boiled in silent anger, while Queen Gandhari taunted and cried out her distress every now and then.

Arjuna arrived on the gates of the palace, his new bride at his side, followed by my other husbands (his brothers) and Krishna. Both bride and groom were bedecked in the finest of clothes and jewels, looking like overstuffed dummies. Even from here in my balcony, I could clearly see the bride’s discomfort in wearing the heavy jewellery and silks preferred by the Hastinapur royalty even in the scorching summer. All the ceremonies and rituals were performed with due tradition, thus amounting to an hour or two, and then only did the entourage enter the palace. I hurry down to meet the party, when I see the newlyweds walking towards me. Anger floods every pore of my body. Had I had my way, I would have scorched the palace with the same fire from which I was born. What kind of man is this cruel, taking his second wife to meet his first? Disgusted I slam the door on their stricken faces, and bury myself in my misery. Was I never destined to be happy?

The years pass by, and an unlikely bond forms between Subhadra and I – the kind of bond shared by mothers. It took six pregnancies to break the barrier between us, and she had approached first. That would always be a guilt I would carry – that I hadn’t extended my hand earlier, blinded by pride and anger. Soon, awkwardness gives place to an unlikely friendship, with her teaching me the various wonders of the world she had seen on her various trips; Greece, China, the Golden Isand of Lanka, she had seen it all. Meanwhile I taught her how to wield a sword , and helped her navigate the tricky waters of politics and party throwing. It was a rare, pure friendship – one spent wearing a cotton sari under a scorching sun, eating mangoes with sticky hands and giggling, one I had never experienced before.

I walk towards my palace. Or, not my palace, since Duryodhana owns it now. Nothing is left, not even my pride and dignity. My dishevelled appearance, torn sari, entangled hair and bruises make for a frightening appearance apparently, stunning everybody into silence. I don’t feel human anymore, just a husk slowly inching its way before it collapses, for my soul was stripped along with my clothes in that den of gamblers and cowards. I seethe with a burning hatred against my husbands, pretentious motherfuckers cowering behind their false dharma and “code of chivalry”, which conveniently vanished when they took multiple wives and yet made me marry all five of them against my will. I want to rage and burn and destroy and drink the blood of Dushasana and use Duryodhana’s skull as the cup. I thought my city, this magnificent city of Indraprastha, loved me the same way I loved it. And yet, in my darkest hours, none came to stop what followed, except perhaps Vikarna, a brother of the man whom I didn’t consider human. Subhadra was in the guava orchards with Abhimanyu, when she saw me. She quickly put him down, and rushed towards me, trying to cover me with a scarf, as if I cared anymore. She took me inside, and drew a bath for me. That day, I scrubbed my skin raw till it turned red and almost tore my hair from my scalp, trying to rid myself of Dushasana’s filthy touch. She then gives me some khus, which I drink gingerly, my tears mixing with the sweet green concoction. At first, she looks stricken, unable to believe what had transpired. Disbelief gave way to pity, which gave way to anger. “It’s useless Subhadra. Nothing is left. And I will make sure, that nothing will be.” I console her. I see the fear in her eyes then. Good. People had forgotten who I was, but I’d make sure I’d remind them in the years to follow. They blamed me for what had happened right, that I was too weak or too proud? Well then I’d like to prove them right. I am Draupadi. Paanchali. Yajnaseni. Born from fire, born to wreak havoc, born to change the fate of this cursed land of Jambudweep, where the roll of a dice values more than a person.

The 13 years that follow are spent in agony. Twelve years of wandering in the forest, facing arrogant saints and malevolent creatures. I keep wondering of Subhadra and my kids. When she had heard the news, she had slapped an unsuspecting Arjuna, and taken Abhimanyu and my kids with her to Dwarka, safe and secure, forbidding him to show her his face until he proved himself worthy. Arjuna soon parted ways with us in the forest, going off on some adventure, finding new beauties to marry and accumulating more powers for the war to follow. I meet Hidimba in the forest as well, Bhima’s first wife. I envy her freedom and her life. And then comes the dreaded year of agyaatvasa – living in the shadows, for fear of recognition. Yudhishthira becomes advisor to King Virata of Matsya, Bhima a cook, Nakula the master of stables, Sahadev a shepherd and I, the mighty Draupadi? A hairdresser. How cruel life was, making the woman who kept her hair unkempt and open as a reminder of her revenge, a hairdresser to a queen. Arjuna also returned, but as the eunuch dancer Brihannala. Even here, peace eluded me as the queen’s brother Keechaka turned his perverted gaze towards me. But this time, I had enough. And so I invite him to a secluded spot and then have his skull crushed by Bhima.

It’s the time of war. Vultures and hyenas gather in the fields of Kurukshetra in anticipation of the feast to follow. I reside in the camp with the other ladies and children of the house. I am unable to recognize my own kids at first, how quickly they’ve grown and how much they have changed. They greet me with the same love and respect, but something has changed fundamentally in our relationship, a cherished bond that would never be the same. Subhadra is there by my side, making me live their childhood through their mischievous stories and their life at Dwarka, and yet my mind wanders to our six sons – wearing their armour and lifting their weapons, barely on the cusp of manhood and yet already thrust into a war that isn’t their own. I stopped believing in gods long since, and yet I pray to any that might exist with a shred of mercy in their heart towards me – let my children live.

Abhimanyu’s mutilated corpse greets us on the thirteenth day of war. His body looked so gruesome, even Yamraj would have shuddered. Subhadra’s wails pierce through the sky, reverberating more than the clang of metal and steel. She reaches for Abhimanyu’s body, hugging him close, with his head on her lap, embracing her son for a final time before the fires engulfed him. I am too shocked, and Subhadra too bereaved, to either comfort or be comforted. There is no sermon, no balm, no magic for this loss. His loss permeates into every single cell of our being, and stays there. Subhadra cries the entire night, her eyes red from crying, consuming neither food nor water. I stay by her side all along. The other ladies comfort his wife Uttara, in the final month of her pregnancy, devastated by the destruction of her own small world before it could begin. Finally, when dawn breaks, and her body is devoid of tears, does Subhadra arise, but she’s not the same. She goes with the Pandavas to cremate her only child, and returns back. She utters not a single word, conveys not a single emotion. She doesn’t rage like fire – she is instead like the oceans near her home. A turbulent storm rages within, which the calm face doesn’t give away.

I come back to my tent having exacted my revenge. The sound of Dushasana’s arms being ripped off, his skull cracking open echo in my ears. My hair drip with his blood, my face smeared with sweat. I thought I would feel victorious, at peace now that I had avenged myself, avenged Abhimanyu’s death. But then Subhadra gazes at me, and a single gaze is enough to communicate everything in my heart. Is this who I am now? What more atrocities would be committed in this war?

The war has come at an end, as Duryodhana lies dying in agony, his thighs shattered. I go with everybody to cremate the fallen and pay my respects to Grandsire Bhishma, as he too draws his last breath upon his bed of arrows and leaves this world. All the bodies are collected in a massive mountain of rotting half eaten flesh, and cremated. The fire blazes high, an inferno reaching for the skies, taking the souls of everybody within it towards Indra’s court, which receives anybody who dies fighting. The flame reminds me of my own birth, which seems like a lifetime away. I return back to camp, weary from all the death that surrounded me, and am instead greeted by a fresh nightmare. My brother Dhrishtadyumna’s head hangs at the gate, his decapitated body beneath him, hands closed around his sword even in death. I rush in to find everybody dead – physicians, maids, cooks, attendants, charioteers, guards, everybody. I enter my sons’ tent, fearing the worst and that is when I see their corpses. They were still in bed. Sleeping. They were supposed to ride out tomorrow to Indraprastha, their true home. They were supposed to grow up and live their life far away from court or war. They were planning to finally visit the fabled Palace of Illusions, swimming in the Mirror Lake, plucking fresh fruits from the orchards. Sutasoma intended to devour all the books he could lay his hands on. Prativindhya wanted to try wine. Srutakarma wanted to learn pottery and sculpting. Shatanika wanted to try make up, while Shrutasena wanted to learn music and painting. My children were robbed of their lives and their futures in their sleep. Now I truly knew the meaning of loss. I would rather die a thousand times over just so I could bring them back. I collapse, the last thing I hear is Subhadra shouting my name. I don’t feel the ground as I fall.

It is in this hell on earth does Subhadra’s daughter in law Uttara give birth. She screams in pain as she tries to push her child out of her womb, the last child of a massacred dynasty, when the room suddenly fills with a scorching white light. It disappears as suddenly as it arrived, and everybody immediately figures out what happened. The Brahmastra, the strongest weapon in the universe. Aimed directly at Uttara’s womb and her unborn child. It is an unspeakable crime. The death of his grandnephew makes Krishna goes insane, and for the first time in my life, I see him become the angel of death. He picks up the babe, and proclaims, “If I have been a truly righteous human, let this child come to life.” The child, a boy, gasps and cries, strong and powerful. I have stopped believing in miracles, but this is one I admit. Subhadra reached for her grandson, and cradles him in her arms. Her tears drop on his forehead, as she smiles at him. As she hands the baby to me, there’s an understanding in our eyes. An agreement. A promise. Never shall this child know suffering. Never shall this child know pain. He will have what we could not. He will have a childhood, a future, a life.

We make this oath to ourselves. Sisters, united by pain, suffering and hope.

#draupadi #subhadra #paanchali #panchali #mahabharat #mahabharata #india #hindu mythology #mythology #story time #vasu