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riality-check · 8 months

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The eagerly awaited part 2 of the DILF!Steve concert saga is here!! Part 1, in case you missed it.

"You're not going."

"Come on! I haven't thrown up in an hour!"

"The drive to the venue is an hour and a half."

"Steve-"

"And if you throw up in my car-"

"Oh my God-"

"I'll kill you."

Steve doesn't need to see Dustin's eye roll in order to feel the full force of it through the phone.

"I'll just kill you. You'll have a headstone within the week that says Here Lies Dustin Henderson: Rightfully Murdered for Puking in Steve Harrington's Car," he continues as he packs Capri-Suns into the cooler for the car ride.

He doesn't remember ever being that thirsty as a kid, but if Anna wants strawberry kiwi, Anna gets strawberry kiwi. It helps that it's Steve's favorite flavor, too.

"I'd need a big ass headstone to fit all of that," Dustin snaps.

"Your big-ass ego would demand no less, shithead," Steve shoots back.

"Swear jar, Daddy!" Anna calls from her room, across the house because while she doesn't listen to Steve when he's right in front of her, she can hear him break the swear jar rule from halfway across the world.

He zips up the cooler, fishes a quarter out of his pocket, and throws it into the half-full soup can next to the stove.

(A quarter doesn't mean much, but Anna doesn't know that. The day Steve teaches that kid about inflation is the day his pockets become permanently empty.)

"Did she just swear jar you?" Dustin asks from over the phone.

"You baited me into it."

"I did no such thing."

Steve rolls his eyes. "You're not coming, though, are you?"

Dustin sighs, and, for all his teasing, Steve does genuinely feel bad. "I still feel like if I breathe wrong, I'll hurl, so, no. I don't think I'll manage the car ride, nevermind the actual show."

"Sorry dude."

"Don't be. Some dickhead will live stream the whole thing on Instagram, anyway. I'll live vicariously through them."

Steve snorts and picks up the cooler. He got Anna dressed beforehand, so it's just a matter of getting her to stop playing with whatever toy she dug up - Play-Doh has been the fixation of the week - in her room so they can go.

"Besides," Dustin continues, and Steve hates where this is going. "Anna loved the show, and you've got a reason-"

"Nope," Steve says, knocking on Anna's door. "Don't finish that sentence."

"All I'm saying-"

"I know what you're gong to say, which means you know my answer. I don't date."

Anna opens her door. From the little Steve can see inside, there are at least three containers of Play-Doh open and strewn across the floor. He thinks her Barbies are involved in it somehow.

"Time to go," Steve says, and he thinks, Please don't let there be Play-Doh in the Barbie hair.

"Five more minutes," Anna tries.

"Nope. Clean up and roll out."

"Hi, Anna," Dustin says through the phone.

"Uncle Dusty!" Anna shrieks, and she starts jumping up and down. "Are you comin', too?"

Dustin sighs, and Steve can't tell if it's at the nickname or if he's still cursing the universe. "No, but you and your dad have a great time, okay?"

"Can you, can you tell Daddy I should get five more minutes?"

Steve raises his eyebrows at her. Anna, to her credit, ignores him wonderfully.

"If you clean up," Dustin says, because he's actually Steve's favorite person right now, "you get to do more headbanging at the concert."

Anna gasps like Steve didn't already tell her that earlier today, and she gets to work on putting her toys away. Steve helps, of course, and he finds that there is, in fact, Play-Doh in two of her Barbies' hair.

Fun. They're going to turn into Buzzcut Barbies when Anna goes to sleep because he can already tell that they are the furthest thing from salvageable.

But that doesn't matter right now. What matters is getting Anna in the car, deploying the first two of many strawberry kiwi Capri Suns from the cooler, and making the drive to the venue, which Steve does with minimal road rage and accompanied by the Disney radio station.

Success by all metrics, really.

Dinner might as well be now, so Steve shells out a truly disgusting amount of money for overpriced chicken nuggets and fries at the venue. Anna will only eat half her portion but say she's hungry later, but that's what the snacks and water Steve smuggled in via his jacket are for.

They get to their seats, dinner finished up, just as the lights go down for the first opener. Steve looks to his left, half-expecting Eddie and his friends to be there before remembering that they won't be.

He tries not to feel too disappointed. He fails miserably.

The seat next to him, however, isn't empty. There's a note taped to the back of it, one addressed to Steve and Miss Anna, so Steve feels alright taking and opening it.

At the top, there's a messily scrawled phone number. Underneath, it says:

Here's my number. Probably a bad idea to call with all the noise. Texting works, though you should do that after the show. I'll be a little busy until then.

-Eddie

Steve puts the note in his pocket, puts Anna's ear defenders on, puts his own earplugs in, and looks at the stage, where-

Hang on.

He squints at the stage, where four guys have started playing a song that, frankly, sounds too much like literally all the music Steve listened to yesterday for him to care about all that much. The drummer is pretty small, with wild, curly hair. The bassist looks familiar. The lead singer, who is very talented but not to Steve's personal taste, also looks familiar. And the guitarist-

No way. No way in hell.

It's a total coincidence. Lots of guys have long, curly hair and heavy jewelry and big eyes and are wearing formal wear, for some reason, and catch Steve's eye, and-

"Thank you for such a great welcome!" the guitarist says, and his smile totally isn't doing anything to Steve, thanks very much.

Anna stops moving, where she's standing next to Steve, and climbs up into his lap to get a better look at the stage. She looks out, then back at Steve, then out, then back at Steve, making a face as confused as Steve feels.

Some days, he thinks he ended up with a clone, not a kid.

"I'll get off the mic in a second. I only do the talking because Jeff," the guitarist points at the lead singer, who ducks his head, "is really shy."

Jeff. That name is definitely relevant, but Steve is a permanent resident of denial.

"We fought about what song we were going to include next in our set list, so much so that we didn't decide until yesterday and had to consult a tiebreaker."

Okay, maybe Steve is a less permanent resident of denial than he thought.

"So, thank you to Miss Anna, who did great at headbanging for her first time-"

Anna whips around so fast, her forehead nearly collides with Steve's jaw.

"And to Steve, who's a big fan of American Psycho."

At the song name, the crowd loses their minds, and if Anna wasn't sitting right in front of him, Steve would join them.

Because what the fuck is happening right now?

His question isn't answered. In fact, about five more questions pop up in its stead when, during the bridge of the song, Jeff puts on a clear rain jacket and picks up a prop axe.

Please, God, don't let this traumatize my kid, Steve thinks.

Anna, thankfully, doesn't get scared. When Jeff brings the axe down, again and again, Steve's weirdo daughter fucking smiles. And giggles. It's kind of cute, actually.

When the song ends, she turns back to Steve.

"That's Eddie onstage," Steve says, and saying it, somehow, makes it real.

"I thought so!" Anna says, and she turns back to watch the show. Steve puts an arm around her waist so she doesn't fall off his lap when she bangs her head to the music.

The rest of the songs, in Steve's opinion, are better than the opening song. They're more melodic, which Steve can definitely get behind, and each of them has a gimmick onstage, all based off of various horror movies. It's ridiculous, but also really, really cool.

And Eddie, onstage, because it is the same guy who flirted with him and was so sweet to Anna yesterday, is really, really hot.

Steve has never had a thing for guitarists before. He's never had a thing for musicians before. Hell, until a year ago, he didn't realize he had a thing for men.

Eddie is. Uh. Yeah. Really doing it for him.

Steve doesn't know whether it's his enthusiasm, or the way he moves, or seeing his hair tied up, or the fucking dress pants and suspenders, or just his hands, but he does know he has to get himself in check because this is an all ages show and he's here with his daughter.

He already knows he can't add these songs to his grading playlist, not when they're accompanied by visuals of Eddie playing his guitar.

Sweet Jesus.

"Alright, that's our set!" Eddie says. "Thanks, y'all, for sticking around for us, and let's give it up for the next act!"

The crowd, including Anna and Steve, cheer as they exit and the lights go up.

Steve fishes his phone out of his pocket, fully intending to add Eddie's number to his contacts, and is greeted by not one, not two, but sixteen missed calls from Dustin Henderson.

Naturally, Steve calls him back. "Who died?"

"What the fuck?" Dustin yells, and Steve just puts the phone on speaker to save the rest of his hearing. "Did Eddie fucking Munson just personally thank you from the stage?"

"Swear jar, Uncle Dusty!" Anna says.

"Sorry," Dustin says. "But Steve. Answers. Now."

"How do you even-"

"Instagram live. Is Eddie the guy you were telling me about yesterday?"

Steve takes his phone off speaker. Prior experience tells him that this conversation has a less than zero chance of staying PG, nevermind PG-13.

"Yeah," Steve says. "He is."

"The one who flirted with you, and you forgot to ask for his number."

"Well, I have it now."

"What?" Dustin shrieks, and Steve is incredibly thankful that he didn't take his earplugs out.

"He left me his number on the seat."

"Text him."

"I was going to, until I saw that you called me sixteen times."

"Jesus Christ, Eddie Munson was flirting with you."

Steve rolls his eyes and hands a pack of gummy bears to Anna when she taps his arm. "He could have just been nice. I don't even know if he's into guys."

"Have you looked at him?"

"Wow, Dustybuns, I didn't know you were homophobic."

"I think it's the complete opposite of homophobic to try to get you laid."

"Hanging up!" Steve shouts because a part of him will never see Dustin as any older than thirteen, and no thirteen year old should ever say that.

"Text-"

Steve hangs up the call. "Can I have a gummy bear?"

"No," Anna says, mouth full, in her seat, legs swinging.

"I bought them."

She shrugs. "You gave them to me. Mine now."

Steve stares. She stares right back.

He sighs and opens a new pack of gummy bears.

With his mouth full of sweet Haribo corpses, Steve takes out the note and adds Eddie to his contacts. Before he can overthink it, he sends him a message:

I guess I don't have to ask you what you do for a living. Just so we're even on that front, I'm a teacher, and Anna's full time job is preschool.

He tucks his phone back into his pocket and focuses on making this a good experience for Anna, who somehow wormed her way into a conversation with the intimidating-looking couple sitting next to her.

Because it's totally not like a literal rockstar is going to text him back. Right?

Part 3!!

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azzo0 · 20 days

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cw: death

Katsuki held his sons' hands tightly so they did not run away from him as they walked down the bustling streets. The twins were really chaotic and loved running. Sometimes, Katsuki wondered if they ever got tired of it.

"Hurry up, mama is waiting for us!" The youngest of the twins exclaimed, trying to walk ahead of his father.

"Slow down, Naoki," Katsuki sighed for the hundredth time, "Look at your brother. He's walkin' nice n' slow."

"Kaoru is a slow poke!"

"Papa, Nao's makin' fun of me again!" Kaoru complained, tugging on Katsuki's hand.

"Be nice, Naoki." Katsuki reminded. It was often difficult for him to get the two to stop arguing over minuscule reasons like who got the last bottle of strawberry milk or who got to keep the TV remote. There was never a dull day when you had two mini Katsuki's around.

They finally arrived at the flower shop, much to the twins' delight, "No running," Katsuki reminded, "You'll knock the flowers down."

He leaned by the counter, watching the twins ogle at the vibrant array of flowers with bright cherry eyes. They always spent a few minutes admiring pretty and sweet-smelling flowers before buying their mother's favourite ones.

"Okay, boys, done looking around?" Katsuki said at last.

"Yes, papa." The two replied in unison.

"Then which flowers are ya getting for Mama?"

"Lilies!" The twins exclaimed. The florist smiled and wrapped the delicate white lilies with care, handing the bouquet to Katsuki after he paid. He felt a tug at his jeans and looked down to see Kaoru pointing a small finger at something. Katsuki followed the direction of his finger to see a shelf with teddy bears and other small gift items.

"Can we get Mama a teddy? It's her birthday, just flowers won't do!"

"Yes, let's get Mama a teddy too!!" Naoki agreed. Katsuki hummed in response and paid for the teddy holding a red heart, handing it to Kaoru.

"Can I hold the flowers?" Naoki asked.

"Sure," Katsuki gave the bouquet to Naoki, stifling a smile at the fact that the bouquet was too big for his little arms.

Katsuki took the boys to a tranquil place, his heart aching when the twins' once excited steps slowed down. The brothers stood side by side, their heads hung low. Katsuki kneeled down beside his sons, brushing his fingers over the cool headstone. He glanced at the twins and ruffled their hair, giving them a smile even though his chest squeezed and his heart bled. He did it for the sake of them. He wanted his babies to smile.

He watched their lips tug up in the smallest smile. Naoki set the lilies down on the earth while Kaoru let the teddy sit by the headstone. The two sat down on their knees, "Happy birthday, Mama."

"We miss you so much," Kaoru mumbled.

"We wish you were here," Naoki sniffled, "Then we could buy a big cake, and Papa would take us on a picnic. You like picnics, right, Mama? Come back to us. Papa misses you too."

Katsuki felt his throat closing up at the sight of the twins huddled together as they tried to maintain a brave front. Beads of tears welled in his waterline. He held his arms open, and the boys got up to bury themselves in their father's chest. He held them close to him, a tear rolling down his cheek.

Happy birthday, my love.

#cw: death #bakugo angst #bakugou #bakugou x reader #bakugo x reader #katsuki bakugo x reader #dad bakugou

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vivwritesfics · 17 days

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Set The World On Fire

Chapter Ten

Lando Norris had been incredibly angry when they met. Incredibly angry, but sweet enough to help her. Turns out he just needed somebody to talk to, somebody to be there for him.

He was easy to fall for, and that put her in a world of danger

Warnings: smut! P in v! Oral, female receiving

Mafia AU

1.1K

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Norris was dead.

It didn't come as a surprise to anybody. He had been sick for so long, most were surprised he hadn't died before this.

Lando knew what the next steps were. He had a member of his staff call the Sainz house, informing his sister of what had happened. He put things in place, had people do things for him, while he went to her apartment.

She opened the door the second he knocked. "Hey there," she said to him, wearing a smile as she let Lando into her apartment.

The smile he returned was incredibly weak. His hands were shoved into his pockets as he walked into her apartment and sat on her couch. "Do you want something to eat?" She offered.

Lando shook his head, reaching for her. She allowed herself to be pulled onto the sofa, pulled into his lap. Lando pressed his face to her shoulder and sucked in deep breaths. "Lan," she whispered as she ran her hands through his curls. "Are you okay?"

He didn't answer immediately, tightening his grip on her. He didn't cry; heads of families don't cry. But he sucked in deep breaths. "Sorry," he said against her shoulder. He didn't pull away, but she didn't want him to.

"What's going on?" She whispered, running her hands through his curls.

"My dad," he answered quickly.

In her mind she ran through everything that she knew about Lando's father, which wasn't a lot. She knew that he was sick. Suddenly she assumed the worst.

"He's dead."

It wasn't even what Lando was most upset about. But he couldn't tell her any of that, not yet. Norris. He was the new Norris. The new head of the family. If she wasn't already, he was about to put her in a world of danger.

"Shit, Lan," she whispered, pressing him closer. "I'm so sorry."

He shook his head. "I've already started making arrangements for the funeral," he said, gently pulling away. "My sister has been told and she should be flying home soon."

"Do you want me there?" She asked, dragging her nails up and down his arm.

Lando shook his head. He stared at her for a minute and kissed her.

For the few days leading up to the funeral, Lando stayed at hers. He stood out in the hallway while taking phone calls, but she thought nothing of it.

On the day of the funeral, Lando was reluctant to leave the bed. He laid awake, his arms around her as he kissed her shoulder. The way Lando crawled out of bed, it was gentle, careful not to wake her up. He got dressed quickly and kissed her forehead before leaving the bedroom.

Lando looked around the apartment as he tied his shoes. There was no guarantee when he'd next be able to see her, no telling when he'd be laying with her between her sheets.

No part of Lando wanted to leave the apartment. No part of him wanted to go back to his house. Because it wasn't home anymore, was it? She was home.

For three days Lando didn't see her. For three days he was at his house, sorting through paperwork. There wasn't much he had to do to take over from his father; Lando was pretty much the head of the family already.

His men addressing him as Norris took a lot of getting used to. More than once he found himself outside, talking to his mothers headstone, talking to his step-mothers headstone.

His mother didn't know about Y/N. He hadn't had a chance to tell her that he'd found somebody he loved. Somebody he didn't want to bring into the Norris family.

For two weeks, Lando couldn't see much of her. He kept in contact with her for those two weeks, texting her and calling her when he could.

It wasn't easy. There was nothing more he wanted than to be in her apartment.

The first time he told her he loved her was over the phone.

He hated it, hated he couldn't say it to her face before kissing her and laying her in her bed, kissing along her collarbones as he thrust into her. All he had was the image of her, laying before him with her legs spread.

But then, everything went wrong.

Lando had always thought his house was secure. It had to be. His father had heightened the security after his mother had died. It was a fortress, he thought.

So, why the fuck was he hearing gunshots.

The moment he heard the first gunshot, Lando was on the floor. He pulled out his own gun and crawled under the bed. More gunshots, slowly getting closer.

He needed to get out. He needed to get out now.

For a second, Lando shut his eyes. He breathed through his nose, thinking. He had to get out. How did he get out?

Lando crawled towards the window. Slowly he looked out into the garden. Nobody was out there. Not whoever was shouting, not even his own men were out in the garden. As quietly as he could, Lando pushed open his bedroom window and climbed out.

His gun was between his teeth as he climbed his way to the roof. His hands were clammy, his grip slipping as he climbed. Several times he almost slipped, but Lando kept going. He had to keep going, had to get out before somebody came in and shot him.

From the roof, he could see everything. He could see the van they arrived in, could see the driver tapping his gun against the steering wheel. Lando flattened himself against the chimney as he heard the last of the shots ring out.

There was a good ten minutes where he was sat up there, sweat dripping down his face. He was so incredibly still, barely breathing against the bricks of the chimney.

And suddenly, people dressed all in black were running out of his, jumping into the van and driving away. He didn't dare move, not until the van disappeared. Even then, he was still. He waited, made sure he truly was alone, before he climbed down.

As he climbed down from the roof, his gun slipped. He stilled, eyes shutting as he took a moment to gather himself. "Fuck," he couldn't help but hiss. But the gun didn't go off, and nobody came out to investigate the noise of it dropping to the floor. "Fuck."

He climbed all the way to the ground and immediately took off running. Lando didn't bother to go inside of his house, didn't bother to get any of his things, to check on his men, or to even get a car. No, he started running.

Running back to her.

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roosterforme · 2 months

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Always Ever Only You Part 33 | Rooster x Reader

Summary: Getting through your second presentation feels like a battle of wits against your own body. Then after weeks of barely being able to stomach anything, you are presented with the most enticing dinner. But it's the food that's alluring, not your dinner mate, and Bradley has a few things to say about the mess you get yourself caught up in.

Warnings: Swearing, adult language, pregnancy topics, angst, fluff, phone sex, masturbation

Length: 5800 words

Pairing: Bradley "Rooster" Bradshaw x Female Reader

This was written to accompany my series Is It Working For You? along with a bunch of my one-shots and other series, but it can be read on its own! Check my masterlist for the reading order. Always Ever Only You masterlist. Gorgeous banner by @mak-32

You slept like a lovesick log after your long drive back to the hotel from the cemetery. Exhausted from throwing up in the shrubs, you curled up in bed and watched the video you took for your son or daughter. You had recorded yourself reading both headstones and having a little conversation with your in-laws about the baby. It was just meant to be something you and Bradley could watch one day with the nugget, but it brought a smile to your face.

You were decidedly no longer smiling when you woke up on Wednesday and had to race to the toilet. "Why is this happening again?" you asked the bath mat as you curled up in a ball. You had another, longer presentation to give. You had admirals to chat with. You had a whole lot to get done today. You didn't have time for this right now.

Even brushing your teeth was a chore. Changing into your uniform was an issue. At least your pants felt a little looser today. You honestly could not keep up with the way your body was bloated half the time and normal the rest of the time.

You realized your makeup was pretty much the only thing holding your life together at the moment as you swiped on some mascara. Then there was a knock at your door, and it felt like you were doing the same thing all over again today, because essentially you were. You and Cat had to struggle with the bin of equipment. You had to fight to stay awake in the rental car. The nausea was turning your life into a game of sheer determination to keep the bagel that you ate from coming back up.

"Are you okay?" Cat asked you a few minutes before the presentation was about to start.

"Of course," you told her in what you hoped was a reassuring tone. "Why wouldn't I be?" You shrugged and smiled serenely at her.

"Because you're sweating bullets. And you've been pacing around the hallway."

You cleared your throat and insisted, "It's just really hot in here."

"It's not," she replied. "Please. I'm begging you. Just keep it together for another ninety minutes, okay? After that, you can do anything you want. Hell, I'll do anything you want me to do. But we need to get through this presentation."

Her voice sounded panicked, and now you were looking around the hallway for a garbage can. But it was too late. The two of you were being called into the presentation room. Commander Patterson and Admiral Klein were sitting in the front row smiling at you. Shit, more admirals were here today. Oh fuck, all of these people wanted to hear your extended presentaion. A bead of sweat rolled down the back of your neck, past your shoulder blades and along your spine. You wanted Bradley. You wanted Bradley to hold you and let you throw up everywhere and tell you that you were still pretty and that he loved you even if you cried on the toilet and ate crackers while you lay on the floor.

Tears burned your eyes, and Cat looked like she was going to scream. Pull it together. Ignore the sensation. Clip the microphone onto your shirt. Start talking.

"Good afternoon. Lieutenant Coleman and I are back to expound upon our research presentation from Monday which covered communications engineering at Top Gun. You can find a copy of our slides in the information packet in front of you. Please hold your questions until we pause for a break. Let's get started."

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

Bradley really wasn't doing well without you at home. He was barely eating anything besides cereal and sandwiches, and he was going to bed hungry at night. The only fun he'd been having was slowly filling up that pink and blue notebook with his musings for the little nugget.

He was having a hard time sleeping, and he didn't like how quiet the house was. Even Tramp kept looking for you, occasionally running to the front door and whimpering. "We'll see her on Friday," he told the dog as he had potato chips and coffee for breakfast on Wednesday morning. "Two more days of this bullshit."

When he got home from work on Tuesday, he broke down in tears as he looked at the photos you sent him from the cemetery. You even took a video where you were talking to him and the nugget and his parents. He still couldn't believe you took the time to drive there and make it so special for him. After he finished crying, he made his way back up to the attic where he took the half wall down to the studs. Then he realized that he really needed to call some contractors before you came home and saw the mess he made.

While he drove to work in the red Bronco, he left messages, hoping to get some estimates in the next week or so. One thing that he'd been slowly coming to terms with was the fact that you didn't need him to take care of you by paying for everything. Both of your incomes were going toward the mortgage payments and all the necessities. You'd both been saving money for the future, and he figured the future had arrived since there was a baby on the way.

When he parked in the garage on base, he noticed he had some new texts from you.

Baby Girl Bradshaw: I miss you. I'm struggling today. I think the nugget hates me. I'll call you later after my presentation and all of this other shit is over.

He wanted to text you back, but he didn't want to be a distraction, so he tucked his phone into his pocket and ran his fingers through his hair. He had been reading every pregnancy article online that he could find, but none of the tricks he saw were helping you with the nausea. You were probably just going to have to wait it out. He would be ready to rub your shoulders and put a cool washcloth on the back of your neck when you got home.

Bradley walked the long way around to the classrooms since he was early and didn't need to stop in the locker room to change. When he passed the stairwell that would have taken him up to your office and the engineering labs, he swore he heard Bob's voice. He paused, and he definitely heard Bob's laugh. When the door to the stairs opened, he heard Bob say, "We can always find out later tonight if you want to invite me to your room again." And then there was a very familiar, feminine laugh before Bob appeared ten feet ahead of him.

He stared at Bob, and Bob stared back as the door closed, leaving the two of them alone. Bradley thought back to the way Bob and Maria were looking a little cozy at brunch last Sunday. This was interesting.

"Hey, Bob," Bradley said with a grin. "How are you enjoying your new apartment with Maria?"

His cheeks immediately flushed pink, and Bradley bit his lip to keep quiet as Bob started stuttering. Frankly, he was proud of his friend for sounding so much more self assured a few seconds ago when he was tucked inside the stairwell with Maria. "I-I d-don't know... are y-you... I d-din't think that..."

Bradley let him flounder through a few more partial sentences before he said, "If you're hooking up with Maria Wilson, then good for you, man. Well done."

Bob cleared his throat, adjusted his glasses and ran his hand along the back of his neck. "Thanks," he muttered as he stared at the floor.

"You want me to keep this information to myself?"

Bob's blue eyes went wide as they met Bradley's. "Please." He swallowed hard. "I don't think she wants anyone else to know." His voice was just a whisper as he said, "I'm sure she'd be embarrassed if people found out."

Then he turned and left Bradley standing there alone. He'd been in that position before with you. Before you made things official. And he had been miserable. "Poor Bob," he muttered as he followed him at a distance. The best case scenario would be if Maria confided in you when you got back from Annapolis. Bradley would have to be cool about you going to brunch on Sunday even though he already wanted you and the baby all to himself again all weekend.

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

You made it. Somehow you got through the full hour and a half. You nailed your parts, and so did Cat. You and she answered questions for at least an additional thirty minutes, and now she was packing up the equipment while you sent a quick text to Bickel.

"Your research is very compelling, Lieutenant Commander."

You looked up into the eyes of Commander Patterson, and he smiled warmly at you. Unfortunately, the only thing you could really think about was the way you'd been picturing Bradley's cock the last time you talked to him. At the moment, you were so fucking horny, you felt like rubbing yourself against the wall and crying until you got some relief.

"Thank you, sir," you managed to say while you tried to focus on his face and his words. "It has really become a passion project, trying to keep actual aviators in the air versus the drone agenda. Real people making real decisions based on their surroundings and the immediate threats they are facing will always win out against a laboratory manufactured software protocol."

"I couldn't agree more." He took a step closer and said, "And the way you presented your findings made it so clear that you're eager for others to understand how important that is as well."

"Absolutely," you told him with a smile of your own. "And the funding for communications research is so important."

You were probably going to have to go to the cocktail hour tonight just to get your face out there since you skipped the previous one to drive to Virginia. But you were almost instantly saved from having to do that as Commander Patterson said, "I'm planning on having dinner this evening with a few of the admirals if you'd like to join us. Cocktail attire. Overpriced steaks. You know, the usual."

His slight eye roll had you laughing and agreeing immediately. That sounded a lot better than trying to ditch champagne flutes all night. You'd still be able to chat with some superiors, and right now, you were actually hungry. "That sounds great. I'll see if Lieutenant Coleman can join as well."

With that, his smile wavered a bit, but he told you the name of the restaurant, and you promised to be there at seven o'clock. Cat had all the equipment packed up, and she was ready for you to help her carry the bin. "Hey, you want to come eat an overpriced steak later? With Commander Patterson and some others?" you asked as you tried your best to lift with your legs.

"Why didn't you tell me before? I already agreed to some stupid happy hour with a handful of admirals, but I love overpriced food when you don't have to pay for it."

You laughed and said, "That's probably better. We can divide and conquer this way. Bickel will like that."

As the two of you hoisted the bin into the rental car, Cat smiled and said, "You know what else he'll like? The fact that we nailed the presentation again today. I'm sorry I doubted you."

"Don't do it again," you told her with a smirk. Of course then you promptly started falling asleep while she drove back to the hotel, and when you got to your room, you passed out in bed until it was time to get ready for dinner.

It was only three o'clock for Bradley, and even though you wanted to call him, you decided to wait a little longer. You inhaled a pack of peanut butter crackers while your stomach growled loudly. "What is with you today?" you asked the baby. "You're finally hungry? Or are you going to make me barf again?" You got a loud rumble in response. "I know you like Daddy better, and we'll be home in two days. Relax."

As you redid your makeup, you started thinking about Bradley. And then you thought about how delicious he smelled right after he finished a workout. And then you thought about how nice and big his cock is. And then you thought about all the sounds he makes and the way me moans your name when his cock is inside you.

"Oh hell," you whined, pressing your thighs together. You needed to get some relief with your toys until you could get back home, but you didn't have time for that right now. The combination of being so hungry and so horny was almost too much to handle, and you ended up calling Bradley on the short drive to the restaurant. It was barely four there, so you were surprised when he answered.

"Hey, Sweetheart."

Two words. He said two fucking words, and you were moaning and having a hard time focusing to drive. "Roo. Oh my god."

"What's wrong?" he snapped immediately. "Are you okay?"

"Yes," you gasped, parking the car and squeezing the steering wheel. "I'm just so horny. And Commander Patterson asked me out to dinner, and I seriously need to get fucked, Bradley. Like you have no idea how bad it is right now."

You could hear him mutter something, and then you thought you heard Jake's voice before Bradley quietly said, "Baby Girl, I'll fuck the absolute shit out of you all weekend. In fact, I can't wait to do that. I'll take care of everything you need."

"Daddy," you moaned, realizing you should have masturbated instead of taking that nap.

"But please tell me who the fuck Commander Patterson is. All I know is that you said he's that guy who asked if Top Gun aviation is the right fit for you?" Another moan escaped your lips as you thought about being a tight fit for your husband. "Yeah, you sound wrecked, Sweetheart," he crooned in that raspy voice. "I don't think you should go to dinner with some guy I don't know. I don't care what his rank is.

You sucked in a deep breath and let it out slowly. "It's not just with him. Some admirals are coming too. I need to meet the admirals, Bradley. And I'm already at the restaurant." When you looked further up the block, you saw Patterson heading inside.

Bradley made a frustrated sound. "Text me when you can? And call me when you're leaving later?"

"I will," you promised as your stomach growled. You were so excited that the nugget seemed to want to eat this steak, you almost hung up before you said, "I love you."

You straightened out your black cocktail dress as you practically ran down the sidewalk in your high heels which you rarely ever wore except in your bedroom with your husband. The delicious smells from the restaurant were wafting out onto the sidewalk, and you were going to cry if there wasn't some bread or something already waiting on the table.

"There you are, Lieutenant Commander."

Patterson was waiting inside the entryway where at least the sound of the air conditioner blasting and the conversation around you was blocking out your growling stomach. He was smiling as his hand found the small of your back. "Our table is ready. We can go right there."

When he applied some pressure with his hand, you lurched forward. Perhaps he was just trying to help you navigate through the crowd, but he could keep his hands to himself. He must have known you were married. You decided to make a show of pointing out some hideous artwork with your left hand, practically shoving your rings in his face. "That's a lovely painting, Commander," you told him, but he just smiled and nodded at you before pulling out a chair at a table set for four.

"Please, call me Derek," he told you as he sank down into the seat across from you, and then he started using your first name without permission. The one blessing was the fact that there was an enormous basket of bread sitting right in the middle of the table along with a variety of spreads and dips.

You moaned softly and had to bite your lip as you reached for a soft looking roll and the chive butter. Derek was staring at you with parted lips and wide pupils. Had he never seen a woman eat before? Had you ever been this hungry before? You licked your lips as you spread some of the butter onto the roll, and then you took a bite and moaned again.

Holy. Fucking. Shit.

After weeks of feeling miserable, you finally knew you could stomach this meal right now. You were still so turned on, and yet your exhaustion was bone deep at this point, but the bread was like a lifeline to normalcy, and you were grabbing onto it.

Derek cleared his throat as he watched you take those first few sumptuous bites. "I've got to know," he said smoothly, "exactly what would lure you back to Annapolis for good?"

You popped the rest of the roll between your lips and chewed it up before you said, "Nothing."

"There would have to be something. Better research facilities? Your own lab? Both of your degrees and your work are so impressive, you must know there would be endless possibilities for you here."

You were shocked. Running your own lab was your dream. The idea of being in charge of a research team made your skin prickle with desire. You hoped that could be a possibility someday, but you weren't even thirty-five yet. You figured maybe ten years from now when Bickel was getting ready to retire, you'd be able to take his place.

"My own lab?"

Derek smiled, all white teeth and handsome expression, and then the waitress arrived. You wanted to jump out of your seat and hug her when she asked if you'd like to order any appetizers.

"Do you know when the others will be here?" you asked Derek. "Should we wait to order?"

He shook his head vaguely. "They'll be late. We can order. Get whatever you want."

You almost laughed giddily as you ordered three appetizers and then a steak dinner complete with garlic mashed potatoes and two vegetables. "We can share the appetizers," you said when he looked at you in surprise, even though you didn't want to. You placed your hand on your belly, trying to subtly thank the baby for cooperating right now.

When the waitress finished taking his order and then departed, you asked, "Which admirals are joining us?"

"Hmm? Oh... uh, Rivera and Silverman."

You were not familiar with either of them which made you panic slightly. You should have done more research on who was attending each of the lectures. Why hadn't you done that? Oh, right... because you were too busy throwing up. The bread basket called to you, and before you knew it, you'd eaten more than half while Derek droned on about how amazing you'd be running your own lab. He didn't even know you, which made this more annoying than anything else, but your stomach was holding up spectacularly, so you could overlook it. You could have kissed the waitress when she came back with the appetizers.

"So, do you live alone?" he asked as you dipped two mozzarella sticks into some marinara sauce. You paused before shoving them into your mouth so you could chuckle.

"No. I live with my husband and our dog." Then the fried cheese hit your tongue, and it was like you were living in a world of color after weeks in black and white. Your stomach gurgled pleasantly, finally accepting food once again. Tears of joy stung at your eyes as you took a forkful of crispy brussels sprouts and a potato skin.

Derek laughed and asked how old you were, but your mouth was full, so he said, "Let's just say, my career in Annapolis outlived my bad marriage. And that's been the case for many, many officers."

You swallowed the potato like it was a lead weight. That had definitely been the case for Cat, unfortunately. And you'd heard a lot of stories, sure, especially when you were at the Naval Academy. And perhaps that was part of the reason you fought against the mere idea of being with Bradley at first. One officer in a relationship with a civilian was bad enough, but two officers trying to make it happen together usually spelled disaster.

But you felt stronger with Bradley. The two of you worked hard to get through your struggles and end up in a better place. You and he were going to be parents, for fuck's sake.

"Just sharing my two cents with you," Derek added, still smiling. "You're young, and you haven't lived it yet, but I can tell you that you'll go farther here than in San Diego. Especially if you're already open to the idea of having more."

You wanted to check the time on your phone; you must have been sitting here for over half an hour by now. The other two chairs were still empty. Derek was starting to get under your skin.

"I'm open to the idea of pursuing my career at Top Gun along with my husband."

"He's an officer as well?" Derek asked with a laugh. "I'm sure he's having a great week back in San Diego without you."

You felt heat flame up your neck and into your cheeks as your steak dinners arrived. "Yes, he's an officer. He's a Top Gun aviator."

"He deploys?" Derek asked in disbelief before laughing harder. "You should make the move back to the east coast now, before he ruins your life. If he hasn't already."

He had gone from complimenting you to trying to humiliate you in a matter of minutes. You'd been blinded by the glorious meal, but the truth hit you square in the chest. As he picked up his fork and steak knife, you asked, "Why did you lie to me about two admirals coming? Do Rivera and Silverman even exist?"

Somehow his smile was still persistent as he said, "Sure, they exist. They went to the cocktail reception on base." You watched the knife sink into his steak as he added, "You're gorgeous. I wanted to get you alone. Let you know how much better things could be. Offer to set you up for a one-on-one meeting with Admiral Jennings tomorrow if you come home with me tonight. It's on the table if you want it."

In one quick movement, you snatched his plate away from him with the fork still stuck in the steak. "Okay, well fuck you, Derek," you snarled, standing up and waving for the waitress. "You're disgusting and delusional if you thought I would even consider going home with you."

"Can I get you anything?" the waitress asked cautiously, and you realized you were causing a bit of a scene now in the crowded restaurant.

"Yes. I need boxes. Like a whole bunch of takeout boxes," you told her. "I'm taking all of this food with me."

"Right," the waitress replied, her gaze drifting to Derek who looked very unamused.

"I'm taking his meal, too," you snapped. "Hurry up with the boxes."

She scurried away as you piled all of the food onto one plate and said, "You're so fucking stupid, Derek. I already have Admiral Jennings' phone number. I met her last year. I told her to her face that I'm staying in San Diego."

"Well then you're making a bad choice," he told you.

Then the waitress set down some takeout containers while you practically tossed the empty plate back at Derek. You scraped as much of the food into the first box as would fit before moving to the second one. "He's paying for dinner," you told the waitress. "And I'm taking one fork and one steak knife with me. He'll pay for those as well." You shoved the rest of the bread into the last box and then stacked them all up before meeting Derek's eyes. "You just ruined the first meal I've been able to stomach in weeks, asshole. And my husband is a nice man. Very sweet. Treats people with respect. But if he were here right now, you'd have a bloody face and some broken ribs."

You picked up the boxes, grabbed the utensils, and made your way toward the exit. You went straight for your rental car and climbed inside before cranking the engine. Then you took a massive bite of garlic mashed potatoes before cutting off a piece of Derek's steak while you called your husband.

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

Bradley was working out in the garage when your ringtone cut across the playlist you made for him. He practically dropped his barbell to the cement floor to get his phone from where it was sitting on the tool chest. "Sweetheart. I wasn't expecting to hear from you quite yet. Didn't we just get off the phone?" he asked with a smile as he ran his forearm along his sweaty face. "Not that I mind one bit." He was about to ask if you were done with dinner, but then he realized that you were crying. The sweat on his skin turned ice cold as he quickly asked, "What's wrong?"

"Roo," you wailed, and he started looking around the garage as if there was something out here that would help both of you calm down. "He ruined my fucking dinner!" you sobbed.

"What are you talking about?" he asked as he paced the length of the garage, running his fingers through his damp hair. "Who ruined it?"

"Commander Patterson."

Bradley honestly could not fathom how that guy had ruined your dinner. All he knew was that you told him you were horny as hell when you got to the restaurant, and that he didn't trust guys he didn't know around you. Most men were disgusting, and you were lovely and also pregnant with his child.

"Can you explain what happened so I can understand?" he asked as calmly as he could.

"Yeah," you sniffed, and he heard a car engine start up in the background. "The nugget and I were both really enjoying the food. Like really enjoying it, Bradley. You know how I've been, and this was delectable and exactly what we both wanted. Like it was so good, if you'd been there with me looking super sexy, I would have probably had an orgasm in the middle of the damn restaurant."

Bradley swallowed hard as he stood in the garage, wondering where the hell this was going. "I understand. You haven't been able to eat much, so that must have felt amazing. Now can you tell me what's wrong?"

"He ruined it!" you replied loudly. "He lied to me! There were no admirals planning on joining us. He tricked me into meeting him there, and then he gave me fake compliments and accolades about my work. He told me that I could get ahead with a career in Annapolis if I slept with him, all because he wanted to fuck me!"

Bradley almost dropped his phone. "Did he touch you?" he growled, switching to speaker phone as he rushed through the backyard toward the house and looked for flights to Maryland at the same time. "Did he fucking touch you?!"

"No!" you practically shrieked. "No, he didn't touch me! You think I'd let him get anywhere near me after he ruined my dinner?"

"Where are you now?" he demanded. "And what's this Commander fucking Patterson's first name?"

Bradley was seeing red as he walked inside and slammed the sliding glass door behind him, and Tramp ran whimpering into the spare room. The earliest he could get out of San Diego on an eastbound flight was a red eye that left at 9:30, and that was nearly four hours from now.

"I'm not telling you his name," you said softly with a little sniff at the end. "I'm afraid you'll strangle him."

Frankly, if Bradley got his hands on the asshole, he'd probably wish all he got was strangled to death. "Where are you now?" he asked again, trying to keep his voice calmer.

"In my rental car."

"Alone?

"Yes!"

"Good," he replied as he clenched and unclenched his fist and headed for the shower. "Go back to your hotel room, and text me the address. I'll stay on the phone with you until you get there, and then I'll be out on a red eye that lands in Annapolis at 5:55 tomorrow morning local time. And then you'll tell me his first name, and I'll beat the shit out of him for ruining your dinner and acting like my wife is his for the taking."

"Bradley," you said firmly. "I do not need you to come out here. I already feel better now that I told you about it."

"Well, I sure as fucking hell don't," he grunted, peeling off his sweaty clothes in the bathroom. "Does he know which hotel you're staying at? And where the hell is Cat?"

You groaned and said, "No, he doesn't know. And Cat went to the actual cocktail reception with the actual admirals. I seriously hate Commander Patterson. But I did steal his dinner, so that's making me feel a little bit better."

His thumb was hovering over his phone screen, ready to purchase a seat on this flight. "Wait, you stole his dinner?"

"Yes. I took it. When I tell you the food was that good, Bradley, I am not joking. I housed most of the appetizers and the bread basket, and then I took his plate before he even got a bite of his porterhouse. I dumped all of the food into takeout boxes, took some silverware, told the waitress he'd pay for everything, and then I left."

Bradley burst into laughter in spite of himself. He could actually picture it so clearly. The haughty expression on your face. Your biting wit once you figured out what was going on. The way you must have looked dumping the steaks into the containers. "You're a damn force to be reckoned with, Baby Girl. Are you driving back to the hotel with all the food?"

"Yeah. I mean I did eat a few bites when I first got back in the car, because the baby was demanding it, but I'm absolutely going to eat the rest in my room. Fuck that guy. He doesn't even deserve his overpriced steak. It's mine now."

Bradley cradled his forehead in his hand and laughed. "Do you really not need me to come out there?"

He heard you take a deep breath before you said, "I miss you a lot, but I really do not need you to come out, okay? The nugget and I are fine now, ruined dinner aside."

"Alright," he murmured. "If you change your mind, you have two hours to let me know, and I'll be knocking on your door by 7 in the morning."

You moaned and whispered, "God, that does sound good. I'm back at the hotel. Heading up to my room now. Any chance you feel like having phone sex before I eat my two steaks and roughly four pounds of potatoes?"

"Fuck," he grunted, his cock already getting hard as he looked down at himself. "Yeah. A hundred percent. Let me just get in the shower here."

"Okay, Daddy," you muttered, and Bradley was practically tripping over himself as he started up the spray of water. Once you were safely inside your room, you told him, "I'm ready when you are."

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

You got off twice to your vibrator and your husband's sexy voice. It was so easy to imagine him in the shower with the sound of the water in the background. You could picture the steam snaking around his body while he held his thick cock in his hand. You could practically taste his skin and smell the body wash he was definitely using as lube.

"That's my sweet girl," he crooned as you started to peak for the second time. "When I get you home on Friday, my mouth is going to be all over that pussy. I miss you so much. I want my wife and my baby with me."

"Bradley," you whined, legs bent and shaking as you got closer. "I need you to fuck me. I'm so goddamn horny for you!"

He grunted right into the phone and said, "Keep it up, and I'll break your new car at the airport, too."

And then you came. Hard. Your chest was sweaty. Your back was arching off the bed. The vibrator rolled out of your grasp, and you stroked yourself with your fingers and whispered his name over and over.

"I'm about to come," Bradley moaned. And you could hear the exact second he was probably making a white mess all over the tile wall. You imagined it on your belly instead.

You just wanted to go home, and when your back finally settled against the bedding you said, "I need you to promise to fuck me at least twenty times between Friday night and Monday morning."

"Make it thirty, Sweetheart," he crooned as he panted. "At least. I fucking need it, too."

You turned your head to the side where a photo of him was still pulled up on your phone. "Sounds perfect. Don't forget, I'm having dinner with my mom and dad tomorrow, so please FaceTime when you're walking out of work if you can."

"For the love of all things holy, please don't talk about your parents when I'm still holding my cock."

You giggled, and then he laughed. "I won't do it again," you promised as you sat up in bed, eyeing the takeout containers on the desk. "I love you, Roo. I'm going to eat Derek Patteron's steak, take a shower, and then pass out."

"I love you too, Baby Girl. Can you put your phone down by your belly?"

"Mmhmm," you hummed, pressing your lips together to keep from squealing at how sweet this man was.

"And I love you, too, my little nugget. Be nice to Mommy."

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

BG is all over the place... Roo probably has whiplash. Derek should be punished for ruining that meal for her and the baby. Just a few chapters left, and we'll have another series for them in the books! Thanks for reading! Thanks @mak-32 and @beyondthesefourwalls

PART 34

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leighsartworks216 · 8 months

Text

My Sunshine

Astarion x gn!Tav/Reader

Part 2 Here: Tumblr link - AO3 link

This is probably definitely ooc but I needed to get it out of my brain anyway. I also have not seen any actual gameplay (aside from the romance scenes) so this won't be 100% canon compliant

For @niermortem bc I need you to read this and suffer (affectionate)

Warnings: alcohol use, swearing, grief/mourning, blood, injury, fluff and angst, hurt/comfort

Word Count: 3,146

Masterlist

AO3

You raised your goblet of wine in the air, smiling blindingly bright at your best friend. "To another case solved, and another criminal behind bars!"

He laughed and clinked his goblet with yours. The red liquid sloshed against the edge, almost spilling into yours. You each drank deeply.

"You make that toast after every trial," he bemoaned, but a stray chuckle ruined his disapproval. "It's a minor court for minor offenses - It's not like I locked up a serial killer."

You huffed and nudged his shoulder. "Don't sell yourself short! What you do is incredible, Astarion. It's so rare for an elf as young as you to get appointed as a magistrate. That's worth celebrating."

He hummed, smirk dancing across his face. "You're younger than me, my dear, and from what I've heard you're doing just as well." He gestured around the room.

The light of the fireplace cast odd shadows of your figures against the wall. Between the flickering shapes, Astarion could see the several paintings hung up on the wall. Portraits, landscapes - all formed with careful brush strokes and intense patience. It was no mean feat. He'd grown up alongside you, witnessed your struggles with charcoal and accuracy. He'd even posed for a few so you could study anatomy and shadow. Pride swelled in his chest thinking of those shaky, rough sketches and seeing the confident, soft strokes that composed the paintings.

You avoided looking, staring into the fire. For the briefest moment, he wanted to smooth out the crease in your brow and remove the frown from your face. Instead he gripped his goblet tighter and took another drink.

"I wish I could be as proud of them as you are, my sunshine. But when I look at them, all I see are mistakes."

He sighed quietly. "Your parents still don't approve, then?"

"They approve my profession - finally - but they think my execution is lackluster. I paint like a human."

"You paint like a god, darling."

“Ah,” you chuckled, “is the praise being turned back on me now?"

He smiled and raised his goblet. "A toast to the greatest artist Baldur's Gate has ever seen and will ever see again."

After a moment's hesitation, you raised your glass and knocked it against his. He threw back the last remaining contents, a drop of red falling from the corner of his mouth and down his neck. He finished off the rich alcohol with a contented sigh.

A clock on the mantelpiece chimed. You leaned back on your hand to look up at the old thing. It was a gift in lieu of payment, handmade, from its gears to its wooden casing. It chimed 11 times in all. Astarion sighed.

"One last drink for the road." You offered him the last of the wine in your goblet, and he drained it easily. “We can finish the rest tomorrow.”

“Mm, and what will we be celebrating tomorrow?”

“Anything and everything.”

He smiled fondly. What gods could have been kind enough to create you?

He rose to his knees and held your cheeks in both hands. “I look forward to it.” You closed your eyes as he planted a kiss on your forehead. It was almost a ritual, after so many years of doing it. Once he pulled away, you rose to your own knees, held his face the same way, and pressed a kiss to his forehead.

“Stay safe on your way back.” You pulled away to look him straight in the eye, an exaggerated expression of seriousness on your face. “If anything happened to you, I wouldn’t have anybody to absolve me in court.”

He chuckled. “I’ll be fine, my dear.”

“You’d better.”

You stared numbly at the headstone. Your eyes scanned the words over and over and over again. You could recite it if you wanted to.

'Astarion Ancunin 229 - 268 DR'

He was only 39. He was just a child. A child buried 6 feet under your boots, hidden away, wrapped in sheets and sealed in a wooden coffin. Thirty-nine. He was only thirty-nine.

The sun was beginning to set. There was not a cloud in the sky. No chance for rain. The only water that fell were tears, and yours had long since dried up. Everyone else left hours ago. They'd touched your shoulder, shared in your grief, promised to pray for you and Astarion. If you were perhaps a bit more naive, a bit more desperate, you would have pleaded to the gods to bring him back, no matter the cost.

You inhaled shakily and tilted your head back. The sky was so beautiful; a vibrant array of orange and yellow and blue. You cursed it, for your best friend would never get to share in its beauty with you ever again.

When you looked back down, you forced your eyes not to trace the carved stone any more. It wasn't safe at night. If you looked again, you'd never make it back home.

A hint of white in the corner of your eye stole your attention. A flower. Its petals curled back and around, almost touching itself. Blue and yellow mixed within its center, but the very tips of its petals were bright white.

Your feet felt like lead as you moved toward it. Deep prints were left behind at the end of the dirt mound. Your legs were stiff and creaky from standing so long.

When you reached down to pluck the flower, you stopped. Hand outstretched toward its stem. You'd be killing it to mourn your friend. And in an hour, it will be droopy and wilted, dying on top of the grave. But if you left it, come two days from now, it would be closed and dried up anyway.

Your frown dug creases into your skin. Lines around your mouth and between your brows. You never realized before how quickly beautiful things die. The lines smoothed slightly when you brushed the delicate petal with your fingers. It was as soft as his hair had been.

"Look after him for me," you croaked, voice raw and unused. It cracked when you whispered desperately, "Please."

You rubbed your eyes as you backed away. The burn of tears stung the back of your eyes, but no water was produced. And you needed to get out of here. It hurt too much to stay.

You allowed yourself one last glance at the grave, before you turned and left. Your home never felt so cold, so uninviting, and so empty.

You’d never been much further than the city’s limits before, yet here you were. Lost, infected, confused. The blood on your hands terrified you, but if you hadn’t fought, you would be dead. A voice in the back of your mind haunted you with memories. Unbidden, you often recalled tidbits of your life 200 years ago. This time it reminded you of Astarion, flipping knives and sneaking up on you for a laugh. He would have been much more suited to this awful situation than you were.

Your hand fell to your pocket, pressing against a hidden journal tucked safely away. You would be lost without it. It’s all that’s kept you sane all these long years.

A shock of white hair up ahead caught your attention. A man, searching down a hill, beckoning. “Hurry,” he urged in a whisper, “I’ve got one of those brain things cornered.” He kept his back to you, but something in the way he spoke seemed familiar. Or maybe you were just so tired. “There, in the grass. You can kill it, can’t you? Like you killed the others.”

You flinched, frowning at the way he said ‘killed’. It shouldn’t have bothered you as much as it did. Perhaps it sounded too confrontational. Perhaps it was the dark turn his voice took. But you swallowed down the discomfort. You weren’t going to abandon someone in need.

“I can.”

You stepped forward, ready to grab at your dagger. It was quiet. The soft rustle of dry shrubs was all you could hear. You stepped a little further.

A loud squeal made you jump out of your skin as a frightened boar ran from the grass. You stumbled backward. Before you could trip yourself up, a rough arm wrapped behind your neck and dragged you down to the ground. A knife pointed at your throat.

On pure instinct, you grabbed at the blade. It dug into your palm and fingers, but you couldn’t let go. You could feel the man applying pressure to keep it at your neck. If you let go… You shuddered to think what could happen.

“Shh. Not a sound. Not if you want to keep that darling neck of yours.” Deep crimson eyes stared into yours, contrasted by the pure white of his hair and the smirk toying his lips. He looked oddly familiar, too. Had you passed him somewhere before? No, you would remember a man like him. “Now, I saw you on the ship. Didn’t I? Nod.”

The command has you nodding with no hesitation.

“Splendid,” he purred. His voice turned serious then. “And now you’re going to tell me exactly what you and those tentacled freaks did to me.”

“I haven’t done anything,” you grit out. Blood trailed down your wrist and stained the cuff of your sleeve. His eyes flickered toward it for a moment. “They took me prisoner, too!”

“Don’t lie to me! I- Argh!”

Behind your eyes the tadpole squirms. It’s jarring and uncomfortable, and so are the images that come with it. Dark city streets seen through someone else’s eyes. They scan every passerby, studying them. But just as you urge to see more, it’s gone. All you’re left with is the sensation of fear.

The man grunts again. “What was that?” he demands. He pushed the knife even closer to your neck, despite your best efforts to keep it away. “What’s going on?!”

The fear from the memory quickly intermingled with your own terror. Your heart thumped in your ears. The words came tumbling out of you before you knew what you were saying. “Please, please just put the knife away and we can figure this out.”

For a moment, he just stared at you. Calculating. And then the pressure faded and you could let go of the dagger. His arm let go of you, and he watched as you scampered away one-handed and struggled to your feet. He stood defensively, keeping his hold on the knife.

“You’re… not one of them.” You could feel his eyes searching you up and down. “They took you, just the same as me. And to think, I was ready to decorate the ground with your innards.” He laughed weakly. “Apologies.”

You cradled your hand to your chest with a frown. Nobody would blame you if you shouted insults, left him to deal with this on his own, took care of your own issues. But you couldn’t. “Apology accepted,” you sighed.

He smiled. It felt plastered on, like an actor’s during a play. “I’m out of wine and flowers, so I hope an introduction will suffice. My name’s Astarion. I was in Baldur’s Gate when those beasts snatched me.”

The last of his words was drowned out. Your heart raced, flooding your ears as a tidal wave of emotions swirled in your chest. That name. In all your years, you only knew one elf with that name. What were the chances of another carrying the same one?

Slim to none.

But it can’t be him. He died.

It has to be him. It has to.

“Darling?” He chuckled nervously, waving a hand in front of you. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

If you weren’t so dazed, maybe you would have laughed. But you just stared, wide-eyed and slack-jawed. Your eyes burned. A lump crawled up your throat and you weren’t sure if it was bile or a sob.

“You died,” you finally gasped out. It was only a whisper, but Astarion’s ears picked it up as if you’d shouted it out. His grin faltered, entire aura of confidence and sexuality falling with those two words alone. “You died… My sunshine.”

Astarion stepped back, holding his dagger up as a warning. It still dripped with your blood. His face was dark. You’d never seen it as gravely serious as this. “Who are you? How do you- How do you know that?”

Your old name - the name you had as a child - lingers in the air. He stares at you with eyes hopeful and distrusting. There is a war in his mind. You can see it in the way his dagger wavers in his hold. How he looks you up and down, studies your face. He’d grabbed you, even made you bleed - you weren’t just a fucked up figment of his imagination. But he still couldn’t fathom it.

“Prove it.”

“How?”

“I don’t care how! Just prove it!” The shout is broken and desperate.

You fumbled. Everything you knew about him fled your brain in an instant. You searched for memories in the dirt, in the dry bushes, in the curls of his hair…

Cursing, he watched as you ripped a book from your pocket. Even though you’d grabbed it with your uninjured hand, blood stained the leather binding. You held it out to him.

“These are sketches I have made every day for two hundred years.” You stepped forward, urging him to take it. “All of them are of you.”

A part of him didn’t want to listen. It wanted him to remain unaware and oblivious for the rest of his godsdamned life. The mere idea of the truth - of his past being exposed to this corrupted thing he’s become - terrified him. How easy it would be to run away. To hide away forever.

But he would never be free. Always a slave to the burning questions. Forever wondering just who you were, and if you were telling the truth.

He reaches past his knife and takes the journal. With use of his leg as an aid, he’s able to remove the string tying it shut and flip open the book.

On each page is his face. Several of them. Smiling, laughing, pouting, focused, and a thousand more expressions. After 200 years, he doesn’t quite remember what he looks like. He couldn’t recall if his hair had always been white, nor the shade of his eyes. But tucked away is a crude sketch, not of his face, but of yours. It looks like a child closed their eyes and scribbled. At the bottom of the page, in what is undoubtedly his handwriting, is his signature.

You watch desperately as he puts his knife away. He’ll have to clean it later, but he isn’t thinking about it now. Both hands freed, he flips through each page. At the beginning, the portraits are unrefined and rough. The lines are sketchy and smudged, as though someone had tried wiping away their mistakes. With each page, they get better. The lines become confident and smooth. Even further still, the style is almost elegant, but the face has become unfocused. The eyes begin losing form. The mouth feels off on the face. On one, the face has been erased and redone several times over; so much so the paper has begun crumbling. The last drawing held little resemblance to him anymore. This one was freshly done. The lines were sketchy once more, uncertain. The only recognizable features were his ears and the curls of his hair. Even the shape of his face was lost to time.

“After you… After I buried you, I…” You take a shaky breath, fighting back tears. “I didn’t want to forget you. So I sketched you, every day. I thought I’d always remember that damn smile of yours, but… I didn’t. Little by little, you were stolen from my memories, until all I had left was a vague impression of who you were, what we did together. Even looking at the old sketches couldn’t bring it back. But I kept trying.”

Astarion’s face is the epitome of sorrow when he looks up at last. There are deep set creases around his mouth and eyes, aging him - an odd concept for an elf. He looks so lost. “Where did you go?”

You frowned, and Astarion wished he could smooth out the crease between your brows. How could he forget your face? After all Cazador did to him, made him do, how could he forget you?

“After you buried me,” he clarified.

“I couldn’t bear to stay. I sold all my paintings and I left. I didn’t get very far.” You chuckled weakly. “Just stayed with my parents.”

His face lights up. “What name are you going by now?”

“Tav.”

“Tav,” he repeats. The name is different in his mouth. Not good or bad, simply there. New. He wishes he could have been there when you chose it.

You took a deep breath. It was time to ask the big question, the one burning a hole in your chest. “How are you alive?”

The corner of his lip twitches up, somewhere between amused and dismayed. “It’s a rather long story, my dear.”

“I’ve waited 200 years to hear it.”

He chuckles at that. It’s genuine, but a sour note still lingers. He closes your journal, deftly ties the strings, and saunters to stand in front of you. The intoxicating scent of your blood drives him mad. It’s so close, but he could never forgive himself if he told you the truth and you ran away. Truthfully, after so long, he wasn’t sure how you’d react. But it still felt too heavy an admission.

He slips the book back into your pocket. With both hands, he reaches to cup your face, but he stops. The motion feels wrong. He wants so desperately to hold you again. You even lean toward his palm. The tip of your pointed ear brushes his fingers. But he can’t. His hands fall back to his sides, and he plasters a smile on once more.

“Come on, darling. Let’s get you cleaned up before you attract something.”

You nod and follow alongside him as he begins leading you toward water. The bleeding has mostly stopped by now. The cut still stings, exposed to the air. But the pain feels distant. It hardly matters when the man you’ve spent two hundred years mourning is alive and with you again. And he’s changed - there is no way to deny it. His hair, his eyes, even the way he spoke had more of a lilting tune to it than it once did. But he’s here. He’s real.

“For the record,” you begin, stepping close enough to brush arms as you walked, “it’s good to see you again, my sunshine.”

And, oh, if that didn’t make him feel alive once more.

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soulessjourney · 4 days

Text

Of Ice and Snow

Paring: Azriel x fem!Reader

Word count: 1.1k

Summary: He just can't seem to let you go

Warnings: ANGST (lots of it, I'm not sorry), death

The cool spring air whistles through the trees, dislodging petals from their place on the branches. The breeze carries them over the balcony and through the open doors where Azriel lies with his head resting on his mate's stomach. Your fingers trail through his hair as he inhales your scent, a mixture of lavender and rosemary filling his senses with each breath.

"My love, one might think you're a dog," you tease, running your nails over his scalp.

His only response is a hum as he breathes in your scent once more. "I can't help but find you absolutely divine so early in the morning," he grumbles, tightening his arms around you. A smile tugs at his lips at the sound of your laughter. For once, Azriel feels at peace in his life, having finally found someone he loves more than anything, and who loves him for who he is.

You let your gaze settle on him as a shiver runs through you from the breeze. Though you want to close the balcony door, you find yourself unable to, not when you're wrapped in Azriel's embrace. "Az, you need to visit your family. It's been some time since your last visit," you murmur, noticing how he tenses and holds you tighter.

Shaking his head, he playfully bites your stomach, causing you to jump slightly. "I'll see them eventually. Right now, I just want to stay here with you a little longer," he says so softly, you almost miss his words.

"You can't isolate yourself here forever, Az. They're worried about you. They want to be here for you, to help you heal," desperation fills your voice as your fingers continue to run through his hair.

"I don't need them, not when I have you. You're all I need, Y/N. I love my family, but they can't help me the way you do," he says, sitting up to look down at you. A frown forms on your lips as you stand and settle between his legs.

Placing your hand on his chin, you tilt his face up to meet yours. "Az, it's been two years," you whisper, running your thumb over his cheek gently, catching the tears that fall. You don't miss the desperation in his eyes as he shakes his head at your words. "You need to let me go, my love. I love you more than life itself, but it's time."

Azriel inhales sharply at your words, feeling like someone has punched him in the gut as the familiar ache in his heart echoes in the room. "I can't. You were everything to me, Y/N. I can't just let you go," he sobs, taking your hands in his.

Azriel's thoughts are interrupted by a soft knock on his bedroom door. Cassian pushes it open, his eyes softening as he sees Azriel. Azriel isn't sure how Cassian managed to bypass the wards that shielded their home, but there he was. "Hey, brother," he says gently, his gaze wandering around the room to identify who Azriel was talking to.

Azriel turns his head to look back at you, but finds nothing but empty space. His shoulders slump as he covers his face, letting out a sob. Cassian quickly pulls him into a tight hug, holding his brother close as his pained screams fill the room. "We can visit her. Maybe seeing her will help you," Cassian mumbles.

Azriel nods as Cassian helps him dress. Holding up the flowers, he smiles and guides his brother out of the once-happy home you shared. As they walk through Velaris, Azriel can't help but notice how happy everyone looks. He longs to feel that happiness again, the warmth that filled his chest every time he looked at you. Cassian leads him to the edge of the city, to the top of a hill where a large weeping willow sits, its long limbs hanging limply as the leaves sway gently in the breeze.

Azriel doesn't acknowledge his family standing under the tree, their eyes filled with pity. He despises it. He hates how they pity him. Brushing off their gazes, his eyes land on an object under the tree. There sits a marble headstone, your name delicately carved into it along with your dates of birth and death. He drops to his knees before it and places the flowers atop the stone. Feyre places her hand on his shoulder and squeezes it gently. "We wanted to do something nice for her. After all she went through, she deserved the best view in Velaris dedicated just to her."

Feyre's words bring tears to his eyes as they silently fall down his cheeks. This hill is where they would lay and look up at the stars together. The tree they would sit under during hot summer days, with you leaning against his chest as you talked about your future. His thumb caresses the stone gently before his attention is drawn away. "Papa?" a soft voice fills the air, causing his breath to catch in his throat.

Looking over his shoulder, he sees his sweet little girl, with your fiery attitude and features. The only indication of her being his child is the dark hair that falls just above her shoulders and her golden-brown skin. Wrapping her in his arms, he kisses her cheek and holds her close. He doesn't miss the way she looks down at your headstone, curiosity filling her eyes. "Uncle Cassian says this is where mommy is sleeping," she says quietly. "When will she wake? I want to meet her, Daddy," she says, a pout forming on her lips.

Azriel smiles and laughs, biting back another sob. "Sometime soon, my little rose. But for now, we need to let Mommy rest. She went through so much, and she deserves all the rest she can get," he responds, brushing her hair out of her eyes.

She nods and looks back at the stone, waving her small hand. "Bye, Mommy. Sleep well. I hope you have the best nap," Azriel rises with his daughter in his arms and follows his family back down the hill.

Turning back, he sees you standing under the tree, a wide teary smile spread across your face as you look down at him and your daughter. Clasping your hands together, they fall to rest against your legs as you give him a small nod. This is your final goodbye, and his promise to finally live again.

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maple-seed · 3 months

Text

Thrown - Chapter 48: Myth and Mortal

Summary: Loki attempts to come to terms with your nature.

Word Count: 1,667

Author's Notes: We're all in this together, okay? I'm not immune to the feelings.

Thrown Masterlist Loki Masterlist

You hadn't invited Loki. You hadn't mentioned it, even. Loki wouldn't have known at all if it weren't for Thor.

"I apologize for not attending lunch yesterday. I had to be here to receive an important shipment." Thor gestured at the hall, which was bustling with the finishing stages of construction. He put on a sly smirk. "I would be available tomorrow, if you felt I needed to make it up to you." You laughed. "Maybe dinner instead? Tomorrow is Gerdy's birthday. I usually bring her flowers." Thor nodded. "Dinner it is. Please give Gerdy my regards."

That had been all that was said on the matter, but it didn't sit well with Loki, the idea of you going alone. And so the following day the waning morning found him at your doorstep. Knocking on the door was no longer something that occurred to him, and he simply stepped inside. You were in the kitchen, placing ingredients into a slow cooker. No doubt the dinner Thor had negotiated.

You offered him a bright smile as he approached. "Hey, what are you doing here?" He placed a kiss on your cheek. "I would like to join you this afternoon, if that's alright." "Yes." Your smile warmed. "I would like that, thank you."

He helped you with the rest of the preparations for dinner, the two of you had a quick bite for lunch, and then set off together down the road towards town.

The walk was typical, with light conversation and laughter. You stopped at a flower shop in town and selected a small bouquet that primarily featured forget-me-nots. The walk grew quieter as the cemetery grew near, and Loki took your hand as he followed you through the silent plots. The quiet grew heavy. It was a lovely day, the sun was bright and the grass was full and green. The area would be quite pleasant if it weren't for its purpose. Eventually you came to a stop and the both of you looked down at the headstone. Loki glanced over to you, you were wearing an expression of resigned sadness. He squeezed your hand gently, and you met his eyes with a slight smile. You sighed, then bent to place the flowers in the vase attached to the grave marker.

"Happy birthday, Gerdy." You stood and straightened. "I brought Loki with me today."

You then proceeded to speak to her about things in your life, the goings-on of old friends, pottery techniques you were working on. You spoke about Loki, and it was clear this wasn't the first time he had been brought up, which warmed his heart in a way he couldn't quite explain. You spoke to her as if he had known her. In that moment, more than ever, he wished he had. He wanted to know this woman who had been such a powerful impact in your life. Who had sheltered you in a time when you needed it most. In a time before he could. He wondered which parts of you had come from her. He would have liked to see you side-by-side, to recognize the influence himself.

Your one-sided conversation drew to an end. You stood for another moment or two in silent contemplation, then wished Gerdy a farewell. Loki offered her a hushed thanks before turning to follow you again.

The walk back was far more quiet. You hung off his arm as you walked, with your eyes distant. A thought that had been prowling the edges of his mind, held at bay by his duty to you, took this opportunity to strike. He had been fighting it off, but it grew like ice in his stomach now; some day he would be making this walk alone. Some day all too soon, at that.

Mortal. It was a word he had taken for granted, even knowing what it meant. Mortal. Mort. You were named for your death. Suddenly he reviled the word. He may never use it again. It suddenly became clear that he had been harboring a certain amount of denial. Your life was limited, he knew that as a fact, but still some part of him didn't believe it would come to bear. As if somehow, somewhere along the way, he would find some way to save you from your fate and keep you forever. This walk had cast a harsh light on the reality of the situation. He tried to push it out of his mind once more.

Apparently, in the silence, you had been following a similar train of thought.

"I'm going to get old, you know." "Yes, that is the natural order of things." He said matter-of-factly. You rolled your eyes. "What I mean is I'm going to get old and you won't. Every year I'll get more wrinkles and a little flabbier and you'll stay just as young and handsome as ever." "I'll grow even more handsome, I suspect." You chuckled. "I'm sure. What will people think, watching us walk down the street?" "I imagine they will finally question why I am with you, rather than the other way around." He glanced down at you. "It will be a refreshing change of pace." "Please. People don't question that." "Oh, I'm quite certain they do. You simply don't hear the whispers. Perhaps you are already going deaf?" You huffed an exasperated sigh. "You are impossible." He smirked, victorious.

You left it at that, for a few minutes at least, but clearly this was weighing on you. "Really, you don't think it will bother you? Years down the road?" He gave you a reassuring smile as he walked. "I will cherish every line on your face, as they will be tokens of the time I had with you." You bit back a smile. "And the flabby bits?" He clasped your hand in both of his. "A greater surface area on which to bestow my affection." You laughed. "I'm not sure I believe you." "No need. It will all be proven true in time."

The two of you passed out of town and onto the road to your home. Several more minutes passed without a word. Loki could feel something brewing in your thoughts. Your grip on his arm tensed ever so slightly. Still, you didn't say anything, and he was beginning to think it would pass. The two of you were almost to your cottage, walking alongside the low stone wall that enclosed your field, when it came to a head.

"You're going to outlive me." He deftly smothered the panic inside him. "Yes, but I believe finding a replacement shouldn't be terribly difficult. There are literally billions of humans, after all, so my-" "Loki." You came to a halt, he had no choice but to do the same. Your face was drawn into a solemn expression. "When I'm gone-" "Darling-" "Please. It's important." He clenched his jaw and looked down at your hands in his. In this moment they seemed much more fragile. You took a breath. "Promise me that when I'm gone you won't bury yourself too. None of those ideas like your century-of-isolation plan. Don't wall yourself in." He managed a half-smile as he brought a finger to trace your jaw. "Worried that all your good work will be undone?" "You did the work." You mumbled. His smile grew as his hand cupped the back of your neck. "Our joint efforts, then." "Don't do that to yourself." You whispered, clutching his shirt. "Please promise me."

His feet shuffled and he had difficulty meeting your gaze. When he finally looked down at you again he could feel tears threatening the back of his eyes. "I won't be ready." It came out weaker than he anticipated. He looked away and took a breath to steady himself. "It doesn't matter how long-" His voice cracked unexpectedly and he swallowed the rest of that thought. "I won't be ready." You shook your head slightly as you reached up to cradle his face, wearing a sad, sympathetic smile. "We never are."

He pulled you in close, and you let him. Your arms wrapped around his waist while he buried his face in the crook of your neck. You were solid and present beneath his touch, but he knew this was all too ephemeral. He didn't want to move, he didn't want to leave this moment. He wished for some power that would allow him to stretch it out across a thousand years.

He stood with you like that for quite some time. You held him patiently, made no effort to step away. Eventually, Goat had taken notice of the two of you and began making his way across the field, bleating obnoxiously. That finally broke the spell and Loki sighed, taking a step back, but clung to your hand.

"I imagine you have things to do." He murmured as he lifted your hand to place a kiss against the back of it. You nodded. "A couple things to sort out before Thor and Valkyrie show up." "Let's go, then."

Rather than walk to the gate, Loki crossed over the stone wall, then helped you do the same. He laced his fingers with yours and started toward the cottage. He let the silence rest for a moment.

"I suppose our story needed some element of tragedy." He mused quietly. "If we're to earn our constellation, that is." "Oh?" You smiled. "You think they'll put us in the sky?" "Oh, certainly." He squeezed your hand. "The stuff of legends, you and I." You laughed. "And to think I was going to settle for just a star." "The best star, mind you."

You opened the door to your kitchen. Preparations were made. Friends arrived. Dinner was shared. It was as so many nights had been before, and as many nights certainly would be again.

But perhaps on this night, when you were alone once more and sleeping in his arms, Loki held you a just little tighter.

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#loki #loki fanfiction #loki x reader #mcu loki #loki fanfic #reader insert #loki thrown

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xxgoblin-dumplingxx · 1 month

Note

Hello! I hope you're doing well ari, and I wish for your pillow to always be cool and your tea to always be your preferred temperature. Do you have anything for weird kid!Bruce, secret!reader, or sweetie!reader?

You took a pull from the bottle of wine and wiped your mouth on the sleeve of your jacket as you swallowed. The day was quiet. And cold. But- where else would you be if not here?

This is where everyone else was. And from your seat on the ground the tombstones looming over your head looked almost like buildings.

"I'm still fucking mad at you for not being there," you tell the empty air. You're not sure if you're talking to Jackie or to Bruce- maybe both of them. Wherever they are. As if they could hear you. "I did everything they wanted me to do."

And now you didn't really know what to do. Not that you had to worry about it right now. Right now, if you wanted to get drunk in a cemetery, leaning on your brother's headstone- telling him how you won a gold medal- well. That cop would have to be a pretty cold-hearted fucking asshole to cuff you and stuff you for that.

Besides. You took a taxi here. And you'd probably walk out. Then take a taxi... somewhere else. Where you didn't know.

But it didn't matter. You took another pull from the bottle of wine and exhaled slowly. The wine warmed your stomach and the warmth spread through your body. The swimming feeling in your head numbed the ache.

"Remember when you asked me what it felt like? And I told you it felt like magic? Remember when you wanted to test it?" You snort. "I don't think you can test it. It felt like everyone was holding their breath. Afraid that the littlest breeze would knock me off course- at the same time it was like no one was there at all. I couldn't hear anything but the blood in my ears."

You tilt your head back and rest it against the freezing marble. Looking at the sky. Watching thin whisps of clouds slither through the sky. "I wish you could have seen it."

Alfred paused a bit away from where you were. Assessing the situation with a pang. Bless your heart. Your brother is gone. Your best friend has evaporated into thin air to learn martial arts god knows where- and you're all alone. The best figure skater in the world, day drinking in a cemetery.

He coughed quietly to announce his presence and smiled wryly when you pulled your head upright and offered him the bottle, "Sorry, I didn't bring glasses," you tell him.

"I'm sorry I broke my leg," he said gesturing to his walking cast. "But- you did look stunning." He made his way closer to you and took the proffered bottle and took a sip with a wince, "Good god, All that money and THIS is what you bought?"

"Alfie-"

"Absolutely not. If you want to day drink and sulk by all means," he snorted, "But At the very least do it with champagne and strawberries. You WON, remember?"

"Jamie didn't like Champagne," you tell him.

"Well," Alfred said, "It's not his bloody party, is it?"

#bruce wayne #minors dni #ask answered #reader insert #clark kent x reader #weird kid!bruce

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ivystoryweaver · 8 months

Text

Spectre

A Moon Knight Halloween Love Story

Event #2: It Comes At Night

prev next | Fic Masterlist | My Masterlist | next

Event #2 Summary: A day in the life of Marc...without you. And a night...with you?

Pairing this chapter: Marc Spector x f!reader (alters are mentioned)

Word count: 3.1k

Content: angst (more below the cut)

Warnings: coping with death, grieving, loneliness, fear, longing, language, anxiety, mental health concerns, self-esteem probs (I mean, it's Marc), mentions of food, mentions of therapy, contemplation of DID, graveyard, not beta'd

☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ

PREVIOUSLY on "Spectre"...

The bedside lamp flickered eerily as you repeated your partner's name.

"Marc?"

It dimmed again, slower this time and then suddenly, went dark.

"Shit," Marc hissed, his chest rapidly rising and falling as he scrambled to find his phone.

He knocked into the bedside table with a thump, wincing in pain as his fingers finally found the device. Frantically touching the screen, he activated the flashlight and whirled around

... to no one.

☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ

Event #2: It Comes At Night

There was no more sleep for Marc that night.

Steven and Jake seemed oblivious to the...visitation incident. Or hallucination, perhaps. Marc felt reluctant to clue them in at this point. They had enough struggles as it was, mentally speaking. Marc didn't want to deliver anything in the form of potentially bad news until he knew more.

He had always considered himself a loose cannon in the system anyway. A sort of weakest link. Steven was smart, inquisitive, mindful of the body's needs. Jake was the protector. Steadfast.

Marc didn't want to rock the boat right now. Maybe he was dreaming last night. How many beers did he have? Only one, right?

No matter. He was up early, shuffling through the streets of town to the old Green Lawn cemetery. It certainly wouldn't be the first time he'd visited your grave.

But on this chilly October morning, he needed to ground himself. Reality was his ally.

The macabre decor of neighboring houses didn't loom so ominously in daylight. For that, he was grateful. Still, it was a bit ironic that pretend headstones had made his stomach churn, and here he was, pulling open the heavy iron gate guarding actual headstones.

The hulking old metal groaned out a warning, as if reminding all who entered that its looming density separated the world of the living and the dead.

Marc scurried along the familiar path, down the cemetery's manicured walkway - the kempt grounds attempting to welcome the reluctant living.

Down the center path, past the old poplar tree, leaves painted golden before winter stripped the branches bare. A right turn, over three rows and one more walkway over.

To you.

Heavy fog kissed the earth where you lay resting. Gathering his courage, he trudged the remaining distance to your name. If he only had a little more time with you, maybe that would be his last name there, listed after yours. If you wanted to marry him at all, or even take his name. Fine if you didn't - but still -the possibilities haunted him.

"Hey baby," he softly greeted, sinking his hands protectively into the pockets of his soft leather jacket. "Miss you a lot today. Always do."

A gust of wind sent a flurry of golden brown leaves dancing around your headstone.

"Thought I saw you last night," he continued, hoping a trip here would calm his imagination. "I know it wasn't really you, but...you were sitting on the bed wearing that hoodie you love? You know, the-the one Jake thinks is his, but it's actually mine..."

He darkly chuckled, remembering how cute you looked in that old thing.

"Anyway...I hope...I hope you're resting. I hope you're happy. That's all I want, babe. I just want you to have peace..." His voice trailed off as fresh tears slid down his cheeks. Shaking his head, he cleared his throat. "I miss you."

Pressing a kiss to his fingertips, he traced the shape of your first name. "Love you."

☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ

Marc continued his morning walk from Green Lawn to historic downtown, where he and Steven worked. This was a small town, and everyone was...or had been proud of their small town author - you. By proxy, they loved and accepted your boyfriend Marc. And Steven and Jake.

Yes, most of the people you had known were aware that you lived with a system, and learned to treat them accordingly.

Marc had a part time job at the hardware store. Steven worked at the library. Jake was a driver, but that took place mostly at night, in the city, or at least to and from the city, which sat about 95 miles to the northeast.

The system stuck to a decently regular schedule, but who was fronting wasn't always so simple. Their employers understood this, and took it into account. Sometimes, Marc worked Steven's library shift, and sometimes Steven worked at the hardware store. Didn't make for as enjoyable of a work day, but they had both learned to deal.

Jake worked for himself, so if he didn't want to drive one night, or if he was exhausted, or busy with Khonshu (or you), he simply didn't drive.

Before he arrived at work, Marc stopped at Triple B's - his favorite breakfast spot, famous for their breakfast burritos. (Hence the name Barney's Breakfast Burritos, or...Triple B's). After weeks of avoiding the townspeople, Marc reluctantly made it a point to interact, at the insistence of both Steven and his therapist.

It's also what you would have wanted. And, if he was honest, as much as he tended to withdraw into himself, he knew he would ultimately feel better with at least a little human interaction. After last night, he kind of didn't want to be alone.

"Spectorrrr, what's up?" Barney, the Triple B's owner called out as Marc pushed open the glass door, ringing a little bell as he did.

"Hey, B," Marc called, over the small crowd of customers gathered to place an order - most of them hyped for some sort of overly sugared fall drink like pumpkin spice something or maple whatever.

Despite Marc being about seven customers deep in line, Barney gave him a quick wave. "Usual?"

"Uh, yeah, thanks," Marc replied.

Barney nodded his head to the side, indicating that Marc should skip the line and ring out his order on the side register. Marc didn't like attention - he didn't want to make anyone else waiting upset, but Barney had a strong personality and he was wonderful to all his customers. He was too charming for anyone to actually get truly mad.

Shouldering his way around the line, Marc made it to the far end of the counter, meeting Barney there.

"You're early," Barney commented, noticing the dark circles under Marc's eyes. Dark circles were part of Marc's look -always had been, but they were deeper today. "You sleep okay?"

"Nope," Marc confessed. Easier to tell Barn the truth. "Tried though. Went to see her this morning."

"Gotcha," Barney nodded, ringing up Marc's typical order of one breakfast burrito all the way, and black coffee. If it was Steven, then the burrito would be vegan and the black coffee would be tea with non-dairy milk. Jake was a rare customer, but he was café au lait and a giant plate of hash browns. Sometimes eggs.

Your order had been the same as Marc's, almost always. Sometimes you liked something sweet to drink.

Marc reached for his cash but Barney refused. "On the house, Mr. Spector."

"No, no, you can't do that," Marc insisted. "I'm gonna put you out of business if you keep on giving me food."

Barney stubbornly folded his big arms over his round tummy. "I knew your girl since she was twelve-years-old. Miss her all the time. Can't even imagine how it is for you boys. A burrito and coffee's the least I can do."

Marc's order was up, so Barney handed him a brown paper bag and a similarly drab disposable paper cup with a lid. "You go on and have a nice day, and get some rest tonight, all right?"

Well damn. Marc had tears in his eyes for about the fifth time in as many hours.

☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ

Marc chomped through his breakfast by the time he meandered two blocks down to the hardware store. Work was uneventful, which was a blessing today. He needed this - a day to be left alone and work with his hands. Between his free breakfast, some encouragement from Barney and a low-key day on the job, he left that evening feeling marginally better.

It had even helped him to stop by and see you. He missed you so badly he could hardly breathe sometimes, but it somehow helped him to really accept you were gone and imagine you were at peace.

He passed by the library, remembering Steven had a shift tomorrow. Hopefully his alter would be up and about, so to speak, because Marc wasn't in the mood to shelve books.

Next he passed the florist. Mrs. Alraune paused her task of sweeping off her shop's front stoop to give Marc a little wave.

A few more doors down, he saw a shop he'd never noticed before. Must be new for Halloween.

A simple, hand painted sign swung over the doorway. It read, "Mystic Delights and Other Charming Novelties". What and odd name for a shop. Marc almost smiled to himself because this is exactly the type of shop you would love to venture into while walking through town. Still...he decided against it since the sun had set and he wanted to get home.

No need to spoil his sort-of-okay day.

His hands found their home in his jacket pockets and his head dropped - his typical hurry-through-town posture.

But the "Mystic Delights and Other Charming Novelties" shop was not to be ignored this October evening.

Twinkling lights lined the shop's windows. They flickered ominously as Marc approached.

"Lovely evening," an elderly female voice intoned, seeming to appear in the shop's doorway in an instant.

Marc's pacing paused. Pressing his lips into a thin-lined smile, he nodded, ready to carry on.

"Won't you come inside before it's too late?" The old woman inquired, kind eyes nearly hidden by wrinkles. She gestured with her hand at the shop's window, adorned with antique treasures. Perhaps this was a new antique store.

"Uhh, sorry, I have to get home," Marc halfway fibbed. "Goodnight."

She nodded understandingly. "Safe journey to all who protect the travelers of the night."

That phrase gave him pause...protector of the travelers of the night...

His eyes narrowed as he glanced back her way. "Uh...thanks."

With that, he headed home.

☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ

He passed by Mrs. Nockles' house without an invitation inside. He avoided the run down old spooky house and even managed to ignore the house with the fake headstones.

This brought him to your front yard. Well...his front yard now. The thought of owning this home by himself reminded him why he was considering leaving this town.

His eyes traced a path up the front walk to the whitewashed steps of the front porch. You had only just repainted the front door last spring. Most of the houses in the neighborhood were nearly a century old, and painted bright, artsy colors. Marc remembered the playful argument as to whether the front door would be painted periwinkle blue (his choice) or cornflower blue (your choice). You won, of course.

He couldn't really see the door right now because it was dark, and because he forgot to turn on the front porch light before he left. Even in the dark, he could only imagine how your flower bed had overgrown with weeds during the summer. Fall would give way to winter and the whole damn thing would probably shrivel up and die.

Pretty typical. Marc felt like a bit of a curse to everything he touched.

Blowing out a breath, he bounced on his toes. "I'm sorry, babe. I'm off day after tomorrow and I'll get out here and...I'll try for you, okay? Promise."

'Packed up her garden tools. I'll get 'em out tomorrow night.'

Jake.

The system must be feeling feelings because Jake hardly said anything.

"Thank you," Marc voiced aloud.

'Course. Knew you would go looking for 'em when you were ready. I can help if you want. Probably shit at it but we can let her whole damn garden die, can we?'

Marc laughed out. It was a strange, almost bitter sound. As if he could stop anything bad from happening ever. Kind of Jake to offer though.

Probably enough time lurking around in his front yard. With a heavy sigh, Marc gave the bungalow a final once over when something strange caught his eye. Up in the highest window appeared a figure - a woman.

Your bungalow was small, but a master bedroom had been added about twenty-five years ago on a partial upper story. It was about all that was upstairs aside from a small hallway, master bath, and a tiny loft you spent your days writing in, when you weren't sitting on the porch or the back deck.

Marc squeezed his eyes shut and then rubbed them in a cartoonish manner to make sure he wasn't imagining something else that wasn't really there.

But sure enough, when he looked again, he could clearly see a woman - about your size.

It couldn't be.

"Wait," he whispered, dashing up the whitewashed steps even faster than the night before when he was panicking.

"Wait!" He called louder, jamming his key into the deadbolt. It seemed to take forever, but finally, he made it inside, not bothering to shut or lock the front door behind him as he bolted toward the stairs.

He sprinted upward so fast that he almost tripped over his boots, bursting into your bedroom...which was empty.

"Damn it!" He cried, tossing his keys aside and pushing his hands through his hair in frustration. Maybe he really was losing his mind. Or maybe he just wanted to see you again so badly.

With a huff, he scoped up his keys - he had to put them in the kitchen or Steven would never find them in the morning. Stumbling back downstairs, he shut and locked the front door, did put the keys on the counter and grabbed a glass of water.

He should probably eat but all he wanted to do was shower and go to bed. The nice day he'd attempted to construct for himself had been obliterated by his stupid brain playing spooky tricks on him.

Ridiculous.

After a quick shower, Marc wrapped a towel around his hips and trudged back into the bedroom.

He half expected you or some sort of spectre to be waiting for him on the end of his bed. But there was no one, which was an oddly painful relief.

Maybe time for a drink. Of course Steven would insist that food accompany any alcohol. So Marc found some black joggers and pulled them over his hips, tossing aside his towel.

His nightly ritual was beginning to look depressingly mundane and overly repetitive. He had a glass of whiskey tonight instead of a beer, and made himself a sandwich. After watching some more postseason Major League Baseball, Marc went to bed.

And stared at the ceiling. He wanted to be tired. He just wasn't.

He needed a friend. Or a pet? Steven liked fish. Jake liked cats. Marc wasn't sure what he liked. Hmm.

He tossed and turned, willing his eyes to adjust to the darkness of the room.

Just when his eyelids grew heavy, he heard the faintest whisper.

His eyes snapped right back open.

It happened again - an indistinguishable whisper - something almost mumbled, but so softly.

Whatever he was hearing became obscured by the harsh, shallow breaths he was now taking. He squinted his eyes as if it would help him distinguish the darkened room from the pitch black corner, from which the sound emanated.

Slowly, a figure emerged from the blackness.

Marc sat up in bed, staring as he leaned forward, certain he couldn't actually be seeing someone in his room.

The whisper sounded again as the dark figure seemed to float closer.

Marc had dealt with the vilest of criminals in his lifetime. The worst of the worst. He wasn't afraid of anyone.

But he was afraid now. And paralyzed, somehow.

The figure inched closer to the bed.

Marc's skin prickled with heat, even as a wave of chills swept over his bare chest and arms. Breaths quickened to shallow pants as the figure hovered dangerously near.

"It's...too late," the figure murmured, as faint as a breeze.

Heart thundering in his chest, Marc tried to move - to reach for a light, or his phone, or ask for Jake or Khonshu or something...but found himself completely paralyzed.

"W-who...what are you?" He finally gasped, shrinking backwards toward the headboard of his bed, physically unable to do anything more productive.

Then...he could have sworn he heard your voice.

"Marc."

Suddenly, he could move. He bolted off the opposite side of the bed and reached for the light, switching it on.

No one was there.

"Fuck..."

Hot tears pricked his eyes as his fingers tore through his dark curls. "What the fuck is happening to me?"

His alters were strangely absent. They were often a bit one-at-a-time with the body, but couldn't they hear you?

Even the lamplight spilling into the room left a few darkened corners. Marc grabbed his phone, switching on his flashlight. He swept the room, searching every corner, behind the curtains, in the closet, under the bed, and finally the master bathroom.

Staring at his reflection in the mirror, he wondered if Steven would notice his distress. Shaking his head in frustration, he switched off his flashlight and splashed his face with water. He probably wouldn't be able to sleep again. Hopefully Jake would need the body. If not, Marc was considering smashing his fists into something himself. Or someone.

He was wired and frantic and so fucking sad. And scared. What if he really was losing it? It was one thing to grow up thinking he was fucked up, but now, his problems were Steven and Jake's. How could he tell them he was hallucinating?

Maybe...maybe this was another alter? He didn't know. He finally grabbed his phone and walked back into the bedroom.

You were there. In the same hoodie. On the edge of the bed.

"Shit!" He hissed, jerking back in surprise.

You actually flinched, rising from your seated position and easing backward toward the window.

"No, no, wait, don't go!" Marc urgently pleaded, holding out his hand to try to get you to stop.

Your face was somewhat obscured by the hood pulled over your hair, but it had to be you. It was you.

"Sweetheart, It's okay. Don't go. Don't go," he begged, easing carefully toward you.

You backed so far away from him that you almost blended in with the curtain. He was sure you were about to Jacob Marley right out the window.

The lamp flickered again, just as it had done the previous night. Then went black. Marc rushed blindly toward the window, yanking open the curtain. Moonlight spilled into the bedroom, granting him the slightest ability to see.

"It's not too late," the whisper echoed, right beside his ear...but you were nowhere to be seen.

☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ

I tagged everyone in the first update and masterlist, but since this fic does eventually venture into nsfw, I'm now doing the tag list for that specifically. (The general NSFW list and the Moon Knight NSFW list.) If you want to be tagged for this story, just holler!

Join the tag list (or tell me your tagging preferences by fandom and NSFW/SFW)

@deputy-videogamer @toecurlingstories @zephyrixx @juleshadalittlelamb @tsukkie-daisuke

@pockcock @minigirl87 @uncle-eggy@cookielovesbook-akie @wyldeflwr

@animechick555 @tiffanypooh @thexsanctuaryx @majestic-jazmin @rosecentaur1916

@deezisnotreal @serren-diamandis @alexxavicry @onefinnedwonder-fm @spidey-3

@stevengmybeloved @just3rowsing @howellatme

@i-still-dont-like-your-face @wordacadabra @lilacspider @imonmykneessir @saints-and-sinners

@steven-grants-world @thewinterv @aquaarietes @suddenlysteven @ohantonia

@whatthefishh @sammi-doll483 @silvernight-m

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sbnkalny · 2 years

Quote

It’s what all fast-food chicken is smashed and pressed through a Graveyard, knocking over headstones, smashing mausoleums, rooting freshly dumped earth and infiltrated society 6000 years ago, jesus was one. mary was having an output repeat the same thing over and over in my hand

#omae WA MOU shindeiru #QUOTE #DAY 13 #Do sbnkalnies dream of a disordered brain could anything more rewarding than walking through a graveyard #knocking over headstones #smashing mausoleums #rooting freshly dumped Earth and they’re still drinking it now. Can you say I was having An output repeat the meme

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rottenpumpkin13 · 3 months

Note

*gives Sephiroth a joke book* Go crazy sweetie

Sephiroth: Zack, what do you call an old snowman?

Zack: I know this one! A snow elder?

Sephiroth: No. Water.

Zack:

Sephiroth: Genesis, knock knock.

Genesis: Who's there? Not your mother.

*Sephiroth violently slaps him with the book*

Sephiroth: Angeal, what do you call a typo on a headstone?

Angeal: A tragedy befallen upon a deceased person who has no control over their grave, and a grieving family who is already suffering with the loss of a loved one.

Sephiroth:

Angeal: What do you call a person who jokes about gravestones?

Sephiroth: A grave mistake.

*Sephiroth calls Lazard's office*

Lazard: Lazard speaking.

Sephiroth: Is your refrigerator running?

Lazard: The one in the break room? It's not running, but the shelves are all broken because I work with someone by the name of Zackary Fair who thinks the fridge can hold a capacity of thirty honey-glazed hams.

Sephiroth: ....then you better go catch it.

*Sephiroth walks up to Infantryman Cloud and holds out a pear*

Sephiroth: Shall I give you dis pear?

Cloud:

Sephiroth: Do you understand? It's a play on words of despair.

Cloud:

*Cloud pulls an orange out of his pocket and offers it to Sephiroth*

Cloud: Orange you glad this isn't a dumbapple?

Sephiroth: !?

Sephiroth: Let's try this again. Knock knock.

Genesis, sighing: Who's there?

Sephiroth: Interrupting SOLDIER who vexes everyone with repetitive poetry.

Genesis: Interrupti—

Sephiroth: Infinite in mystery is the gift of the goddess. We seek it thus and take to the—

Genesis: YEAH YEAH I GOT IT.

#ff7 #ffvii #final fantasy 7 #sephiroth #ffvii crisis core #final fantasy vii #genesis rhapsodos #ff7 crisis core #angeal hewley #cloud strife #lazard deusericus #zack fair

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starlessea · 1 year

Text

Your scent lingered

Drabble: Come morning, you leave behind nothing but crumpled sheets and your scent. But Daryl craves more.

A/N I'm starting a 10-min drabble series where I write something on my phone quick before bed. Here's the first.

Your scent lingered but you never did.

Daryl wondered why that was - why you'd pack yourself up and haul yourself out of town before his eye could crack open to the dawn.

It wasn't a commitment thing. You were committed to a lot of things: him, sex, chaos.

And you always came back.

You were always there when he needed - with fingers of ice but breaths of fire, and a heart a few degrees south of molten core.

But then you were gone. Away with the night and like a fleeting dream come morning.

The excuses would vary. "Supply run." "Weapon maintenance." "Some Alexandrian snob got a blocked drain (again)."

Daryl had grown tired. Tired of waking up tired to an empty pillow and a scent that always lingered.

Would it kill you to once stay for the dawn, to stay in his arms through morning and to only leave once the knocks came at the door?

It probably would. He knew that by now.

The only thing in this world powerful enough to tie you down was a headstone. And even then, he wasn't sure.

So Daryl stretched out his arms over the king-sized, royally pompous bed, and felt his fingertips brush the sheets where you had lain.

Warmth lingered there. But you did not.

And so Daryl spent half an hour more wondering where you had scuttled off to in your usual hurry, and why you'd kissed his chest so tenderly as you dressed near his bedside.

He'd been awake then. He always was when you left. And every time, you'd whisper him a chaste goodbye as though it were the last, and Daryl would struggle to feign sleep - fretting that it might really be.

Your scent lingered but you never did.

Yet that alone was enough for Daryl. Because there would come a day when neither would remain. And on that day, Daryl knew, this world would become a drop more cold.

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crystaljade22 · 5 months

Text

Forgotten Batsibling Pt2!!

Y/N: Your name

H/N: Hero Name

F/C: Favorite color

TW. Sad stuff, guilt, self-blame.

It’s been a month since Y/N died. After the flames were doused, the fire department and the police scoured the building looking for the body of the fallen hero. The only thing they found of the lost hero was the mask. There was no body left to be found, no remains, no ashes. The warehouse fire consumed all of them. The mask stays inside of the case which once held their suit, now empty. A memoir to the house without you, empty.

Bruce has tried his best to be strong, to be the hero that Gotham needs. But he can’t help but spend hours looking at the mask with regret and guilt. Regret for letting you go in to save Jason, and guilt for not realizing that the savior needed to be saved. Guilt for letting another child die.

Damian has refused to even enter the Batcave. All he sees is a constant reminder of the sibling he once had, the person who would go to the moon and back for all of them, now gone. He swears he can still hear your voice calling his name from downstairs, and he can’t help the tears that spring to his eyes when he thinks about you.

Your room hasn’t been touched since their death, the door shut and locked up. No one has ever been able to look at the room, their guilt or sadness overpowering their will to do so.

Dick constantly wishes for just one more patrol with you, to hear your voice one more time. He regrets every moment he tried to get away from you, or left you behind. He glances behind him, hoping that you’ll be right there, just like you usually would despite his attempts to shake you off.

Tim has noticed now when his coffee runs out and tastes different than usual. Whenever he’s on a mission, he notices that his success percentage is lower than normal. There is no one there to jump in when a step goes in the bin. No one waiting to check on him after a mission. He’s finally noticed and acknowledged the fact that you’re gone. And he’s shut down any emotions that come with it. He is probably the only one in the family who could open your bedroom door, but he can’t bring himself to do it because he feels he isn’t worthy to do so.

Now Jason on the other hand, can’t pull himself out of his work. He feels he can’t take off the mask because if he does, he’s afraid he’ll crumble and fall apart. He keeps telling himself to stay strong, and to stay Red Hood because right now, the people of Gotham don’t need Jason, they need you. They need H/N. As soon as Jason takes off the mask when he gets to one of his safe houses, he instantly breaks down. All he can see is the moment he knocked you down, and caused your demise. The last thing he saw of you was you holding the beam up for him to escape. He swears he can feel you watching over him, even though he caused your death. All he can think is that he’s the reason you're dead. He killed you, the only person who ever seemed to care, even when he had tried to hurt you.

You didn’t get the proper funeral that everyone felt you deserved. The people of Gotham mourned for days, the Commissioner and the Mayor themselves speaking at your funeral. Funny enough, even the Joker took the day off despite the clear opportunity he had to go and create utter chaos. There was no body to bury. The city lowered an empty casket into the ground, and then erected a statue of you over it. A memory forever ingrained into the people of Gotham’s minds of the hero who once lived to save the city.

Of course, Bruce had to figure out how to tell the press that Y/N Wayne was gone, without revealing the fact that you were H/N. They managed to make up a story of you falling seriously ill, and succumbing to it. They played it off to the media as having a private funeral and having the body buried in their graveyard. Y/N was buried beside what was Jason’s grave, an F/C flower sprouting from the dirt over the empty casket. The gray headstone reading:

“Here lies Y/N. A sibling, friend, and a loving person. May their memory live on. 20XX-20XX”

Now, for the super short scenario.

Damian stood at the grave, looking down at the gray stone. Tears stung his eyes, rolling down his face, but he didn’t care. The rain hid them anyway. He stood soaked and cold, but he didn’t care. He couldn’t feel it anyway. The cold rain continued to pelt his body, leaving him soaked to the bone. His eyes fall to the F/C flower, its petals still bright. All he could think about was the fact that there was nobody under his feet. All that was there was an empty box covered in a layer of soaked dirt. He couldn’t help the sob that escaped his throat at the thought of never seeing you again. The last he saw of you was you running into the building to save Jason, a brave face filled with worry plastered onto your face. He couldn’t help but blame Jason slightly, but he knew that you went in fully knowing the risks of what you were doing. As he stared at the grave, he couldn’t help but feel like someone was watching him. Something was telling him, he needed to go back to Robin. The people needed Robin. He wiped his eyes, standing up straighter before turning and heading back for the manor, determined to prevent another family member from dying. Little did he know, after he had left the grave, a figure stood over the grave, reading the stone. Their shoulders rose and fell with a laugh before the figure disappeared into the rain. All that remained was a crumpled F/C flower, the petals littering the ground.

#batfamily x batsis #batfam x batsis #batfamily #dcu #angst #no fluff #sorry for being depressing #tim drake #damian wayne #dick grayson #jason todd #Joker is kinda nice #bruce wayne

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ddejavvu · 2 years

Note

actor!sirius and actress!reader doing a buzzfeed thirst tweets video together as part of their movie’s promo tour,,, sirius loving the tweets thirsting after him but getting jealous and possessive when you’re reading the tweets about you😵‍💫😵‍💫

today is multiverse monday! send me any au you can think of :)

"I wanna bite Sirius Black's arms. Just once. As a treat." Sirius's face held the same cocky smirk it had for the entire video, glancing over at you for your input.

"Actually," You felt your cheeks heat up ever-so-slightly, "I did it once. It is quite the treat."

"'S true," He nodded, "'Had her bite mark on my bicep for an hour or two. She's got a strong bite, this one." He knocked his shoulder into yours teasingly and you stifled a giggle.

"Right, now mine." You took the tablet from Sirius's hands, swiping through the photo gallery until you found one with your name in it: "Whenever I die, just tell people I suffocated between Y/N Y/L/N's tits. I probably didn't, but I'd like to be remembered that way."

You gave the camera in front of you a concerned glance, then spoke again, "Well, I'm sure if you ask nicely they'll engrave that on your headstone. I won't object."

"'S not bloody fair," Sirius scoffed, your head turning so you could level him with an inquisitive glance, "So you got to do the thing from my tweet, but I don't get to be suffocated between your tits?"

"Come on in, pretty boy," You teased, holding your arms out and puffing out your chest, "I'll make sure they bury you somewhere nice."

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xjustakay · 7 months

Text

(10/1) prompt: cemetery — 1,313 words (playing arrogant games — cw: murder, knife, blood. yeah. happy october.) @jegulus-microfic

Dark curls cling to a sweaty forehead as James runs as fast as his legs will carry him. His lungs beg for reprieve, but still his feet continue through the grass, dodging headstones as he cuts through a cemetery. It dead ends into the last street of a new development of houses; he just needs to get to the neighborhood. Find a door to knock on. Ask someone for help.

He can’t pause to look back or he’ll falter and then it’s all over. He doesn’t have time to feel apologetic for the floral arrangement he accidentally kicks over on his way, only taking a brief second to swear between panted breaths and stumble fully upright again. Can’t stop moving forward when he’s being followed.

Finally, he jumps over the low wooden fence on the other end of the cemetery, landing on both feet and running further. His face is hot, his chest is just starting to hurt, but he’s almost there. He’s almost gotten to where he needs to be. There’s no lights on at the first house in the row, no cars in the driveway on the next.

The third house, though. The third house down has a car parked out front, the porch light on, and the blue glow of a TV in the living room through the front window. That’s his ticket.

The houses are too far apart with their overly spacious properties; his knees are practically ready to give out before he even hits the third house’s front lawn, but he doesn’t let that stop him. Hopes the timing is just right. That whoever’s inside is quick to the door.

James takes the four porch steps up two at a time and bodily throws himself at the front door, pounding repeatedly with both hands against the painted wood. His heart is loud in his ears, his breaths coming and going in a hurry as he doesn’t let up. He hasn’t looked back since he took a sharp right into the cemetery, but he’s sure he hasn’t been hard to find and follow.

It won’t be long now until he’s caught up to.

The entryway light turns on inside and the door swings open finally, a young woman who can’t be much older than him looking at him wide-eyed. Before she can even get a word in, he’s pleading with her.

“Please, you have to help me. He’s coming after me, he’ll be here any minute,” James rushes out.

“What are you talking— Who is coming after you?”

A quiet creak in a porch step. A hand ghosting along the base of his spine.

James cocks his head to the left, his previously panicked expression vanishing from his face. He takes one step to the side, makes room for—

“Me.” Regulus wiggles four gloved fingers in taunting greeting, curled thumb holding a hunting knife to his palm.

Oh, the timing is fucking perfect, they’ve got this down.

There’s barely a moment for the girl to recognize what’s about to happen before Regulus is jamming the blade between two of her ribs. He rips it out and stabs back in a second time, higher up. She doesn’t get the chance to scream. Sputters a choking cough instead, blood spilling from between her lips as Regulus guides her through the open front door, his body blocking her from any other view, knife still lodged in her chest.

James looks back finally, this time to check the next house over —all the lights are off, two cars in the driveway. Then the house across the street —equally as dark, empty driveway. They’re in the clear. They fucking managed it again.

Getting away with murder does wonders for the ego.

Stepping inside the house, James removes his own pair of gloves from the pocket of his black hoodie to put on then quietly closes and locks the front door. He steps around the trail of crimson drops left in the entryway when he turns around. After stabbing her a third time in the chest, Regulus relinquishes his hold on the girl and lets her body fall heavily to the hardwood floor.

They both watch for a breath, maybe two, as she twitches slightly in a growing pool of her own blood before her head lolls sideways, wet-sounding breaths silent, eyes empty. Regulus looks at James over his shoulder, a smug grin taking over his beautiful face.

“Almost lost you at the cemetery. Tricky move, cutting through like that,” He comments.

James shrugs, adrenaline a fiery prickle beneath his skin, a fuzzy static in his head. “You knew where I was going.”

“Always find you, don’t I?” Regulus clicks his tongue.

“You say that like I don’t want you to,” James muses, head tilting.

Regulus hums in acknowledgment and steps over the dead girl’s legs to move closer to him. Dark brows lift over the metal frames of his glasses as James glances Regulus over slowly, appreciatively. They’re always in the same getup —black joggers, black hoodies, black gloves; generic things that can be found anywhere, hard to be seen in the dark until they want to be.

Still, Regulus could be wearing a potato sack and still look good, James is sure of it. Especially like this. High on the power of playing their own twisted version of God. Riddled with the buzz of arrogance that they continue to feed again and again every time they play this game that they do.

James barely remembers how they actually got here, to this point, just knows that since they’ve gotten a taste they’re both insatiable. Just as bad as they are for each other.

“I say we mix it up next time,” James says.

“Is that right?” Regulus replies, moving nearer still.

“Yeah. It's been a while since we swapped. You can pick the house while I chase you with a knife for a bit. Keep things interesting.”

“Maybe if you ask nicely.”

“I’ll ask so nicely for you, baby.” James grins lazily, curls a hand at Regulus’ hip when he stops close in front of him.

He’s still got the bloodied knife in hand, but James isn’t worried. That’s never actually meant for them, no matter how they play. Regulus swaps the knife to the opposite hand, lifts the one slick with blood to clasp at James’ chin. He smears the cooling wetness along the line of James’ jaw with his gloved thumb, painting a red line against his tan skin.

“Well? I’m waiting,” Regulus murmurs, lips curled in a dangerous smirk.

James sighs airily and drops his forehead against Regulus’. He inclines forward to nip gently at Regulus’ lower lip then swipe his tongue over it.

“Please, baby, let me have my fun, too.” It’s overly sweet, even as he lowers his voice, squeezes Regulus’ hip pointedly.

Regulus hums softly, trailing more blood up James’ cheek with his thumb. “Anything for you, darling.”

He doesn’t give James the opportunity to say more, pressing his thumb into his cheek, fingers curling tighter around his chin, to pull him in further. It’s a harsh kiss where they meet in the middle, teeth pinching against lips until Regulus licks hotly into James’ mouth like the space belongs to him. They can’t do much here, what with their latest victim on the floor and a scene to vacate, but it’s still enough to make James groan, enough to make him want.

“Let’s go home.” Mumbled half-intelligibly into the press of their lips.

Regulus lets out a quiet moan when James tugs at his hip to roll his own forward; further incentive to leave.

Against the edge of his jaw, slick lips tinging a different shade of red when they brush the blood painted on James’ skin, Regulus repeats, “Anything for you.”

And maybe that’s how they got here, after all, James thinks: anything for each other.

#jegulus #jegulus microfic #kicking off halloween month with #-gestures vaguely-#well #love them even when they’re crazy #back on my microfic bullshit for now how fun #kay’s microfics #kay’s writing

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