#missives from last night

[himegureisu]

The Gift

Summary: Out of nowhere, your husband receives a gift from you.

A/N: This came to me last night after thinking of what type of mail people receive. Here's one I hope you enjoy.

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The Owl Postal Service in Hogwarts was, if not, consistent in their delivery time.

This time being, the hour after breakfast started for everyone to ensure that no disruptions, except important missives, were to be received during class hours.

Your tawny barn owl sailed through the Great Hall, over the heads of students and staff, and landed on the High Table in front of its’ intended recipient, your husband, their dark and grumpy Potions Professor, Severus Snape.

It was uncommon for the Potions’ Professor to receive anything but Potions’ ingredients, his usual Potions’ Journal subscription, or official mail either from the Ministry or the Order so the package, a neatly wrapped gift in royal green paper, silver ribbon, and a tag attached, accompanied by a letter in your distinct handwriting was bound to attract attention.

“Is there a special occasion?” the Headmaster’s eyes twinkled upon the sight of the young Potions’ Master quite confused,

“No,” Severus answered, “Not that I know of,”

His thoughts a mile a minute through his brain, slowly, internally panicking. His eyes locked at the present in front of him. Did he forget YOUR birthday? God no, you’d thoroughly celebrated every time the day came around. Did he forget his birthday? Did he forget an anniversary? Did he forget a muggle holiday that you loved to celebrate? No, so what was this doing here?

“It’s wrapped beautifully,” Minerva remarked, from across Dumbledore, “Will you open it?”

He does. First, the letter.

“Sev,” your voice echoed through his brain, “I know you’re probably trying to think of any reason why I would send a gift to you on a normal day.”

You know him far too well.

“Just stop. Do I need a reason to send a gift to the one I love when I feel like it?” a soft smile slowly formed on his lips as he read that line, his colleagues’ interest piqued at the change, “It’s from our holiday and other events, I hope you like it. I know I did. I love you, I’ll see you when I get home,”

Your letter was swiftly tucked in his robes after then taking the package from your owl. Severus proffered a treat for them, and they happily ate before it perched itself on his shoulder. His hands gently tugged on the silver to unwrap the gift.

His initials and yours, on the cover of a leather-bound enchanted photo album.

On the first page of your story, the title page, if the album was a muggle document, was a candid photo from your most recent vacation. Your arms wrapped around his. His figure was behind yours in a hug. Your faces were engulfed in laughter after a guide failed to land a joke against him.

“Oh,” Severus whispered, Your gift was amazing. How did he get so lucky to deserve you?

“That’s a rare sight,” Filius said, by his right, “Severus smiling and speechless,”

“She’s beautiful, Severus,” Albus complimented,

“We look forward to meeting her,” Minerva said,

Their words fell on deaf ears.

Beneath the photo album, in a frame, there was another photo of the both of you from afar. This moment was captured by a charmed camera that you didn’t even know was there until after it happened. In the wilds of Wizarding Britain, on your first date, underneath the stars, he’d kissed the back of your hand, admitted his affections, and asked if he could kiss you. To which you shyly agreed, and received the sweetest kiss you’d ever experienced.

This he could place on his desk. The others were not up for public consumption.

“If you’ll excuse me, Professors, I must send a response,”

#severus snape #severus snape x reader #hp #harry potter #severus snape fanfiction #snape #professor snape #hogwarts #fanfiction #snape x you #severus snape x you

[messiahzzz]

i’d briefly like to talk about the “it was fine” dialogue option that happens the morning after gale’s Last Night Alive scene in act ii and about the fandom's general reaction to it.

gale is a character who evidently enjoys the occasional teasing. taking the piss out of your partner every once in a while can certainly be a way of showing affection. however, it is important to consider the context of the situation: what is at stake for him and his current emotional state, as well as what exactly had transpired between the two of them prior to said conversation.

gale: forgive me. these were already trying times before elminster delivered his missive. now, for me at least, they are potentially end times.

after he and tav had spent the night together and confessed their love to each other, gale is once again showing himself utterly vulnerable and is carefully asking them for reassurance.

gale: [..] i hope that night meant as much to you as it did to me.

gale: but you - you led me away from the edge.

gale: without your words, your touch... i fear i would have sought purpose and solace in that void. you reminded me what living can feel like.

he wants to check in with them, after both of them have shared something tender and very intimate, something he might even consider life-altering.

gale: we didn't just make love. we bonded, body and soul. i got lost in you.

it’s not even about gale “not being able to read social cues” and “not recognizing the fact that it was meant in jest.” in fact, i’d argue it is a rather tone-deaf, inconsiderate response and just genuinely a REALLY BAD TIME to joke at your partner's expense when they are actively baring their feelings to you and are asking you for reassurance.

i have seen people write off his reaction as “unwarranted” or “overtly dramatic” but in my humble opinion, it is pretty understandable given the nature of their conversation and what he is asking of them. it's also sad how there seems to be a general pattern of gale's emotions and boundaries getting played off as a joke, while other companions get shown the courtesy of thorough analysis/understanding. he is proud of his skill as a lover and the fact that he was able to bring them pleasure, yet his inquiry is less about him wanting tav to stroke his ego and more about him, once again, asking if you indeed share the same feelings for each other… after the emotional high has now passed.

gale has an ever-present need for clarity in his relationships, very likely due to the fact that this was something he couldn’t request of mystra. he might appear more sensitive in that regard compared to the other companions. he doesn’t want to take himself too seriously, but this still often clashes with his general feeling of inadequacy. where he is able to take criticism as long as it isn’t related to his performance, overall prowess and usefulness.

yes, his response is passive-aggressive and yes, he IS obviously hurt by what tav said. yet merely repeating “it was fine” in response to a heartfelt, genuine question could’ve as well been interpreted in that manner. if tav does clarify that they have only been joking, he apologizes to them instead. otherwise his dialogue remains the same, albeit said in a more embarrassed & awkward tone.

gale is a character who is dealing with deep-rooted self-worth issues and yet that doesn’t mean that he wants to be handled with kid gloves, far from it. he craves a relationship in which his emotional needs are recognized, respected and cared for, where he can be unabashedly open and vulnerable without facing ridicule nor pity for it. and he is more than willing to give the same in return.

also y’know — there is a time and a place.

#“briefly” they said (sorry can't shut up once i've started. you'll have to bear with me) #this has been bothering me for a while now #by all means roast your wizard to your hearts content #but maybe opt for his shortcomings that aren’t genuinely hurtful/rooted in his self-hatred #that only serve to further reinforce his belief that he is not worthy enough #when he is still very much dealing with the inevitability of his own untimely death and sacrifice #today’s lesson in empathy lmao #aka me once again getting emotionally invested in tragic pixel men #baldurs gate 3 #bg3 #gale dekarios #gale of waterdeep #bg3 meta #bg3 spoilers #datamined dialogue

[pagesfromthevoid]

Enchanted | g.d. | 3

Gale Dekarios x fem!reader

Word Count: 4.9k

Warnings: Smuuuuut baby (but also plot). Little bit of angst, Gale talking about blowing himself up

Author’s Note: Listen I know this is going a bit fast but I also just. Couldn’t prolong it. I love him too much.

Talk to Me! | Series Masterlist

This night is sparkling, don’t you let it go

I’m wonderstruck, blushing all the way home…

Gale had held his realization close to his heart for the time being. He had to, if anything because he simply needed time to process that the Fates had aligned enough to bring him and his bard together. The divine had not been kind to Gale in so long —yet, as it would be, they decided that Tav would be there to save him that day.

Even if he wanted to address it, to reveal how he felt and who he was to her, none of that was able to come to fruition once they saved Halsin. Of course, the Fates decided to be just as cruel as ever when Elminster appeared in the camp shortly after they saved the druid, breaking the news that Mystra wanted Gale to give his life to stop the Absolute.

Tav’s reaction was…well, it was incredibly reassuring, honestly. Heartbreaking, but reassuring. She had ripped Elminster a new one, yelling at the legendary wizard that it was not Mystra’s choice to have Gale off himself in her fucking name. That they would find another way to stop the Absolute that didn’t involve him dying. The tears in her eyes, the rage that radiated off her –Gale realized that even if she didn’t know he wrote that missive to her, she felt strongly for him.

And of course, even after Elminster disappeared from camp, they couldn’t settle down to discuss everything. Almost immediately, they had found themselves thrown into yet another quest –now moving them into an awful, shadow-cursed land that threatened to consume every single one of them whole.

Literally.

The shadows literally threatened to consume them.

As Gale trudged through the shadow-cursed land, his mind buzzed with conflicting emotions. The weight of his unspoken feelings for Tav bore down on him like the darkness that surrounded them. He stole glances at her whenever he could, drinking in her every movement, her every word, with a mixture of longing and apprehension. Amidst the palpable tension, he couldn't shake off the feeling that every step they took brought them closer to an inevitable confrontation, not just with the shadowy threats around them, but with the truths he had kept hidden.

Even with the help of the lantern and Karniss, the guide they had trusted to lead them, the trip felt far more perilous than it should have. Every minute they spent fighting harpers, or beasts, or shadows was another minute that they risked losing their lives. And, more so, he worried with every step and every fight that he would risk losing her again –and more permanently this time. The shadows seemed to whisper his fears back to him, amplifying the relentless doubts that gnawed at his resolve.

But no time seemed to be a good time to pull her aside, to admit to her that he was the one who sent that missive from Waterdeep. There was always someone else with her, and they hadn’t been able to make camp yet or else risk their lives with the shadows. They needed to make it to Last Light Inn in order to make camp, and truly there was no actual path that led to the inn safely. The urgency of their mission, coupled with the ever-looming threat, left little room for the heartfelt confession he yearned to make.

And then, naturally, when they did manage to find themselves at the Inn, they were ambushed. Naturally, they broke out in a fight that almost killed every single one of them. Even if they did manage to save Isobel, and even if they did manage to stop the shadows from consuming all the harpers –they had to fight to the last breath before they had properly rested and Gale thought truly, this might be the end of them. And naturally, they had to go find Ketheric Thorm and stop him now in order to actually stop whatever this curse was in this horrible place. The relentless onslaught of challenges seemed to conspire against any chance for a moment of respite, let alone a moment for personal revelations.

Naturally. Naturally. 

Gale wanted so badly to curse Tav’s incessant need to get herself almost killed in order to save others. He wanted to grab her by the shoulders, shake her and beg the bard to stop, and consider herself for five minutes. Consider how people –how he would feel if she died and they could not save her. Did she have no regard for herself? Did she have no regard for her own safety? 

But he couldn’t. 

Because the very incessant need to help and ensure everyone’s safety was one of the many qualities he admired about her very existence. 

Tav was kind, and loyal, and he was painfully in love with someone who had no idea it was him that wrote that damn note, that she had saved his life long before she was saving the lives of everyone around her. Watching her fight stirred every emotion inside of him –pride, awe, lust –and he couldn’t bottle it all up any longer.

When the fight had finally ended –when the blood was spilled all over the courtyard of the inn and his companions caught their breaths and all but collapsed against one another –he was resolved to give in. Orb be damned, he was going to tell Tav he loved her because he had to if they were going to keep on the way they were.

*****

“Hello! I am here on behalf of Gale of Waterdeep. He is requesting a private conversation with you, if you would oblige.”

Tav stared up at the image of Gale before her. It glowed with an aura that was unmistakably magic, though it was so drastically similar that from a distance, she was certain it was him when she approached.

“Oh, uh –yeah, of course. Where is he?”

The image of the wizard motioned towards a path outside of camp. “Just down the path. If you would like, I will happily guide you.”

She nodded, motioning for it to lead the way. The image moved freely, walking through camp without issue. Shadowheart and Lae’Zel both gave her strange looks, following Gale’s magical counterpart with their eyes as the two passed by. Tav simply shrugged in response and continued on her way, until the path was well out of camp and the image of Gale was replaced by the actual man.

He sat with his legs crossed, hands moving through the air as he manipulated the sky above him to form a night sky and borealis. Tav smiled softly at the sight, slowly sitting down beside him with her knees to her chest. 

“I love this time of night,” he explained as if answering the question she had not asked. “There’s an almost reverent silence that accompanies the peak of darkness, where you’d almost believe the dawn will never break. The cradle of eternity; the timelessness of lovers; the most beautiful of fantasies.” 

She watched him for a moment before looking back up at the sky. “It’s breathtaking. Is it your doing?”

He nodded once, but she could feel his gaze on her. “The curse is still present, of course. Just veiled and at arm’s length. Not a trick I can repeat often, but tonight…tonight is different.”

For a moment, they simply watched each other with soft smiles. Sometimes, she wished that he was less captivating or sweet; it made life so much more difficult for her when she was trying to keep feelings for him at bay. But then he went and did things like this –created beauty in a place that was so broken –and Tav found herself further drawn into her feelings for him.

“This may be my last night alive,” he explained, though his voice was soft. “I wanted it to be under a canopy of beauty of wonder and with company to match.”

Her brow furrowed as she opened her mouth to argue, to remind him that she would not let him die but he interrupted her.

“I thought this place might bring me peace. I thought…it might make the weight of what I must do to feel a little lighter. But I am not so sure.”

“I refuse to believe that this is the end, Gale. I refuse to let you die for the promise of forgiveness from a goddess who cast you out.”

“Babe or crone, coward or hero…death is assured, Tav. If you knew the end was near, would you not want to ensure it had meaning?”

“Gale –,”

“I am terrified,” he interrupted once again. “I will not claim otherwise. My face could scarcely conceal it even if my words ought to deny it. There is no point in running from the inevitable; Better to meet it, on my own terms.”

“No,” she snapped at him, grabbing his hand in hers. Her heart ached, thinking that Gale had resigned himself to death even before considering the other options. Not that she knew what those options were, but they were better than dying. “Nothing is inevitable. Not when we face it together. You don’t have to die.”

“One moment with you could sate me for a lifetime, Tav.” It was as if he wasn’t even hearing her; that he was so certain of his fate that he was just reciting his lines to her. “And I am very happy you came here tonight, to share this with me.  I know this is all unreal, but I created it for you. You must know that you’re…that you’re very special to me.”

Of course she knew. He made it clear, even if he never explicitly said it. Gale cared for her –loved her, even, if she dared assume –and it showed in his actions every day. Perhaps she should have told him to stop sooner; that she wasn’t spoken for but her heart belonged to her poet. But it was hard to walk away from someone so warm, and caring. And after her own heartbreak, having someone who gave her everything he had even when she didn’t deserve it –she knew there was love for him in her own heart now too.

“If things were different, if you were still performing and we were home, I would have done things properly. I would have never written that note, I would have found you before all this. But time is short, and I…I need you to know that I was enchanted to meet you, Tav.”

For a brief moment, everything stopped. 

Gale was watching her expectantly, waiting for her to say something; to respond. But her mind was stuck. I would have never written that note. I was enchanted to meet you…

“You…it was you?” She managed to ask, her voice catching in her throat as she finally looked up at him. Tears stung the corners of her eyes as she fished her parchment out of her pocket, unfolding it. “You wrote this?”

He took the note from her, tears pricking his eyes too, as he read it over. He nodded slowly. “I listened to you sing every night for weeks, Tav. You know I trapped myself in my tower –but you don’t know that it was you that made me leave for the first time in a year. That when I left that day, it was to find you and tell you how much your music healed my broken heart. I’m just pleasantly surprised the kobold managed to actually deliver the note.

“You added lines to it the other night,” he continued, reaching up to take her face in his hands. His thumbs wiped away her tears as she leaned into his touch, still crying. “You asked me not to be in love with someone else –to not have someone waiting for me. Tav –I have been waiting for you. And if I’m going to live my last day, I need you to know that I am in love with you.”

Through tear blurred eyes, Tav took in every detail of Gale’s sincerity. The spark in his eyes as he looked down at her, with his own tears that threatened to spill. The adoration that filled his smile as he held her face in his hands still. He loved her; he was her poet, and he loved her, and Tav was going to lose him because of some petty goddess who wanted him to beg for her forgiveness.

Without thinking any harder, she surged forward and kissed him hard. Gale let out a small gasp of surprise, seemingly not expecting her to kiss him, but soon enough he was threading his fingers through her hair to hold her closer. Her arms wound around his neck, pulling him as close as she could get him without climbing into his lap –and even then, she was almost there anyway.

But he pulled away too soon, resting his forehead against hers. Tav’s tears hadn’t stopped, though she wasn’t sure if they were tears of joy or fear anymore. 

“I hope that wasn’t a parting kiss,” she murmured, pressing another one against the corner of his mouth gently. 

“Not if I have any say in the matter,” he chuckled, wiping her tears away again. “I want it to be perfect –to bond with you in the way that gods do…intertwining our spirits in visions of the Weave.”

Gale stood, pulling her up with him. She refused to let him go, arms still tightly wound around neck, keeping him close to her. “I don’t need illusions. I want the Gale standing right in front of me.”

“Are you sure?” He seemed surprised, brow furrowing as his fingers reached for her hips, holding her just as tight. “I could conjure up any sight you can imagine; some you probably can’t too. I could use the Weave to make us feel sensations beyond reckoning.”

He leaned in closer, his nose bumping against hers. “I could do more than woo you. I could wow you.”

She hesitated a moment, considering what he was offering. “I suppose you could show me, if that’s what you want.”

He squeezed her hips with a bright grin, then pulled away raising his hands in the air. Streaks of the Weave surrounded them momentarily, then they were standing in a room full of books and scrolls, with a piano playing quietly in the background. 

“How about a perfect night in Waterdeep, then?” He asked, reaching for her hand to guide her through what she could only assume was his home. It felt very much like a place that Gale would enjoy. “With the warmth of the fire in the hearth, and the spines of a thousand books greeting us.” He pushed the double doors open, exposing the balcony and the sunlight on the water. 

“I’ve seen this before!” She exclaimed, pushing past him to lean over the edge of the balcony. “I performed right down there, with the circus.” She pointed down to the courtyard below, where a stage had appeared. 

Gale wrapped his arms around her from behind, resting his chin on the top of her head. She leaned back into his embrace, sighing contentedly. “I spent many evenings listening to you from my balcony, Tav. Mesmerized by how well you pulled at my own heartbreak with yours. I couldn’t see you, but I could hear you.

“Some nights, I’d simply sit out here and get lost in the pages of a book while listening to your voice. It haunted my dreams, day and night. I had been so consumed with my self loathing and the orb that I feared stepping foot outside my tower —but your voice brought me light in my darkest days.”

Gale pulled her away from the balcony, beckoning her to the settee where he pulled her into his lap. Tav sighed, burying her face into the crook of his neck as he lifted the book that rested beside him. 

“One of my favorites,” he explained, opening it up to show her. “It follows the first thousand nights of a newlywed king and queen. They make an art out of touch, out of taste –perhaps we should take a page from their book ourselves. What do you say?”

Tav giggled, reaching up to run her nails over his jaw. “I don’t see a bed.”

“The stars will be our bed.”

Her brow furrowed for a moment as she shook her head. “Gale, this is beautiful, and I am wholly impressed by everything you can do –but I want you. The real you. Not some conjuring within the Weave.”

“Tav, I am nothing special in comparison to what I can show you –,”

“You are very special, Gale,” she scolded, pulling herself from his arms. “To me, especially. And I don’t want to experience anything with you that’s not real.”

He nodded, eyes softening as the tower disappeared around them and they returned to the field that they were truly in. “Then we’ll do it your way, my love. Whatever you desire from me, I will give you.”

Though, the devilish grin of his suggested he still had a trick up his sleeve as he waved his hand. She gave him a pointed look but nothing around them changed –except for the appearance of a very extravagant, four poster bed. Tav looked it over before grinning at him.

“For your comfort, of course,” he explained simply, guiding her backwards towards it. “I would be remiss if you had to lay in the dirt to be with me.”

“Perhaps I like laying in the dirt,” she teased, taking his face in her hands to pull him into a kiss. “Perhaps I enjoy getting a bit dirty.”

“You’ll have to prove that to me another night,” Gale countered, pushing her back onto the velvety sheets. For an illusion, it was still much more comfortable than any bedroll she’d lain on. “Tonight, I want you to feel my love for you.”

She fell back onto the bed, hitting the pillows and basking in the plushness that she hadn’t felt in so long. Sitting up on her elbow, she beckoned for him to join her and smiled when he didn’t hesitate to climb over her. 

Like a man starved, Gale pulled her in by her chin and kissed her passionately. This kiss was different from the one they had shared earlier in the night. This kiss was frantic and hungry, with every emotion the two had poured into it. He was kissing her like this was the last time he ever would –though if he had it his way, perhaps it would be. Tav parted her legs, hitching one over his hip to pull him closer to her. There was too much space between them; too many clothes. Her hands drifted down his chest, pulling the laces of his shirt undone as she went, exposing not only the expanse of his chest but the markings of the cursed orb that threatened to take him from her.

Hand dropping from her chin to unlace her bodice and pants, Gale pulled away from the kiss to trail hot, wet kisses down her throat and over her chest as the skin became more exposed to him. She squirmed some, trying to pull his shirt off as her own shirt lay open finally. He chuckled against her skin, his beard tickling at the base of her throat as he pulled back and pulled his shirt off and tossed it aside. 

Then he moved to hover over her, hands resting on either side of her body now as he looked over her naked form lovingly. Bare beneath him – she thought she should be shying away from his gaze, but she couldn’t find herself feeling anything less than adored –Tav reached out to ensure they matched each other’s nakedness finally. And when Gale was finally just as bare as she was, her tears threatened to return as she traced the markings on his chest. But he took her hand, flattening it against where his heart beat, and she looked up at him longingly.

“I love you, Gale,” she whispered. “Don’t leave me.”

“I won’t,” he promised, and she swore he meant it.

His mouth was on hers again with a new found urgency, his pointer and thumb holding her chin as he kissed her hard. His other hand, which was sitting on her hip, had begun to drift down. She shivered from the drag of his fingers over her skin before finally feeling how hard he was against her thigh. With a groan, she pulled her hands from his chest to touch him –to pull some sound from him. 

The sound he made went straight to her core, causing her to clench around nothing, as she slowly stroked him. Gale pulled his mouth from hers to kiss along her jaw, leaving hot, wet kisses along her skin. Her head fell back, allowing him to trail kisses from her jaw down her throat. Then his fingers flicked just barely between her legs, spreading them so he could better access her.

Her breath hitched in her throat, eyes closed as he ghosted his touch over her arousal. Gale kept his hand still, allowing her a moment to get used to his touch there before his fingers circled her clit gently. She keened, back arching off the bed as she chased his touch –her own touch dropping from him as she reacted. He dragged his lips from her throat over her collarbone, then down further until his tongue lapped at one of her pert nipples. Her gasp at the sudden sensation caused her hips to buck, meeting his hand in a gentle grind. The friction of his hand against her most sensitive place was overwhelming for a moment as she pulled at his hair again. Gale’s teeth grazed over her nipple now, nipping at it before he sucked it into his mouth. 

Satisfied with his work on one nipple, he bit down one more time before he switched to the other. His hand drifted down between her legs as he sucked and bit her, and Tav wondered briefly how she would ever do without him again if she lost him. She let out a gasp as he slipped a finger inside her with ease, being pressed into the bed as his teeth grazed over her nipple.

“Oh gods, Gale,” she begged, trying to move against his hand as he eased a second finger inside of her. 

He released her nipple finally, trailing wet, open mouth kisses down her body as he slowly pumped his fingers in and out of her. Her body writhed beneath him, and she could feel his grin against her skin as he moved further down her body, kissing her stomach and right above her core. Her fingers tangled in his hair, pulling at it as he sped up his fingers.

Then, without warning, his teeth grazed her clit and she gasped, unable to keep herself still as she jolted up. He sped up movement with his fingers, curling them up as he sucked and nipped gently at her clit. Her legs started to tremble as her hands ran through his hair, yanking it by the roots. 

“Fuck, please. I’m gonna cum, please, Gale,” she gasped, bucking her hips up. 

But he pulled his fingers away too soon, and she whined, body shaking. He pressed a kiss to her inner thigh, trailing his lips from her right thigh, over her clit once more until he reached her left. Then he repeated the process back —before finally, his mouth was on her like she was the last meal he’d ever eat. She cried out, stars spilling behind her eyes as she pulled at his hair again. He pushed his tongue deeper, devouring every inch of her that he could. His hands wrapped around her thighs, pulling her even closer to him. 

She started to move her hips to match his movements, pressing against his face to try to get any more possible friction. She was so close, if he just kept going –Tav groaned as he hit a particularly sensitive spot inside her. Her hands had become permanently attached to his hair, pulling as she begged him to keep going, to make her cum. Gale’s fingers returned as he lapped at her clit, pumping in and out at a steady, torturous pace. But then –he stopped. And Tav hissed in frustration.

Pulling his fingers from her –prompting a desperate whine as she fell back against the bed –Gale moved to hover over her once more. She grabbed his chin, slick with her, and pulled him into a heated kiss. He groaned into the kiss, licking into her mouth and allowing her to taste herself on his tongue.

“I need you,” he admitted, pulling from the kiss to rest his forehead against hers. His hips ground into hers, revealing how bad off he was for her. 

“I’m yours, Gale.” She took his hand and pressed it against her heart, holding it there as she bumped her nose with his. Her legs wrapped around his hips, drawing him in. “Only yours.”

Gale found himself between her legs once more, his aching cock in his hand as he stroked himself. His breathing was hard, ragged as he stared down at her naked body. Tav gazed up at him, empty and longing as he stroked himself at the sight of her.

“I need you to touch me,” she begged, reaching for him once more.

Suddenly, Gale was on his back with her straddling his waist. He was surprised for a moment, caught off guard by her new position. However, even with his hazy, lust blown eyes –the way he looked up at her made her stomach flutter and her heart skip. His hands found her hips, pulling her down against him and she grinded down against his cock, humming at the feeling of his hardness against her sensitive folds. He closed his eyes, catching his breath. She leaned in, kissing along his jaw, as her hand finally grasped his cock and lined it up against her. Gale sucked in a breath, and she could tell he was trying to savor the feeling and not rush it.

But she couldn’t take it slow anymore; she sunk down on him without question, burying him to the hilt inside her core with a deep moan and her hands on his chest to keep her balanced. Gale’s hands held her hips, no doubt bruising her, as he held her close to him. Now he truly wouldn’t let her move, savoring the feeling of her tight warmth around him. Finally, Gale opened his eyes, keeping her still for several moments as if he was trying to memorize the sight of her full of him. She tried moving, but he held her tight, cock buried in her while he basked in how tight she was. 

“Gale,” she moaned, reaching between her legs to drag her fingers over her clit. “Please.”

He flipped them over once more, bringing her leg around his waist. She groaned at the change of angle, but didn’t fight him as he started a steady pace. One hand held her leg against him while the other supported his weight over her, allowing him to kiss her hard as he pulled out. She whined at the loss, but then he was slamming back into her without warning and her whine turned into a cry of pleasure. Gale’s mouth captured her sounds, kissing her again as he set a steady, delicious pace. She moaned into the kiss again, hands reaching up to grasp his shoulders as he picked up speed. 

“Oh, gods, Gale,” she sighed as he trailed kisses down her throat again, taking a moment to rest his head in the crook of her neck. “Sweet hells, I love you —I-I love you so much. I’m so close —please —,”

His hips stuttered as she clenched around him, his grip tightening as his pace became more and more frantic. Tav wasn’t prepared for how hard her orgasm hit her, but when it did, she cried out his name and begged the gods for mercy. It was overwhelming, and wonderful, and every second he was still buried inside her was the only divine intervention she’d ever need. And as the warmth of his own climax filled her, Gale buried his face in the crook of her neck. Catching his breath as he came, her hands tangled in his hair once more, coaxing every last ounce of him into her. She was writhing under him, overstimulated from her own climax as well as his now. But he didn’t want to leave her warmth; he wanted to stay buried in her forever.

Eventually, he did pull out, rolling off of her and onto his back. She didn’t let him stray, however, and hitched her leg over his waist again and laid her head on his chest. Gale’s arms snaked their way around her, holding her close to him as his breathing began to even out. 

And then, she started humming softly, her own eyes closing as Gale trailed his fingers up and down her back.

This night is flawless, don't you let it go

I'm wonderstruck, dancing around all alone

I'll spend forever wondering if you knew

I was enchanted to meet you…

#gale of waterdeep #gale dekarios #gale dekarios x reader #gale of waterdeep x reader #gale of waterdeep x tav #gale dekarios x tav

[drabblesandimagines]

Bedrest

Bit of a follow-on from Prescription, from this request Clive Rosfield x female reader, as fluffy as puppy Torgal, but then a lil' spice tease at the end

“You be sure to look after him, Torgal.” You scritch the wolf’s head as he noses into your side, enjoying your attentions. You’re in bed – feeling quite the lady of leisure this long after sunrise. “You might’ve noticed I’ve grown quite fond of your master.” Clive smiles warmly at the scene as he finishes putting on his leathers. He has business to attend to in Dhalmekia – Jill and Torgal attending alongside. It was a matter to which he had already delayed in addressing, wanting to savour a few undisturbed days within your company after your confession in the infirmary.

Tarja had insisted you rest and to keep off your injured leg to allow the muscle a chance to heal. There were no healing magicks to be undertaken in the Hideaway after all, not when you all knew the cost to the Bearer casting it. Patience, rest and herbal medicines were the only things for it.

Clive had thrived in the role as carer, immediately whisking you up in his arms and carrying you off to his chambers for the past few days. You’d tried to dissuade him from delaying his trip – his work was far more important, you’d stressed – but every time you’d protested, he’d rather rudely silenced you with a kiss.

“I wish you’d allow me to leave Torgal here with you.”

“I’ll feel much better knowing he’s with you. After all, if I’m not there, I’ll be reassured you have him and Jill to keep you out of mischief.”

You’d thought you’d return to your own bunk in the lower decks for Clive’s upcoming departure, but he’d insisted you continue convalescing in his chambers. Tarja had been checking in on your wounds daily – reapplying salve and fresh bandages. She’d noted concern about the way the one on your side was healing, noting the stitches had pulled apart a little but it should still heal nicely.

“It’s in an especially awkward place, prone to being tugged in natural movement,” she’d said that with a peculiar look at Clive, the man ducking his head bashfully when, truthfully, he’d been nothing but respectful of the healer’s specifications in regards to your recovery.

The Fire Dominant had even gone as far to count the stairs you’d have to conquer from your bunk to the ale hall – the daily exercise Tarja did allow - and compared it that of the one from his chambers. You wished you’d seen the hideaway’s face as Clive walked slowly down the steps, counting them one by one – he’d always taken steps two at a time with the length of his stride. He concluded it made far more sense for you to continue your recovery there, as to not put the stitches under any further strain with any extra steps.

“You’ll rest, won’t you?”

You force a tired smile. “I will.”

“I know it is difficult but, please, have patience. It’ll be worth it in the end.” He places a hand on your cheek and bends down, kissing you softly on the lips.

He draws back with a boyish grin, before heading towards the chamber doors.

“I miss you already, my darling.”

--

Three days have passed and you’ve stayed true to your word - staying in Clive’s chambers and only leaving to break your fast and partake in supper in the ale hall, someone’s eyes always tending to mind your slow and cautious journey there and back.

You’d tried to pass your days reading – the shelves had an extensive collection and Harpocrates had ferried over a pile of fairytales for your consumption - or making conversation with Otto, or Gav, or Cole as whoever came in to drop off missives, awaiting Clive’s return, and endless attempted naps, though they seemed to achieve little but make you more tired as you’d stare up at the ceiling half the night, feeling wide awake and hoping that Clive was okay.

Tarja would visit in the evening – applying salve and changing the bandages, determined to keep you free of infection.

“Is it healing all right?” You ask, as she finishes tightening the last strip.

“I think we’re nearly…”

“Tarja!” Gav’s voice boomed from the hall below before thunderous footsteps came up the stairs and the chamber door swung open, revealing an out of breath scout. “Bearers just came in – four in total, three in bad shape…”

“Coming!” Tarja gets up and departs swiftly, Gav following at her heels.

You wish you could help.

On the fourth morning, after another off and on sleep, you are thoroughly fed up of reading and staring at the ceiling and resting and surely, by now, the skin should’ve begun to mend. Afterall, Tarja had said pretty much so last night, hadn’t she? The ale hall had been full of talk of the state of the new Bearers joining the ranks and Tarja would be rightly preoccupied looking after their hurts. Surely it wouldn’t hurt to stretch your legs a little further than the twice daily trip to the ale hall…

--

Late afternoon and you’d perhaps tackled more stairs and walked around the outer decks a little more than planned but having the freedom to do so once more had been wonderful... until your side had started smarting. You’d been up in the atrium and, to avoid any possible run-ins with Tarja by going past the infirmary, you’d gone back down the stairs and planned to return to Clive’s chambers cutting through the forge. Blackthorne is hard at work at the anvil as usual and used to people walking past, so he doesn’t even raise his head as you stride past.

As you enter the main hall and walk clear of Charon’s store, you can see Gav is stood at the ale hall counter, deep in conversation with Clive, who clocks you immediately with an amused look.

Oh.

You walk forward cautiously to meet the two of them at the counter – there’s no point in trying to flee.

“My lady, you do appear to be lost.”

“You’re back,” you try and swerve the conversation. “We weren’t expecting you for another two moons.”

“Yes – it didn’t take as long as I’d planned and I was eager to return to you, but you don’t seem to be resting as instructed.” He takes a step forward then, and you unconsciously take one back.

“No, I have been. I just feel it’s time to…”

Before you can blink, as if he’s used the Phoenix’s blessing to increase his speed, he hooks his arm under your knees and one around your back, scooping you with ease.

“Gav, would you be so kind to accept any missives for me whilst I deal with this?”

“Clive…!“ You start to protest, feeling blood flush your face as you were pressed against his chest. The men quickly enter into conversation once more, ignoring you.

“What’s in it for me?” Gav smirks, folding his arms.

“Molly, open him a tab, please. I’ll settle up in the morning.”

“Howay – that’s what I’m talking about.” The scout grins. “Not a missive will slip through on my watch.”

You keep quiet as Clive carries you through the hall and towards the stairs. Charon takes a deep puff of her cigarette as you catch her eye – her expression gives nothing away.

Once in the chambers, he walks over to the bed, lays you down gently without a word, before heading back over to the chamber door and closing it, sliding the bolt across that he had Blackthorne forge to provide the two of you some privacy at certain hours.

He removes his sword from its sheath, placing it against the wall and then strips his cloak, leathers and belts in moments, leaving him in his undershirt and trousers and returns to the bed, sitting to the side of you – giving you that look.

“I’m fine, honestly.”

“May I?” His hand hovers at the hem of your shirt. You nod, and he pulls it up, his fingers ghosting around the bandages wrapped tightly around your abdomen. “Hm. A few spots of blood – I do hope we stopped you causing further damage, as well as prevented Tarja’s wrath.”

“Really?” You twist your head, trying to see but it’s an awkward position. “But I did rest - I only left the bed to break my fast and take supper the past three days.”

“I know it is frustrating, but you must remain patient. Your excursion today may have even undone all that hard work. Tarja will be able to confirm, though.”

You sigh, flopping your head down on the pillow dramatically as Clive tugs your top back in place.

“It’s a good thing I returned when I did, hm?” He squeezes your hand. “I can clear things for a couple of days again.”

“No, you shouldn’t put things off just because of me.”

“But how else will I get you to behave without my keen eye on you?” He picks your hand up, pressing a kiss to the back of it, before he smirks with a thought.

“Do I need to restrain you?” He quickly takes your other hand and lifts them both above your head, bringing them together before pinning them in place with one large hand. He leans over you, enjoying the tease.

“Perhaps I’ll need to bind your hands to the bed so you actually rest.”

“You wouldn’t.” You scoff, but you don’t sound as confident as you think you should. Your heart is pounding at the idea.

“Do not tempt me.” His voice has a dangerous edge to it now. “I did tell you that you had consumed my thoughts in all ways, did I not? Perhaps that was one of them.”

Clive lowers his face closer to you, biting his lip as he takes in the adorable flush of your cheeks, how your breathing has increased, squirming slightly under his gaze…

“However…” he sits upright then, pulling you up gently with him before he releases his grip upon your wrists and smiles, innocently, “..not whilst you’re injured. Use it as motivation, if you so desire.”

“You’re cruel.” You pout, folding your arms across your chest.

“Patience, my lady.” He gets to his feet and you think he means to leave you alone in your pity, only for him to clamber in behind you in the bed. He coaxes you back to lean against his chest, his legs now spread either side of yours and wraps his arms gently around you – ever mindful of your wound.

“Allow me to rest with you. Share the burden, so to speak.” He rests his head upon your shoulder, his voice vibrating through your cheek.

“I’m not tired,” but still you sink in deeper until his embrace, closing your eyes.

“I am,” he admits. “You said you haven’t been to Dhalmekia?”

“I haven’t.”

“It’s hot. Sandy – every breath I took I felt as if I was breathing it all in, and I fear I’ll be encountering sand in my boots too for moons to come.” He murmurs in your ear. “On the journey back, every time Torgal shook it was as if we’d walked into another sandstorm. We may have to bathe him to be rid of it…”

You smile at the idea of the sodden wolf in the hideaway’s bathing chambers.

“Which reminds me – they have hot springs in Dalimil. I don’t believe I’ve seen water so blue before. There’s a bath-house in the city too. The owner, in fact, owes me a favour. Perhaps when you’re recovered we can go. I hear it’s meant to be most relaxing.”

“Mm,” you agree, softly.

“The market is bustling - I think you’d like looking around at all the different wares, especially the offerings at their bakers. I’ve never seen so many types of bread, and some quite unique. There was a cob shaped like the former Drake’s Fang, even…”

Clive trails off, noting the change in your breathing. For someone claiming not to be tired, you’d soon fallen fast asleep to the dulcet tones of his voice. He suspects it’s from the overexertion from the day, but he also hopes it’s from the comfort you’ve found wrapped in his arms.

Clive presses a kiss to your crown before he lays his head back on the pillow, allowing himself to close his eyes.

“Rest well, my darling.” -- Masterlist . Requests welcome . Ko-fi

#ghostdogwrites #clive rosfield x you #clive rosfield x female reader #clive rosfield fluff #clive rosfield x reader #clive rosfield #ff16 x reader #ff16 requests

[ruiniel]

ok I just thought of this but Alucard x reader where the reader has been turned into a vampire (while he's away or something or during battle)and feeling like maybe he won't love them anymoreeee?

Ouch, anon!

This will be so angsty.

A Place to Hide

Fandom: Castlevania series (2017-2021)

Pairing: Alucard x Reader

Count: 1.5k

Rating: T

Tags/CW: Oneshot, Mutual pining, Angst, Context of battle, Mention of death, Alternate universe, Dark fantasy AU, Alucard POV, Vampirism, Longing, emotional hurt/comfort

Summary: This can be considered a follow-up of sorts set after 'To be free'. The murder of Lisa never happened. Instead, sometime in the future there is strife in the vampire world with an alliance of rebelling war chiefs over territory and Dracula is forced to respond. Reader character is an apprentice learning the doctor trade under Lisa. Trying to seek Adrian out after he left for battle was not a successful endeavor...

All characters depicted are 18+

"And you worry too much…"

Your words ricochet through his mind as he dismounts in haste along with the returning troops, the too-hindering armor singing mournfully with every movement, as it had done all those cold, cluttered days and nights he'd been away.

He crosses the barracks area built before the castle and ascends the stairs of his home, a bloodied letter crumpled in his right hand.

"Adrian!"

Like a ghost, a drop of crystal-clear water in a sea of blood, his mother runs towards him, sullying herself against his filthy form as she enfolds him in a fierce embrace. Her dainty fingers curl into his tattered cloak, and Lisa holds on to him with a frenzied relief after, he knows, weeks of fretting.

"You’re safe," Lisa murmurs, "You’re home," she shivers, drawing back to run swift, trembling fingers through his windswept hair. 

"Mother," his eyes press shut, and he falls against her. She whispers to him, and all he wants is to drown in her arms and forget; the missive burns like hot coal, still crushed in his hand.

"Your father arrived ahead of you," Lisa says, holding him fast to her. "...they're still assessing status in the council chamber." 

And Lisa, for her part, had been running the improvised hospice for their human allies. She looks as weary as he feels. "I know." He can barely speak. "Mother I… I received your letter; before the last skirmish."

They won. Careful tactical planning and losses included, there will be peace again in the borderlands without. For how long? None ever know.

He does not care. "... Where?"

Lisa releases him, slowly, holding him by the shoulders. "Adrian, will you not take the time to... to …"

"Where?" His voice cracks, his bones ache. He wishes he'd never welcomed you here, wishes he'd never met you, befriended you, loved you. He wishes, wishes, wishes as fools do.

"Why do you always push me away?"

Your voice, your face: enraged and so desperate. You needed him then, needed him and he was not here, and the closer he is now, the more the truth gains a near physical weight he pushes against with sisyphean misery.

"Adrian," his mother tries again, as he slowly pries her from him, shaking his head.

"Please."

She tells him. She tells him how you insisted on riding after him, two weeks or so prior, with a meager company through war-torn lands. How Lisa had done her utmost to deter you, but the influx of wounded human soldiers demanded most of her time and energy, day in, day out. She failed, and you would wait no longer. "Forgive me, forgive me..." 

He brings Lisa close again, fervently kissing the top of her head, "Don’t. Please. Just... just tell me."

They stay embraced for another moment as the clamor of many rises up to the high, domed ceilings, and figures wade around them like wraiths. "The east tower," Lisa whispers, finally.

By the time he reaches the door, having carelessly stripped and cast off pieces of armor on the way, his vision is blurred. Memories of that day, that last day when you were angry with him but would not leave his side, had been a torturous comfort to his nights through each cut and healing wound, each enemy pierced, each slash of the sword; that day, when he awoke the evening of his departure with you in his bed and in his arms while the chamber's golden light caressed your bareness.

The hinges creak. The door opens, and darkness greets him.

"How am I to learn, Adrian, if you stand in my way?"

He calls to you. He seeks a heartbeat, but there is none; of course, there wouldn't be. The letter falls from his hand like a withered autumn leaf. He calls again, and again, stepping inside the room.

Darkness never posed a challenge to his sight, and as his eyes follow along the richly woven rug, he sees a bare foot, slowly retreating; a huddled shape, in one corner.

"Leave." A broken, barely audible voice.

Never again. Adrian nears and kneels by your side. "But I’ve only just arrived," he says through a forced, trembling smile.

A stir, a rise of hunched shoulders. "... you..."

"Yes, me," he says. "And I’ve missed you… so, so much." 

A sigh his only answer, Adrian curls and uncurls his fists. "Will you look at me?"

"Why?" The shape stirs anew. He cannot tell what you might be feeling, not anymore. The signs are gone, but of course, it is you; wherever you are, whatever you are, he will always know. 

"Because I… you went seeking for me, and I understand. A part of me... longed for you to do so, from dawn to dusk, every hour, every minute and second." He swallows. "Please," he begs even as a pair of glowing eyes meet his.

He reaches; cups your cheek and falls in dismay when you shun his touch, hiding your face away from him.

Your beautiful, determined face. His anger is boundless; he wants to know who, and make them pay. But you would tell no one of it, from what he learned, and it matters not at the moment. An interrogation is not what you need, nor does he. 

"I am sorry. It should have been your choice, if it ever were to happen. I did not listen to you that night where... where I should have."

"Not your fault," he sees half of your face, eternal now, cut by a beam of moonlight. "I was impatient, wanted to reach you, to see you. I was—am, a selfish, selfish fool," you press your knuckles into your eyes "And now, look at me..."

Adrian carefully sits beside you. "No," he objects, poorly, but he's too exhausted, too weak; entranced by you being here, so close, alive despite the shadow imbuing your essence.

"You cannot hear it anymore, can you?"

Adrian shakes his head.

"It is gone."

"But you are not." He reaches, tentatively, and takes your hand, massaging into the knuckles.

"You're so... so warm..." you whisper, close to tears. "I never noticed before, but now, now..." Your words are as cold as your skin. "... what you knew is gone."

He is exhausted, you are hurting. It is over, it should’ve been over, he’d barely convinced you to stay behind back then, to keep safe and continue your work; but here you are anyway. Adrian tenderly pries your other hand away from your chest. He remembers the texture of your skin so well, remembers it soothing his face, his chest, gripping his hips with earnest abandon. Now, it barely returns the slightest pressure. He brings it to his forehead, breathes in deeply and raggedly before pressing the hand to his dry lips. 

What can he say? That he regrets not being there? That it eats him from the inside like rot? That he’s never felt such longing nor such pain, and unless you demand it, he will never let you go again?

"I've not slept in days."

Adrian nods slowly, bringing a tentative arm around your shoulders. "It will be so for a while, from what I know." The freezing nightly air glides through an open window by your naked feet, but he realizes it has long ceased to be an issue for you.

"I hear everything around me; every beat of wings, every sigh of wind or flutter of a living heart. The darkness in all things speaks to me in a language I understand, and yet do not."

Unable to resist any longer, Adrian brings and cradles your head to his chest. "There are other changes, yet to come. It is fresh, and you will… you will hurt for a while longer. But... but I am here now, and, if you'll have me, will... I can help."

You're shaking against him, and he knows, if you had tears to shed, they'd be blood. "Adrian, I regret what I said to you that night, how I pushed you, how—"

"I do not." He tips your chin up, rubs his thumb over your lip. "You spoke your... our truth. And for that, you were much braver than I," he follows. "I missed you," he repeats, like a craven. 

You melt against his side. "You are warm, I am cold."

"You will take from my warmth."

"I've lost… I’ve lost myself, my very being, my humanity, all my doing," you murmur, spent.

"No," he shakes his head, "Humanity consists of much, much more than a beating heart, you know this."

You smile sadly against the black canvas of the room. "So many out there who would beg to differ."

"... and none of them will ever lay a finger on you in this life, or any other."

Adrian dares to bring you more into him, a hand pressing into your back. You feel the same, he feels whole again. Will you see it? Will you understand? 

"I hunger," you speak, the word coated with shame as you melt into him. "I hunger, but I refuse to… to…"

"You must drink to live, now. That is the way of things." 

Your fingers claw at his chest. You are strong, so very strong. "My creed is to save lives, not take them."

Adrian draws you into his lap as you finally meet his gaze fully, a peek of fang between your lips. "And so it will stay," he tells you, soothingly but with conviction, pressing you closer as his hand cups the back of your head, as he reaches and unfastens the collar of his tunic. "... I promise."

MASTERLIST: CASTLEVANIA SERIES x READER

More of my work is on AO3 [many stories not on tumblr]

BLOG MASTERPOST (all you need to know)

Likes/comments/reblogs always and forever appreciated

#alucard castlevania x reader #castlevania fanfiction #adrian tepes x reader #x reader #alucard x reader #castlevania x reader #alucard x you #ruiniel:fanfiction #finally finished another ask #castlevania imagine #adrian tepes x you #castlevania x you #second person POV

[rosewaterandivy]

Everyone But You - a Life as We Know It au

Ch. 1 - Come as a Known Enemy Memory

previous | masterlist | next

Summary: You and your nemesis, the blight of Williamsburg himself, are thrown together under disastrous circumstances. Pairing: e.m. x f!oc w.c.: 4.5K warnings: NSFW / MDNI, immersive second person narration w/ a name and background but no physical description mentioned, big sads, grief, character death, car accident, jason carver mention, legal guidance, CPS, repression of emotions, occasional catatonia, max mayfield esquire

The call comes in somewhere south of 2 A.M. It’s an unfortunate fact of life that you are stone-cold sober, awake, and pouring over the second to last manuscript from the agency. 

You answer it by the second ring.

“This is Vance.”

"Ms. Vance, this is Officer Booker at the 94th precinct in Brooklyn. I’m calling on behalf of Christine Carver, could you please come down to the station?”

The telltale sign of a migraine creeps into your head, lashing against your temples to weave around the base of your skull. A forced blink of your eyes while the words from the manuscript swim across your vision. 94th precinct… that’s, what Greenpoint? The fuck was she doing in Brooklyn at this hour?

"Is she alright?”

The officer sighs, “Ma’am, I can’t disclose personal information over the phone. But once you’re down here—"

Innately and intimately, you know something is wrong. Chrissy and Jason were leaving the city tonight, flying out of Laguardia and back to Indianapolis on the red eye, which should have left an hour or two ago. The officer prattles on about policy and regulation as you get your bearings.

"Yeah, I’ll be there in an hour or so.” A few pages scatter on the table in your haste to get up, “I’m sorry, you said your name was…?”

"Officer Booker ma’am. I’ll let the front desk know to be on the lookout.”

The line drops dead and you lock your phone before slipping it into your pocket. A spring storm whipped through the city, rain falling in sheets outside your apartment window. Slipping into the Hunter galoshes at your door, you attempt to recall Chrissy’s latest missive.

Can’t wait to see you this summer! You and Ed better play nice OR ELSE

The doorman kindly hails you a cab and escorts you to the car, umbrella in hand. You thank him and rattle off an address you’d rather forget in Williamsburg. The ride itself is a quiet hum, briefly punctuated by your various attempts to contact said resident of the Williamsburg apartment which usually ended in a hushed, “Fuck.”

By the fourth attempt, you wonder why you’d ever bothered at all.

It’s not unusual for him to dodge your calls, though it was rare to initiate contact either way. But, rather, this was The Way you had operated since Chrissy posed you Iike her life-size Barbie dolls hoping for a happily ever after— the disastrous date was seared into your memory and played on a loop at the most unfortunate of times, i.e. the night before a big client meeting or during a relay of your Top Ten Greatest Mistakes. And closing in our top three humiliations is…

So, in short, no. No, you did not frequent Brooklyn, and you certainly did not cross the East River if you could help it. Working your ass off at one of the most acclaimed publishing houses did not afford you the luxury to gallivant through the burroughs all hours of the evening, especially not if you wanted to make partner and curate your own client list.

But, clearly, this fact couldn’t be helped tonight.

By the time you arrive in Brooklyn rolling to a stop in front of the brownstone off of Bedford avenue and pay the cabbie, it’s nearing 3 A.M. Dashing onto the stoop in an attempt to avoid the rain, you glance over the numerous intercom buzzers and realize, rather foolishly, that you have no idea which his could be. Luckily, someone is stepping out of the vestibule and you’re able to slip in before the door slams shut.

It’s a walk-up, of course, because this night couldn’t cut you one measly break, could it? The squelch of your galoshes haunts you up the flights of stairs, rain dripping in rivulets onto the steps below. You pause at the third floor, a heavy bass thudding from down the corridor like a siren’s call.

Your fist pounds on the door, punctuated by the clipped sound of your voice, “Munson, I swear to all that is unholy—"

The door opens quickly, and you nearly topple over the threshold. There’s a curl to his lips that tells you he wishes you had careened, tits over ass, in an unfortunate lack of poise, and fell to a heap on his floor. Fortunately, your hand collides with the door frame and finds purchase before any of that can come to pass.

"For Esmé—In Love and Squalor, as I live and breathe.” He drawls, all biting marks and bravado.

Edward ‘Eddie’ Munson was a few things: a writer, a pretentious asshole, Chrissy’s high school BFF, the worst person you’d ever had the displeasure of breathing the same air as, and your arch nemesis— just to name a few.

“Well, if it isn’t the ice queen from the Upper West Side! What brings you down here to slum it with us plebs?”

Soaked from head to toe, the rain drips steadily down your face and body. Your mouth opens and closes intermittently, gaping like a fish. How do I say something like this? How do I tell him that Chrissy, our mutual best friend and her husband are in all likelihood dead? Do I tell him, or should I leave it to the cops down at the station?

Because, at this point, nothing has been confirmed. And it won’t be until you’re both at the precinct meeting with Officer Booker. All you had to go on was your gut.

And your gut hadn’t been wrong yet.

Maybe tonight’s the night. After all, there’s a first time for everything, right?

“Hellooooo,” He hangs on the door jamb, long limbed and impatient. “C’mon, if you came all the way down here to bust my balls you could’ve—“

“S-she,” You swallow audibly and try to correct your earlier statement. “They, they’re gone.”

Eddie straightens up. A furrow pinches between his brows. “Who’s gone?”

“Chris, Jason, they just—"

He quickly grabs a jacket and slips on a pair of beaten to hell docs before shutting the door. It briefly passes through your mind that he should get his keys, he’ll need his keys to get back in. But before you can say anything, Eddie’s hand curls around your bicep and steers you down the stairs.

“Okay, okay.” He soothes, guiding you onto the sidewalk. “Where are we going, hospital or precinct? We’ll need a cab or Uber, right?”

Eddie grabs his phone and pulls up an app before muttering, “Fucking surge pricing, what the shit.”

The rain falls steadily, on and on, in the cool spring night as you wait. A seemingly endless vigil for the pair of you, the dark sky blanketing a city that never sleeps.

The blip and wail of sirens increases the closer you get to the station. The cab ride itself had been silent, save for Eddie’s wallet chain jangling as his leg jostled up and down. You’d mostly gathered your wits on the drive over, knew what to do, who to find— your head was as clear as it could be for now.

Eddie pays the fare and nods to the cabbie in thanks as you turn to open the door. His hand finds your arm, fingers trepidatious against the damp fabric of your trench coat. 

“D’ya think…”

A pinprick of pressure at the top of your sinuses, eyes blurring with newly minted moisture. A quick sniff to clear your nostrils as you slowly exhale.

”I hope not.”

You push the door open and stride across the wet pavement. An officer holds a door open for you with a tight-lipped smile.

”Hi,” You say, clearing your throat. “I’m looking for an Officer Booker?”

A desk jockey leads you both back to a small conference room and offers you a choice of coffee or water. You take him up on it and anxiously wait for Booker’s arrival.

”Hello,” A man greets, setting a to-go cup of coffee on the table and offering his hand to shake. “I’m Officer Booker. You must be Esmé Vance. And this is…?”

”Eddie Munson,” He says with a cough. 

Booker nods, as if he expected it. “Of course,” He takes a seat and places a manila folder on the table between you. He takes a beat, looking each of you in the eye, a tinge of sorrow precedes his next comment. “There was an accident, and it is with sorrow and regret that I inform you—"

And with that, the world drops dead.

A harsh buzzing, like static, fills your ears. Unwittingly, you clutch at Eddie’s hand, slotting your fingers together. Can’t bring yourself to worry over how cold and clammy your palm is against the dwarfing warmth of his. He squeezes your hand back, nods at whatever Booker is saying, something about finding your information as her I.C.E. contact on her phone.

"The first responders found it and we took it from there. But now we need numbers for the nearest next of kin, can you supply those?”

Big, wet tears fall silently down your cheeks and you can’t bring your vocal cords to work, to say something as simple as yes.

"Uh, yeah,” Eddie replies instead, accompanied by a violent sniff. “Her parents are back in Hawkins, Indiana— Peter and Ellie Cunningham.” He rattles off their home phone number as you watch, mesmerized, tremulous tears falling unabated down his face.

There’s scruff bordering on five-o’clock shadow peppering his cheeks and jawline, errant curls falling from the sloppy topknot on his head. He looks exhausted, as if the last half-hour has robbed him of sleep, bluish hollows like crescent moons underneath his eyes.

But he hasn’t let go of your hand.

No, he’s held it like a vise. As if it’s the only thing tethering him to the ground. 

“You said the car flipped? It—It flipped when it hit the…”

Booker looks at both of you, really takes a long, hard look.

Two kids, really. Early thirties, if he had to guess, and hopelessly floundering in the midst of a goddamn bitch of an unimaginable situation. Shit, he couldn’t tell which way was up at that age, and by then he’d had a badge and a gun.

Then, as if it’s dawned on you for the first time:

"They have a baby, w-who is she with now?“ You stutter out, dread curling low in your stomach. You clench Eddie’s hand all the harder.

The harsh whisper of your voice brings a halt to the conversation. Eddie gapes back at you, wide eyed and woebegone.

”If you’ll excuse me,” Booker says, rising to leave, “I’ll get a deputy to contact the parents and ascertain where the child is. Sit tight ‘til then.”

The door clicks shut. 

And the wail that careens up your throat is enough to kick-start Eddie’s survival mode into gear. He pushes away from the chair to sit at your feet, one hand grasping yours while the other winds around your waist and presses you to his torso. Sobs wrack your body, loud and hiccuping, while his lips murmur softly at the crown of your head.

Nothing he’s saying registers. But he’s there and warm, one large hand trailing the expanse of your back, up and down and over again; it’s almost soothing. He’s taller than you, something you’d always known from his penchant to loom over you, but you don’t seem to mind it just now. 

Tucked under his chin and pressed to his chest, it feels almost safe. His physical proximity and the way his body seems to mold around your own, protecting you from the sickening reality that she’s gone, and the sharp pain that kicks up in your gut, lends you enough comfort to make an attempt at processing this disaster. Chrissy and Jason, both gone in one fell swoop. Their daughter, Zoë, effectively orphaned and alone.

A beautiful, innocent little girl, a veritable copy of her mother, all blonde hair and blue eyes. Soft coos and footie pajamas, waiting for parents who would never return. 

What would happen to her?

It’s that very thought that snaps you out of your tear-streaked state as Officer Booker returns. Eddie sets you back on the chair, hands patting along your arms to check that you’re okay, at least for the moment. Catching his eye you give him a small nod.

"The Cunninghams have been informed and are on their way. The child was with the nanny, but CPS has taken over her care for the time being.”

”What, why?”

Eddie’s posture has changed, what was once hunched in an uncomfortable precinct chair has now straightened up, his spine pulled taut with tension. 

“It’s procedure until the next of kin can be notified.”

”No, that’s—" You stand abruptly, “We’ve gotta go. I mean, unless you need anything…?”

He shakes his head, “No, you’re free to go.” He stands and offers his hand to you once more, “My sincere condolences to you both.”

Leaving the precinct in a blur, you hardly realize you’re back on the sidewalk. On auto-pilot, you step out to hail a cab. Eddie, the lingering presence behind you, continues to silently brood.

As the cab pulls to the curb, a sharp jerk of your arm pulls you backward to collide with an oomph against him. You turn an apology on the tip of your tongue that vanishes at the sight of him. 

For all you know of Eddie Munson, one thing is for certain, it takes a lot to render him silent. And while you were rapidly losing it in the station, he had held it together. But the second you mentioned Zoë, all the fight left him. 

“Munson,” You croak, trying to draw him out from his racing thoughts. “We’re going to her, she’s not going to be alone, I promise you.” His eyes track your face in the light from the street lamps. “We’ll be on the next flight out, but we have to get in the cab first, okay?”

He nods, so subtle that if you’d blinked you would have missed it. You release the breath trapped in your lungs, a slow exhale as your hands settle on his forearms. Cautiously, you step forward and wrap your arms around him. He hesitates, body as tight as a tripwire, before he settles against you. The slight weight of you reminding him that he’s not alone in this.

"We’ll figure it out,” You murmur, voice scratchy from all the sobbing.

And for a moment, you just hold one another in the crisp spring morning. Birdsong twitters from above as the gloomy clouds of last night’s storm begin to clear. Elsewhere, people are beginning to rise and greet the new day, coffee percolates and sheets rustle. 

But in that moment, you’re able to forget all that— to push aside the fact that there are other people in the world and instead revel in the heartbreak you both feel, in the odd familiarity of each other.

Eddie uses the key Chrissy gave him to unlock the house in Loch Nora. It’s just after 6 A.M. of that same dreadful day and the house looks homey. A laundry basket propped up on a credenza, overflowing with burp cloths and tiny onesies. He flips a switch, and the entryway is bathed in a dull warm glow. 

“No, no,” You continue speaking into your phone, as you shut the door. “What I don’t understand is why we can’t see her now? Ma’am, I know you have protocol but we’re the godparents, isn’t there a precedent for that?”

Eddie moves like a ghost through the house, finds himself wincing as he catches sight of the Carver family photos with Chrissy’s bright smile. As he moves further into the house, your voice falls away.

All business since the cab ride. You swept through his studio like an automaton, throwing things into a duffle and didn’t bother to shut dresser drawers either. It looked like a criminal had ransacked his bedroom for a paltry collection of clothing. 

Eddie was tasked with packing his backpack, which he couldn’t muster up the effort to adequately do, and settled for tossing in his laptop, a few charging cables, and whatever else he swept off of the cluttered desk before zipping the bag.

Spent less than twenty minutes at your own place on the Upper West Side and returned with a neatly packed hardshell carryon and a leather tote bag, all the contents neatly organized and at the ready. 

And, he had to hand it to you, the efficiency you deployed everywhere from check-in to the TSA Pre-Check line, to wrangling an upgrade for the plane ride itself, and now playing verbal chess with the CPS representative was… impressive. Albeit frightening. 

But he also found it rather cold and unfeeling. Because, while yes, he had held you as you fell to pieces in the police station and witnessed your grief, since then you’d been too… together. Neatly packaged with a shiny bow on top, your sorrow packed tight and lying in wait underneath the glinting veneer of propriety.

The click of your heels on the hardwood floors alerts him to your presence. 

“Yes, I’ll be at this number. Thank you, goodbye.” You huff and lean against the arm of the sofa. “They won’t do anything, not until the case worker arrives this morning, at least.”

Eddie nods, “I’m sure that she’s fine, Vance.” His voice is soft, tired. “Why don’t you get some sleep? The guest room is upstairs and—“

A shake of your head, as you bring the phone back up to your ear. “No, I still need to contact the lawyer for Chr— uh, the will.” You reply, unable to speak her name, a little uneasy at the fact that she had a will in the first place.

Eddie tsks, he lip curling in disbelief, “C’mon, are you serious? What lawyer is going to be in-office and answer the phone at this hour, Dewey, Cheatem, and Howe?”

Fixing him with a glare Medusa would envy, you purse your lips. “Then I’ll leave a message with their answering service. And,” You turn, tossing the last bit over your shoulder, “If it’s an attorney that Carver hired, I can guarantee they’ll call back within the hour.”

And, true enough, the offices of Mason & Finch returned your call within thirty minutes. But really, who was counting?

You find Eddie’s limbs sprawled all over the couch in the den, the tv light flicking against the pallor of his skin. Grabbing the remote, you catch sight of Katharine Hepburn swanning across the screen in Bringing Up Baby. 

Tossing the remote to the side with a clatter, you accidentally (somewhat) wake Eddie. 

“The fuck Vance?” He sounds groggy and confused, slightly alarmed that he was jolted awake by a piece of plastic to the face.

”The attorney has arrived.” You say in lieu of a greeting, “And CPS hasn’t called yet.”

He rises slowly, stretching as a cat might— arms flexing above his head causing the hem of his shirt to ride up and reveal a smattering trail of dark hair down his abdomen. With a roll of your eyes, you turn and walk back into the study at the front of the house.

Maxine Mayfield Esquire, junior partner at Mason & Finch, has made herself comfortable at Jason’s mahogany desk. Briefcase stowed at her feet, she runs a hand through her hair, loose in her haste to make this meeting on time. The sealed last will and testament of Mr. and Mrs. Carver sits at the center of the desk, ominous and forlorn.

Technically, she wasn’t on-call for estate cases currently. But when the secretary had phoned her to see who was available this week, the second Max heard the words “fatal collision” and “Carver”, she was up and out of bed. She knew she needed to handle this case, though the name the secretary gave her was unfamiliar: Ripley Esmé Vance.

Whoever this person was, Max knew Eddie wouldn’t be long behind.

Before she’d left for the Carver’s that day, Max had trusted Lucas to rally the troops for an all hands on deck situation. She couldn’t tell him much, or if Eddie was even in town yet, but she knew Lucas would see to it that he wasn’t alone. 

Mason had briefed her over the phone on the drive over about the proceedings, what to expect from the beneficiaries, how to liaise with CPS, who to contact if Vance and Munson refused custody. Though, she didn’t anticipate needing that particular bit of information.

Rising to greet who could only be Vance, Max is nearly bowled over at the sight of Eddie. He looks haggard, which is to be expected, but it’s a stark contrast to the pristine image of his counterpart. 

Esmé Vance oozes sophistication— black Tahitian pearls adorn your neck contrasting with the gray sweater and wide legged trousers you’re sporting. Not much taller than Max, the inch or two gained in whole part due to the heels that click against the floor as you go to greet her.

"Ms. Mayfield,” You say, with the husky voice of a silver screen siren, “Thanks so much for seeing us this early, we appreciate it.” 

As you shake hands, the singular ring on your right hand catches Max’s notice. A clean and simple signet nestled on an elegant finger. Your nails are impeccable, a dark plum shade that Max makes a note to get the name of later.

In short, Chrissy’s best friend is just as the bubbly blonde had bragged— her polar opposite in nearly every way. Max wasn’t sure if she wanted her or simply wanted to be her, but she’d deal with that later.

"Hey Red,” Eddie says, leaning against the doorframe.

She excuses herself to wrap him in a warm embrace, professionalism be damned. He accepts it willingly, and she allows herself the luxury of inhaling the familiar scent of stale cigarettes and coffee.

"Hey Ed,” She replies, stepping back after a moment or two. “I’m so sorry about Chrissy.” She turns back to Esmè, eyes misty, “My condolences to you both.”

Soon after, they get down to brass tacks. Max reads the will aloud, the legalese meaning absolutely jack shit to Eddie, that is until:

"Joint legal and physical custody of Zoë Lux Carver is granted to Ripley Esmè Vance and Edward Waylon Munson—“

"I’m sorry, but what?” Eddie’s voice is louder than he intended, so distracted by the fact that he’s been granted custodial rights over an actual baby, that he completely misses that you don't even go by your given name.

It’ll come back to him later, sleep-addled and at wit’s end, no doubt.

Max pauses, noting the lack of reaction from you. Hmm, interesting. “Did Chrissy not discuss the guardianship arrangements with you?”

Eddie shakes his head, you decline to reply and turn to gaze out of the window. You’re quiet, which can only mean one thing.

"You knew about this Vance?”

"Well,” You hedge a reply, “I didn’t think it would necessarily come up. But… yeah, she mentioned it after Zoë was born. Though I didn’t know she meant joint custody.”

He turns back to Max, “What does that mean?”

"It means,” You supply, turning back to the conversation, “That we raise her together. Joint as in the two of us,” Your fingers gesture between the pair of you, “Not as in what your studio reeks of.” And then, you pantomime taking a drag from an imaginary joint, as if to prove your point.

"Gee, thanks for the tip, Officer Krupke.” 

Max watches, idly amused by the pair of you, a knowing smile gracing her lips. “Right, so if you refuse custody, Zoë will be placed with another willing caregiver, preferably family, but if not, she’ll go into foster care.”

"Oh, fuck no!”

"Over my dead body!”

Your exclamations override one another, the volume of the conversation increasing for so an early an hour. Max desperately wants a coffee, maybe an Irish one. 

“Okay, so you’re agreed on that, at least.” Max turns over to the next page in the document. “Everything else is pretty standard: all liquid assets are left to Zoë, kept in a trust until her twenty-first birthday, which you are both guardians of.”

She pauses for a moment, very much entertained that Chrissy, and by extension Jason, have left you both in charge of everything. A realization that has Eddie rolling his eyes beside you.

”You’ve also been given the deeds to the house in Hawkins, as well as the brownstone and, besides a few personal effects left to other people, everything within the properties seems to be yours.”

The redhead passes a copy of the document to each of you, along with her card. “When you have questions, you can reach me at these numbers and Eddie has my cell, too.”

Your mind is reeling, trying and failing to piece together the remnants of a life left behind. A puzzle that only you and Eddie can solve, or so it would seem. Before you can ask for confirmation or voice any of your concerns, Eddie’s voice rings through the room with an incredulous, “Properties? As in, plural?”

Max clears her throat, “Uh, yes. They want you to raise Zoë either here, in Hawkins, or—" She trails off to confirm the location of the other property. “New York. They closed on a property there earlier this week.”

"Huh,” He says, collapsing back into the club chair in front of Jason’s desk. “They never mentioned that.”

"Zoë.” You say once your tongue begins working again, “How do we— Where is she now?”

Max gives you a relieved smile. “Well, I’ve already arranged for her transfer. The foster family she was placed with last night will bring her to CPS. They feel that she’ll adjust best in her own environment. So, first, she needs to be picked up and brought here.” 

“Right,” You say, rising from your chair, “Can you excuse me, for just one moment?” And walk, as calmly as you can, out of the study and through the house to the back deck. 

It’s as if you can’t get enough air into your lungs, but the quicker you breathe in, the faster your heart beats. Your skin pricks with cold despite the warm morning sun.

”Ohmygod,” You heave out in a rush of air, “Ohmygod, ohmygod.” 

There has to be a better solution than co-parenting with Munson. How Jason’s attorney even let Chrissy pair you together for the foreseeable future truly boggles the mind. The pair of you loathe each other, further compounded by one disastrous interaction after another. This was insanity, there was no way in hell it could ever work!

You brace your hands on your knees and will yourself not to throw up. Never knowing that at precisely that very moment, Eddie is doing the same in the front yard of the house, just as petrified as you.

#eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x you #eddie munson x oc #eddie munson fanfic #fic: eby #modern!eddie munson #stranger things fanfic

[daevastanner]

Eventually

A Gwynriel Oneshot in which Azriel has a difficult conversation with Elain then contemplates his future in the company of Gwyneth Berdara while they babysit Nyx (an infant who is fictional so it doesn’t matter who he interacts with ✌️)

Stepping out of his brother’s office in the river house, Azriel ran straight into the last person he expected to see.

Gwyneth Berdara.

She stood just outside the High Lord’s study doors wearing her priestess robes and a surprised smile. “Good afternoon!”

Azriel shut the study door behind him, returning her grin. “When did you arrive, Berdara?”

“Oh, Morrigan winnowed me here about ten minutes ago.”

The shadowsinger arched a brow, assessing her. “This makes three times you’ve left the House in three months, Berdara.”

Beneath her freckles, Gwyn’s cheeks flushed pink, pride glinting in her teal eyes. Azriel couldn’t help but match the expression with an encouraging smile of his own. After the Blood Rite, Gwyn had left the House again the following month for Nesta and Cassian’s ceremony, a night where Azriel had spent an unexpected amount of time with the priestess. They’d sat together during the vows, Gwyn providing him with a handkerchief when he’d shed a tear. Afterwards, they’d sat together at the reception, Gwyn making unexpected jokes as each of their family gave increasingly flowery speeches. Azriel had even devised a drinking game to match the toasts and had gotten Gwyn properly wasted in under an hour.

Later, he’d asked her for a dance but Gwyn had declined, stating that she didn’t wish to humiliate herself. He took her outside instead where they each swayed separately to the muffled music, and Gwyn gave impassioned speeches about the merits of each song.

The night had closed with Azriel holding Gwyn’s hair as she threw up into the bushes by the Sidra, although her good nature didn’t falter. Throughout her sickness she bemoaned to Azriel that she was never drinking ever again and even humored him with a story of her and Catrin once splitting an entire bottle of commune wine in Sangravah only to be caught when one of the High Priestesses found red bile in the dining room’s vase.

Something had shifted between them that evening. Their private and public training sessions had always been littered with playful banter and teasing, but after the ceremony, Azriel had found himself completely disarmed by Gwyneth Berdara. No topics were off limits between them. Azriel had even told her a few details of his sordid childhood, and in return Gwyn had shared that the smutty books Nesta and Emerie had loaned the priestess were inspiring her to leave the library and find a romance of her own.

They were, in a word: friends.

Good friends, even.

Gwyneth Berdara had joined the small number of people that Azriel looked forward to speaking with.

Smiling conspiratorially, Gwyn whispered, “I got a missive from the High Lord. He has a business proposition for me.”

Azriel’s smile broadened. “What did I tell you? I said he would love your Blood Rite Report, didn’t I?”

Read the rest on ao3

#gwynriel #gwyneth berdara #azriel shadowsinger #azriel acotar #gwynriel supremacy #gwyn and azriel #acotar fanfiction #gwynriel fic #gwynriel fanfiction #ao3

[iamamythologicalcreature]

Six Sentence Sunday/Creative Proof of Life

Thanks for the tags, @alexalexinii, @shrekgogurt, and @that-disabled-princess!

This WIP post is basically a proof of life statement. I can't believe it's been over a month since I posted Chapter 1 of the Haunting of Simon Snow. I'm so overdue for chapter 2, BUT... instead I finished writing the rough draft. I've been attempting to outline, because when I rough a draft, I really rough it up. Ahem.

So I have been working on it, even if there is zero evidence on AO3 as of yet.

How about some sentences? I haven't sliced up chapters yet, so not sure if this is from chapter two or three, but here's a snippet of Simon on the phone with Penny expressing some smooshy sentiments:

I curl up on the couch a bit more, maneuvering myself so my wings aren’t crushed. “I went flying last night,” I confess then, in quiet tones. Like someone might hear me. “You— Oh, but… You can’t! What if someone sees you?” I can actually hear her biting her lip. She wants to spell my problems away, and she can’t. “But I can,” I say, smiling a bit more. “There’s no one around for acres. No one will even willingly drive here on account of the house being haunted. It’s empty. And I’m flying at night.” I say flying in the present tense and realize I fully intend to fly again tonight.

Penny huffs. Her specialty. “I don’t like it.” “I do,” I say easily, warming up to explaining, hoping she’ll understand. “It’s so freeing, Pen. Like the weight of the world can’t hold me down, anymore. I feel… It’s like… It’s like I’m closer to the stars. Like I’m close to stirring up the milky way.” I let out a sigh, my eyes closing as I drop my head back, indulging in that recent memory. “I don’t hate it as much, when I’m up there. You know?” There’s a few seconds of silence, and I open my eyes again. “Pen?” “Hate what?” she asks quietly.

(just in case you were worried I wouldn't be including angst...)

Bit more info on my progress (maybe some whinging) and tags and hellos below the cut!

Fun facts about my ineffecient writing process:

I spent more than one or two hours clearing asterisks from my rough draft this morning. (Because discord has trained me to do *this* when I write instead of this.) Because I'm trying to listen to my draft via screen readers, but it keeps sounding like "asterisk-impossible-star-fuck me" (that's my favorite one honestly, it's supposed to read "Impossible. Fuck me.") which is really annoying (more often than amusing). ANYWAY… what this has revealed to me is that I use "Fuck" a lot, as well as "So good." Ahem. Take from that what you will.

BTW, I'm sure there's an easier way to do that than manually. Please don't tell me for at least a few days, or I might lose it. I am but a mortal being, with a tattered heart and patience worn thin. (Or something.)

OKAY. It's been awhile since I did one of these posts. Time really flies. Gonna give this list my best shot, but as always, open to any who want to participate! (Also adding some new names in for the new year so this is sort of my "Gee I hope this is cool with you" super long tag list. If you'd rather not be tagged, just drop me a missive to that effect!)

@leithillustration @prettygoododds @rimeswithpurple @artsyunderstudy @blackberrysummerblog @hushed-chorus @nightimedreamersworld @best--dress @whatevertheweather @ileadacharmedlife @scribble-tier @imagineacoolusername @brilla-brilla-estrellita @alleycat0306 @angelsfalling16 @fatalfangirl @erzbethluna @tender-ministrations @anxious-m3ss @ebbpettier @bubble-gumhead @facewithoutheart @bazzybelle @theimpossibledemon @aristocratic-otter @mooncello @cutestkilla @annabellelux @ic3-que3n @j-nipper-95 @letraspal @messofthejess @onepintobean @palimpsessed @raenestee @supercutedinosaurs @theearlgreymage @thewholelemon @wellbelesbian @you-remind-me-of-the-babe @youarenevertooold @bookish-bogwitch @martsonmars @orange-peony @mostlymaudlin @stardustasincocaine @confused-bi-queer

Lastly, quick note/question. Tumblr seems to be remiss in informing me when I've been tagged in other posts. Is this a common issue?

#snowbaz #simon snow fanfiction #six sentence sunday #simon snow #penelope bunce #I will never not love writing Simon with his monster bits #his wings are a gift #his tail is a treasure #and I love love love writing him flying #oh in addition to using #“Fuck” and “So Good” #too much #there's also this beauty #“So Fucking Good.” #Don't you love behind the scenes notes on a WIPsday post? #I mean I hope so cause I kind of can't help myself #also doing lots of drawing lately #but seriously I just ran out of 2023 in the end #all good tho #2024 seems to be happening as scheduled if not as planned #simon snow series #the simon snow trilogy #carry on reverse bang #corb 2023 #Best besties #angst is coming #jodofic

[sodamnradd]

"Please." Draco collapsed at the foot of his bed, head hanging low. “Give me a sign you’re alive.”

She watched him pore over countless missives, hiring every private investigator in the country to look for her. Throwing violent tantrums each time they shared bad news.

“I’m here!” she screamed soundlessly behind a glass wall.

Harry arrived one afternoon juggling a tower of boxes. “If anyone finds out I copied these—”

“They won’t.”

For weeks Draco sifted through Hermione’s files, certain one of her projects had gone awry and someone was holding her captive.

Morsels of food appeared in her jar every day.

Though Draco barely glanced her way, she was a lovely creature, even with six legs and an exoskeleton.

No closer to finding her, he became haggard and pale, haunted by night terrors of Hermione’s boundless torture.

“You know the statistics, darling, the first forty-eight hours,” urged Narcissa. “She’d want you to move on.”

A year passed before he brought another woman to his room.

Astoria Greengrass lifted the jar from his shelf and gushed over her pretty wings. “Oh! They shimmer like stardust. I’ve never seen one like this before.”

Draco said nothing, focused on the starry night beyond the open window, turmoiled. “She's not coming back.”

Astoria went quiet.

“Do you really believe that?” she asked softly, coming up beside him.

“No,” he realised aloud, rubbing his fist over his chest. “I’d know if she were dead.”

“Set it free.” Astoria presented the jar. “Maybe the universe will free your Hermione in return.”

Draco didn’t take it. “I don’t believe in that sort of thing.”

“Would Hermione?”

“No,” he said immediately. “She especially wouldn’t.”

Astoria lifted her chin indignantly. “Something this beautiful shouldn’t be trapped in a jar.”

There came a loud screeching noise and then cold air roared across Hermione’s wings. The cleanest, freshest, most beautiful air she had ever breathed.

Wings fanning wide, she sprang out of the jar and fluttered around the room in dizzy, animated spirals before landing on Draco’s pointy nose, facing the bruise black shadows beneath his eyes.

He shook her off.

Undeterred, she resettled on his forehead.

“It’s annoying,” he muttered, flicking at her with his forefinger and thumb. Prat.

“Maybe it’s trying to tell you something.”

“Would you stop that?” He shot Astoria an irritated look. “You’re starting to sound like Lovegood.”

Astoria ignored him. “Could be enchanted. Who gave it to you?”

“Mother.” He gave up on flicking Hermione, who now sat on the pulse point of his neck, starving for the scent of his skin.

I’m here, she latched onto him with her feather light limbs.

“That explains it.” Astoria’s eyes lit up. “She must have charmed it to stay put. Do you mind if I set it free?”

“Go on,” he mumbled irately, blowing on her wings to encourage her to fly away. Hermione found the sensation soothing.

With a swish of her wand, Astoria cast, “Finite Incantatem.”

He yelped as her full weight came crashing down on him. Disoriented, he blinked several times, then shot up to his elbows, gaze alight with hope. “Hermione?”

She was straddling Draco. Perfect, moody, tangible Draco. 

“It’s me,” she rasped. Throat sore, and joints aching, fingers too stiff to curl. She pressed her forehead to his without breaking eye contact.

“This whole time,” he remarked breathlessly, hasty fingers touching her everywhere—jaw, neck, lips, waist, thighs—mesmerized. “I had you this whole time.”

(575 words, something I wrote April last year)

#sodamnrad #dramione #draco malfoy #hermione granger #hermione x draco #dhr #dramione drabble #drabble #sodamnraddrabbles

[thedeafprophet]

Delayed Gratitudes

The Boisterous Author recieves a late, and unexpected, feast gift.

I have given into my concept of 'what valentines 'gift' would the captivating princess give to Jamie', and this has resulted 😌

Ty freddie and warabola for giving me gift ideas :3 <3

Word count: 2.1k

Relationship: The Captivating Princess/Original FL Character

Rating: teen

Tags: Gifts, Vague references to kink

Also on ao3

Jamie was exhausted after the week's events- a good kind of exhausted of course, the one that only comes after many nights of parading around with delightful people and intriguing conversation. A type of tiredness that, while thrilling and exhilarating, would lead them to hiding away in their room for many days after. Preferably with a cup of tea and some lovely strawberry biscuits. The curtain had fallen after the performance, and it was time to recover before the next.

Jamie had not gone directly home after the end of the last party; in fact they were not entirely sure when they had fallen asleep to begin with, but they had at least returned to awareness in their own bed, so one must assume that they had gotten home relatively safely. It was not the first time they've woken up somewhere without knowing how they got there, and they were sure it wouldn't be the last. Perhaps they ought to drink a touch less at parties, but where would be the fun in that? 

It seemed to be well into the middle of the night when Jamie woke, as they blinked blearily at a clock on the wall after they padded out of bed. They would be the only one in the house at this hour, a grand shame of having no opportunity to incline Edith for a mid night snack, the hours stretched between now and when she would be arriving in the morning. Jamie pouted at the clock, as if the lack of snack opportunities was its fault somehow. 

The most logical action, of course, would be to return back to bed, but Jamie had only found themself getting up in the first place due to some lingering antsy energy. They didn't think anymore sleep would be found for the moment. 

That is how Jamie finds themself throwing on a wrapper, and padding on over to their office on the other end of the hall. Perhaps there was some work to be done, some writing inspiration sourced from the chattering and delights the prior week had given! The flutter of romance in the air always left inspiration for a good novel penning - and often for tragedy as well. 

Despite that in mind, instead of settling down with their typewriter, Jamie's motion paused when they sighted the pile of mail waiting on their desk.

Ah, right. That. Jamie had been….postponing responding to letters - there had just been many! And they had activities to attend! One cannot be blamed for remaining on stage when the crowd cheers for an encore! 

Jamie felt a little regret at leaving it for so long, now that they were faced with a pile to sort through. They could leave it a little longer couldn't they? Ah, but then they'd have even more to deal with wouldn't they….

With a deep sigh, Jamie sits down at their desk, flicks on their lamp, and pulls the first pile of mail towards themself. 

They flick aimlessly through their mail - fan letters for their work kept aside for later rereading, a heckling letter laughed at, then crumbled into a wad and tossed away. An invitation to some boring get-together, pass. A missive here or there from a friend, put into a pile to be responded to. Another party invite, this one more compelling. Oh a love letter, how endearing. And amusing. All very, utterly, typical. 

It is only when they are about half way through sorting the pile that they notice the box. Sitting ever so innocently behind the pile of mail sat a pristine, ribboned gift box, waiting ever so patiently for their attention.

Odd, it was well past the time for feast gifts, and Jamie had been sure to at least pay mind and open all of those. That was half the reason they hadn’t had time to get to the rest of the mail. Had they missed one? That didn't seem like them - no, whoever sent it must have clearly thought themself above the propriety of the time frame. Jamie huffed, and decidedly turns their focus back to sorting through their mail. 

That barely lasts a minute, before their thoughts return back to the question of the box.

Well, technically it was part of the mail too, wasn't it? So it still needed to be opened. And it seemed so much more interesting than another boring letter. 

Jamie nods to themself; perfect reasoning, and a good excuse to pause in looking through the mail. They pick up the box - not too heavy at all, but clearly something giving it weight - and walk back into their room to open it, lest they feel guilty ignoring the pile of mail they had set to complete. 

Sitting atop their bed, Jamie pries off the ribbon tying it together, a delightfully silky texture in and of itself. Their eyes are drawn to the contents of the box as they remove the lid, noting first a flower gracefully laid on top of a cushion, next to what appeared to be a necklace. 

Jamie reaches automatically to gently pull out the flower to examine it - but is met with a sharp, sudden jab of pain. 

Jamie pulls their hand back with a gasp, watching as the blood flows from the scratch in a rivulet down their finger. With a distant artistic view they can't help but note it matches ever so well with the colour of the rose. 

They mutter under their breath to themself as they put the box down; Of course it has thorns. Why didn't they check for that?  That's the first thing you look for with a rose. Jamie sighs as they pull a cloth from their beside table to apply pressure on the wound, red soaking through the fabric almost immediately. That will be a trial of a stain to get out, though this household knows all too well the process of removing red stains at least. Jamie can admit they have a…habit of spills, so to speak. 

When the scratch finally deigns it time to stop bleeding, Jamie returns their attention to the box, already put off from whatever this so-called gift is. Carefully, avoiding any thorns this time, they remove the flower from the contents. 

The flower is a deep, dark colour. At first glance, Jamie assumes it to be an exile’s rose, something one usually finds throughout the season - Jamie had already received such back during the proper time to be sending gifts. 

But it doesn't quite match the ones they have received. Its colour is not the same, the shape of this rose differs.  By all accounts, it looks like a regular flower, beautiful and unblemished, but something about it sets them at ill ease. Some sense of familiarity pricks  at the back of their mind that they just can't yet place, but makes them nervous, and unsteady. 

Jamie quickly decides to put the flower down on the bed beside them, wanting nothing more to do with it. It had already caused enough damage, thank you very much. They give the flower a short glare for the harm it caused, before turning their attention back to the box. 

Jamie picks up the necklace very slowly, not putting past it to have secret sharp bits too. They had no intention of any further scratches tonight, and will set to be careful with the matter! Their carefulness is unnecessary in the end, the whole thing seems rather smooth, even the gems that had been encrusted in it being of a rounded shape. 

The shape of the object confused them, solid and heavy in their hands. It was a shining, brilliantly polished silver, encrusted with dazzling blue sapphires and diamonds. The inside had been lined with a soft, plushy fabric, perhaps to keep the cold metal at bay.

It was evidently not something cheap to acquire, most certainly custom made, and from just the look of it, would fit perfectly sized around their neck. They squinted at it confusedly, odd for it to have a loop in the front-

Ah.

Yes, they don't know why they didn't realize sooner; it wasn't a necklace at all, it was a collar, with a clear spot that a lead could be attached. 

Jamie huffed to themself with a raised eyebrow. My, now that was rather forward, wasn't it? They can't recall the last time they last let someone put such a thing on them; that was an honour that had to be earned, and so few seemed skilled enough to earn it.

At least show your aptitude before sending it in a box right to their doorstep. A performer as talented as themself has very high, exacting standards. 

As Jamie looks back down at the box from whence it came,  it's only then that they notice the items weren't alone in the box. Underneath where the collar had been laid a small card. A note, perhaps? A sign off? Seems odd to Jamie to have placed it beneath anything - was the time between seeing the items and reading it intentional? Whatever it was, they intended to find out.

The words have Jamie's thoughts stutter all at once, realization hitting them like falling through the ice of a haphazardly frozen lake.

They knew that handwriting.

Knew it all too well.The cream card was embedded with delicate, flowing cursive, made by a perfectly practiced hand. 

‘See you soon~’

It had no signature. It didn't need one.

Jamie swallowed heavily at the implications of the note, glancing with trepidation at the items they'd received. They shivered in the dark understanding of where exactly that rose had come from, the distant recollection of pained screams and buzzing whirring in their mind. Farbeit for The Captivating Princess to send any sort of ‘gift’ without a cruel, underlying malicious motive. 

Their eyes flicked over to the collar.

Did she-

Was she implying-

Jamie feels a lump in their throat growing, as the all too familiar memory of hands on their neck, throat, back, stumble unbidden into their mind. The thought of delicately strong hands coming their neck, the weight of the collar heavy on their throat, clasp clicking shut and out of their reach-

Their face flushes heavily at the thought of what exactly she intended with this, given the context of their past encounters. 

No, no. Surely not. This was a threat, a power play, nothing more. They were sure of it. Whatever her intentions were, Jamie was having none of it. Just another one of her irritating little games, their own overactive imagination was surely getting the better of them. 

Still… What to make of this? They most certainly don’t want it- well, perhaps if the gift had truly come from a different source, they may have… considered entertaining the concepts. But not from her, never from her. Not if they had anything to say about it. 

They should toss it in the stolen river, throw it somewhere no one would ever find it, or maybe just pluck out all the diamonds and trade them for the cost. That would certainly be far more considerate then whatever the aim was here, and a good comeuppance for the cruel joke.

Jamie ponders over countless thoughts of how they could be rid of it, before their thoughts drift to how she might react should she find out her so-called gift was disposed of. 

Was she expecting them to keep it? Did she have… intentions? They certainly didn't want to give into her domineering behaviour, but to needlessly anger her with no benefit to themself…

The phantom pain of recently healed scratches burn on their back. 

In a rush, Jamie is shoving both the collar and the flower back into the box, and slams the lid back on. They ponder only for a second, before walking over to their wardrobe, opening the doors and shoving the box far into the very back, behind lesser worn shoes and other miscellaneous boxes of items. Hidden, at least from view if not from mind. 

They slam the doors of the wardrobe shut, and tamp down forcibly on the rest of their wandering mind. This doesn't bother them - it doesn't, not at all! They will simply pretend the box doesn't exist, and no ‘gift’ was ever opened.

It can rot at the back of their wardrobe; but still there, just in case. 

Jamie does their best to shove the whole concept of the box out of their mind as they return to their office, and back to their mail. The actually important matters, things that actually serve a purpose. They can focus all their energy on that, and not on some foolish power play they most certainly don't care about. 

At least, they can tell themself they don’t care about it, to the best of their capability. Whether that was actually true or not was their own business. 

#this was a quick little write up lol #hehe #my writing #jamie and the princess #oc: jamie #the captivating princess #fic

[chawarin-panich]

Boston giving Sand the Reality Check he needed Part 1 of 2: Boston's Reasoning

This is my thoughts on Boston and Ray's fallout, how and why it came about and how Sand did really need it - which I start talking about in this meta - even though despite Boston's insistence his purpose was never to help Sand. I didn't mean to make this two parts but I started writing the Boston portion of the meta and it turned into what it did kajsfhsdkjfh and I needed to approach Sand and Ray's portion a little more seriously. Without further ado, here goes:

[SCENE START] Imagine you are Boston, the son of a politician, loaded with money but not a lot of visibility or acceptance (I mean if you watch enough Thai dramas you know what politician is code for - corruption, deception, selfishness, entitlement). You are extremely entitled, extremely guarded and extremely unscrupulous and this is what you've been taught life is, what successful, powerful people are like and you are successful and powerful even though things have not quite been going your way recently. Even though earlier on in the day you had your first human emotion:

(give the boy a break he is starting to figure out why people have boyfriends okay? much less that he also kind of wants one??? the emotional TOLL he is under oh boy)

and on top of all that suddenly you have been called for emotional support??? Mew is supposed to call Ray this is very much not your job!!! Can Mew's virgin ass please get over one stupid kiss already???

So Mew has called you and he is THE LAST person you ever want to help with THE LAST problem you've ever wanted to help him with. But you squeeze down the sting of rejection, the inferiority you feel from it - are you perhaps?? not as successful and powerful as you thought??? - and you try to be a normal, human person for A SECOND TIME in ONE day (!!!!) and be a good friend

And you did such a good job!!! You didn't play into his insecurities or try to ruin it for him - even though you wanted to!!! - because at the end of the day Mew is your friend and you know how important his virginity is to him. And now you are ready for some MUCH NEEDED REST from all that decent human being cosplay that you've been doing. And there is a cute guy who likes you and he has an apartment where you can go and fuck him and even though the day is ruined there is still chance for the night to recover but uh oh!!!! What's that???

A Situation You Do Not Understand!!!!! Involving the man who fucked up being manipulated so badly that you had to do 5 seconds of emotional labor earlier that day. Now, you have a choice as an adult to mind your business and walk away into that promised room of fucking that cute guy you were going to fuck. But you are also The Son of a Politician and if there is one thing you know it's that information is power and the instinct to meddle like a 70 year old auntie is slowly overtaking your senses. And so you ask a seemingly innocent question with auntie-adjacent straightforwardness:

And your hot mess of a best friend comes up with the shadiest, juiciest answer while his partner is looking at him like his soul is leaving his body:

On top of that there is weed????? In the form of a delicious looking cookie?????? At this point you are on a missive FROM GOD to find out What The Fuck is Going On.

And what the fuck IS going on?????

An absolute bonkers situation is unfolding, Ray somehow in the mess of his life and his unrequited feelings for Mew is living some romcom with the cute bar singer! Ray!!! The alcoholic!!!!! the one friend you could always count on to make you feel better about the mess that is your life. The one friend you will always be superior to - THAT RAY???

And to make matters worse!!! The cute guy you're with Knows Everything. You have been so busy squeezing out three drops of human emotions because you want to keep the Cute Guy You Kind Of Sort Of Might Like around that you forgot to get around to the 'so do you know any gossip' portion of the casual fucking programming.

Not only are you fucking up your duties to the Politicians' Son Upbringing but the dormant auntie inside you gets another whiff of that fat, juicy gossip as Ray pulls a second 'We Are Just Friends' after you JUST witnessed Sand feed him an edible WITH HIS MOUTH

And you're not trying to stir shit - promise!!! - you just want to see your alcoholic friend stutter and get awkward, put in his place a little bit because Mew might have you beat but there's no way that this flaming hot mess has you beat.

Except!!! UH OH!!!! Ray is an idiot! He is so in wanting of love and finding himself undeserving of it that he has genuinely Not Noticed that the man next to him is In Love With Him. He is not you!! - acutely aware of how his cute guy is in love with him - he is Discovering That Sand Likes Him and somehow you have been duped into helping????

Sand's soul is back in his body and they are somehow Being Worse than before. But your Help A Friend Quota is OUT! You have spent IT ALL on Mew earlier and You. Are. Done. Only one person is allowed to cosplay a decent human being tonight and BY GOD it will not be Ray! The only thing left to do is To Bring Out The Gasoline.

And So? You Do.

[END SCENE]

#ofts meta #only friends the series meta #ofts boston #only friends the series #ofts #sandray #nani's hot takes #god this is such a silly post #i didn't even mean for it to become this #but boston is such a silly little guy #and i love him so much

[dragonagecompanions]

DA2 crew reacting to Hawke who stops caring? Maybe after the death of Leandra they just stop showing any kind of emotion? Not even rage or sadness it's as if they're made tranquil but without the need to be cut off from the fade instead, it's their emotions that are cut off. When they finally ask Hawke they simply shrug and respond with

"Why do I care? Everyone leaves me or they want something from me only to stab me in the back, why should I care anymore?"

Just, just pure angst heartbreak something that will hurt I BEG FOR THE HURT JUICE!

WELCOME TO THE JUICE BAR! HERE THERE BE ANGST!

Varric: He gets it. For most of the time, amongst the odd band of friends he has made in the City of Chains, Varric puts on a very convincing show as the devil may care rogue with the world at his fingers and no weight on his shoulders.

But on the nights when he is not walking through Darktown killing...well, anyone who crossed their path really, it was hard to maintain the mask. When the last drunken drunken warbler had left or past out or otherwise left the Hang Man silent in the wee hours even his tavern rooms couldn't keep the echoes at bay. Brother, father, mother, ancestral culture and society; all of it gone before he was even respectably middle age. He'd lost Orzammar before his first breathe, and no matter how in the Merchant Guild he climbed no surfacer would ever be anything less than a casteless outcast.

Normally that didn't bother him, but on the heaviest nights...He can't bring back everything Hawke lost, and isn't fool enough to try. But he can be a friend, a port in the storm. Once Hawke's mindset is known Kirkwall's resident story teller makes it his mission to be a constant bulwark for his friend. He has let them flounder for too long-- dwarves might not be great at swimming, but Varric will not let Hawke drown.

Bethany: It takes a long time for her own bitterness, at a life of endless hunger and exhaustion and nightmares of a Grey Warden that she would never have chosen for herself, to fade enough for her sibling's silence to truly register. Their mother's death had been a terrible blow, a severing of the last parental bond, but it had also heralded a silence from Kirkwall that...

Well, that she had come to take for granted. Varric still wrote like clockwork, his letters a comforting and humorous glance into the city that had been home so briefly, but after more than a year the remaining Hawke sibling looks up to realize she has had not a word in months. Her last letter was so bitter, penned in grief and anger and without thought for the child who actually had to see and bury Leandra, but now those caustic words eat at her own mind.

Distance has bled off the pain, and the missive that goes to the City of Chains is almost meek in comparison to her fiery words. But the letter she receives makes silence preferable-- she can feel her sibling's desolate apathy through the short penned lines, and for once she aches for the cramped paradise of Gamlen's hovel when their family was mostly whole.

They do not write again, and in her shame and sorrow she does not ask them to. A Grey Warden is meant to leave all their former life behind, and yet somehow her older sibling has managed to cut loose of those bonds-- and Bethany finds herself clinging to a life that she cannot save.

Anders: Justice roils, unsettled and uneasy at the terrible symmetry. There is no sunburst scar to mark the sundering of mind and fade, no judgement rendered to murder life and emotion, and yet tranquility would almost be preferable to the empty aching sorrow. Hawke had always been a vibrant soul, built for purpose and life and determined to make their way in the world no matter the cost. But this...

There had been a time when Anders had been that alone. The loss of friends, of family, of the chance to have a life of his own. Even the freedom of the circles had still left him chained to another institution, no matter how preferable the Grey Wardens might have been. Isolation was a like an unhealing wound, pulling at the body and soul until there was nothing left to fight it. A sepsis of the soul, where no surgeon's blade could cut it free.

There had been no true isolation since Justice had come to him; it feels like a betrayal to admit he missed it.

And oh Anders wants to comfort his friend, tries to be there and sets aside (as much as his fracturing mental state will allow) the conversation of mages rights for other conversation. Brings food and wine and tries to rekindle that spark that had always been in Hawke's soul.

But his plans for the Chantry -and the looming betrayal that must carve them apart once again- keeps a pall of guilt over those efforts. It seems crueler somehow -infinitely more so if they are in a romantic relationshiip-to build up only to destroy, and so knowing he cannot help one of his first true friends in the city is another burden to lay against the cost of mage freedom on the scales of Justice.

Isabela: At first she brushes it off as a bad day, nothing that a trip to the Hanged Man and the Blooming Rose can't clear right up. She's had a few of her own, after all, and knows the liberal application of lover and libation to be a perfect solution for gloomy moods. Friend or lover, she knows how to raise the spirits.

But when that doesn't work, when her efforts are shot down again and again in that same terrible, dry tone, something distant and awful howls in the back of her mind. As the captain of a ship she is good at watching for storms and reefs, for the dangerous shoals that can render a ship little more than kindling or the hurricanes that turn even the greatest ports into unsafe harbors. There are no maps to nagivate here, no sounding charts or sextant readings to guide her to calmer waters.

She has looked death and danger in the eye with laughter and a ready blade, but the dull and distant apathy in her friends eyes shakes her like no nautical challenge ever has. They tetter on the crest of a wave, and for all that she might scramble for control the trough might be too much for them to weather. Emotions have never been her strong suite, commitment not in her wheelhouse. Isabela is shallow and vain by her own admission, made for the life at sea and not meant to drop anchor forever.

But when she takes a heading, she takes it true. It will be work, work the captain is not at all sure she is capable of, but in all her long life Isabela has never abandoned a crew member gone overboard. And even if Hawke is determined to struggle against joy and life and recovery, she will not let them drown.

Aveline: It is so, so tempting to lay pain for pain. To compare the loss of home and husband and life against the inevitable (if untimely) loss of parent, the grief of lost siblings and broken friendships to the struggle of proving herself to the guard. Who are they cut themselves off from those who love them, when no one is untouched by loss?

But the simple and terrible truth is that pain is a terrible equalizer, and lays low all who come before it. Aveline has fought for her position as a guardsman, and then guard captain, and is proud of her duty. But she is also too well aware that the burdens laid at her desk are nothing like that of a Champion of a city, and that Kirkwall has for years asked far more of Hawke than it has given in return. Her friend has never waivered, never failed in their devotion to a city that never stops taking.

Her own rise in station comes of both her work and theirs, and with a pang Aveline is suddenly unsure if she has ever let Hawke know how deeply grateful she has been for their friendship-- from that first day in Ferelden onward.

It is not in her nature to look back and regret on mistakes that cannot be fixed, or dwell too much on old sorrows. With Donnell's help she can only move forward as a better friend, a better companion. To make sure Hawke knows without question that they are loved, and to guard them and their future as she does the city they will build it in.

Fenris: Everything he touches, it seems, must be laid low.

There is no question that his social skills lack a certain...polish, nor that on the whole Fenris and society are mostly estranged. He in content to live in his decaying mansion, to make a life devoid of company when not traipsing through Kirkwall with a ragtag bunch of friends. He does not seek out company often, is not comfortable with the idea of the vulnerability that friendship requires with more than a handful of people.

It does not occur to him until Hawke's empty and apathetic words that those actions and attitudes might hurt more than himself. Hawke has been a better friend and compatriot than Fenris ever dared to hope for, certainly better than he had the right to ask for, but his actions have not been equal to that friendship. He has let them suffer alone, or at least mostly unsupported, and that is...

It hurts like the Fog Warriors hurt, needless betrayal when something better might have been.

There is a cold blessing in the memories of a life enslaved being ripped away by the lyrium, even if the experiences after were hardly kindness itself. But Hawke must live with it all, the pain and betrayal and the crushing isolation that comes with duty. Fenris has chosen to be alone, at least, in his self imposed solitude.

Hawke has no one.

It is a bitter vintage of guilt, particularly for a romanced Fenris who has done more than most to cause such pain. But he has not come so far in life without being tenacious, and commitment to a goal is keen to success. If he must finally leave the mansion behind, to spend everyday with his friend until that sorrow is as distant as his life in Tevinter, than it is a sacrifice worth making.

He will bring the good wine--it stands up well to despair.

Carver: There is a sort of inherent loss of self, when you have a twin. For all that Bethany and he had been different people, it is at times unavoidable that you be lumped together by even your family. It is rarely malicious but often very annoying, and was in some ways the catalyst for how much he envied his older sibling's singular triumphs and failures. There was no one to share that spotlight with, and it burned at something deep within Carver's soul.

The bitter grief that came when Bethany was gone, gone and leaving him with no one to lock step with, did not lend itself to mending the hard feelings for his older sibling. While not so cruel as Leandra to lay blame at the eldest Hawke child for his sister's death, her absence creates a void that neither can ever truly fill.

Time heals some wounds, of course, but distance and duty can cauterize what has not yet healed. Leaving his life behind to take the oath of a Grey Warden is perhaps the most freeing thing he has ever done, and if it is easier than most to carve away his past life...he is well named for it. That is not to say that the news of his mothers death does not pain him, but his new brothers and sisters a balm in a way family has not been in the past.

It is cold comfort when Varric's letter, with the uncertain request to write to his sibling in an attempt to ease their pain, makes them uncomfortably aware that years have passed without correspondence. Somewhere between the Deep Roads and his duties the oldest Hawke sibling ceased to be a daily thought for him, and Carver is ashamed to realize that he was relieved when the letters stopped. He does write a few stilted lines, unsurprised to receive no reply, and tells himself he can do no more.

If his father's face haunts his dreams with imagined disappointment and grief for months after, let that be penance enough.

Merrill: If Clan Sabrae still lives she will find it difficult to relate, but if Keeper Marethari's actions have cost her so much more than Merrill is painfully aware of the pain of total isolation. Hawke does not even have the eluvian to compensate their struggles, and for a time the Dalish mage is unsure how to help.

So she simply listens. Even if it is apathetic silence, or quiet sorrow, or even howling rage, Merrill stays. Her friend has never abandoned her, not in all the time she has known Hawke. Their life has been a bitter one, with duty and grief and helpless loss too mich a companion. Nothing she can do will fix the past, but she can prove to them with the consistency and patience of her presence that they are not alone.

The introduction of baked goods to that listening and support is also, in her experience and delight, a helpful tool. Among the Dalish shared food is the foundation of family and community, and in time she will use it to bring hope back to her friend.

Creators, let her succeed.

-Mod Fereldone

#dragon age 2 #merrill #aveline #hawke #carver hawke #bethany hawke #fenris #anders #isabela #angst

[christiansorrell]

Memory Manifest - a solo game (for free!)

Memory Manifest is a solo game where you, real life you - not a character, are recruited by DeSERT's Well-Remembered Artifact division and given instructions on how to tunnel back to foundational memories and retrieve artifacts imbued with power by your lifelong remembrance.

It's a short 8-page zine I dreamt up last night and threw together today as this month's TTRPG freebie for my newsletter. It's small but interesting (to me anyway), and I'm excited to mess more with this thought experiment kind of game in the future.

You can find it about halfway through the latest issue of Missives from the MeatCastle, my monthly newsletter.

#ttrpg #indie ttrpg #ttrpgs #rpg #writing #solo rpg #solo ttrpg #journaling game #memory

[cambion-companion]

Sorry but now I need to know how “and winter came” continue… like how the story of out little lovers ends; would they have their own little dragon-wolf? Is just such a fantastic story 🥰

I was originally intending to end this with part 2 haha but how cute would it be to see them after Lady Stark becomes his wife? I think there will need to be a Part 4 after all. I'm thinking of including a Direwolf bond in another chapter as well as a certain Meraeda bonding with a dragon and Aemond teaching her to ride.

Tag List: @faithmust92 @xcharlottemikaelsonx @gotjonsa1 @ml0103 @castle-in-the-air0

And Winter Came Part 3

Part 1

Part 2

Aemond x Stark!reader

Word count: 1800

Winter had passed, the summer zephyr stirring your skirts as you sat at the oaken table of the small sitting room.  A flock of white doves flew by your window, a salty breeze from Blackwater Bay stirring your hair. The war was over, after your father had found out about your marriage to Prince Aemond he had made the difficult decision to pull his forces in favor of the Greens.  The whole of the North followed Lord Stark’s lead and the rest of the Targaryen civil war was swift, ending with Aegon II on the throne, and your return to King’s Landing on Aemond’s arm.  

You had not returned to Winterfell since leaving to find Aemond at Harrenhal.  Your father had broken an ancient oath to save you yes, but he had also made it clear you would not be welcome back home.  It was with an aching heart you relayed this message to your husband.  “I had wished to take you to the North someday, show you the deep snows and the Weirwood where the Old Gods still sleep.”

Aemond took your hand in his, kissing your forehead gently. “Give it some time, my love.  If your father loved you enough to change his allegiance, he will forgive you.”  He smiled ruefully, his lovely sapphire eye sparkling. “Besides if we wish to go, who’s to stop us?  Vhagar inspires men to become rather amenable to me.”

Time had passed, and still no word from Winterfell, no raven carrying a message of reconciliation from your lord father.  You gazed out of the arched window, overlooking the many red roofs and sandstone buildings, you ran a hand absentmindedly over your swollen belly.  The many heated, breathless nights spent tangled in bed with your Targaryen prince had proved fruitful.  

With a smile, you recalled how Aemond’s face lit up at the news of your pregnancy.  He had lifted you in his arms, spinning you around while the both of you laughed with overbrimming joy.  He had hardly left your side during the four months you’d been pregnant, only leaving to attend important council meetings or when his mother summoned him as she had done this afternoon.

You rose from your plush chair, casting one last look to the distant water sparkling in the sunlight, before walking to the raven’s rook as you had done every day since arriving at the Red Keep, each time hoping for some word from the North.  

There was a scroll for you, with trembling fingers you took it from the Keeper, breaking the dire wolf wax seal, your eyes scanning the brief note.  Clutching the parchment to your chest, you gathered your skirts and hastened back to your chambers.  Aemond, having finished with his duties, was waiting for you by the stone mantle of the great fireplace.  He turned at your arrival, his violet eye widening at the expression on your face. “Has something happened?”

“My father!”  You could barely breathe, as you extended the missive for Aemond to take. “He has invited us to Winterfell.”

Aemond looked the message over, his face unreadable.  “This is what you desire, my wife?” His eye flitted back up to you, lowering his hands.

Despite yourself, you hesitated. “I know our welcome will not be a warm one, for lack of better words.”  You moved closer, reaching up to trace your fingers along Aemond’s sharp jaw. “They will need assurance my father made the right decision in forsaking Rhaenyra.”

Your husband placed his hands to your pregnancy bump, rubbing his thumbs along the fabric of your dress. “Do you wish to go?  I worry for your safety, there will be many who see you as a traitor.” He continued over your protestations. “I know what it is to be given such a title, even if it is in error.”

You nodded, lowering your gaze. “You are right, of course, but I do wish to return.  I have longed for it, as you know, for months now.”

“What was it you said to me at Harrenhal?”  Aemond tucked a finger under your chin, urging you to look at him. “‘When the snow falls, and the white winds blow’…”

“The lone wolf dies, but the pack survives.”  You finished, tears blurring your vision.

Aemond made a soothing sound in the back of his throat, wiping the falling tears from your cheeks and pulling you against his chest. “We will leave as soon as you wish, my little wolf.  Let the people of the north be assured they fought for the right side.”

It was on the back of Vhagar, the largest dragon in Westeros, you traveled back home. The journey was a short one, especially compared with the time it took to travel on horseback.  Aemond held you tightly against him the entire time, the stead beating of Vhagar’s wings lulling you into a light slumber.

Most northerners had never seen a dragon before, only heard tales of their ferocity and the ruthlessness of the Targaryens because of them.  The welcome you received at Winterfell was tense, mostly due to the fact a dragon the size of an island loomed well within eyesight of everyone in the fortress.  She could easily destroy the Wall much less your entire home in the space of only a few hours, and everyone knew it.

Your family greeted you inside the muddy courtyard, your father’s noble face softened upon seeing you, his grey eyes flitting to your pregnant belly.  There was a pause, before he opened his arms to you, embracing you tightly. “Daughter.” It was one word yet conveyed more emotion than you had seen before in the man.

“Father.”  You hugged him tightly, savoring the familiar smell as you buried your face into the soft fur of his cloak.

He pulled away, his gaze sharpening as it landed on Aemond, who stood beside you. “Well met, lord Targaryen.  I have heard much about your exploits in the South as well as your dragon.”  He motioned with a gloved hand to where Vhagar could be seen over the fortress wall.

You were led inside, learning that your brothers had been unable to return from their duties abroad to see you.  You had a sneaking suspicion they still held grudges against what your love for Aemond had cost them.  Guilt prickled at your heart as you sat to dine with your father and his household.  After your mother had died, Lord Stark had refused to remarry, thus the company in the hall was mostly men save for a few serving girls who carried heaping plates of food to the oaken table.

Aemond had been right, the conversation was subdued, many less than friendly faces observed you and your husband as you ate and drank and spoke with your father.  To his credit, Aemond seemed to be making a concerted effort at polite respect, engaging your father in conversation of the history of the North.  You suspected he had read up what he could about the North in the library of the Red Keep.  With a small smile at that thought, you ducked your head and took another mouthful of hot soup.

-----

“I think he likes me.” Dusk had fallen, you and Aemond had elected to take an after-dinner stroll through the wood.  

You looked over at him, cradling your abdomen with a hand as you walked. “I think he does as well.  You certainly charmed him with your extensive knowledge of his lands and people.”

“Hmm, I knew those dusty books would come in handy one day.”  

Your footsteps halted, you had reached the pool beside the great Weirwood tree, its white bark contrasting strikingly with its red five-pointed leaves.  Aemond looked down at his rippling reflection in the water, his eye met yours as you also lowered your gaze to the gleaming surface.

“I understand now why you love your home as you do.”  Aemond’s voice was soft, his hand reaching around to pull you gently against his side.

“It holds an old magic.” You agreed, raising your head to place your lips against his in a warm kiss. “I wish to have our baby here.”

“That is months from now, Y/N.”  Aemond shook his silver head. “I’m not certain it’d be wise to linger here for that long.”

“Please, Aemond.”

The prince sighed, his eye taking in your earnest expression. “Very well, far be it from me to deny my wife anything.”

He kissed you again, wrapping his strong arms about you, the image of your entangled bodies under the ancient tree made double, reflected on the still mirror-like surface of the Weirwood lake.

It had taken some convincing, especially with the presence of Vhagar, but your father acquiesced to your desire of staying.  The winds of winter blew strong against the stone walls of Winterfell the night you felt the baby begin to make its way into the world.  It was the longest night of your life, your body racked with pain unlike anything you’d imagine feeling.  Aemond stayed by your side the entire time, sacrificing his fingers to your grip as he held your hand.

The screams of your newborn daughter were drowned out by the howling wind of the snowstorm.  Exhausted, you took her into your arms, hair damp on your forehead as the babe took her first breaths.  Aemond knelt beside you, caressing your face before gently taking your daughter’s hand in his, her tiny fingers curling around his finger.

Your eyes fluttered; the ordeal of childbirth had taken its toll.  Aemond kissed your sweaty brow. “You’ve given me a daughter.”  His voice was sweet and low, the expression on his face unlike any you’d seen there before. “What will we name her?”

“Meraeda.”  You whispered. “The name of my mother.”

“Meraeda Targaryen.”  Aemond repeated, almost reverentially. “She is beautiful, just like her mother.”

Indeed, the infant had inherited your dark hair though her eyes sparkled with light purple irises as she gazed at the adoring faces of her parents.  Meraeda yawned widely, scrunching her pink face up and nuzzling against your breast.

Aemond placed a tender kiss to her soft head. “Sleep, my little dragon.”  He ran a finger down your cheek to trace your lips. “And you, my darling wife.”  His lips pressed against yours, you melted into his embrace as he wrapped his arms around you, your baby girl nestled in between you.  “I will watch over you tonight.”  Aemond settled back, his gaze never straying as he watched you fall into a deep slumber, your daughter sleeping in your arms.

#aemond x reader #aemond x you #aemond x y/n #aemond x oc #aemond targaryen x reader #aemond targaryen x you #prince aemond x reader #prince aemond x y/n #aemond x stark!reader #aemond fanfic #aemond stannies #aemond targaryen #aemond fic #aemond imagine #pro aemond targaryen #aemond hotd #aemond one eye x reader #prince aemond #aemond the kinslayer #asoiaf au #hotd au

[imakemywings]

Happy Thanksgiving sometimes Maglor puts his hair up a certain way and people remember he actually looks quite a bit like a less hot Feanor.

AO3

- - -

            It wasn’t often they were all together anymore, and when they were—as then—it was usually owing to the summons of Nelyo. Forget whatever the so-called high king of the Noldor was demanding—they came because Nelyo called, and for no other reason. Maglor took his time in front of the vanity before traipsing downstairs for breakfast. Celegorm was at the table with coffee and a missive from Himlad, while Maedhros was in the kitchen adjacent and Caranthir picked over an anemic pear a few seats away from Celegorm.

            “Good morning, everyone,” Maglor announced his arrival, unable to enter a room otherwise. Caranthir looked up and, stricken, simply said “NO.” Subsequently Celegorm also glanced up and choked on a sip of coffee.

            “Morgoth’s fucking balls Kano, you have to warn us before you come in looking like that,” he said. Maglor frowned petulently and Maedhros emerged at the usual sound of commotion from a gathering of his brothers. For a moment he only stared and blinked, and then he said:

            “I thought Atarinkë said he would be late.”

            “Ha-ha,” Maglor said, attempting to be dry, but sounding a great deal more like he was on the verge of storming out. “You should all run a family comedy troupe.” He took a seat at the table and helped himself to the coffee.

            “You really should warn us, Kano,” Caranthir said with a troubled frown as the sound of footsteps sounded through the kitchen.

            “Hey, Nelyo, can we—fuck,” said Amrod, coming to a dead halt in the kitchen doorway. “I thought necromancy was frowned upon around here.”

            Amras just laughed, doubling over until he wheezed.

            “Hey, Atya—sorry, Kano—didn’t hear you get in last night,” he choked. Maglor sat primly at the table looking more and more like that might be a kinslaying gleam entering his eye.

            “You’re all so very funny,” he said, and perhaps the razor’s edge in his voice was incidental, or perhaps it was a reminder.

            “Don’t worry, Kano,” said Maedhros, waving a hand as he turned back towards the kitchen. “I’m sure Ammë would find it charming.” For that, Maglor was going to write another song about Maedhros and teach it to his troops. There were plenty of things that rhymed with “ass.”

            As the twins helped themselves to food and drink and Maglor wrapped his hands around a mug of coffee, the sound of familiar familial bickering sounded outside the door.

            “—told you if we had taken the longer route we wouldn’t have had to ford the river—”

            “It was still not as long as taking your route—”

            The door flung open to admit Curufin, his wife, and a deathly-bored looking Celebrimbor, who brightened at once at the sight of his uncles.

            “It’s about time you made it,” Celegorm opined. “Here I began to think you’d decided to take a scenic diversion through Nan Dungortheb on the way.”

            “Don’t be stu—” Curufin looked up from stomping the ice off his boots, caught sight of Maglor, and actually took a step backwards with a sharp intake of breath, white visible all around his dark irises. He exchanged a hasty glance with his wife.

            “Oh!” said Celebrimbor in surprise. “Makalaurë, you look so much like grandfather! I remember he used to wear his hair that way!”

            Maglor exhaled long and slow and reached up, yanking his hair down from the topknot he had carefully arranged it in that morning.

            “You know, I had almost forgotten,” he said. Another thing he had almost forgotten: what a waste of time it was to try anything artistic in this wretched family.

#maglor #maedhros #celegorm #caranthir #curufin #amrod #amras #celebrimbor #the silmarillion #tolkien tag #rocky writes #fanfiction #tolkien fanfiction #there actually is a strong family resemblance there but their demeanors are so different people overlook it #though tbqh maglor does not get his tendency to dramatics and histrionics from nerdanel #the one where maglor traumatizes all six of his brothers by coming to breakfast looking like dad #he thought it was a very nice and not at all feanor-ish look on him #tfw you try a new look and suddenly your whole family has become a panel of fashion critics

[ikeromantic]

Kyubei - Secret - 🤭

Alas, poor Kyubei. The suitor that deserves to be! Approx. 1700 words.

Kyubei had a secret. In the grand scheme of things, it wasn’t an important secret. No fortunes would be made or destroyed by it. No lives irrevocably changed. If it got out, there would be no wars fought over it or assassinations because of it. The secret was small and his and he held it in him like a child’s lantern held candle-light. The warm glow of knowing it made his life more bearable. 

“What are you smiling about?” Mitsuhide’s sharp gold gaze landed on him as he brought in the night’s reports. 

“Am I smiling?” Kyubei drew his mouth into a firm line. 

Akechi’s own mouth spread in a grin. “You were.”

“Then perhaps I am learning from you.” Kyubei did his best to imitate the razor sharp smile his lord was known for. And then, before more questions could come, he set his bundle down on Mitsuhide’s desk. “There are two missives from Kasugayama, one from Kyoto, and a full report from one of our eyes in the south.”

News would draw away the too-perceptive eye of his lord. And it did. Mitsuhide opened the bundle, long slim fingers graceful as they plucked the important papers from the rest that could be read later. 

Kyubei did not wait to be dismissed. He was already backing out with a bow when Mitsuhide glanced up. “Stay. I may have need of you yet.”

“Yes, my lord,” he replied. Because what other reply could he give? Kyubei settled in, watching Akechi read through the urgent reports. He already knew what was in them, and had a fair idea of what his lord would request done. Another agent sent south, some letters and payments to certain merchants that traveled through Kasugayama, and for Kyoto . . . 

His musings cut short as the door opened. The chatelaine stepped in with a tray of tea and some food. “I know you don’t break for lunch but I thought -” she paused as she noticed Kyubei standing there. “Oh! Hello!” 

“Princess.” Kyubei bowed, hoping the movement would hide his face long enough to subdue the sudden rush of heat in his cheeks. 

The chatelaine smiled at him shyly and tucked her hair over her ear. The tray wobbled in her remaining hand and he darted forward to take it from her. “Thank you. It would be just like me to make a mess when I’m trying to be helpful. I’m so clumsy.”

“You are as graceful as a deer, princess. Next time, ask me. I am pleased to help.” He couldn’t take his eyes off her face. She was so beautiful. 

“Ahaha, no - omg - no. No one has ever said I am like a deer.” She wasn’t laughing at him or his words, but at herself and it made Kyubei’s heart feel full to bursting to share this moment with her. 

Kyubei returned her smile with one of his own. “Then I am lucky to be the first. Though I am surely not to be the last to notice your beauty.”

And then Mitsuhide cleared his throat, reminding them both that he was there and an unwilling audience to this awkward, inappropriate moment. 

In just a heartbeat, Kyubei came crashing back to reality. To the world in which he was a vassal, a man that should not even look above the feet of an Oda princess. The warm glow of his secret fluttered in his chest, buffeted by the cold truth. He turned from her and set the tray on his lord’s desk without another word.

“S-sorry to distract you two,” the chatelaine told them. “I just wanted to make sure you ate something today. Besides whatever crumbs are in your pockets.” 

Mitsuhide gave a wry laugh. “I promise you, I eat when I am hungry. I do not need you to look after me. You or that meddlesome dragon.”

The chatelaine blinked in surprise. “I didn’t say anything about Masamune!”

“You didn’t have to. This has his mark all over it.” Mitsuhide sighed. “I suppose now that you’ve brought it, I must appreciate the effort appropriately. But you will stay and enjoy it with me.”

Kyubei saw his exit and gladly took it. “Then I will leave you both to -”

“No. Kyubei, why don’t you stay? Have a cup of tea.” Mitsuhide’s smile was relentless. 

“As you command.” He poured three cups of tea, tense and reluctant but determined not to give anything else away.

The chatelaine watched him with interest. “You’re so good at that. The perfect pour. Have you practiced?”

“Yes, have you?” Mitsuhide’s grin grew wider.

Kyubei swallowed. “Yes? I am always seeking to improve my service to the Akechi.” 

She laid a hand on his arm and the light touch sent heat coursing through him. “Maybe one of these days we can hang out and you can show me your technique.”

Which was exactly the sort of offer Kyubei dreamt of. Time alone with just the chatelaine. Spending time with her, listening to her. But he couldn’t say yes because he was only a vassal and she -

“I’d be happy to lend Kyubei to you for whatever you like. In fact, he’s an excellent instructor for many subjects.” Mitsuhide gave a nod. “You could start this evening.”

“I must - what?” His polite refusal halted as his lord’s words sunk in. 

The chatelaine clapped her hands excitedly. “That’s great! But . . . only if he wants to. You can’t loan him out like a bike, Mitsuhide!” She turned the full force of her gaze on Kyubei. “So, would you be willing?”

And of course, he couldn’t say no to her. Not when she looked at him like that. “I would be glad to,” he replied, which was the simple truth. 

Mitsuhide picked up his tea and took a sip. “Then that is settled.” 

The break felt to Kyubei like a fever dream. Each time a subject came up, Mitsuhide would look at him and say, “Kyubei can tell you more about that.” Or, “Kyubei is an expert in -” Or even, “What are your thoughts, Kyubei?” 

And the chatelaine’s eyes were on him and he felt as if his whole body might catch on fire. He fought the heat down from his cheeks but feared his expression made his feelings too clear.

When they finished with the tea and snacks, the chatelaine stood up and picked up the tray. “Sorry again for interrupting. But I hope you enjoyed the food.”

“Certainly. And the company as well.” Mitsuhide grinned. “Feel free to stop in whenever you like, little mouse.”

“Yes, thank you for coming by,” Kyubei bowed low, reminding himself again that she was a princess and he was a vassal and this was a favor to his lord. Not to him. Not for him. Not about him. 

His secret flickered, wavering, but held steady. It was alright, he told himself, to hold this one-sided love. So long as she never found out. When he straightened, his expression was appropriate. Only polite. Nothing more.

The chatelaine grabbed his hand and squeezed it. “I am glad you were here when I did! I’ll see you later. Tonight.” She smiled. “It will be fun.”

And he couldn’t help but smile back, genuinely looking forward to it. “I am looking forward to it.”

She let him go and left, and when she was gone the office felt so much emptier. Kyubei took a deep, slow, steadying breath before turning back to work. 

Mitsuhide studied his expression and then sighed. “You will have to work on that.”

“On what?”

“Hmm. On what indeed.” He picked up one of the reports he’d been reviewing before they were interrupted. His eyes returned to the text. Kyubei thought he was in the clear until a few minutes later when he spoke up again. 

“She’s quite pretty. Not a court beauty, of course. But pretty.” Those piercing gold eyes found him again. 

Kyubei chose to play dumb. “Who are we speaking of?”

Mitsuhide’s knowing smile was his answer. Then, a few minutes later, “She isn’t a princess either.”

“The Oda adopted her.” Kyubei’s back tightened as he realized his lord was not going to let this drop. He buried his secret further down, hiding it under the proper words. 

Mitsuhide nodded and his gaze returned to the page as if that was the only point he needed to make. But this time, Kyubei didn’t relax. He knew what his lord was like on the hunt. And he was surely hunting now. 

“There is more than one tale in which a commoner marries a princess.” Mitsuhide didn’t look up this time, and Kyubei was glad for that because he wasn’t sure what face he made right then. “And those were women born into it. She barely knows what her title means.” 

He took a moment before replying, calming the part of his heart that leapt in response to that idea. “Perhaps. But most of those tales end in tragedy, too.”

Mitsuhide scoffed. “Because they were ill-considered.” He did look up then, and there was something in his gaze besides the usual calculation. An unexpected kindness. “I know you are many things, Kyubei. My most trusted assistant. My friend. But you are never careless.” He smiled and it was a gentler expression than his cutting crescent moon grin. “Should you - and I am not saying you are - but should you ever find yourself in love with any kind of princess, take hold of that happiness while you can.”

Kyubei nodded. He understood the fragile hope he was being handed. The gift, given with intent. “I will take that under consideration, my lord.”

“Good.” Mitsuhide’s eyes sparked with mischief. “And when you do, please do me a great favor. Moon after her out of my sight? I think your passionate gazes left syrup on my reports.”

“At your command,” Kyubei chuckled. “But surely it wasn’t that obvious.”

“I could have scraped sugar from the walls, watching the two of you dance around each other. She was about to crawl into your lap.”

“No. She was not! And I was holding back! Trying to be appropriate!” Kyubei protested.

Mitsuhide shook his head. “If that was your best attempt to pretend not to like a girl, I’m going to have to reconsider sending you out to spy for me.”

“You are as cruel as they say,” he sighed and put a hand to his chest. But inside, he was aglow with hope. Delicate as it was, as improbable and unlikely as anything, he was in love with a princess and maybe - just maybe - that was alright. She might even like him back.

#ikemen sengoku #ikesen kyubei #kyubei #fanfiction #fanfic #otome #otome guys #fluff