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marigoldenblooms · 1 month

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Unica Semper Avis - Prologue

Pairing: Cleric!Wanda x Fem!AvianShifter!Reader x MonsterHunter!Natasha

Prompt: Ever since you’ve come of age, you’ve never been able to stop yourself from transforming into a monster. Whenever the sky would dim with a New Moon, you’d ravage the world with a fury unknown by many. Such is the bane existence of your species. This time, however - something was different. Now, you need help. On the feeble doorstep of the so-called ‘Spirit Healer,’ you found yourself both at the mercy of a cleric, and of a monster hunter’s blade. Previous Chapter - Next Chapter

MINORS DNI - 18+

TW/General Tags: No mention of Y/N, slow burn, stranger to lovers (Wanda), enemies to lovers (Natasha), eventual smut (lord have mercy), Swearing, Fantasy violence, occasional descriptions of light body horror during transformation, slight self harm, slight restraint, angst, fluff, will add tags as they appear!

Chapter Warnings: Initial prologue, swearing, slight descriptions of transformation.

a/n: This is my first fic, working off/on for a slight while. I’ve been a long-time lurker, and I’ve finally got a few ideas and the brain power sufficient for at least a good ‘ol attempt! I’d love any feedback y'all could offer! This is just the initial prologue, and true interaction of the trio will begin in the following chapter. Thanks again!

Word Count: 1.9k - Read Length: 7 minutes, 11 seconds. Pictures aren't mine, credit to their owners!

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You couldn’t tell where the feathers started, and your skin began.

It had been weeks of incessant avoidance to getting help, or facing the truth of your affliction - it was now, above all else, time to face the music. However, you wouldn’t sing. For you, it had been days of fatigue, the inability to catch your breath, and the hiss of your skeleton rearranging itself. What difference was it than any other succession you’d been through? You’ve always survived alone. Well, if the whispers among your forest’s cool leaves were any indication, this molt wouldn’t play fair.

Your skin itches with a frenzy your dull fingernails couldn’t soothe, the ripple of pin feathers beneath taut skin an uncomfortable ache. Once your campfire’s embers are fully extinguished, the feeling would get much worse. The transformation wouldn’t go too far if you remained in your home, you thought- your dwelling refurbished caverns, the soft drip of percolating water into your carved wooden bowls a welcome sound. You’d have enough to drink through these next difficult days..and a part of you hoped that it’d be enough to satiate your thirst for viscera, for marrow. If the new moon’s presence never struck your subconscious, perhaps you wouldn’t even feel it.

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Your head would throb as you’d rise from your bedrolls, unable to find the sleep you begged for. A keen sense told you it was evening, the night’s chill rolling over your exposed shoulders in waves. If you were truly going to transform, as had been your normal for countless years- there was no point in ripping more clothes in the process. The earth felt rough underneath you, becoming more sodden as you’d trek towards the mouth of your cave, the evening’s darkness doing little but sharpen away the humanity you had left. It had rained, the air’s scent carrying the fresh smell. Recently, to be noticed by your unresponsive nose..and yet, it couldn’t rival the majesty of the sky. Stars speckled across its tapestry, a sigh escaping you at its sheer beauty. It was a enchanting reminder of what you would see when you woke up after your succession, after the molt had picked you clean and rebuilt you. At least that’s what it’d feel like, when you’d regain your mind.

You could feel the dull pain of feathers beneath skin even further, as though your body craved to soar up into its expanse. You’d pat your shoulder down as if brushing dirt from it, knocking sense into your own instincts. You couldn’t afford to further the transformation now- it’d never started this early before. The moon was a mere sliver within the sky, last shades of light due to leave within the next day. “The soil is what I deserve,” You’d grit aloud like a mantra, echoing in your thoughts, soothing you into begrudging complacency. The sinful sky would murmur to you, a voice slipping out through the darkness, and you’d shy away from her. It was your conscience, or perhaps your instincts. They were always mouthy this close to the new moon.

“You must soar,” She’d breathe, her words like rustling leaves in the howling night air. You’d have turned your back to the sound, head low as your arms would cross to cover yourself. She wasn’t real. She wasn’t real. She wasn’t-

“Hunger plagues you..” The voice would coax, fanning across your back, swirling between the crackled down which speckled new growth on your shoulder blades. You’d turn again, a hiss sparking in your throat- the sound raspy, incomplete, feeling raw on your tongue as it’d clip between barred teeth, gnashing against your words. “I am sane..” You’d breathe, the words harsh in your mouth. You’d done this dance hundreds of times, and yet the voice inside your mind was oddly corporeal today. “I am lonely..” you’d admit, shaking your head out as though it’d rid you from the illusionary tone, giving yourself a reason to be hearing voices, “You are nothing but my own mind. You aren’t-”

“Real?” The voice would ask, before the air sliced against your jaw- finger-like, pulling your gaze back as your body would turn around to follow it. Your eyes would see her then, fully for the first time- spotted in starlight, not just a figment of your own mind’s trickery. Vaguely humanoid, spectral feathers would blanket her arms, slackened wings framing her back as though an angel- ghostly, as her entire form was vaguely translucent, made of a soft white glow. One hand would have pulled your chin to meet her gaze, entire body tensing as her ‘grip’ felt like the crisp embrace of the night’s air. The voice had never had a body before.

“Who are you?” You’d ask, spitting vitriol even though your hands shook, her touch iron-clad even though it seemed to be crafted from the wind itself.

She’d chuckle, tilting your head so she could get a better look at you, and you got the feeling that she could peer at much more than just your skin. “You haven’t heard of me, fledgeling?” The voice would question musically, her tone a soothing balm to your transformation, and yet seemed to aggravate it further. You could feel the low pop of sinews contracting to allow the slow re-arranging of your skeleton, grunting at the uncomfortable sensation.

And even still, she wouldn’t release your head from her hold, tongue tsking at your lack of an immediate answer. “You..aren’t like me-” You’d scoff beneath your breath, expression radiating fury. It was easier to feel angry towards the apex of a lunation, and you harnessed it now. She was no monster, some kind of partial Aegypius- she was not chained to the moon as you were. What audacity did she have to mar your affliction with her words? “Leave me, before I-”

“Silence-” She’d interrupt, the sound layered with the voices of many. Your jaw would close shut before she’d finished the first syllable, something in the word beckoning complete and total submission. “Ah, so they can be trained..” She’d rasp, a sickly sharp grin plastering her see-through expression. She’d pull your jaw up higher, thumb resting underneath your chin, “I know you…and I think it’s time you remember me.”

You’d feel her before you heard her again, the contraction of your stomach causing you to double over. Within an instant, you were no longer yourself, the sharp crack of bone and tendon filling the air as feathers would blanket shifting skin. You’d blink, and see your eyes change into an overwhelming hyper-vigilance, until you felt nothing at all but hunger.

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The fabric beneath you was quickly forgotten as you’d jolt awake, breath shaking as your vision would correct itself to the soft daylight emanating from cracks in your cavern’s walls. Your headache would only intensify, hissing as the soft rays would accost you. It seems you had found fitful sleep, although the harsh feeling of cold against your form would persist longer than you liked. It was all a dream. Just a dream..

In your sleep, you hadn’t known who that woman was. Scrounging through your waking memories bore different fruit, however. Your hands cycled through old tomes- the few you managed to obtain on your species. You'd have to nudge the manacles near your things with a shard of rock to get to them though, keeping even the slightest wisp of your skin away from its metal. It wasn’t the material you feared, but what was carved within it- some kind of passage you’d long forgotten the translation to. All that mattered is that it hurt like a bitch, and did its job of keeping you restrained when a lunation was at its peak.

After a few minutes, you’d find your answer in an especially unweathered page: Matron, the Aegypius creation deity. Another name was below it whose dialect you’d long forgotten; Your birth tongue. With a tight-lipped grumble, you’d close the book shut before rising to weathered feet. It wouldn’t take a historian to tell you that seeing a goddess in your dreams was a bad sign.

You’d don your belongings quietly, the silence calming against breaths which shuddered your slowly-hollowing skeleton. As you’d slip your bedroll atop your fraying rucksack, you could feel the shifting curvature of stretching muscle which had begun within your shoulders, preparing the form for flight in a day's time. Soon, it wouldn’t be your body anymore. The manacles would join you, shoved hastily within your kit with a stray cloth blocking your fingers from direct contact. You’d feel their burn that evening, once you’d return to the cave later that night.

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With a final glance towards your cavern, you’d set off towards your destination; the ‘Spirit Healer of Bellmoor’, although you could care less if they were a toad masquerading as a human. If they could help you, as it’d become rapidly clear that was necessary, then the hike was worthwhile. It’d take a few hours of travel, weaving through tree trunks as your legs carried you where your wings begged to go. The sky was a saccharine prize, and yet you kept your expression forward- gazing at its majesty would only strengthen your molt’s urge to progress.

You’d take the long road to avoid any prying eyes, or any eyes at all, for that matter. You valued solitude, the one hardened aspect of your species which allowed them to not be culled as soon as they came into existence- it kept your kind mysterious, more of a figment than truth, and kept other Aegypius from tearing each other apart for territory. The healer’s house would come into view a second later. It was wooden and humble-looking, the cabin lit with a warm interior glow from within its small grove. Approaching its brass knocker, you’d clang on the door three times, praying that’d be enough. As the second ticked past, you’d raise your knuckles to rap a second time, but the door opened before you could bother. Behind it, claret-colored irises would greet you, accompanied by high cheekbones, fiery red hair, and an inquisitive glance. You wouldn’t meet her gaze as your own turned downward, your voice roughened from lack of use.

“Are you the healer?”

You’d see her face morph into a cheshire grin in your peripheral, as she’d step aside to allow you further passage into her home. “Yes, I am. Welcome, and come in.”

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Heavy breaths would thunder through the open forest, the woman sinking deftly through the trees, in sight of her quarry. A cavern decorated with slung beading, woven from thin, flexible vines and hollowed, pecked-out rocks. The alcove would’ve almost been homey to Natasha, if it wasn’t the den of a monster. Her longsword would be clasped tightly in gloved hands, held forward as the hunter would skulk towards her prey.

She’d settle her back to the cave’s entrance, a trickle of sweat staining her brow. The chase had been long and arduous, but it was finally complete. With a hardy swing, she’d growl her war cry into the air and-

See nothing. The cave was empty.

Natasha would pant, eyes dilated as she’d grit her teeth in rapidly fuming, silent frustration. Her pupils would bounce from corner to ceiling, taking in the scene before her..the monster had fled. It ran. She’d scoff at that, barking a cruel laugh beneath her breath as she’d coat her fingers in leftover charcoal, pulling her glove off to feel its texture. Crumbled and thick, not weathered terribly by elements..this fire was burned recently. The creature’s departure wasn’t long ago.

Her confidence would only return as she’d trudge outside, noticing escaping footprints she hadn’t noticed prior. In her focus to kill, obviously- she would’ve found them ages ago if she were actually looking for them. She’d smirk to herself, before beginning the hunt anew.

“I’m on your tail, гриф..” Previous Chapter - Next Chapter

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#bearrrwrites #wandanat x reader #wandanat #wanda maximoff x natasha romanoff #wanda maximoff x fem!reader #natasha romanoff x fem!reader #natasha romanoff x reader #wanda maximoff x reader #fantasy au #minors dni #scarlet witch x reader #black widow x reader #wandanat smut #wanda smut #natasha smut #I got no idea what I'm doing #fuck it we ball #new writers on tumblr #new fic

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conkers-thecosy · 1 month

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Well, it's been a while since I did a writing update, and since we're now finishing the third week since I last posted to "Backs To The Wall" I thought some of you might like to know where I'm at 💛

First of all, I have been working on it, don't worry! I have a chapter and a half done, but right now I'm not very happy with it. I'd hoped to post this weekend as planned, but I think I need to let it percolate for a bit first. All being well, chapter 21 will be up next weekend!

I also wanted to thank people for showing their support for my original story "All's Fair" yesterday! I know it's not very good, but I'll be honest, it was a spur of the moment decision to try posting the first chapter to AO3, and I didn't expect anyone to read it at all. I know original stories don't ever do as well as fic (mine don't, anyway!) and that you guys are here for fandom writing, but I just wanted to share it and gauge the level of interest. It was much more than I thought, and for that I'm terribly grateful.

I still have a lot of bagginshield fics planned, so don't worry on that account, but I also have a lot of original work that I have no idea what to do with. My scribbles are such an important outlet for me, so it was scary to post yesterday, but I'm glad I did it. It's given me some much needed encouragement on my general level of "skill" at writing, which is something I worry about. I'm hoping it will boost me up again as I keep working on BTTW.

I know I'm not a brilliant writer or anything, but I'm a good storyteller, if that makes sense? I feel reassured to know my place again - there's a lot of comfort in that!

Thanks to everyone for being so patient while I figure this out and get my head sorted again. I'm being very careful with myself, perhaps a little too much, but I don't want to get burned out again. I really do appreciate everyone being so nice while I'm figuring this all out!

#conkers corner #backs to the wall #bttw #all's fair

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aquilathefighter · 4 months

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Trying to ease myself back into writing after several months away and well, the Tarsus IV fic I've been percolating in my brain seems to want to come out (perhaps my own experience regarding traumaversaries bleeds through this time of year).

On most days and to most people, Jim Kirk was a paragon of everything Starfleet valued and more. His competence was unmatched, weaving together diplomatic skill and martial prowess to keep his crew and ship safe. He held himself tall as he strode through the halls, smiling and nodding at crewmen he passed.

But today, that Jim Kirk is gone. He'd felt the rumbling weeks beforehand, his sense of self and mood declining the same way they did each year. Were he more inclined to tracking data like Mr. Spock, he supposed his feelings would decline exponentially.

Just a little bit of the intro I managed to get down before crashing last night <3

#aquila writes #wip #tarsus iv #it's probably gonna get spirk-y at some point but idk yet

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belltrigger · 1 month

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I don't know where the whole concept of Dryden being the uncle of the Twins started. But what I *do* know is that @tsumisan6v9 's comic about Oemmet is where I was first introduced to the concept. Placing Oemmet in Opelucid Gym is brilliant (and hurts a lot!) It's been percolating in my brain since then, I guess, and finally something came out of it! So, this fic is for you Tsumisan! *★,°*:.☆(￣▽￣)/:*.°★* 。

Title: At Opelucid Gym Word count: 1,155 Synopsis: When Ingo disappears, Emmet's tracks switch to those of isolation while desperately searching for his twin. When he can't be reasoned with normally, the agents take a desperate measure. They call his family.

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It wasn't often that outside interference stepped foot into Gear Station. Whatever happened within the walls and tunnels of the station, it was promptly handled with care and decisiveness. The Mayor didn't need to step in, and Gear Station existed separately from the network of Gym Leaders, removing any need for their support. Together with their Agents, Ingo and Emmet kept things running smoothly.

That shouldn't have changed just because Ingo disappeared. Even with Ingo missing, Emmet had maintained both his hunt for his twin and most of the functions of the subway. The Agents were still able to have whatever battles they desired, the lines ran on time, and Emmet contained any attempts at bad publicity that threatened to swirl at the disappearance of such an important figure as Ingo.

Calling their uncle was entirely unnecessary.

The first time Drayden came to Gear Station to talk to him, he'd already been there for around thirty-six hours. Three of those hours had been wasted on sleeping, but he'd cut out the travel time to his workplace entirely. He'd changed into his spare uniform about half-way through his shift so as to maintain his crisp appearance for those he battled. The rules remained strong in his head, and he maintained his smile.

The worry in Cloud's voice every time he checked in had been obvious, even through the all-encompassing focus on finding Ingo, but he never expected the lead agent would resort to this. He thought Cloud trusted him more than that. Cloud should have warned him, and he could have convinced him to not take such an unnecessary measure.

He was Emmet. He was fine.

Fine or not, his uncle wanted to discuss the idea that he take time off from his work at the Battle Subway. "To properly process his grief" was the reason he was given, and he had just enough energy to insist there was no grief. Ingo was alive, and he was worried for him, and he needed to find him. You couldn't grieve for someone who was alive, he argued. You could only miss them and worry for them.

Eventually, Drayden proved convincing enough to lure him out of the subway. A change of atmosphere would be good for his investigation, Drayden said. If Emmet could not find Ingo in Nimbasa City, then perhaps the search should be spread out. After all, Emmet knew every inch of his subway, and Ingo could not be found, right? With great hesitation, Emmet followed his uncle to Opelucid City.

They traveled on foot, a blisteringly obvious avoidance of the subway. Even so, Emmet brought his clues and research with him, fitting neatly into a medium sized briefcase. There were still so many leads he had to follow, and he couldn't afford to start over. At least Drayden understood this, and gave him enough time to pack it all carefully.

It was the first time he'd gone anywhere without Ingo. Emmet tried not to dwell on the idea that it was "the first time," but instead the "only time." In no time at all, he'd find his twin and they'd return home. Ingo would give him a pat on his head for working so hard without him, and then treat him to a delicious meal as an apology. Although he'd forgive his twin right away, a few treats wouldn't go amiss, and he'd have a little fun playing up being sore with Ingo. Maybe he'd get a whole week of treats.

That insistent positivity didn't last very long when he arrived in Opelucid City. He wasn't familiar with the city, and needed to develop an entirely new routine to get anywhere on time. More than once, he fell out of his bed, not used to the strange dimensions, and unable to calibrate without another body close by. None of his pokémon had come with him; some were left with Elesa, while others were in the care of Clay. He woke up late every day, unaccustomed to setting an alarm and not having pokémon wake him up, insistent on feeding time. Even if they had come with him, battling held none of his interest - how could he have fun when Ingo could be lost or hurt somewhere?

The most sickening part of the entire experience rocked him harder than he could have expected. Not one person, even his uncle, treated him as part of a unit anymore. There was no 'Ingo and Emmet' to anyone anymore. He was 'just' Emmet.

It hadn't been that long since Ingo went missing. It was far too soon to act like he wasn't coming back.

For years and years and years, he fought and argued and broke ties over the insistence that he move on. How could he just abandon Ingo like that? Ingo would never leave him to disappear, leave him to be forgotten. The moment he gave up was the moment Ingo himself couldn't hold on. Dead ends didn't mean Ingo wasn't there, just that he couldn't see where they truly led.

But...

Every time he saw advertisements of Gear Station, his eyes welled up with tears. He couldn't even resign in person, instead calling via his Xtransceiver. Cloud said he understood, promised that Emmet had a place to return no matter how long it took. He had faith that Cloud would take care of the subway, but all attempts Emmet made at saying so were choked, so he simply thanked him.

And so began his training to take over Opelucid Gym in Drayden's place. His skills at battling had degraded somewhat without a partner who challenged him, without a partner who energized him. But he continued practicing, continued to learn about the two dragons that were so important to Drayden, and learned new battle tactics befitting of a Gym Leader. It didn't have the panache of a Subway Master, but it would do. As each day went on, less and less energy could be given to hunting out leads on his missing twin. More people came to challenge him at the Gym, and less people recognized him as one of the famous twins of Gear Station. More and more, he was just Drayden's nephew, the man who is stronger than a gym leader, the man who IS a gym leader, the man who proves you're truly strong enough to become a Champion.

He stopped wearing all white.

And then, one day, just when he thought his heart had finally reduced to dust inside his chest, a familiar shadow stretched across the ground towards him. Lifting his eyes up, through the haze that had settled so many years ago, he saw a haggard and scuffed man who would forever be recognizable to him.

All the things he'd wanted to say throughout the years glued together in the back of his throat, preventing anything meaningful from coming out except bewilderment stained words.

"No, this is a joke, right?"

#blankshipping #reverse ages au #tsumisan6v9 #Bell fic #subway boss kudari #subway master emmet #I think Reverse Ages AU takes place in Pokemon Black #Get it? Cause Reshiram is alone on the Pokemon Black cover?#AU of Reverse Ages AU

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foxgloveprincess · 2 years

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Pairing: DBF Ari Levinson x Female Reader [Second Person Narrator]

Word Count: 4,425

Summary: Your online friend supports you in everything you do—and in everything you want. Perhaps a little too much.

Attic Wives Anonymous Masterlist

Warnings: Dark (Soft Dark including Non Con/Dub Con, Kidnapping, and implied Attic Wife), Kissing and Sex (Cunnilingus, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Penetration, Unprotected Sex, Overstimulation, Praise, Biting, Rope Bondage), Modern AU, Age Gap (Ari is in his 40s, Reader is in her 20s), Dad’s Best Friend, Strained Father/Daughter Relationship (with implications of Verbal Abuse), Online Friendship, Texting, Shared Fantasizing (including Kidnapping Fantasies), Catfishing, Implied Stalking, Daddy Kink, Yandere Behavior, Obsessive Behavior, Crying, Pet Names (li’l dip, baby, li’l bear, etc). Minors do not interact (18+).

A/N: This idea has been percolating in the back of my head for months. Today it strikes me and it becomes a DBF story, so there you go. The video mentioned is this one which absolutely tickled me pink when I first watched it. Also, anyone else just wonder sometimes who’s sitting across the screen from you? Sorry if this hits a little too close to home in that regard. Title from “Meant to Be Yours” from Heathers the Musical

I love feedback, so go ahead and reblog/comment if you want. No permission given to copy, translate, rewrite or post my work, at all. I cross-post to my own AO3 account.

I don’t do tag lists, so follow @foxglovefics to sign up for notifications on my fics.

This is not Beta’d, so all mistakes are my own.

Please DO NOT click ‘Keep Reading’ if you are not 18+ years of age or if you are uncomfortable with the pairing themes/dynamics/warnings, thank you!

The summer sun beats down on your shoulders, reflected into your eyes on the soft waves of the lake. You sip some sickly sweet cocktail in a can and lean back on the dock. Soaking in the atmosphere and trying so hard not to think about your phone, sitting right beside your fingertips ready to be snatched up at any second.

You sigh, glancing once more at the black screen. It’s silly. Reception is shit up here. She probably has—

Your phone buzzes, vibrating the wood and sending a thrill shooting through your veins. You grab the device, fumbling with your drink and nearly spilling all over your clothes. But the notification is there.

paintedmermaid: I can’t believe he said that. He’s a bastard and you deserve better.

Tears sting your eyes—from your sunscreen and moisturizer, surely, right—definitely not from such a simple message. You sniff and blink, smiling down at the screen.

: I know, but he’s my dad.

paintedmermaid: I’m still gonna kick his ass if I ever meet him.

“Who’s got you all smiley, li’l dip?”

You jump and tuck your phone close to your chest. Peeking over your shoulder, your breath hitches. The relief of it not being your dad is short lived, his best friend standing behind you with a curious glint in his eye.

“Why do you call me that?” you ask in return, tilting your head and scrunching your brows. Not that you’ve ever truly minded, the fuzzy feeling in your tummy proof of it.

The man chuckles, shaking his head. Hands resting in his pockets, he shrugs. “Like the Little Dipper, the constellation. A cute little baby bear—I figured it’s fitting, being as young as you are and all.”

“I’m not a child,” you refute, turning on your rear to glare up at him. Biting back at the insult you never thought you’d hear from him.

“I know,” he assures, with a tilt of his head and a grin. “Still thought it was fitting for you.” His nonchalance doesn’t falter, waiting to gauge your reaction.

You sigh, releasing that fizzling spark of ire from your chest. Watching his head nod toward your phone, waiting for the answer to his question.

It’s hard to swallow, heart thumping in your chest as you reply, “It’s just a friend.”

“A friend?” he asks, stepping closer and taking a seat beside you. You scoot over, giving him space, though as he settles his knee rests against your own. “Your dad said you didn’t have anyone to bring on the trip.”

Looking down at your lap, your shoulders curl forward, trying to shield yourself from the embarrassment. It’s true. Here you are, at your dad’s lake house, all alone with your dad, his new wife, and his best friend Ari. Not exactly a riot in your books. Certainly a crowd well out of your age bracket.

“She lives across the country,” you mumble, bending your knees and wrapping your arms around them.

“How did you even meet?” he asks, a lilt to his voice you don’t quite understand—something playful, amused, a little off-putting.

“Online.” You shrug, ducking your chin closer to your knees. Awaiting the inevitable tirade about your ‘reclusive nature’ stemming from an ‘unhealthy digital life’—you’d gotten it from your dad often enough.

“I’m glad you have someone to talk to,” he says instead, hand resting on your shoulder and squeezing gently.

Peeking over at him, a small smile pulls at your lips. You don’t understand how a man like Ari could be friends with your dad. They’d met while you were in college, hitting it off at work and becoming close despite an age difference of about ten years. Yet since then, he’s been around. All the time. The best man at your dad’s wedding, at almost every family dinner, holidays and barbecues. But he’s nothing like your dad—supportive when your dad is critical, calm when your dad is volatile, comforting when your dad is cold. It’s no wonder you’d accepted him into your life without a fuss.

“Her name is Arielle,” you add, voice quiet and hesitant, “she’s does these really pretty watercolor paintings.”

“I’ve always wanted to try that kind of art,” he comments, fingers still dancing along the skin of your shoulder, a soothing touch that barely catches your notice. “What do you talk to her about?”

“Everything.” You smile and look to her message on your phone. “When my job’s giving me a tough time or what she’s painting. What we hope for and dream about.”

Ari hums, a low reassuring sound, and nods. “She sounds like a good friend.”

Your phone buzzes.

paintedmermaid: I really need someone to take me away, right now.

Your lips purse in a frown. Fingers tapping quickly, you type out your inquiry.

: What’s happened?

Another response doesn’t come quick enough, anxiety building up in your belly until it threatens to climb up your throat. You wait, returning to work, distracted while checking for typos. But at the first buzz of your phone, you drop everything to check.

paintedmermaid: I just can’t stop thinking about what you were telling me last night. Now all I want is someone to whisk me away and keep me locked up safe and sated.

paintedmermaid: I think I’m just horny.

You chuckle at Arielle’s antics, shaking your head and thinking of a response. It’s easier to get back to work, letting your mind focus on your task. You wait to let your thoughts drift until your break, picking up your phone and responding while picking at your lunch.

: I get it. Sometimes all I want is to be someone’s kept woman. No responsibilities, no big decisions. Just someone who’ll take care of me and fuck me until I can’t think anymore.

You sigh and tilt your head back on your shoulders. The stretch feels good, your whole body stiff. Your phone pings.

paintedmermaid: You’d be such a good little baby! 😆 You just need a Daddy to take you in and spoil you rotten.

Your eyes roll and you scoot down in your chair, uncaring of any more aches or pains the poor posture might incite.

: Don’t I know it. Alas, the struggle is real. Not like anyone is lining up around the block for me.

paintedmermaid: What about that guy your dad’s friends with? He’s so hot. Talk about Daddy.🤌💋

You choke on a sip of water, sputtering while scanning the suggestion over and over. Ari? Really? You can’t say you haven’t thought about it. Haven’t gotten weak in the knees when his attentions have landed on you. Haven’t imagined perhaps what could be. But, no.

: 🫣 I couldn’t.

paintedmermaid: You could. 😌 But suit yourself.

paintedmermaid: Btw did you see that trailer for that new vampire movie. I was shaking. 🥴

: Yes! OMG! 🫠

The conversation continues from there—all traces of her shocking suggestion left behind. Even when your break ends and work begins again, messages interrupt your proofreading. And you cave each time. Responding to her speculations in kind, the two of you building a story together, back and forth with ideas until your deepest darkest fantasies stare back at you from the screen.

By the time the sun sits low on the horizon and you’re clocking out, you’re giddy with the naughty endeavor you’ve written out. Salacious enough to make an erotica novelist blush.

You prepare a lonely dinner, popping on a movie to watch—something tried a true, and not emotionally taxing. You eat in front of the screen, scrolling through the dialogue, waiting for a response. Chest aching with the bitterness of knowing such a thing will never become reality. That fantasy is all it will ever be. No one will want you enough—adore you enough—to steal you away.

You halt that train of thought in its progress before it can consume you, throwing your attention into the movie and setting your phone aside. Despite the needling temptation to return to the smaller screen and let yourself be dragged under.

Arielle doesn’t message back until late in the night. A video sent through the stream. Stuffed animal clutched tight to your chest, you smile into the plush.

You tap it and it plays in the quiet. A compilation with responses from people jokingly—and maybe not-so-jokingly—estimating how long it would take them to fall into Stockholm Syndrome. A giddy feeling bubbles within you, near overwhelmed by the relief of having someone to talk to—someone who understands you. Overjoyed by that realization that you are seen. Sleep finds you as the video loops, a smile etched on your lips and dreams full of tall figures luring you toward a delicious doom.

The laundry machine keeps eating your underwear. It’s not all the time or too many pairs, but enough that it finally catches your notice. Panties disappearing off the face of the planet. Leaving you debating your use of the building’s laundry room.

paintedmermaid: I’m sorry. 😬 Maybe you should ask around your building?

: No way. 😱

Your head shakes, tilted back against the rumbling machine. A chunk of time out of your day spent sitting in front of the dryer because you can’t leave your laundry alone anymore, apparently. You sigh.

: It’s no big deal. I have you to keep me company. 💜

She doesn’t reply. Your message sitting unanswered. You bite at your nails, but accept the silence. Turning off your screen and sitting back.

Alone with your thoughts, you ruminate on the other strange occurrences arising in the past week. The disappearing underwear just the tip of the iceberg. There’s the migrating books, the multiplying cookies, the washed dishes. All of them little ruptures throughout the day, nuisances or blessings that leave you perplexed.

“It’s nothing,” you mutter to yourself in the empty room. “It’s all just in my dizzy head.”

No one answers you back here either.

It’s not until later, when you’re watching Labyrinth for the thousandth time that Arielle responds.

paintedmermaid: Sorry! Sorry! 😣 I got caught up watching a movie and thought I responded when I didn’t.

: What movie?

paintedmermaid: Labyrinth. I got lost in the Goblin King’s eyes…..and bulge.

You bark a laugh, pressing a hand to your lips before responding.

: Oh gods, me too! 😂

paintedmermaid: What’s your favorite part??

: When he says “Just fear me, love me. Do as I say and I will be your slave.”

: I mean, come on. Who could resist? Take me away, Goblin Daddy. 🤭🥴

She sends back a silly reaction gif and you chat as the rest of the movie plays. It’s nice, like you’re watching together. Pausing when she grabs a snack or when you need the bathroom. Letting your troubles drift off as the hours while away. Falling asleep with her, a long-distance sleepover.

The morning brings with it bright prospects. You ready yourself for the day, donning a cute outfit which compliments your figure and snapping a picture when the inclination arises. Before you can think, it’s sent in your chat and waiting judgement from Arielle.

Nerves prick. It’s the first time you’ve done anything like this—sent a picture to someone you’ve only talked to online. But she doesn’t even give you a moment to rue your impulsiveness.

paintedmermaid: 😍😍😍 Babe, you’re gorgeous!

The instant the response appears on your screen, you smile, beaming incandescent. You can’t stop the heat creeping up your cheeks or the flustered feeling filling your head. An elated noise rolls in your throat, clutching your phone close and breathing in the compliment.

Throughout the day, that fuzzy feeling accompanies you on your errands. Thoughts of your friend flooding your mind with warmth, though she remains fairly quiet. A busy day for her, an art show or family business. You don’t question it, knowing she needs space, too.

Standing on your dad’s doorstep, you send one last message, ‘I’m at my dad’s, pray for me. Talk to you later?’, before tucking the device into your purse. And just like that, the bubble pops. Mood souring in the span of a breath.

Another family dinner—another farce. Pretending for an evening that you can stand to be in his presence. You only hope he’s too bothered by something from work to make belittling comments.

The door swings open. An unexpected face greeting you.

“Hey, li’l dip,” Ari welcomes, ushering you into the house. Pausing for a second, closing the door, he chuckles. “Your dad didn’t tell you I’d be here, did he?”

Your head shakes, swallowing nervously as your mind volleys to the conversation Arielle continues to pursue lately—talking about Ari like he’s your perfect match, a prime opportunity, prompting you to make a move. “I’m not complaining, though,” you assure, trying not to stumble over the words, “he’s nicer when you’re around.” Your face pinches in a grimace—that was not something he needed to know.

Ari’s brow creases with concern. He sucks his teeth, ready to make a comment when your dad walks through the living room doorway, greeting you with a loose hug.

“There you are, kid,” your dad says, grabbing you by the shoulder and glancing over your outfit. He doesn’t say anything, but you know he wants to. A comment about what you’re wearing, your weight, your face—it’s always something. “I’m glad your job is keeping you well-fed.” And there he goes.

You sigh and swallow down the insult. Used to it, used to bearing it for the sake of civility. “Is Candace in the kitchen?” you ask, avoiding the jab and stepping away from the men.

Your feet find their hasty escape, shaking your head at the hurt squeezing your heart. Terse words follow you down the hall, a discussion you’re glad you can’t hear.

Dinner passes in bout of awkward conversation. Ari carries most of it. Your dad complains about his job in return—a reprieve from his usual tactics of deprecation. Candace keeps to her typical inclination, saying nothing unless spoken to directly. You do the same until dinner ends, pushing food around your plate and trying to make yourself as small as possible.

With nothing more to eat, or say, you help clean up. Taking their plates and your own, escaping into the safety of the kitchen. It’s easier to breathe away from them. Taking a moment to center yourself, chatter reaches your ears from the other room. Your absence enough to alleviate the tension between them. With an incredulous scoff, you open the dishwasher, ready to stack in the plates and cutlery.

“Just wash them and put them away,” your dad instructs, sauntering into the kitchen with his hands shoved in his pockets. “We’ll be off in the Bahamas for a week, so no one else will be here to take care of them.”

The dishes clink. Your hands slipping on their slick surfaces. “When were you going to tell me?”

“I just did,” your dad dismisses. Breezing away like he does, letting you catch only the slightest glimpse of his eyes rolling.

You’re not upset. Not really. It’s a reprieve, actually. Not to have to cater to your dad’s incessant need for familial validation for a whole week. Still, you curse and shut the machine before letting the sink run to heat up the water.

“You look like you need this now.” A hand holds out a glass of wine, your refilled one from the table. You send Ari a smile and accept his offering with a quiet thanks.

He keeps you company, drying the dishes as you wash them, placing them back in the cupboards and drawers where they belong. Each of you taking sips of your wine and making small talk to fill the silence.

It still amazes you sometimes, when Ari makes a comment or observation, how little you know about the man. But each new revelation adds another fascinating piece to the puzzle. Letting you really look at him and wonder if Arielle was really so far off-base in suggesting him as a match.

By the time all the dishes are away, you’re yawning. The hour’s late. Later than normal for your family dinners. All you want is to curl up and conk out, but you’d never do it at your dad’s house. No way, no how. Not since you moved out for college and never looked back.

Ever the gentleman, Ari offers a lift. He tucks you into his passenger seat, buckling your seatbelt and drives off. The purr of the engine and the lull of the road tugs at your eyelids until they droop. You relax against the leather seats and sleep takes you under.

It’s the perfect mix of cold and cozy when you wake up. The room temperature just right to have you burrowing beneath your blankets. You hum and burry your head under your pillow, intent on keeping the light out of your eyes.

You startle at a shift of fabric. Blankets moving by your feet, not disturbed by any movement of your own. Eyes opening, you jolt—this is not your room.

An attempt to sit up falls flat, your hands bound together which proves an unexpected impediment. The second time you move to sit, you manage to push yourself up, legs tied in the same way. The unyielding rope keeps you rather immobile, but you manage. Brushing your forehead with your tied hands and the scratch of the knots.

“Morning, li’l dip.”

You blink, gazing at Ari sitting at the foot of the bed as if nothing is amiss. Your lips part on a question, struggling to understand. This isn’t Ari’s place either—you don’t think. He lives downtown in an apartment and the window to your right shows a view of endless tall trees. Not unlike the view of your dad’s lake house. But you’re also not there.

“Where are we?” you ask, panic jittering beneath your skin.

“We’re home,” Ari coos, brushing his hand over the ropes binding your legs, carefully untying each knot along your calves. “I know we said that it would be more romantic to introduce you to this in your apartment, but you fell asleep so well with that sleeping pill in your system, I knew—”

Taken aback by his speech, your head lolls on your neck. “What?”

Ari sighs, an amused and self-deprecating sound. “I’m sorry, baby bear, I’m getting ahead of myself.” He scoots closer across the blankets. His hands reach out, cradling your face and placing a kiss on your forehead. “We talked so much about this. I can hardly contain myself with you right here.”

“What did we talk about?” you ask, wary of the answer. You lean away, hoping to release yourself from Ari’s hands, but he holds firm.

“The perfect way to take you away,” Ari explains, affection lining his face while his free hand explores lower, trailing down your body. “I know we were just talking about fantasies, but Daddy just wants to give you everything you want.” He breathes softly, his forehead leaning to rest against your temple. He hums a satisfied sound and brushes his thumb across your cheek with his other finding that warm place between your thighs.

You swallow, fear filling your head until it buzzes with static. With gritted teeth, you jerk your head away. You need space. You need clarification. You need a fucking break.

“Ari,” you snap, “what the hell are you talking about?” Your voice rises, but you can’t help it with the distress surging through you. You blink away tears along with the budding understanding of your circumstances. “I talked about that with Arielle. Were you spying on me?”

His lips tilt in a smirk, sighing with a condescending shake of his head. His fingers pet over your underwear, an attempt at soothing that sends you reeling in the opposite direction. “Oh, sweet baby, no. Nothing like that. Arielle doesn’t exist.”

His statement alone knocks the breath out of your lungs. She’s not real. It certainly doesn’t seem so. And you hadn’t told anyone else about…well, any of it. Not one word of your deepest, darkest fantasies. Not to any other soul, except her.

But the clash of sensations in your body can’t handle that truth along with the heat spreading at his intimate touch. You can’t sniff back the tears anymore, they fill your eyes until they’re blurry. Burbling pleas dribble past your lips as you attempt to wriggle away from his caress, “Please, Ari, please. Let me go, I don’t know what’s happening. I don’t understand—”

“Shhhh,” he hushes, wiping away your tears. His lips find your cheek, kissing your face until they meet yours. It consumes you, the way he holds your head and devours you with a fervent passion. You mewl against him, bound hands pushing at his chest, but just as before, you’re powerless against him. He pulls away, still shushing you with a brush of your lips. “You’re safe now. Just do as I say.”

He meets your eye, expectant and unrelenting. Pushing aside the gusset of your panties, he fondles the petals of your sex, sighing against you in relief. Like the whole world feels right with you in his arms. But it’s not. It’s not right. Your tears continue to well and drip down your cheeks. But he’s distracted.

It takes only half a thought for your leg to lift from the plush bedding, kicking out at his side, hoping for an opportunity to escape. But the impact only produces a muted grunt from him. A glare narrows his features, fingers squeezing at your mound until you breath hitches.

Steely determination glints in his eyes. Waiting patient for your compliance. It dawns like the sun breaking over the horizon. Details forming a picture of your demise. Ari’s pastime as a hobby artist. Arielle introducing herself in the chat room, striking up a friendship and consistently catching your attention with notions that were so relatable. Her inconsistent sleep schedule. The suggestions to make your move. The personal comments knowing you too well left overlooked. The feeling of being watched. The strange occurrences in your apartment. It’s been his plan from the start. You’re trapped. The fight extinguished in a second under his steadfast stare.

“That’s my good little baby,” Ari purrs at the sight of your surrender, pushing you down against the pillows and leaning in to ravish you again.

Despite every whine and whimper of weak protest, he ravages you. Taking you apart piece by piece until your conform to his perfect delusion. Left writhing against the sheets as he brings to life every fantasy that once sparked titillation. Your pleasure crashing over you in waves of rapture, leaving you breathless and shaking. Clinging to any form of reason and forced to let it flutter away each time he sets his sights on another blissful torture.

“Please,” you beg, dragging his head closer to your center with bound hands, muscles aching. “No more, please.”

He hums against you, sending a shiver of acute ecstasy racing up your spine. “Daddy’s not done yet, li’l dip,” he grunts, voice gravelly and dipped in desire.

Twice, he’s taken you with his tongue, licking your cunt with unrestrained longing until you’re sent careening over the edge. In between only a breath before he sheathed himself within you, stretching you wide over his girth and leaving your legs shaking. Filling you to the brim and painting you white with his cum. He moans and feasts on you now, the mix of your essence and his coating his tongue before he crowds over you and captures you in a kiss.

His cock twitches against your thigh, an omen of his tireless interest. And of your ruin.

But he remains attached to your lips, licking into your mouth and swallowing each sound that escapes your throat. Murmured and distorted by the pleasure he plucks from your reluctant body. His fingers descend in place of his mouth, teasing your clit and plunging into your cunt. Your walls flutter around the intrusion, a gasp consumed by his greedy lips.

Your mind unfetters, lost to this man’s mission of destruction. Ready to concede every thought and thirst to his skilled hands.

“Say it, baby. Just like we talked about,” he prompts, kissing across your cheek toward your throat, nibbling on your pulse point until your eyes roll in your skull. “Tell Daddy how much you love him.” The words, definitive and commanding, ooze with his desperation. His fingers accompanying that concealed plea with enthusiastic effort, finding that delicious spot inside you that shoots stars behind your eyelids.

Your head shakes, tears and sweat dripping. Desperate to maintain that one last tether to reality. But Ari’s unrelenting, his cock once again hard and replacing his fingers with a mind-altering plunge. Your lips gape open on silent keen, praying for sanity as it drips away.

“Say it,” he commands again, words lifted with his wildness. “Been waiting too long, so say it.” His teeth sink into your flesh, a pain complementing the overwhelming pleasure and ensnaring your senses.

“Daddy!” you gasp, the word punched from deep inside you by a brutal thrust of his hips. A whine rolls low in your throat, the stroke of him inside you scrambling any thoughts that form. “Please.” The plea goes unheeded, his hand cradling your throat and leveling your hazy gaze with his own.

“Just say it, sweet li’l dip,” Ari coos, a promise shining bright in the azure of his eyes. His voice drops to a husky whisper. “Just say it.”

“I—” You swallow a moan and blink back tears. “I love you, Daddy.”

He smiles, wide and bright, growling and crowding you with his body. His hips continue their motion, thrusting unrestrained and accelerating. Chasing his high as his hand snakes down your body to play with your oversensitive bundle of nerves.

And as another wave crests, you’re washed away by euphoria, left drifting in Ari’s arms and feeling the warmth of him coating you again.

“Just like that,” he praises with a tender kiss to your cheek. “Absolutely perfect.”

As he bundles you in his arms, wrapping tight around you, you sniff back your tears and dry your eyes. Try to center yourself in this twisted world of devotion and devastation with the soft brush of his breath against your neck. After all, it’s everything you ever wished for.

#ari levinson x reader #ari levinson #female reader #dark #dark fic #modern au #tw non con #non con #smut #yandere vibes #18+#minors dni #attic wives anonymous

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seaselkie · 4 months

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The Vows We Make

Newt and Thomas are both raised princes of kingdoms with long running bad blood; the mountain region and the coastal realm. An arranged marriage is meant to put an end to the animosity, only the treaty is a lie - both parties secretly wanting access to the other's kingdom. It might have brought both of them crashing down, but neither Thomas or Newt expected to actually fall in love, and now they have a choice to make. The war they've been raised to fight, or each other and perhaps a better world.

This was first seen Here as a gift in the @mazerunnersecretsanta event 2023. I don't often post, but I'm sharing this via my own blog now Santa reveals have gone live.

If you like it, reblogs are appreciated so others can see it easier, and do check out the fandom event if you like Maze Runner. It's been running for 6 years now and always a lot of fun.

This was done for @fandoms-princess who asked for a royalty au and I wanted to do an edit for this but also wanted to flesh out a storyline for it so it had some direction. The idea of warring kingdoms sort of came together after the quote wouldn't leave me alone and I really enjoyed building off of that. (This is another one that has the bare bones of a fic percolating away as a 'hopefully one day' thing).

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nodirectionhome-ao3 · 2 months

Note

the way I'm feeling like a psychic because I was just thinking about a reverse KSFM situation and how I think you might write one and then I open tumblr and see your (hypothetical, of course) post

that is WILD!!!! Is there anything else you can tell me, oh wise psychic? The winning lottery numbers, perhaps? 😅

In all seriousness, this is cool! It's something that's been percolating in the back of my head for a while, but then I posted a James POV fic the other day and it's suddenly all I can think about. I actually have the entire first chapter thoroughly outlined and it won't take me long to write it. The impulsive (Gryffindor) part of me wants to post the first chapter immediately, even before I've outlined all of it (like I did with KSFM last year), but I'm going to try very hard to exercise some self-control and finish KSFM before I start posting this😅

#james lives au

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blackjackkent · 6 months

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I may be away camping right now but the BG3 feels do not stop. Quick drabble-y fic-y thing that mostly percolated during the long drive out here. :D Set immediately after the fight in Grymforge in my current (first) playthrough.

----

"C'mon, Soldier. Wake up," Karlach says gently. Her hands fall to her side as the Revivify scroll, its incantation spent, drifts to dust in the stinking, boiling air of Grymforge. "We're not done yet. You've got to come back."

Hector's battered body lies unmoving on the blood-spattered stone floor. A little ways away, Shadowheart crouches next to Gale's equally still form, struggling to work her way through the words of another scroll as the necrotic aura of his death swirls around her.

"I can feel them," the dark cleric gasps out as she completes the spell and staggers backwards out of the choking cloud. "The absence of them, I mean."

Karlach nods absently. "Yeah. Me too."

Normally, she is only vaguely aware of the strange bond the tadpoles have forged between the minds of their little group. But it's always there, and there is a ragged hole in the tapestry of their mixed thoughts where the monk and the wizard have been ripped from it. Gale's ever-meandering, ever-preoccupied ramble of ponderings and observations is silent. And even more distinctly, the sturdy pillar of Hector's determination and fear, intertwined in equal measure, has vanished.

It's surprising, unsettling, how empty she feels without it. Hector stood between her and Wyll's blade; he saw the good in her at once and spoke up for it. He is always afraid but he masters it and fights forward anyway. He is the common thread holding them all together, determined to draw them to do right even through all the misery and confusion.

She watches the pale gold of the Revivify spell slowly drifting over his body, working its way across burned and broken skin. "Wake up, Hec," she mutters again. "Don't make us do this without you."

For a long, strained moment, it seems as if the spell has halted, has failed - and then Hector's body convulses around a ragged breath inward. His gray eyes flicker halfway open, squinting up at Karlach in blank confusion.

She feels herself relax, exhaling a breath she hadn't realized she was holding, and a grin flashes onto her face, bright with relief. "There he is. Morning, Soldier."

Most of the time, deaths in Zariel's army were left where they fell. As the general's pet, however, Karlach has been subject to a few revivifications; she knows what he is going through.

To be revived is a process almost as traumatic as the death that preceded it. It is like being wrapped in a thick blanket, buried in the deepest, most soothing slumber… and then having it ripped away, the hammer blow of reality striking into your chest and demanding, breathe! And with the breath comes pain, and fear, and everything you were feeling when you died multiplied by tenfold, along with the creeping bitter sense of mortality like some beast's teeth wrapped around your throat.

Death, in truth, is much simpler than life. Death is silence and peace. Life… is everything else. Perhaps she does him no favors in reviving him.

Perhaps she does it more for herself.

She can see him flinch away for a moment, a panicked roll of the head, staring blindly around and seeking instinctively to struggle back into the darkness. But the spell is implacable. There is no going back, not yet.

"You're all right," she said softly. "Take a moment."

She wishes she could help him, take one of his hands or touch his shoulder, ground him back in himself. But the engine in her chest is burning hot as all the hells, mixing with the humid oven of the air around them. To touch him in his current state might very well kill him again.

So she just watches as he struggles back to consciousness. Slowly the panic fades, replaced by numb recognition, then miserable exhaustion. His eyes find hers and stay fixed there for a long moment.

Then he draws another breath, steadier this time. Seeing her smile, he struggles to muster one in response, but it looks more like a grimace as it twists the burn along his cheek, the rip in the skin of his jaw.

"You must feel right at home here," he groans out hoarsely. "So… bloody hot."

"Too at home, really," she answers dryly. "Sooner we're out of here, the better, if you ask me."

The breath catches in his throat in a hacking cough. "Did we… did we do it? Is it over?"

"It's over." She nods. "Nere is dead. All the dwarves too. The gnomes are safe." Her grin twitches, a flash of the gallows humor of the battlefield. "Thought we lost you and Gale too for a moment, but all's well, as they say, yeah?"

She's trying to elicit another attempt at a smile, to help bring him back and push the dead haunted look out of his eyes. Instead, she realizes that he has started to tremble violently, his eyes squeezing shut and head turning away from her. His breath starts to come faster, his chest jolting with each struggling inhale. Tears squeeze out from under his eyelids, mixing with the sweat and dirt and blood caking his skin.

"Damn it…" he whispers brokenly. "So many dead. I keep thinking, perhaps this time we will find allies, perhaps this time there will be no violence, perhaps this time I will do it right, mend the rifts, find the right words to say…"

Karlach frowns with some alarm. Hector has often seemed worried, troubled, but this is altogether uncharacteristic.

"They were slavers," she says uncertainly. "Cruel bastards. We didn't want to be their allies."

He struggles around another shaky breath. His fingers flex, looking for some purchase and stability that isn't there. "But I didn't want to kill them," he whispers. "I didn't want to kill anyone. Right from the start…" A pause, then even more softly, almost ashamed, "There must have been a way to convince them to leave. To stop the slaughter, the cruelty…"

Karlach shakes her head slightly. "Some people're just monsters, I think, Soldier," she says quietly. "No way round it."

He's silent a long time, the ragged breaths beginning to slow again as the panic and grief expend themselves. "You call me that," he finally mutters, not looking at her. "But I don't think I much live up to it. I don't want to fight. I don't want to kill, I don't want to die. I don't want to be here at all." He opens his eyes and looks up at her with a pathos that makes her heart twist unexpectedly in her chest. "I just want to go home…but there's so much blood in the way…"

She is struck once again by the sudden urge to touch him, squeeze his hand in reassurance, in solidarity. She can see his fingers twitching as if to reach out to her, too - but he knows as well as she does the danger of that.

All she has to comfort him are words. "If you think no soldier's ever felt that way… you're far wrong," she says gently, after considering in silence for a moment. "I know I never fought 'cos I liked it. Only 'cos it seemed like sometime it might be over. And I wanted to be alive to come out the other side."

As she speaks, she can see him start to further calm, the soft slow rhythm of her voice giving his breathing and heartbeat something to measure themselves by. His eyes have opened again, his gaze holding onto her like a lifeline in a storm.

"I can't remember anything," he mutters after a while. "Of the… of death, I mean. Selune…surely she was waiting for me. But why can't I remember…"

She shifts from her kneeling posture to sit next to him. In lieu of being able to pat his shoulder, her fingers brush repetitively over the grooves of the stone floor. "You'd know more about that than I would," she says. "But… 'f you ask me, there's things we en't… meant to hold onto and still be alive. Doesn't mean it en't there, yeah? Still waiting. She'll still be there. When you're ready."

He hesitates, then nods. Some of the tension goes out of him and he sags against the floor bonelessly. "We should… make camp," he mumbles. "Rest. Where are the others? You said Gale--"

"Gale's fine," she says soothingly. Out of the corner of her eye she can see the wizard has sat up and is holding forth to a weary-looking Shadowheart while gesticulating with his ribbon-wrapped pouch in one hand. "And we'll make camp. You rest here, all right?"

As she starts to pull away, he reaches out a hand towards her hesitantly. His fingertips stop just shy of brushing her wrist. Both of them freeze and she finds herself unable to look away from him, from the gesture not quite completed.

"Thank you," he whispers. "For being here. For bringing me back."

The engine in her chest gives an unsettling whir, and the temperature between them abruptly climbs by several degrees. She swallows, tries to grin carelessly again and finds the expression harder to muster this time.

"More of us the merrier, right?" she says, deliberately light. "Wouldn't be the same without you." Before he can respond, before she can let herself think too much about this oddly charged moment, she turns away with a snap and stands up. "Just rest, Soldier. I'll see to camp."

#bjk plays baldur's gate 3 #Hector Carlisle #Karlach #karlach x tav #drabble #baldur's Gate 3 #BG3

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night-unfurls-its-splendour · 1 year

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When the Longing Returns

Phantom of the Opera (2004) Fanfiction

A brief introduction

This is my first proper fanfiction in many, many years. I didn't think Phantom of the Opera would be the thing that lit a fire under my ass to write for, but my feelings regarding Christine and Erik are strong. So, fueled on a diet of H. P. Lovecraft and a really amazing Flowers in the Attic: The Origin fic that inspired me to put my daydreaming into words, this alternative scenario was percolating for several weeks until I finally got it written.

I wanna give special thanks to @l10ng1rl and @yoomiii123 for beta reading and just generally letting me pick their brains. It's thanks to their feedback that I decided to spin this out from a one-shot to a multi-chaptered affair.

Please, share your thoughts!

~~~EDIT~~~

I implied in my original published draft of this story that Christine and Raoul never kissed with tongue. I must regretfully inform my readers that this was an error on my part: upon a repeat watch of the movie, I discovered that Christine and Raoul do, briefly, make tongue contact during the rooftop kiss, so I have adapted my work to match this detail--but I somehow managed to finagle it so that the scene is even hotter! (I think) so well done me!

Chapter 1

Also read on AO3

Masterpost

Pairing: Erik (The Phantom) x Christine Daaé

Chapter Summary: Christine visits her father’s grave, and the Phantom appears; but Raoul doesn’t arrive to interrupt their reunion, and Christine makes a choice.

Word Count: 3,895

Themes: Sexual Awakening

Rating: Mature/Explicit (in future chapters)

Enjoy this chapter with my custom "Wandering Child" Soundscape

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

As Christine sank to the steps of her father's burial monument, she knew she had made the correct choice in coming to the cemetery. She needed to take this time to be alone, really alone with her thoughts, without Raoul trying to comfort away the things she needed to face.

It was a hard thing to admit to herself that she had never truly let go of her father. It wasn't that she wanted to purge herself of his memory. What child could ever wish that of a father who had so loved and cared for them as Gustave Daaé had cared for his only daughter? It was only the persistent nag, the childlike need to feel like he was still there with her, only unseen, to tell her what to do, that she wanted to escape.

The Angel of Music had filled that need for her; always, she had utterly believed that it was a spirit sent by her father that had been her guardian and teacher. She had no one to look to for guidance now, except her own judgment.

The Angel of Music.

The Phantom of the Opera.

He was neither; just a man. A violent brute; a murderer in cold blood. He terrified her.

Only, he hadn't always.

There had been that beautiful dream—though the experience had been quite real, she tended to think of it as a dream now, for what else could it possibly have been, given all that had come after it?—when he had revealed himself to her at last. When he had closed her hand in his and drawn her down into that cavernous realm beneath the opera house and sung to her so sweetly of music and darkness and beauty. It was the easiest thing in the world for Christine to remember the way he had stood so closely behind her in the dank lair, chilly despite the abundance of candles, his body warm against her back. It was easy, too, to recall his hands on her waist, or lifting hers to let her touch his face, his skin so very tangible under her fingers.

She had discovered that night that her angel had been corporeal all along—very much so—and she didn't quite know how to contend with that overwhelming truth.

That was before, though.

Before the murder. The murder changed everything.

It had to, didn't it?

Though, there were times—when she was all alone—when the thought of him still didn't frighten the way it should. And that, perhaps, terrified her more. What kind of woman was she? What would her father, the best and kindest of men, have thought of his daughter, if he could know the kind of feelings that she kept buried deep within her breast for a man not only capable of, but guilty of such violence?

She knew they were wrong. Surely it was utterly wrong to feel those kinds of things for such a man. She couldn't even name the emotions she locked away. Affection? Tenderness? Perhaps. She thought of others, but dared not dwell on any of them.

Worse still, sometimes, as she lay in her bed—just between the clear-cut waking realm, and the shadows of sleep and dreams where everything was somehow both vivid and vague, and the ideas that she should not think had a way of making themselves known—she still imagined his voice as she slipped from the former to the latter.

He hadn't sung to her in a long time, not since her return from the cavern, in fact. It was just her recollection, but it was as clear in her mind as if he were serenading her from within the walls, just as he had done for years.

Only it was not the sweet, angelic melodies of those times that played in her head on these occasions, but the hauntingly passionate anthem he had poured out to her, whispered to her, just inches from her ear as he held her against him. Some part of her simply could not let go of the memory of him singing to her, pleading with her, sliding his hands with gentle, longing pressure down her waist.

These contemplations swirled chaotically through her head, and then Christine did hear him there with her, singing to her, unseen. She felt a thrill run through her.

And just as it was when she was in her bed, between sleeping and waking, the thrill was not wholly one of fear.

The song emanated from her father's mausoleum, and for a moment she was transported back to the very first time she had ever heard that unearthly voice in the chapel at the Opera.

Though startled by the sudden presence of the aural apparition, she had not felt any terror at it, struck as she was by its gentle beauty and reassuring warmth. Her first thought had been that it was her father's spirit which sang to her . . . but that could not have been, for this voice was deep and resonant where her father's had been softer and rather higher in pitch. So it must be the promised Angel, then, she had thought: the Angel of Music.

His song now was as tender as ever it had been, and as angelic as the voice that had sung her to sleep. But now, for the first time, Christine knew that the unseen singer was a man, not a spirit, and that changed everything.

Old memories and recent knowledge collided in Christine, giving rise to a confusion of emotions. Those very sensibilities that she'd kept carefully locked away since the night she had followed him down to that lair were now bursting forth so that, in a kind of breathless mixture of desperation and exhilaration, she challenged the cantor in his own tune.

"Angel or Father?

Friend or Phantom?

Who is it there, staring?

Angel, oh speak!

What endless longings

Echo in this whisper?"

And he returned her song, his timbre soothing and mild:

"Too long you've wandered in winter, far from my far-reaching gaze..."

She had last heard his voice when he appeared on the steps at the masque, draped in that ghastly bloodred costume and bony mask, looking the very image of hateful death.

It had been different then—sarcastic, full of bitterness and ire as he seized Raoul's ring and pulled the chain from around Christine's neck, the links biting briefly into her skin before slithering away. She flinched to recall that the emotion in his burning eyes had not been a simple rage or hatred that would have been easy for her to fear or despise in return, but a complex and potent elixir of his anger and his pain, as loud to her as his wounded howls had been when she'd so selfishly pulled away his mask. She realized with shame, as he sang out to her now in a tone so enticingly tender, that she'd never truly apologized to him for that transgression.

Phantom or flesh, this man had been not only her teacher, but her muse. He had taught her everything about music that her father had not lived to impart to her, and more; but he had also been her inspiration. It was he who had revived her passion for song after her father's death.

When Madame Giry had brought her to live at the Opera, she treated Christine like her own daughter. She was kind woman, but stern--not at all warm like her father had been; and Meg was a dear friend, but she was not clever and Christine could not talk to her of the deeper contemplations her father had encouraged in her. Despite the crowded, noisy bright life of the theater, she truly had felt alone and frightened of the change her life had taken. Being surrounded by music had not been a comfort to her, for it made her miss her father all the more . . . until the Angel. He had reinvigorated her. When he had spoken to her, she no longer felt that she was alone—no longer felt that empty sorrow at the thought of music.

Even now, his voice, which had every reason to—which should—cause her nothing but fear, lifted her spirit, surrounded her, filled her, and comforted her.

Their song continued in a rapturous harmony, rising to a crescendo, and Christine began, finally, to yield to the affections for him which her upright rationality had thus far compelled her to deny.

"Wildly my mind beats against you, yet the soul obeys!"

Mind and soul now both feverish, Christine considered that, perhaps, despite his earthly presence and corrupted visage, he truly was her promised guide and protector—a strange sort of angel indeed, but her Angel of Music—after all. She stood purposefully and proceeded toward his voice, singing back to him with all the passion her body held:

"Angel of music, my protector! Come to your Strange Angel!"

Christine stepped toward the warm glow inside the gate of the mausoleum where his voice echoed out to her just as it had in her dressing room when the mirror had opened:

"I am your Angel of Music... Come to me, Angel of Music..."

And then he stepped out to meet her, still lilting out his transcendent song. His face—what she could see of it—was guarded but intensely focused, and she could see in his eyes an almost disbelieving spark of joy at both her approach and the softness of her expression.

He held his cloak crossed over his chest, but as she came nearer, his arms lowered and he held them out, beckoning her to his embrace.

Without fear, she stepped into that embrace, shielding her face from the cold air by burying it in his shoulder as his arms drew the cloak close about her. It was warm—warmer than her own cape had been—as their combined heat gathered, trapped in the layers of wool and silk.

It was fragrant too. A rich scent enveloped her as completely as the warm, heavy fabric. The first time she'd encountered this perfume, in the lair as his arms had slipped around her waist, it had clouded her head with its luxurience. Now, breathing it in deeply, it was so potent she thought the first draught might make her faint again. Yes, she remembered it was the last thing she'd been aware of as she fell back against him.

As her head rested against him, she marveled again, as she once had in the cavern, at how such an otherworldly voice could belong to a presence so very. . .solid.

She felt his hand at the back of her head, cradling it, and looked up at him. His expression was gentler than any that had ever graced his half-hidden face before, but it was also shocked, almost frightened; as if he feared that this was some illusion that could only end by shattering, and that if it did, he would shatter completely with it. That fear in his eyes pained her.

He said nothing, sang nothing—it seemed as though both speech and song were beyond his capability at the moment. He lifted his gloved hand and touched her face. Not a seductive caress of the kind he'd used before, as he sang to her in his lair, but as if to feel her—to make sure that she was real. Even through the leather glove, his touch was warm against her frigid cheek.

If he could not say anything, she must, for she had approached him with conviction and did not like the idea that he should think himself in some cruel fantasy or hallucination that ended in further rejection. Tilting her head back further, she lifted her hand to the fair side of his face and held his cheek against her palm.

"Will you kiss me, Angel?" she asked quietly, but clearly: he must know that she meant this.

"What?" he asked, the sound barely escaping his lips. He gazed at her in shock, the terrified joy in his eyes nearly breaking her heart.

"Kiss me," she repeated, the request imperative, now.

His arms tightened experimentally around her, but he made no other motion to oblige.

Hoping to encourage him, she said it once more, "Kiss me, my Angel..." lacing her arms under his and lifting them to press her hands against his shoulders, clutching them. "Please..." she implored in a gentle whisper.

Christine found her steadiness giving way to a rush of excitement as her lips remained welcomingly parted after speaking, her breath swirling out from between them like a spirit.

She closed her eyes and waited for him, the fog pouring faster from her mouth as her breath quickened in anticipation. Her heart was pounding, sending warm blood flowing up into her cheeks. She felt a tingling rush in her lips as well. The sensations were not unfamiliar—she remembered them from the last time she had felt him so close to her.

Moments more wore on, her heart rate diminishing slightly in disappointment as he remained still. She was on the point of opening her eyes, afraid of what expression of apprehension or mistrust might meet her if she looked at him... Then, finally, she felt his hot breath on her face and knew that he was close.

His lips met hers hesitantly, but when they finally touched, and the cool surface of his mask brushed against her cheek, it was the most beautiful kind of thrill.

Christine was quite experienced with kisses now, after three months of secret engagement to Raoul.

He kissed her often.

But he had never kissed her like this.

Raoul's lips had always met hers steadily and confidently, assured of their welcome; they had never trembled.

His kisses had always been sweet and fervent, but quick and clean; they had never lingered urgently, or been broken by ragged breaths.

When she and Raoul kissed, they were both participants, but his lips had always led and hers had always followed; he had never paused after each breath or motion to see where she might lead him next.

She had never been in this kind of control before, and the lips slotted against hers had never been desperate or vulnerable.

It felt as though some great flower was blossoming inside Christine's soul as she pressed against the Phantom, and he pressed back.

Her lead encouraged him as intended. Soon she felt the pressure of his lips against hers increase; felt his hands dragging down to her waist, then just slightly further, until he crushed her abdomen to his. His fingers dug into her lower back on either side, satisfying an unfamiliar symmetrical ache there which she hadn't consciously noticed until it flared under the pressure of his hands.

Raoul had never held her like that; it had never even occurred to her that he might.

The sensation coaxed a moan from her, and as it escaped, her tongue brushed against his. This had happened with Raoul, but only once, on the rooftop; and she didn't remember it making her spine tingle as it did now, or compel her to explore further into his mouth. She was overcome with a sudden, heady rush at this instinct, and her eyes flew open.

Christine now expected to meet a burning gaze, but the Phantom's eyes were, instead, screwed shut, and tears were escaping from the corners. She held herself even closer to him, reassuringly, as he broke the kiss involuntarily with a silent sob, his zealous grip on her waist slackening. His emotion, it seemed, had overcome his passion.

She unwound her right arm from him so she could lift her cloak to dry away the tears now streaming down his face. Those, that is, which she could reach without violating his trust again—she would not touch his mask without his grace to do so.

When he collected himself enough to speak his eyes were still glistening, but the flow of tears had ebbed. His voice was thick and tight, but controlled as he spoke, avoiding her gaze.

"Is that to be the end?" He asked, bitterness touching his tone.

Christine's answer was a speechless expression of confusion.

"What of your fiancé?" He choked out harshly when she didn't respond.

Christine was stung. Stung by the implication; by the unwelcome truth that one kiss, no matter how passionate and heartfelt, could not fully mend his faith in her. Nor could that kiss solve the problem that she now found herself in.

Did he think her fickle? Was she?

Christine had always loved Raoul. As a little girl she had imagined (a daydream beyond hope of reality, she'd thought) that one day he would marry her, and they would live happily ever after in a fine house by the sea.

His rooftop confession and the subsequent engagement had begun to see that dream into reality, and his kiss had elated her, made her feel as though she could take flight.

But now she remembered his careless little chuckle as he'd left her dressing room on the night of her debut; how he had insisted, without hearing her, that she join him for supper; his appeasing words when she told him about the Angel: Oh no doubt of it, no doubt, he'd said, as if she were an overly imaginative child. The memory made her feel slightly hollow.

At the time she'd been so happy that he'd recognized her, remembered her, so caught up in their recollections of idyllic childhood, that it hadn't perturbed her the way it did now.

Christine realized that her joy and exultation at his confession of love had heralded the fulfillment of a child's dream. It had stirred her young heart, but had not touched her grown soul.

The kiss she had just experienced reached into some deeply sleeping part of her and awakened it; something more. Something mature—frightening and awesome in its power.

Raoul's kisses, his embraces, his love were still that of a boy for a girl, and hadn't even come close to unlocking this corner of herself, which she now felt as though she wouldn't be quite... whole without.

A marriage with Raoul would be a sweet, a comfortable, but an incomplete and passionless thing.

This revelation did not delight Christine.

The idea of disappointing the tender feelings of a good man—and Raoul was, truly, a good man who would make a fine and caring husband someday—was not a prospect which she relished.

But she would not marry a man who she could not love completely—who, in marrying her, would not only bind himself to a teller of half-truths, but would also take her away from music forever. She could not be both an opera singer and the Vicomtesse de Chagny: his world did not allow such things. Nor would she reject another who loved her so ardently, and who had no one in the world for comfort or love, or even basic respect and kindness—save for her.

She reached up and took the Phantom's face in her hands.

"No," she said firmly, warmly, turning his head to face her. "I will not leave you now."

Christine had chosen her words quite carefully. “Will not”. “Cannot” wouldn’t do; she wanted to be clear that she had made a choice, and made it of her own volition. Not out of pity or guilt.

"I can't feel with Raoul what I've just shared with you,” she said as his eyes met hers again. “If that makes me unfaithful or fickle then I will pray forgiveness as I do for all my sins, but I will bear it."

Trembling, full of emotion, Christine watched as his shock, his disbelief, his pained anxiety, turned slowly to triumph in the ringing silence.

His eyes were bright, exultant, and adoring now, and his hands cupped her face, his hold firm. He bowed his head to her, his eyes searching hers thoroughly for any kind of resistance or regret. Finding none in her, he bore down upon her, crushing his lips to hers again, powerful this time, and unafraid.

She yielded, not just willingly, but happily to the force of this kiss, her blood rising again. It was faster and firmer, but no less tender than before. He seemed to savor each moment of contact, where—and Christine did wonder if these constant comparisons were shameful—Raoul, with his surety, never really had. Her recollections of his kisses and touches perhaps left her so starkly dissatisfied because she now felt that he had taken them all for granted.

It made the Phantom's touch that much more overwhelming to her that he took nothing of her for granted. Not one kiss, or touch, or even a look that she graced him with went under-appreciated.

His lips parted from hers only after several of his half-hearted attempts to do so were thwarted by her reciprocal passion. But once they were apart, both breathless, he slid his hands down her neck, shoulders, arms, and finally took her hands. Pinching the fingertips of his glove between his teeth, he pulled his bare hand free.

On his now-exposed left hand he wore a ring on his little finger, which he now removed. It was silver, with a rather broad band, holding some dark, opaque stone—an ancient looking thing, finely but simply crafted. It did not sparkle, but its dull lustre was as mesmerizing and captivating as all the little diamonds clustered in the face of the trinket Raoul had given her.

She questioned herself again: had she worn that ring on a chain and not on her finger to hide their engagement, from the Phantom and the world, for Raoul's safety only? Or was it to hide the reminder of the solemn promise from herself as well?

The silver ring looked small held between the Phantom's fingers. Christine held her hand perfectly still in his as he eased it onto her ring finger, where it rested snugly and comfortably. Once placed, he folded her hand in both of his and lifted it to kiss her knuckles, pressing them to his lips and closing his eyes as he was again overcome with a silent, but violent emotion that made him shake. The sight of him in that posture, the feeling of his warm lips heating the metal of the ring against her chilled fingers, made Christine quake slightly.

Feeling her shiver, he opened his eyes and lowered her hand, but did not release it.

"It's too cold to linger here," he observed, seemingly mistaking her tremble for a chill. He pulled Christine's cloak closer around her shoulders, his eyes lingering with a subtle longing on her décolletage before he looked away quickly, to her face again. It had been an odd choice of clothing for her to make in such frigid weather, she thought to herself, but his gaze falling on the area like that suddenly made her pulse quicken again and she found herself oddly grateful for her sartorial folly.

"Come," he urged her when her neckline was properly shielded, pulling her toward the back gate of the cemetery.

~~~~

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#phantom of the opera (2004) fanfiction #poto fanfiction #poto 2004 #christine daae #erik the phantom #christine x erik

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