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m1d-45 · 9 months

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second chances

summary: baizhu knows he isn’t your favorite, but he still finds himself hoping for the impossible. maybe, with enough prayer, he’ll get it.

word count: ~2k

-> warnings: major spoilers for baizhu story quest + lore + liyue archon quest, based on me and my experience (vaguely disliked baizhu at first due to partial information, immediately changed my mind w his quest and now adores him, doesn’t have kirara)

-> gn reader (you/yours) and unspecified traveller (they/them)

taglist: @samarill || @thenyxsky || @valeriele3 || @shizunxie || @boba-is-a-soup || @yuus3n || @esthelily || @turningfrogsgay || @cupandtea24 || @genshin-impacts-me || @chaoticfivesworld || @raaawwwr

< masterlist >

baizhu knows he isn’t the most favored.

from the first moment the traveller set foot in his office, he knew. he wasn’t met with anything special, no big flair from his god when you first saw him. it was to be expected, with how much time he spent praying—could gods have regulars?

it was simple. a quick ‘oh, the snake talks?’ thrown his way, a comment or two about his choice of outfit or the jade pendant hanging off his vision, and that was that. mostly, you seemed preoccupied with qiqi and the funeral parlor’s consultant, something to be expected. he was a quick stop on your journey, a note in the margins about the doctor you met at the pharmacy. it made sense, of course, that you’d be occupied with the death of rex lapis during the failed rite of descension, and the return of osial and beisht surely took priority over him. he offered little, only a dialogue or two actually shared between him and the traveller when you were present. he’d gathered as much of his energy, saved it for your arrival to make a good impression, so… it made sense you’d fret over qiqi, constantly forgetful as she was.

it made sense. he’d… made his peace. he had more to worry about, surely, what with orders to fulfill and his own condition to manage. maybe not more important—never, not maybe, what was he thinking?—but certainly more.

when your attention on qiqi flared, spurred by some unknown whim, he delighted a bit in being close to her, even if your thoughts on him weren’t entirely positive.

it was fair. you liked qiqi, and were concerned. it made sense you didn’t know every detail of teyvat, and since he’s never had the chance to come to you and spell out his story directly, it made sense you’d make some assumptions.

“i guess that makes sense, but still… qiqi deserves better.”

she probably did, in truth, but hearing it from you…

he’s had his vision for years by this point. he’s hd it for as long as he’d had changsheng, to be exact, and she was always able to remind him of exactly how long that had been.

“ssseven yearsss, four monthsss, thirteen daysss, and counting…”

“ah… thank you, changsheng.”

he knew he wasn’t special. out of the thousands of vision wielders across teyvat, only a handful have started having their constellations appear in the sky. just under a hundred, by his approximation, but he tried not to count. if he sought out the proper numbers, tried to pin down a percentage of those with a vision that had a chance to hold their god’s attention, then he’d start trying to find patterns. he was a doctor, patterns and rhythms were his literal job, but he knew that wouldn’t end well.

(a librarian, an alchemist, a lawyer: did you perhaps favor more studious types? a bartender, an exorcist, a detective: or those with a drive in their lives? a nobody, a traveller, a wandering samurai: or those seeking one out for themselves?)

there wasn’t a pattern. it was random. and part of him hated it.

baizhu had had his vision for seven years, eight months, and thirteen (was it fourteen? the sky was growing dark) days, and had never once seen his stars in the sky.

he had one. he had a constellation, something he knew was rare among vision wielders, but it didn’t guarantee him a spot in the sky any time soon. kirara had hers long before she had her chance in the heavens—they’d spoken about that, both hesitant to show the other their divine gift, but willing to speak of its existence.

and now kirara’s turn had passed. though her vision didn’t shine any brighter, he could see the pride in her smile when she dropped off another delivery at the pharmacy. sign here, check these, make sure this is what you ordered, goodbye have a good day, pretend like yours doesn’t weigh more after seeing hers.

it wasn’t as if he was unremarkable. a perfectly healthy man who had thrown himself into illness to find the cure for all of them? surely that was interesting, wasn’t it? but it wasn’t his time, he was being impatient, slipping back to the same mindset he condemned his patients for.

“patience. medicine doesn’t work in an instant, and you’ll need to be taking this for the next week at minimum.”

“but it’s so bitter!”

“then tell me, what tastes worse: bile, or this pill? if you want to stop being sick, you need to take it.”

patience.

qiqi was blessed with a place in the stars near instantly after she’d gotten her vision, but she was not the norm. perhaps his expectations were weighted, then? or maybe you disliked his work entirely? he didn’t like entertaining what ifs, but when various aches kept him up, there was little else he could do while he waited for his medication to take effect. patience, he tried to remind himself, counting his breaths. be patient. wait, be calm, don’t agitate yourself. count in, count out, are your breaths getting shorter? just stay calm, be patient…

the first time he saw you, he knew you were coming. he’d saved as much energy as he could, doing his best to make a good impression. but now, with changsheng nudging him awake urgently, pushing him into his shoes and putting his glasses on for him, the first thing he’d expected was the millelith, maybe, or perhaps the ministry of civil affairs. maybe he was needed urgently, maybe something had happened to qiqi, maybe he was late for his medication and he’d get terrible headaches if he wasn’t quick- oh, but then why would she bother to coil around his shoulders?

and yet, out of all those possibilities, none were correct.

“hey! who’s talking about me behind my back?”

“changsheng, qiqi meant that as a compliment. there’s no need to be upset.”

it had been so long since he’d felt your light, far longer since he’d been properly healthy. he’d forgotten how it felt to walk without the dull ache in his joints, and yet here he was. standing by gui and a familiar looking child, speaking with your traveller. it was easy to say words he didn’t choose, his throat not getting dry despite the lack of his morning tea.

the quest was long, and by the end he should have been exhausted. between taking on jialiang’s sickness to turning him into a zombie, he should have been out of commission for the next few days. as it was he had a nasty cough, his breath coming shorter than typical… but that was it. he took his regular medication at the dinner with your traveller, the linger of your aura on them still seeming to dull his pains. how curious, that you could cure ailments even he couldn’t name anymore…

“baizhu, are you alright?” idly, he wondered if the traveller noticed the change in their voice when they were speaking for you. it always sounded a bit lighter, a bit of your emotions bleeding through… a pity he’d never know why. “today must have been taxing for you…”

all eyes were on him now, even qiqi’s. “i’m doing fine,” he said simply, taking another sip of his tea. “better than normal, if anything, which i have to owe to our guest.”

paimon still seemed nervous. “but what about when we leave? what if everything hits you all at once? normally you stay at the pharmacy, and using your power so much…”

a fair assessment. while he was no stranger to combat, to be thrown in the middle of a pack of such vicious hilichurls was a shock. still, he had made it through—even if, privately, he doubted it would have been so clean without you there. “i will be fine. even if my condition declines, i am well equipped to handle flare ups.”

it seemed the whole group was hesitant to let him go. changsheng insisted he stay up until three hours had past since the traveller left, when his limbs again felt heavy and his head began to hurt. something odd was stirring in his chest, and he was eager to get to bed before it sparked into anything more. it was reasonable, he knew, but there were only so many prescriptions to prepare before he had nothing left to do. gui had long since went to bed, leaving just him in the lobby of the pharmacy, quietly double checking his stock of herbs.

eventually, he stood from his seat, returning the sweet flowers to their proper place. he held up an hand to let changsheng climb up his arm, closing up the pharmacy. she curled around his shoulders twice, a familiar weight. the night was cool, a slight breeze bumping the chain of his glasses against his cheek. it had been a long few days, and he was happy that everything was settled. he’d done all he could for jialiang, and he and his family hopefully wouldn’t be coming back for quite some time. back to routine…

“…baizhu?”

he checked the lock with a quick tug, “yes? what is it?”

“the ssstarsss… they’re due, aren’t they?”

ah. the cycles of constellations, switching through the sky. if he thought about it.. yes, they were, weren’t they?

“by my memory, they are. why?”

her head was turned, looking off to the part of the sky not obscured by the roof of the pharmacy.

“…changsheng-“

“look.”

“it’s late.” his heart began to pick up, false hopes being raised. patience, he chided himself, but what follower did not wish for acknowledgment from their god? “we should go to sleep before we fall too far out of schedule.”

“baizhu! i know you have better sssenses than that.”

perhaps he did. his vision burned where it was clipped to his side, invisible vines creeping up toward his heart. “don’t be too hasty,” he said quietly, the words tasting as bitter as his pills.

don’t be too hasty. you could still be wrong. don’t get your hopes up. be patient.

one hand went to his hip, undoing the clasp of his vision, the other settling on the railing. a few clouds dotted the sky, but he lifted his vision anyway, searching for any stars tinted green.

everything happened at once. the terrace was replaced with an ocean of skies, the slight mumble of “i do have a guaranteed…” getting lost in the whirlwind around him. he was weightless, trapped in by an invisible box, only dimly aware of the fact that his pain had once again disappeared. he was floating, dressed in the attire he normally saved for formal events—dressed in what he’d put on when you’d first arrived—with no sight of the pharmacy below him. it was just him and changsheng, him and changsheng and the bright light that came from everywhere, lifting him from his unseen prison.

a laugh, a smile, a rush of power flooding through him, and when he next set foot in front of the pharmacy, he did so with a new gleam to his vision. he could hear a door open behind him—qiqi, if he had to guess, as why wouldn’t she be drawn to the power the adepti could only hope to imitate?—but couldn’t turn, breathless.

“welcome home, doc.. it’s good to see you.”

it had taken seven years, four months, and 25 days, but he was here. and it was more than he could have ever asked for.

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orangeave · 5 months

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not even ghosts are this empty

wednesday addams x gn!reader

summary: you dug a grave for two but you lay in the casket alone.

words: 1.2k

orange speaks: part two to the great war, with more angst (whoops?). hope y'all enjoy.

Plumes of smoke echo slowly out of your mouth, the blunt in your hand burning the edges of your fingers. You make no move to ease the subtle ache, secretly enjoying the weight of the blisters that form in their wake. A cough flowers in your throat when you inhale the sharp sting of night air afterwards but you hold it in place, forcing it to expand downward to create a rattle in your chest. It encompasses the entirety of your ribcage, swallowing the meat of your organs whole.

The sensation is fleeting and you mourn it as it fades. There’s an emptiness that follows, one you’re making an unwilling acquaintance with since you left Wednesday’s dorm those short months ago. Time has been infinitesimal in the grand scheme of things, passing by in hiccups of memory that never truly stick.

The first few days following that night go by in denial, refusing to believe you had lost her. A hollow ticking resounding in your ears proves it to be true; vaguely signaling a countdown that tells you that you now carry a solar flare where your heart should reside, and it’s only a matter of time before it implodes.

Loving Wednesday isn’t easy but neither is letting her go, and when the denial dwindles into tormenting acceptance, you are left with only the ghosts of her. They haunt each corner of your existence – both mental and physical – creating dark circles beneath your eyes that resemble tattoos more than they do skin.

You attempt to exorcise Wednesday from your being and the vacancy within you becomes a cathedral; you pray at its illusionary, cobblestone steps but you are bent at the knees before a false god, incapable of offering reprieve. Wraiths have risen in relief’s stead – fallen too far to be ghosts any longer – and they are starving, snarling at the altar of your shortcomings. You will find no peace here when your body, laden with a lifetime of grief that ages you, is pirouetting upon crumbling earth.

Resorting back to the roach in your trembling hands, you yearn for it to bring some semblance of life into the space you ache to fill. As you exhale, a shadow gathers in your peripheral in the shape of a girl you cannot escape.

“I see you’ve come to dislike functioning lungs.” Wednesday dishes out, coming to stand by your sitting limbs that stretch out into the pond in front of you. Fathoming why she’s here, in the spot that once belonged to the two of you, is something you can’t grasp.

Casual conversation is the last thing you want to participate in. It feels cheap; hollow. You deserve more than astute observations and meaningless slights. Something she’s averse to giving you, it seems, and the part of you that continues to die in its place hates her for it.

Youthfulness is forgotten when you are a rotting carcass forcing itself to breathe to a tempo that no longer comes naturally, dangling on flimsy strings that Wednesday commands, waltzing to the tune of her desires. A puppet master is what she is and you find no solace in this dance, not when the past lingers so close to the surface; of who you were to each other but will seldom be again.

“Something like that.” You monotone, a slight shrug lifting your shoulders.

There’s a tense set to her own shoulders at your response, the lack of expression in your voice pulling her entire body taut. A vengeful part of you revels in it, only to diminish into nothingness just as quickly, as everything else before it has.

Your desolate eyes finally raise to meet Wednesday’s, causing hers to widen almost imperceptibly. They trace the heavy bags beneath your lashes then down to your still shaking hands and you come to understand her astonishment because up till now, you’ve managed to avoid her – a feat you were proud of.

“Y/N…” She murmurs, reaching out for you. Wednesday’s fingers barely get the chance to brush against your arm before you’re recoiling away from the touch, water splashing up into your lap from where your legs hang in the pond.

Oh, god.

There’s something to be said about the inbetween of dreams and reality; a certain dissonance that easily perpetuates the disruptive cognitive faults which riddle a half-aware person that the past haunts. Nightmares of memory which lead to dark, twisting backdrops that muddy the truth and serve to create monstrosities of unchecked thoughts.

Falling asleep has always been a terrifying experience for you. In a moment's notice, you are suddenly the backseating, side character in the fluttering reel of torment plagued by the emergence of day. You have absolutely no control over the fate of each suffering you were forced to face and only hold the capacity to watch as it unfolds once again.

You are not asleep but you have spent the past months half-awake, and Wednesday’s touch yanks you right back to that night where your roles were in reverse. The details are still so fresh and it’s too much. It’s not fair the hold she has on you even now.

“No, you don’t get to do this. Not now.” Your voice cracks, clumsily lifting your limbs from murky depths and rising to your full height. Water cascades down your form, leaving you shivering in the night air. A gasp chokes in your throat, panic seizing you and the ticking in your ears reaches a deafening roar. “I- After all this time, why now?”

Wednesday hesitates, the pause hanging in the air between you.

“Say something!” You bellow, panic turning into anger at her silence.

She shrinks back as you close the distance between you and it is wholly unlike her but you ignore it, invading her space.

“I will never be good enough for you, will I?” You unevenly gasp out, realizing a long forgotten truth, “I plead, and I bargain, and I sacrifice, in the name of love. To heal the cracks in our façade but you stand before me, stoic as the day I met you, and give absolutely nothing in return.”

Her eyes follow your stance, expression shuttering to impassive and unseeing – hollow in a way you’ll never be able to change. All the anger drains out of you and when she goes to finally respond, mouth tentatively opening as she comes to know the sickness sinking beneath your mirage that you were never able to cleanse, you simply shake your head.

In loving and losing her, you have lost yourself. You no longer know how to breathe air she does not exhale and disgust flares at who you’ve become; at who you’ve let her make you. Some cowardly thing, bent to the whims of a devil in the disguise of a god.

Love is a fickle thing, so easily transforming into a monstrous being when betrayal hangs heavy in the space once wrought with the finer side of a bottled heaven. The feeling you welcome in love’s place should terrify you – for a moment, it does – but power is a corrupter in the hands of a widow.

The implosion within you is beautifully damning – strings held in commandeering fingers snap, the corpse of you reborn in the ash of your submissiveness; flesh of the burnt coagulating into an armor made to pressurize the weight of your footsteps until the force of them cracks the earth, widening the gap of reality between the duality of life and death till it is but a mere phantom pain.

Say, what’s a soul really worth?

You’ve already lost everything, what’s a little more?

(– vultures have come to feast upon your bones; only the vulture is you and you’ve gorged upon yourself.)

#wednesday x you #wednesday addams x you #wednesday addams imagines #jenna ortega x reader #wednesday addams x reader #wednesday x reader #wednesday addams #jenna ortega

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captainjamster · 2 months

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Underrepresented!Reader Series

Pairing(s): Price x recovering drug user reader Warnings: Discussions of drug use/abuse, contemplation of driving under the influence Wordcount: 2.1k Summary: An impulse to relapse in your sobriety is halted when John catches you sneaking out. AO3 Link: Right here! <3

A/N: Terribly sorry to be selfish, but I have to admit, this one is entirely for me. I am genuinely nervous to post this one, I know the world isn't always friendly in its perception of individuals struggling with substance usage, but we're sending it.

Full fic is under the cut <3

The urges have been picking away at your sanity for the last week.

Each floorboard creaks a song of your deception, calling out their weary complaints tauntingly with each step you take, and you pray the noise isn’t loud enough to wake John. It was easy enough to untangle yourself from his limbs, kissing his temple and murmuring something about the toilet when he reached for your departing figure with a sleepy grumble. Standing in the doorway of the bathroom was more challenging, the door pushed open and tugged close again just for effect, straining your ears with the air caught in your chest as you waited for his breathing to even out into deep, rumbling snores.

The further away your bedroom gets, the more your resolve begins to crack as you ride the dip of the overwhelming desire, rationality fighting through the impulses that beg to occupy your conscious thoughts. It’s not too late to turn back, slip under the covers again and back into John’s arms. Feel the grunt vibrate through his chest when you let him know you just needed a glass of water from the kitchen, that’s all, and fall back asleep to face the same dilemma all over again in the morning.

You keep walking, focusing your attention on the careful placement of your feet as the floor turns from wood to tiles, trying to drown the cacophony of thoughts rattling through your head. Though the kitchen is far enough away from the bedroom that the noise should die before it travels, you can’t help the hesitancy you move with. Like maybe if you’re quiet enough, the guilt eating at your chest will be, too.

Looking out the window that peaks between the curtains, droplets of rain are illuminated by the warm glow of the streetlights. Your pyjamas are too thin and skimpy for the unforgiving chill of the winter air, and the dressing gown you snagged from the bedroom door would only keep you so warm if you walked. Frustration flares as you consider another obstacle in your path, resurfacing the tug of war between relapsing or sobriety you’re trying to avoid as an irritatingly logical voice in your head pleads you not to disappoint John, not to disappoint yourself like this. The car it is, then.

Grabbing the damn metal without sending tinkling chimes echoing through the house is agonising, and you wince with every clang of the keys. It takes some patience to guide them out the wired basket they live in without catching them on the aluminium wires, exhaling a relieved sigh when they’re safe in your hand. The keys eat at your palm as you grip them, shimmying your slippers on delicately as you brace yourself to coax the door open, doubts flying through your head as you get deeper in.

The more you consider it, driving seems too risky. Maybe if you roll the car in neutral, you can push it down the street, far away enough that the engine coming to life won’t rouse John from his sleep – but you can’t drive back fucked up, especially not if you overdo it. Pain throbs in your hand as you clutch tighter at the keys, feeling the dents they make in your palm without looking.

Fuck it. It would be way easier to drive home with everything, pull up across the street and push your car back into the driveway. You can’t do it in the car – god, John would be so upset if the sniffer dogs ever alerted to his car – but there is that public bathroom down the street. At this point, even your own damn backyard could work. That’s a problem for when you have the drugs in your hands.

Convincing yourself there’s nothing to fret over with the illusion of a solution, you push yourself off the wall, reaching out for the doorknob. You know it clicks when you open it, but maybe if you’re slow enough, then –

“Hey, baby.”

The keys jingle almost comedically as your grip loosens, freezing in place as your blood runs cold. You feel like a deer caught in the headlights, fumbling as you try to work out the right response. “John…”

It takes a moment for your body to cooperate and turn on the spot. John’s eyes are puffy with sleep, one palm pressed into his socket as he squints at you with the other, running his hand up and down through the hair of his chest. “What’s going on, sweetheart?”

There’s no accusation in his voice, despite that you know he’s smart enough to have worked it out. Your hand falls back to your side, clutching at the soft fabric of your gown.

“S’just…”

He shuffles over drowsily, yawning against the back of his hand as he stops just out of reach, leaving enough distance to keep you from feeling cornered. You can’t keep contact with his gaze, trailing down his bare chest, the waistline of his boxers, to his bare feet where it stays. John takes note of the hesitant silence, the way your body trembles in the shadows of the moonlight, and gently asks another question.

“What did you want to go out for, baby?”

He’s so sweet. Giving you the benefit of the doubt, a chance to explain without pushing assumptions and imagining the worst. It leaves a bitterness in your mouth, self-pity clawing at your chest as you crash with the disappointment of the moment, so torn between being grateful and being fucking pissed that you’re caught.

“You know.”

It burns to admit, struggling to swim through the shame and disgust rising in your body. Admitting it explicitly feels too much, but John still understands, humming acceptingly without any displeasure. When your eyes flicker back up to his face, his brows are furrowed in a loving concern, looking over you in that way John does when he’s trying to solve all of your problems in his head.

“Come sit on the sofa with me, love?” He prompts, extending a hand for the keys. You stare into his hand, raising your own arm to hover above his palm reflexively, but your fingers fight to loosen around the metal.

“I know, sweetheart,” he murmurs, “it’s okay. I’m not going to stop you, this is your choice. At least let me drive you so I know you’re safe.”

The proposal breaks your heart. Sneaking around to do drugs behind John’s back is one thing, but dragging him into it is another – one that’s entirely off limits. Your head is shaking urgently before you can find words, pulling your hand away to stuff the keys back into their basket. “Absolutely not. No, never.”

He drops his arm, bringing it back to his side. “S’alright too, darlin’. Just an offer.”

The space falls quiet as he watches you patiently, leaving time for you to speak up or make a move. When stillness keeps you rooted to the spot, hands tangled forcefully in the plush of the gown, he pipes up again. “Speakin’ of offers, would you come to the sofa with me? We can stay here, but it’s a bit comfier than the floor.”

The lightness in his tone is another gentle reassurance he’s not mad as you nod slowly, tugging at the inside of your lip to hold back the floor of tears. You sink lower into the mess of your emotions with each step, trying to keep composure as you follow him to the sofa. The plush furniture groans as John settles into it, purposely leaving his arm wide for you to curl into him. It takes a moment to curl up against him, feeling undeserving of the unconditional warmth he wraps you in as he tugs you closer.

“Tell me what’s goin’ on, doll.” He whispers, running a hand through your hair.

“Couldn’t sleep.”

He hums understandingly, allowing you to continue without interruption.

“S’been bad the last week. Can’t stop thinking about it, everything reminds me of it in the most irrelevant ways. It’s like it never leaves my mind. It makes me fucking miserable.” The air struggles to reach your lungs through your choked up throat, breath hitching as you fight to keep it under control.

“Thought that…” Swallowing around the lump of shame in your throat is painful. “I thought I could just go out for one deal, just one. Could come home before you wake up, shower, and I could be happy again and you wouldn’t be stuck dealing with me like this! Just for a week, a few days, even a fucking day. Just some fucking reprieve from this bullshit.”

The words tumble out as the floodgates break, pressing your face against John’s bare chest. Soothing hushes fall from his lips, rubbing his hand up and down your back as you crumble into him.

“It’s okay, my love.” His breath is warm against your scalp with every word. “I know it’s been tough for you lately, baby, I see you workin’ so hard.”

The assurance has you sobbing harder, shoulders shaking as you gulp down oxygen between wails, and he does nothing but hold you closer. “You’re doing such a good job staying sober. Must’ve been so hard to fight those urges all week. Sounds like there was a lot triggering you, huh?”

All you can do is nod weepily, bringing a sleeve up to wipe at your runny nose. Words feel far from your grasp as the emotional intensity of your week fully hits you, but John doesn’t stop with the hushed reassurances. “M’not mad, you haven’t disappointed me, love. So proud of you for still tryin’. Even if y’did go, you wouldn’t disappoint me. These things happen.”

Your chest aches as tears stain your face, slick against his damp skin that catches each drop. John doesn’t care about the snot or tears tangling his hair, letting you sob into his chest like a tissue. “You’ve been strong for the last few months, it’s okay if you fall this time. S’okay even if you fall tomorrow, and the day after that.”

Each breath is still ragged, shaking your figure with a fierceness that won’t let you keep your fingers together. John steps in, sliding his fingers between yours, rubbing circles over the back of your hand. “I know, sweet thing. Can you try’n breathe with me? Know y’can do it, take a breath with me, jus’ like that.”

He takes a deep, purposeful inhale that moves you with him, exhaling it slowly and repeating until your breath falls in peaceful synchronisation. For however long passes by, it’s just you and John rocking through the last of your distress, the warmth of his body and touch of his skin keeping you from floating too far back into the guilt and temptation ringing through your mind.

“Remember what your therapist said?” John speaks up, soft voice echoing through the quiet, dark living room. “Urges and relapsing are a part of your sobriety.”

“Being sober isn’t a destination, it’s a journey,” you mumble into him, closing your eyes as the mantra washes over you.

The room falls silent for long enough that you almost dose off, lost between the comforting touches of John and the weariness that begins to replace your fading adrenaline.

“With me, sunshine?” John prompts, running his nails along your scalp soothingly as he catches the dwindling of your consciousness. Despite the hoarse, watery “yes” you mumble into his chest hairs, you can still hear the smile in his voice as he responds. “What can I do for you, hm? Anythin’?”

You reject him with a refusing hum, shaking your head. “Nothin’, just stay here.”

“Couldn’t think of anythin’ I want to do more. I’ll carry you back if you fall asleep.”

The thought of putting John through any more trouble tonight has you frowning, pushing yourself away from him despite his reluctance to loosen his grip, giving you a curious look.

“Save you the trouble, let’s go now.”

His eyes crinkle with the turn of his lips, smiling at you affectionately as you rise. Your hands intertwine as he reaches out, only loosening when he tugs the dressing gown off your shoulders, hanging it over the door as you make your way to the bed. Despite your head start, his long legs move him quicker, pulling the blankets back for you.

You slip in between the sheets, feeling the bed dip as John crawls in his side. His arms are open expectantly before you have to say anything, smoothing the sheet out to create a comfy spot for you that you snuggle into without hesitation.

The muscles hidden under that soft layer of fat in his arms flex and release as he wraps his arms around you, finding a protective purchase on the soft rises of your body. A pang of gratefulness rattles your chest, and you squeeze your eyes shut, breathing in the smell of your lover. It doesn’t take long for you to fall back into the gentle lull John coaxed you into before, and once he’s sure you’re soundly asleep, he sinks into unconsciousness with you.

dividers by cafekitsune

#look. i think john would get it #as someone who 1) smokes cigars and may have a tobacco dependence 2) would see substance abuse as coping in his own soldiers #i think he would be a great partner/support system for maintaining sobriety #price x reader #john price x reader #price x you #john price x you #jams writings #rep!reader writings #cod fanfic #call of duty fanfic

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lilyrizzy · 11 months

Note

For the prompt thingy - daniel taking care of max when he was sick in jeddah please? 🤲

I know this is a prompt thingy from ages ago, but I hope you like it anyway anon!

Cw: descriptions of throwing up

There’s a horrible retching noise coming through the bathroom door, followed by the telltale sound of liquid hitting liquid. Daniel rattles the knob again, already having found it locked the first time he tried.

“Maxy,” he calls again, voice a sing-song, “Maxy, open the door.”

For a moment, Daniel thinks Max is ignoring him, then-

More sounds of him violently throwing up.

“I think I am dying, Daniel,” he eventually manages to catch, a muffled whimper, “and I cannot of course take you down with me.”

There is something echoey in Max’s voice, probably because it’s bouncing off the ceramic of the toilet that his head is currently stuck in. Resting his forehead against the door, Daniel can’t help but smile at his flare for the dramatic, though maybe that isn’t totally fair. He probably does feel like he’s dying.

“Life isn’t worth living without you, baby,” he answers, a joke, but- Well. “Don’t you want me to rub your back, or, uh-“ He tries to remember what his mum would do for him the days he’d stay home from school, wagging or not, “-put a cold flannel on your forehead?”

Really, that could go either way. Max is picky with when he wants to be touched and when he wants to be left alone, and Daniel is mostly good these days at reading that. Cuddles after sex are a must, but to sleep? No way. Some things though, he’s still learning.

There’s no answer, and with Max sometimes that is the answer, so Daniel is getting ready to walk away, go back to the UFC match they were watching before Max bolted from the sofa back to the toilet, and add does not like to be held when sick to the growing list of ways he knows Max like nobody else, except-

The lock snicks, and when Daniel tries the door again it opens.

Max is already retreating to his position, praying to the porcelain god, by the time Daniel gets through the door. The room smells disgusting, but Daniel doesn’t dare say that in case it gets him stuck on the other side again, helpless. He can’t do much in here either, but if Max let him in it’s because he wants him.

It’s only seconds before Max is gagging again, not throwing up exactly but giving it a bloody good go.

“Oh sweetheart," Daniel says, and the sudden rush of tenderness both surprises him and has him crouching down beside Max, hand moving in circles over his shoulder blades like promised.

His offers of support hadn’t exactly been disingenuous, but Daniel hasn’t exactly won any medals for boyfriend of the year before, so it’s a shock how quickly the actions change from feeling like an obligation, to those born from the need to see Max better, to see him smile.

Which is maybe a little much to ask for. Instead, Max coughs, then spits, then groans miserably. Standing again, Daniel fills up the glass he usually uses for mouthwash with cold water and offers it to him, but Max pitifully shakes his head.

“It will only come back up again, I think,” he grimaces, and yeah. He’s probably right. “I think this is your fault.”

“My fault?” Daniel questions with a laugh, a little affronted. Squeezing Max’s shoulder he adds, “I’m not that desperate for your seat, mate.”

It gets him that smile he was after from Max, which feels like a small victory.

“You made me eat that spicy chicken,” he insists, resting his forehead against their toilet seat. “From the Indian restaurant last week. I told you it makes my tummy bad.”

Tummy. Something that feels a lot like love twists itself around Daniel’s heart.

“I don’t think some chicken you ate over a week ago is making you sick, babe,” Daniel can’t help but point out, even though Max is right, he did make him try some of his Chicken Jalfrezi. “Maybe it was the pizza.”

Later, after, naked in bed, Daniel went for his classic while Max insisted on one with all kinds of weird and wonderful deli meats slapped on top, so it’s not exactly rocket science.

Daniel is one hundred percent sure it’s the pizza.

An impulse order last night after getting a little too wine drunk and giggly in the apartment together, a rare evening of quiet fun between Max’s hectic race schedule. Daniel promising that Max would like the next glass of red just so he could watch the alcohol stain his lips darker and darker, to kiss the taste of it out of his mouth.

Max is shaking his head though, his hair especially blonde in the almost fluorescent light of the bathroom. His eyes are shut.

“Pizza would not betray me like this, I think.”

This time, Daniel doesn’t argue, just leans to press a kiss to the sweaty back of Max’s neck. Max makes a soft humming noise, not exactly happy but- Almost.

“Sorry I am so gross,” he croaks out after a few beats more of silence, and he is but he’s also Daniel’s to take care of.

“Hey,” he tries, rubbing the shell of Max’s ear now, “I’m the one who was about the bust down the door to get in.” Then because it doesn’t feel quite enough, he adds, “gross or not gross, sickness and in health, baby.”

Max laughs, eyes still closed. There’s too much stubble on his jaw, too much breadth to his shoulders for Daniel to think he looks anything like he did in the Red Bull briefings, eighteen with his head on the table like he was sleeping, and yet his mind pulls him back to that Max anyway.

How far he’s come, how far they both have.

“That is for if you are married,” Max says, as though he is reminding Daniel. Like he thinks maybe Daniel is a little crazy for bringing it up, and maybe he is, but it doesn’t feel like that.

When you know, you know, his mum had always told him and for almost two decades of dating he would roll his eyes at her and bite down how not everyone could have the perfect love story she and his dad did. These days, he thinks she’s onto something.

“Yeah Maxy, you’re right,” he says, instead of the words he wants to. Let’s fucking do it then. Nobody wants to get proposed two between rounds of vomit after only eight months.

#i meant to post this ages ago but forgot!#sorry it took so long anon!#sorry its also a bit soppy haha #max/daniel #fic

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desiccatedwithering · 1 year

Text

The others are fine-tuning the plan, and Steve, for once, is grateful that they haven’t bothered to ask for his input. He wouldn’t have anything useful to say. Not now, when stress and fear are a rope around his neck, choking him more and more as they close the distance back to Hawkins. Not when he can see a hundred different ways that this could go wrong, could all come crashing down on their heads. Not now, when Robin’s concern is rattling around in his head, when it’s taken on a life of its own, shaking him and screaming, “Someone is going to die!”

They’re spread too thin, fighting on too many fronts. They’re not being smart about this. But he’s dumb, too dumb to figure out a solution, too dumb to offer up anything other than “No, no, no, this will get everyone killed.”

The thought of leaving Max and Lucas and Erica alone makes his teeth hurt, makes him genuinely sick to his stomach. They’re children.

And worse than that, Lucas and Erica are both associated with Hellfire now. The whole town will be hunting them, out for blood. What if Erica gets spotted? Jason wasn’t afraid to get in Nancy’s face in public, and Mike’s in fucking California right now, couldn’t possibly be involved with helping Eddie. So what will he do if he finds the Sinclairs, in the middle of the night, all alone, with Max in a trance?

Steve should stay with them. Keep them safe.

But—

Vecna—or Henry or One, whatever—he’s like El. Sure, he’ll be in a trance when they get to the house, but once they light him on fire? He’s gonna wake up, and he’s gonna be pissed. And Steve isn’t sure how much help he’d be against someone with superpowers, but three against one is better odds than two against one. (And a part of him thinks he’s justified in worrying that a gun might not do much, not when the Upside Down has apparently transformed him into an even bigger monster. Bullets didn’t stop the demogorgon. Who says they’ll stop Vecna, even if he used to be a normal man?)

And then there’s Eddie and Dustin, and he can almost convince himself that they’ll be safe. But the wounds in his sides are throbbing in time with his heartbeat, and he knows that Dustin is loyal to a fault—“You die, I die”—and for all Eddie’s talk of being a coward, Steve knows that he isn’t, and—

Fuck it.

The others are so caught up in rehashing the plan that they don’t even notice that he’s gone off course until he’s parked and marching out of the RV.

“Wh— Steve! What are—?”

“I’ll be right back, Rob. Two minutes.”

“Where—?” The rest of Eddie’s question is cut off as the RV door swings shut.

Steve jogs up the drive, gritting his teeth at the flare of pain in his sides, and pounds on the door. “Tommy? You home, man? It’s Steve!”

A moment later, the door is yanked open, Tommy spitting, “What the fuck, Steve? You—” He stops abruptly, eyes raking over Steve from head to toe and back again. “Fuck, Steve, you look like hell. What happened?”

Steve grimaces. He doesn’t bother to answer the question; there’ll be time to explain later, if he’s right about this. God, he hopes he’s right about this.

Carol appears behind Tommy—which is a relief; he’d hate to have to do this twice—and gives Steve the same once over, eyes narrowing. She opens her mouth, closing it again when he shakes his head slightly.

“I hate to do this,” he says, “but you remember the promise we made? When we were nine?”

Tommy’s eyes widen, and his shoulders go rigid. “Steve?” he asks, and he sounds— fuck, he sounds terrified. Steve closes his eyes for a moment, taking a deep breath so he doesn’t turn tail and run. He prays to a god he doesn’t believe in that it’ll be enough. (A tiny, selfish, awful part of him almost hopes that it won’t. But he squashes that voice down. They don’t have another choice; they need more help.)

Carol pushes past him, reaching out for the hem of Steve’s shirt and lifting it delicately. Steve doesn’t protest. Her mom’s a nurse; she’s always been able to tell when he’s hurt and hiding it. No point trying to conceal gaping holes in his sides if he couldn’t sneak something as minor as a sprained wrist past her.

She clearly wasn’t expecting it to be this bad, though. She gasps, her hands trembling where they hold his shirt. “How—? Who—?”

“What the fuck?” Tommy asks, face pale, expression queasy.

Steve knows how it looks, the massive blooms of blood soaking into the makeshift bandage. (He’d say it looks worse than it is, but it honestly hurts like a bitch.)

“I’m sorry,” he says, sure that remorse is bleeding from every pore. He hates, hates, hates himself for dragging someone new into this mess yet again. “But I could really use some help.”

“Fuck, Steve. Of course,” Carol says instantly, looking like she’s about to march off to track down whoever did this to him and make them pay.

Steve glances at Tommy again. His jaw is clenched and his hands are balled into fists at his sides, but he meets Steve’s eyes and nods. “Whatever you need.”

“It’s dangerous. Deadly,” Steve says, almost frantic. As much as he needs their help, he needs them to understand what they’re getting into. “You might not—”

“Steve,” Tommy says. His hand comes up in a familiar move, then stops just in front of Steve’s shoulder, like he’s not sure if he’s allowed to touch. “We made a promise.”

Steve nods, throat too tight to say anything. He’s distantly aware that tears are welling in his eyes, but he doesn’t bother trying to hide them. All he can do is close the scant distance between them, leaning into the pressure of Tommy’s hand almost desperately, hoping the gesture shows even a fraction of his gratitude.

Tommy nods back and repeats, “Whatever you need, Stevie.”

#stranger things fanfiction #stranger things fic #stranger things ficlet #stranger things #steve harrington #my ficlet #my writing #my post #uhhh gotta think of a specific tag in case i write more #ficlet: the most popular kids in the apocalypse #afkjlas;fj i might change that but it works for now #idk what this is exactly but my brain wouldn't let me fall asleep until i wrote it the other day so #enjoy?#tommy hagan #carol perkins #my fic

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vennilavee · 1 year

Text

iii. the savior

blood and pearls masterlist

wc: 1.6k

summary: the eye of the storm brings you something unexpected.

warnings: mentions of cannibalism

The forest remains untouched despite the heavy, violent storm that had passed by not two nights ago. The land must be under some kind of spell for it to escape the fiery tendrils of the storm, you conclude. Perhaps it is due to a pact with the four-armed demon who sits by the mountains.

Heavy rains and inky, black clouds hung low in the sky, but somehow the sunshine peaked through. Your rock remained pristine and the waters remained glittering despite the lightning and thunder rumbling and rattling deep within the meadows beyond.

You had braced yourself for the worst of it. To feel your father’s wrath, the damnation for your disobedience. You had expected to drown in the endless downpour, to fall to your doom like many sailors and pirates you once knew.

And yet, the morning dew hangs off of fresh blades of grass, as if the world is not being pulled apart along the horizon in front of your very eyes.

He is far away, sitting on his castle up on the mountain, but his power knows no bounds. Even the sky above and the sea below have no say in what occurs in Sukuna’s domain, much less your father and his manufactured maelstrom.

Perhaps he is correct. Perhaps he is a god, after all.

But even so, you do not bow to him when he rudely approaches you on your rock. You are resting, allowing the moonlight to wash over you in bliss. It is one of your most favorite parts of the day, and this beast is interrupting you with a scowl of displeasure. His broad, bulky frame nearly covers your view of the moon. As if he wouldn’t pluck the moon right from the sky just to prove that this is his domain.

“The storm has subsided,” you say airily, “It’s flooded everywhere except here.”

“The people pray to me for good weather and good fortune,” Sukuna replies, his voice a low, tender growl, “I am a man of my word.”

“Were you not a god seven nights ago? Now you are a mere man?” you turn your head away from him to look up at the moon once more.

He thinks it’s no coincidence that small waves wash upon his feet, as if to beckon him closer towards you. You blink at him with eyes as opaque as the water beneath you and a coy, unfamiliar smile.

So he steps forward, allowing his ankles to be submerged.

“Careful,” you say with a hint of playfulness, “You’re in my domain now.”

“You are mistaken,” he says as he wades through the water, but with none of the familiar vexation on his face. He is quite handsome when he isn’t glaring murderously at you.

The water is warm, despite the chilly night air. Sukuna wonders if that is due to your influence. Your smile makes him think it is. The rock you lay upon has many sharp, jagged edges, making it easy for anyone to cut their limbs and bleed out. But he watches as you smooth the edges out for him to climb your beloved rock.

Sukuna does not know much of the magic of water dwellers. The twirling of your fingers is melodic and entrancing as they cut through the air to allow him entry to your precious rock.

“I don’t need your help,” he claims as you create a flattened pathway of stones that splits the water in two. And yet, he places one foot after the other as he walks on your stones towards your rock. Sukuna notices that the stones change shape as he approaches you, shifting from smooth to jagged and from small pebbles to large pieces of rubble.

You could drop him straight into the shrouded darkness of the lake and let the sea creatures attempt to devour him if you so desired.

Sukuna sits at the top of your rock as if it’s his throne made of blood and skulls. As if you didn’t spend all this time making this lake yours. He is a man who takes and takes, hardly ever giving unless it’s in his best interest.

The storm continues to flare in the sky in sharp blitzes of deep red, almost like streaks of blood. But it’s as dry as ever on your rock.

His lightning maroon eyes are trained up at the moon as he follows your reverent gaze. What’s so special about it anyway?

He could rip it out of the sky if he so desired. That’s what god’s do, after all.

“It’s more plush when you lie down,” you murmur, patting the space next to you. He is reluctant, but he listens for once. You are unable to conceal the surprised pout that forms on your lips. But you are right- it is as if he is laying on a bed of flowers rather than the cold, hard edges of this rock.

Despite his broad shoulders and four massive arms, Sukuna looks comfortable enough.

You sigh contentedly, the warmth radiating off of the four armed demon-god nearly putting you to sleep.

“Don’t get comfortable,” his voice is low and jarring, cutting through the peaceful night air with the sound of a thousand knives. You don’t reply, only ignoring him and turning on your side to face him.

Sukuna refuses to look into your deep eyes, for fear of drowning a watery death. “You do not belong here, or have you forgotten already in that pathetic brain of yours?”

You scoff. “It has been weeks. Months even. Give it a rest, Sukuna.”

He glares at you.

“My lord,” you say with unveiled insult and laughter in your voice.

“You are a fucking thorn to be removed and squashed-”

“And yet, here you are in my company, on my rock, looking at my moon,” you say smugly.

“Your moon?” Sukuna says incredulously.

“Yes, she guides me,” you beam at him, that ridiculously bright smile of yours nearly blinding him. It irks him to no end.

“Tell her to guide you back where you belong. To the sea,” he retorts, flicking your forehead harshly. You glare at him and curl your fingers lightly to send a soft whip of water at his chest.

“She brought me here. I have not lost faith in her yet,” your voice quiets down, as if you are protecting some deep, dark secret in the caves of your heart. Sukuna does not care for what it is, nor does he ask.

“You hold faith in something that is destined to rise every night. That is not faith, that is routine. Consistency…”

“Is there a difference?”

“You are a foolish girl,” Sukuna says, ignoring the vexation on your face, “A naive girl lost in the woods all by herself, believing in dead men’s tales. A stupid girl out of the water, where she has come to die by the hands of men and gods-”

“I am in your domain and you will not let harm befall any creature in your domain. Isn’t that a god’s duty?” you sneer derisively.

“I have not decided if you are worthy of saving yet, you monstrosity of the water.”

“Do let me know when you decide, monstrosity of the land.”

Instead of storming off in a show of impatience and irritation, he shifts further on the rock so that your shoulders are very nearly touching. You can see each curve and edge of his markings on his arms and his face, but you refuse to allow your eyes to wander to his chest.

A chill washes over your body as an image of blood dribbling down his lips to his chest flashes behind your eyes. You should be afraid of him, the way death is written plainly on those markings that adorn his body.

There are rumors of him- that he eats the newborn children of the youngest women in the villages surrounding the forest, then he eats the women themselves. Ryomen Sukuna has a penchant for blood and glory, that much you know.

There are other rumors of him, that hundreds of years ago he used to be an esteemed warrior who won many battles and wars with his armies. Or a sorcerer. You are not certain what the difference is.

You wonder if it’s true, and you would like to find out.

“Why are you here?” Sukuna finally asks after a few moments of silence, “Why have you spent your days here and not in the ocean, with your sisters?”

He meets your eyes that are dark and reminiscent of the ocean, but he doesn’t stare for too long. He has heard tales of foolish pirates falling to their deaths because of a simple look of a mermaid’s alluring eyes. Sukuna does not stare for too long, but finds it difficult to look away. There is a glint in your eye only made brighter by the light of the moon drenching your skin in pale light.

Somehow the moonlight always seems to find you.

“The ocean is lonely and vast. I do not wish to spend my days alone with only the sun and the moon as company. I do not wish to be shackled to the water any longer,” you murmur defiantly, allowing your hand to brush against his arm. You nearly recoil from the heat of his skin, but maintain your embrace.

He does not shove you away, only staring at you with those ardent eyes.

“I do not care if you stay or leave from here. Stay out of my way and do not let me catch you in places you don’t belong, girl.”

Before Sukuna sits up to retreat into the night, he leaves you with one parting thought: “There is only one god you should beg for mercy from, and you should do well to remember who it is. Your precious moon will bleed and your ocean will turn to sky if that is my will.”

You watch him part the lake with one graceful swirl of his fingers and he vanishes back into the mountains before you can blink.

You wish to visit the mountains.

tags: kentobean @misslovingpearl @aeanya @mystikalini @helenas-revenge

#sukuna x reader #ryomen sukuna x reader #sukuna x you #ryomen sukuna x you #jjk x reader

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hiddenwritingsintheworld · 1 year

Text

Man After Midnight Ch. 2

Rich Mans World Series | Chapter 1 | Donations | Thoughts & Feelings

[Sorry it took so long! Love you all! Let me know what you think!!]

Everything was weird when you woke up, Chris had been standing in your room, praying to god that you didn’t die, Sebastian was nowhere to be seen and you had a lot more injuries than just a gunshot wound. “So…all this because Sebastian caught us together and shot me?” you asked Chris as he sat beside you. “What?” he asked, confused. “Well, that's why I'm here right? When he shot me, you called 911 and got me to the hospital? Is he still angry? I didn’t mean to hurt him, I just….I’m so in love with you Chris…” you whispered, laying your hand on his on the bed.

Chris looked down at your hand and looked up at you. “Sweetheart…what are you talking about? Sweetie, Sebastian didn’t shoot you…our house blew up, you almost died,” he said gently kissing your knuckles as you looked confused. “So….I wasn’t dating Sebastian? I didn’t cheat on him with you? He didn’t catch us in bed and try to kill us, shooting me in the back?” you asked after explaining what you’d been talking about.

Chris stared at you, and smiled a sad small smile at you, lacing your fingers together. “No sweetheart, none of that happened.” he sighed. “We’d gotten into a fight and our house blew up. I have a feeling I know who did it, but my guys are working on it baby. I’ve also got a contractor ready to start the rebuild on the house, but I…wanted your input on the rebuild.” he said softly.

You were about to say something when a soft knock sounded on your door, you both looked over to see Seb standing there with flowers. Chris stood up, blocking him from seeing you. “I had heard she was awake, I wanted to see how she was feeling.” he told Chris trying to look around him. “She’s fine. Leave. Now.” Chris wasn’t about to let you get upset, he wasn’t risking anything with you anymore. “Chris…” you spoke quietly. “It’s alright…” you watched as Sebastian walked closer to the bed, but Chris leaned in and whispered in his ear. Sebastian's face drained of all color and when Chris pulled back, he clapped him on the shoulder and turned to you with a smile on his face. “He can’t stay long though, okay baby?” you nodded and looked at Sebastian with a strained smile. “Thank you for the flowers, you can put them on my table, I’ll have a nurse get some water for them.” You said as he nodded and laid them down. “I'm glad you’re awake, Chris fill you in on what all happened?” Sebastian eyed Chris who glared back at him, nostrils flared and his jaw ticking. “Yeah, said the house blew up, pretty scary huh?” you grabbed Chris’s hand who bent down and kissed your knuckles. “Doctors said she’s going to make a full recovery,”

Sebastian looked at Chris again before he looked at you and nodded with a soft smile. “I’m just so glad you’re okay, and that you're gonna make a full recovery.” he bent down and kissed your forehead. Chris was about to lose his cool until Sebastian spoke up again. “Y/N…I have some business I need to take care of out of State…So it might be a while before we see each other again okay?” he said with a small smile. You looked up at him, confusion on your face. “What do you mean business? Like….our kind of business?” you asked as Chris stepped up to your other side, caressing your hand gently, “Personal business sweetheart, I'm sure he’ll come back when he can.” Chris said, looking at Sebastian. “Isn’t that right?” he asked, unknown to you, there was a look shared between the two of them. “Yes, as soon as I can, I’ll be back,” he said.

There was a silence that fell over the room, before Chris cleared his throat. “Well, you should probably head out, she needs her rest. I’ll walk you out.” he smiled as Seb nodded and grabbed your hand. “Take care Y/N, I’ll be in touch real soon okay?” he smiled as you smiled up at him, nodding, “Stay safe Sebastian, We’ll miss you,” you said as you squeezed Chris’s hand. Sebastian held back his chuckle and nodded. “I’ll miss you too,”

Chris dimmed the lights and walked out with him, “I meant what I said. You ever come back around her again, and I'll kill you.” he said as he hugged Sebastian. “You leave town and never come back here. If you were anyone else I would have slit your throat already, but you were like a brother to me, so, I'm giving you one final chance. You stay away from her and me. If you ever even think about her again I’ll kill you.” he snapped at him before turning and walking away from Sebastian for the last time.

You laid your head back and closed your eyes, you had a bit of a headache and knew that it would be a while before you’d be allowed to leave the hospital. Still much of what happened, you couldn’t remember. You remembered that Chris had come home from the club but after that it was mostly a blur. You looked up at Chris as he came back into the room. He looked tired but overall he seemed okay. “How long have I been out for?” you asked as he took his place next to you again. “About 3 months. I was starting to worry, you know,” he smiled, kissing your hand again.

You looked at him and caressed the back of his hand with your thumb. “I remember what I did at the club that night, I’m so sorry Chris, I didn’t mean to hurt you. I just…I was so angry seeing you with, yet again, another woman. It makes me feel like I am not enough for you. Like I’m just some ugly, boring, bitch you had to marry and all these other women are who you truly want to be with. I love you, I love you for who you are. Yes, we have our faults, yes we need to work on our marriage-,” “Y/N-” “No. It’s my turn to talk now.” you said sternly. “I love you Christopher, but I refuse to watch my husband be with other women.” you said, staring at him. “So….are you my husband, or do I need to do something you will regret?” you asked, looking him dead in the eye.

Chris stared at you, his mind and his heart was racing, he didn’t know what to say. “Y/N…I…I don’t love you….at least not yet.” he spoke softly. “I don’t know you well enough to say that to you. Yes, we need to work on our marriage, yes we need to get to know each other better. Yeah, I have my faults…I know this. I’m working on it. After the house blew up and we figured out what happened…I’ve been here, with you. I’ve slept here, showered here, I’ve pretty much lived here, because I refused to let you be here alone. Your parents have been keeping in touch, Your brothers and sisters came by to see you a couple of times, but other than that, you know, its been us here…so, I’ve been….texting a therapist. I found an app where I can do sessions without having to leave your side.” he ran a hand over his face. “Maybe we could look into marriage counseling? I know that's for people who…” he trailed off, searching for the right word, until your hand landed on his cheek. “That’s one of the best ideas you’ve ever had. That would work wonders for us. But in order for us to do that, and to build a strong foundation in our marriage, we need to have a united front. No. More. Women. When people see you out with other women, it makes our marriage look like a scam. You may not love me, but you have to respect me.” you said as he leaned into your hand a little.

Chris was terrified of committing to you; what if you changed your mind? What if you hated the idea of him once you knew him? Or what if you wanted to still get divorced even if he’d been faithful? What if you met someone else? So many questions filled his mind. “What if I’m not enough for you?” he whispered. “What if I'm not enough for you?” you fired the question right back with a softness he hadn’t witnessed alot. “I…I don’t think that’ll be a problem.” he kissed your palm before looking back up at you. “Me either. I'm willing to put forth the effort if you are.” you said quietly as he stood up and sat on the edge of your bed.

“When I was a kid, my dad would have affairs, my mom knew about it, and told me that’s just part of the life. The men did whatever they wanted, and as long as their wives had money to support them and the kids, it didn’t matter. The wives all turned the other way. Didn’t matter to them, so when I grew up, and made the agreement with your father to marry you instead of killing him for the money he owed me, I figured it would be the same way.” Chris said softly. “My dad was a real hard ass, he didn’t really want kids, but when my mom had me and my sister, she told him that she’d take care of us, and herself, all he had to do was support us. He did that.” Chris said, staring down at his hands. “Taught me the life, died when I was 14. Ma travels mostly now, staying with relatives all around the world.” he glanced at you, and the sight made his heart swell in his chest.

You had a sad look behind your eyes, your hands clasped together in your lap as well as they could be with the cast. “Chris…that’s terrible.” you whispered. “At least you’re wanted now, I know that doesnt make up for what your father did or how he made you feel.” you whispered and as best you could, moved over in the bed, patting it for him to come sit next to you.

Chris maneuvered around so he could sit with you, wrapping an arm around you, pulling you into his side. “My sister was out with my dad, they’d done this like father daughter date night thing/father daughter dance? I don’t remember the specifics of it all, but that was the night he died. They held my sister for a while…I now know what they’d done to her, but back then I had no idea. She killed herself when we were 18.” he said softly. “It was the Irish, wasn't it?” you whispered as you curled into his chest. “Yes, it was.” Chris answered back as he stared ahead of the two of you. “Tristan wanting to make a deal with me was a trap and I didn’t realize it until it was too late.” He kissed your forehead as gently as possible, pulling your blanket up over your arms as you wouldn’t get cold. “I know you’ve been out for 3 months, but you should probably rest.” he smiled down at you as your eyelids got heavy and you nodded snuggling closer to him. “Goodnight Chris, I love you,” you whispered. “Goodnight baby girl,” he said, holding you as your breathing slowed into a steady rhythm.

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denspollen · 25 days

Text

some sneezy cold-ridden g/ob b/luth under the cut ft. reluctant caretaker m/ichael :) 1.4k words, cw for minor non-graphic mess

written as a little motivator for @snzfanatic to start this show haha <3

shouldn’t need to be said but proshippers do not fucking interact!! they are brothers!!

It’s not often that Michael truly gets a moment to himself. Between work, his sister and her husband’s constant bickering over the most trivial of matters, keeping an eye on his own kid as well as theirs (because God knows they’re not paying her any attention), unwelcome visits from his mother and the sporadic nights over his older brother spends on the couch, he’s almost always too preoccupied with something or other to give himself a second to relax.

Naturally, on the rare occasion that he’s sat comfortably in the kitchen of the model home, humming quietly to himself with a mug of coffee and a plate of toast, it’s not long until the moment’s interrupted by his aforementioned older brother trudging into the room, snuffling miserably against the sleeve of his robe.

“Morning,” Michael murmurs, turning around to face him. His eyebrows raise incredulously upon one glance at him. “Jeez, Gob. You look… not great.”

“Not feeling well,” Gob mutters stuffily, stalking past him and over to the fridge.

Michael eyes him with half disdain, half pity, gaze subsequently flitting around the room in search of an escape route from his evidently indisposed brother. “Yeah, I can see that, bud. What happened? You seemed fine yesterday.”

“Mmh… I was a little… hh-!”

“Elbow,” Michael reminds him almost automatically — he’s all too aware of Gob’s tendency to forget to cover.

“hehh’EISHhhuh!”

The harsh expulsion is, upon Michael’s aide-mémoire, just barely caught into the crook of his elbow, followed by a thick, drawn-out sniffle. Gob whines softly and rubs at his eyes. “Sorry… I-I was a little stuffy yesterday. Think it just… hh-hih’TSCHHhoo!… hit me all at once.”

“Elbow,” Michael sighs exasperatedly, dragging a hand over his face. “I don’t need you infecting the whole family.”

“Sorry, Mikey,” Gob murmurs, looking to the floor in embarrassment as he presses a knuckle underneath his streaming nostrils, hoping to stem the flow for at least a little while. “They just… sneak up on me.”

He withdraws a bottle of chilled water from the fridge and slams it shut as another tickle strikes in his nose, the condiments rattling inside as he hitches desperately.

“H-huh… mmh… hihhh…” A whimper looses from his sore throat, nose twitching furiously. “Mm… ‘m gonna s-sneeze…”

“I can see that.” Michael hurriedly tears a piece of kitchen towel off the roll on the counter, praying to a god he doesn’t believe in that Gob will see it through his watery eyes before he unleashes another volley of contagion upon the model home. Thankfully, there’s a split second before the release that he manages to snatch it from his brother’s grasp, bringing it up to his flaring nostrils and letting out another heavy, itchy sneeze, this one productive.

“ghh’TXCHheuh!… ugh…” He keeps the sheet held to his nose for a moment, eyes streaming with the force of it. “Oh, that felt good…”

Michael grimaces. “Bless you. Would you go rest in the living room? I’ve got a meeting later; I can’t have you getting germs all—”

He’s abruptly cut off, voice drowned out by the sound of Gob blowing his nose, messily, into the same paper towel, now decidedly saturated and rendered entirely useless. When he eventually withdraws it, his nostrils are red-rimmed and sore, appendage glistening under the light.

“Mikey,” he begins, voice now so hoarse and congested it’s borderline unintelligible. His words are punctuated with thick, stuffy sniffles, nose wiggling irritably all the while. “I’m not gonna get my germs everywhere, guy. I don’t— hehh’GSCHhhuh!… don’t hhave… hh’RSHHhhoo!”

At least he makes an effort to cover that second time. Unfortunately, the sodden tissue in his hand isn’t exactly effective, and both sneezes leave him doubled over, nose streaming freely. An exhausted groan is all he can muster as he drags the silken sleeve of his bathrobe along his face, the material much more forgiving on his raw nose than the rough paper towels.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Michael grumbles, backing up a little. “Would you please just go somewhere else? Hell, go sleep in my bedroom, if you want. Just, please, for the love of God, do not go anywhere near my son. Or Lindsay, or… anyone, actually. Just rest. Alone.”

“What I was trying to say,” Gob mutters, pausing for a lengthy sniffle. “is that I don’t have the goddamn plague, alright? It’s a cold. It’s not like I’m gonna purposely go around coughing on everyone. I’m sure they’ll… hheh…”

“Elbow!”

“ihh’TXCHhhuh!”

Michael winces at the audible wetness as Gob muffles another one of his seemingly incessant sneezes into the crook of his elbow (thank God). Disgusting as this whole ordeal is, he can’t say he doesn’t feel bad for his older brother — the guy looks legitimately awful. It’s pitiful.

“Bless you,” he sighs, offering him another sheet from the kitchen roll. “Please just go get some rest, alright? I’ll bring you some proper tissues and cold meds.”

Gob rolls his eyes, glaring from behind the tissue pressed against his leaking nose. “Don’t need to baby me.”

“Do you wanna feel better or not?”

“…yeah.” Gob’s gaze drifts sheepishly away from Michael’s, his tone not unlike that of a petulant child.

“Okay then. Go lie down in the living room; there’s a blanket on the back of the couch. No arguments.”

Gob mutters something under his breath as he snuffles wetly into the crumpled towel, making his way into the living room and practically collapsing onto the plush sofa. Michael soon follows suit, wielding a box of Kleenex and a variety of medicines.

“Here,” he says quietly, setting everything down on the coffee table. “There’s some NyQuil there and the stuff for your migraines. In case you feel one coming on.”

“Mmh… thanks, Mikey.” He shifts uncomfortably against the cushions, a chill running down his spine.

Michael frowns. “Don’t want the blanket?”

Gob sniffles, reaching for a tissue with a shaky hand. “Too hot.”

“Hot?” Michael’s face falls, and he tentatively reaches out to feel his brother’s forehead. “Mm. Think you’ve got a little bit of a fever going there, bud.”

Gob’s brow furrows. “I thought being hot is normal when you’re sick. That’s what Mom always used to say, when— when I’d feel really bad and ask her to stay home.”

“Yeah, well,” Michael sighs, withdrawing a bottle of sanitizer from his suit pocket and pumping a healthy dose into his palm. The strong scent makes Gob’s nostrils flare. “That’s Mom. She’s not exactly one for telling the truth to her kids.”

Gob whines, the sound so childishly pathetic it’s endearing, curling in on himself. Michael swears he sees the slightest hint of tears glistening in his eyes.

“Hey, come on, don’t get upset,” he says quietly, sitting back on his haunches to meet Gob’s level. “Everyone gets sick sometimes, right? Everyone feels like crap occasionally. Even me. Old no emotions, robot Michael.”

“I don’t want to be sick,” Gob groans softly. “I feel so bad. My head hurts and… a-and my throat feels funny and my goddamn nose— hh’EISHHhhiew!… guh…”

As if on cue, he steeples his hands over his nose, shrinking with another exhausted, shuddering sneeze. Michael’s practically biting his tongue at this point to refrain from losing it, because how does his older brother still not know basic etiquette?

“Gob, buddy,” he chides gently. “What have I told you about using your hands, huh? Into your elbow.”

“Sorry,” he croaks, the word buried under a thick wall of congestion. “…’m tired.”

“Yeah, I bet. Hey, I gotta finish getting everything ready for work, alright? You just rest. And… again, please keep your germs to yourself.” Michael shudders at the thought of potentially catching the same horrible, sneezy cold Gob’s been saddled with. “Alright? Feel better.”

“Mhmm… yeah. Thanks.” Gob watches as Michael heads out towards the door, settling into a comfortable position with a throw pillow clutched to his chest. He’s ready to let himself fall asleep when another burning tickle in his clogged sinuses strikes, forcing him upright as his breath hitches once, twice, and a harsh but oh-so-relieving sneeze tumbles out of him, uncovered towards his lap.

“Hih-ehh-! hihh’GSCHHhhiew!… oh, fuck…”

An exasperated sigh in the distance. “Elbow!”

#my writing #g/ob b/luth #a/rrdev #w a #snz #snzblr #snzfic

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aflightlessraven · 1 year

Note

Grumbo prompt: a marriage proposal

Hi!! Thanks for the request!! Hope you like it :]

// Mumbo swallows, adam’s apple bobbing uncomfortably against the starched fabric of his shirt. He can feel his heart hammering away in his chest, fast as a panicked rabbit in the headlights, and he tries his best to take in deep breaths to soothe his nerves.

Across the table from him Grian is talking, gesturing enthusiastically with his fork to punctuate his point, but at the moment Mumbo is finding it hard to focus. All he can think about is the weight of the ring that sits heavy in his pocket, hastily shoved away as Grian had come into view.

It’s a pretty thing, gold inlaid with a ruby; something that he is certain that his boyfriend will love and will most definitely suit him, but he can’t help but feel nervous nonetheless. What if it’s too flashy? Or what if Grian isn’t ready for the next step in the relationship? Perhaps he should’ve talked to Grian about it first? But that would completely ruin the proposal if he knew that it was going to happen. It feels as though he is only going around in circles.

He sighs quietly, trying to push his worries aside.

“Am I boring you, Mumby?” Grian teases, waving a hand in front of him with a light smile on his face.

“Uh, you…” he starts, but trails off, realising that he has completely missed the entirety of what is being said to him.

“You’re not even listening to me!” comes the indignant squawk of a reply, and Mumbo can’t help but let out a giggle at the man’s ridiculously exaggerated pout as he pretends to be offended. “What are you so busy thinking about over there anyway?” Grian asks, and Mumbo feels himself tense.

This would be the perfect moment. All he has to do is get down on one knee and pull out the ring. Simple. In theory. Grian is still looking at him expectantly, head cocked to the side as he waits in amused silence for a reply, and in that moment Mumbo decides that he wants to be brave.

His hand slips into his pocket seemingly without his own input, grasping around until his clammy fingers clasp themselves around the smooth box containing the ring.

“Actually, there’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you,” he hears himself say, forcing the words from where they had curled themselves in his dry throat out and into the air. Then he is down on one knee and it is actually happening.

Internally he curses himself for almost stumbling over the words. He looks up at Grian almost fearfully, letting his gaze slip from the floor to what he hopes will be a positive reaction.

“Mumbo, are you…?” Grian asks, and for a moment his face is terrifyingly hard to read. He looks surprised but not unhappy, a smile still curling at the corners of his lips, and Mumbo prays to all the gods that he can get the next sentence out right.

“Grian,” he starts, “will you do me the honour of being my husband?”

Grian’s smile widens, and a second later Mumbo finds his boyfriend, soon to be husband, barrelling into his arms and almost knocking him to the ground.

“So, uh, is that a yes then?” he asks hopefully, although he is fairly certain that he already knows the answer.

“Yes, you spoon!!” Grian replies with a laugh, wings flaring. Mumbo feels his arms tighten around him, hugging him tightly, and it isn’t long before Grian is pulling him into a kiss.

It’s all Mumbo can do to kiss him back, happiness bubbling in his chest. After a moment, he pulls away, elated, to slide the ring onto Grian’s finger, admiring the way that it looks.

He was right, it definitely suits him. [wordcount: 630]

#grumbo #hermitshipping #grian #mumbo jumbo #hermitcraft #raven writes grumbo #drabbles

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therosebunpost · 8 months

Text

I have been INSPIRED

CW: 18+ content, swearing, MDI

———

Okay so, imagine it’s Post-Vecna. You and Eddie have been dating for a while, and unfortunately you’re going through a rough patch. Miscommunication, unhealthy coping mechanisms, fights, lack of intimacy (both sexual and non-sexual). You miss him, you miss Eddie so much, and he misses you too but you’re both too stubborn to actually talk it out and be vulnerable with each other.

One night, you go to bed after a fight. A big one that deepens the cracks between the two of you. Honestly, it makes you wonder if it’s even worth it to stay anymore. You both are so unhappy all the fucking time, and yet you aren’t doing anything to fix it. You go to bed, praying, wishing it all was just…better. Easier. There’s even a part of you, a part you don’t like to think about, that wishes Eddie was better. It flares up whenever you fight like this, and it’s been happening so often that you wonder if maybe that’s what you truly think of him.

Anyway, you go to bed and you dream. You wake up in this hazy, slightly out of focus dream world with the moon glowing through the window. There’s rustling in the kitchen, you go to wake Eddie bit he isn’t in bed with you. You find him standing over the stove instead, sleepy and soft looking. His curls messy with sleep, but almost begging to be touched. To be ran through like you used to do every night before bed.

“Eddie?”

There’s a beat of silence. The sizzle of something in the pot buzzes in your ear. You stare at his back, faintly following the line of nail scratches along his skin from a drunken stint of fucking that didn’t really feel as satisfying as it should have. God, how long had it been since that night?

“Eddie, dude, it’s like 3 in the fucking morning, what the hell are you doing?” You try again, irritation bubbling in your chest. “What, you’re ignoring me now? Seriously? Eddie, I swear to fucking god-“

“The names not Eddie, Sweetheart.”

The deepness of his voice catches you off guard. It’s the same voice he uses when he DMs, or around you because he knows how much you like the sound of it. Well, you usually enjoy the sound of it, but right now you wanted to shake some sense into him. You stride closer, the sizzling getting louder. Fuck, is he going to start another fire in the god damn kitchen? “I’m tired, I have work tomorrow, I don’t have time for your fucking bullshit Ed- What the fuck is that?”

There’s something on the pan. Some kind of meat? Mangled, and twisted. It definitely wasn’t that pack of ham you bought yesterday, that’s all you knew. “Eddie what the actual fuck is that, tell me-“

“I’ll tell you when you stop callin’ me that, Darlin~”

“Fine, okay, what the fuck do I call you then?”

There was a pause, a little chuckle that left the hair on the back of your neck standing up.

“How about…Kas?”

#thebunspeaks #stranger things #eddie munson #eddie munson x reader #eddie stranger things #kas!eddie #vampire!eddie #can you tell this is low key inspired by Coreline #Other!Eddie anyone?#other!boyfriend I guess??#anyway I fucking love that movie and this idea hit me like a truck

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twig-gy · 3 months

Text

i’m not having concrete thoughts rn but i think of hms and what it’s like to try and try and always be met with the same answer, what it’s like to shut yourself off in case you’re hurt, what it’s like for your voice to grow hoarse and your throat to ache in protest. what it’s like to sit outside, your only companions the cold wind and the dark of night and your own voice giving into your own fate. what it’s like to be so desperately sure of it that you sit around planning out your will and what method is the best as if it’s just a fun little game of semantics, even though you know it’s not, but that’s all it can be since you’re a coward. what it’s like to engineer your own self-destruction. what it’s like to look down and realize - know - this body is inhospitable. no honor can be found here. there is a disease at the very core, something so physical you think you can pluck it out if you only tried, take a knife and find out what bone feels like, find out if you can feel your heart beat against your palm, intimate. salvation and self-destruction so intertwined you can barely pick out which is which in the threads of your hands /craving/. to destroy or to fix? you couldn’t be fixed.

i think of despair and cycles which you can’t tell are bad for you yet you can. which is worse? the state of drawing new linea against your skin and thinking /this is exactly what i need/? or hating it?

i think of mind sawing his hands off. pretending his fingers are steady against his knife. pretending that the blue staining his skin, the knife, dripping onto the cutting board - because he didn’t study for this shit, sue him - is salvation. this will save him. he will be perfect. pretending that something like him - he’s made from the same parts as heart after all, rusted, damaged, irrecoverable, lifeless - could ever be perfect.

i think of mind’s throat bleeding, the sight “like a sick solar flare”, met with the tangible evidence of your violence, met with the horrible horrible thought that it could be anything ever than the best thing you have. a smile, borne from pain but still a smile in the end, stretching sheer over a face, because even this is just a power play, and even as mind is dying his pride is still above anything else. his pride is the god he prays to. the thing he bleeds over. just like how, for you, you crack glass over the floor and watch as mind’s smile becomes more and more fake, you dig yourself into every little thing you can find just for that one hope of seeing him finally give up. you love violence. of course you do. you’re the Heart. what other method do you have? your logic is useless to them. so you grip the cold metal of a gun and hope that’s enough, hope that the weight of it will finally save you. but when it doesn’t - are you surprised? how could you be? your fate is clear.

soul prays to a god he believes in so much and yet so little. he prays to the thing which has taken pieces out of him over and over and over again. he prays to the same thing which has him scorning any sense of happiness, accursed, because in this place such things are as flimsy as the glass crown mind still wears on his head as if it’ll DO anything, as if it symbolizes anything more than his own weakness, stubborness, pride, soul could go on but well. there’s no point. he digs into the ground for some humanity, some life, and pretends that it isn’t digging his own grave. when he stabs the others, he smiles, and acts like it’s just business, just one more step towards beloved Harmonia. because if it isn’t, what then?

#self harm

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sacrilegious-skeletal-scribe · 5 months

Text

kerosene and other dietary supplements

there’s a dryness in the center of bite wounds, the ones that can’t get all the way through

teeth and saliva and blood; that little semi-circle of perfect fifths

but the skin between remains unblistered, unbroken, dry and calm

it’s funny, as long as a morgue kicking laughter into grief is a joke

if it's still humor when the ouroboros reaches the end of its tail and stares back at itself

eyes and recognition and fear meeting for a second

the moment it takes for a jaw to widen, eyes rolling back in the lunge

and the snake is lust, it is doubt and a choking scream and violence

so tightly coiled it must forfeit sight to part its teeth

directionless and thrashing and begging for someone to do that again

take up shed blade and intent and for god’s sake aim for something important

but mostly it sleeps in your chest, and mostly it isn’t a snake, and mostly you live around it

and it’s not lust

it is anger, enough pain and blood and guilt and violence for a lifetime

astounding what you can fit into fifteen minutes with a little depersonalization and a paring knife

still not lust

but there is a sex to it

something in the movement, in the quiet desperate shuffling

because it’s sex and it's grief and you don't even have to cry during

it’s sex and it's the closest you can get to dying without drawing attention to yourself

it’s tearing your skin down to brass tacks because maybe if you can get at the support hooks you can talk them into fitting correctly

it’s standing in the basin of a church parking lot on a thursday afternoon

slamming god’s finest car door into your forearm until it remembers who it belongs to

it hurts like godfire and it’s the closest thing you can have to sex without taking your clothes off

and it’s lust the same way that shallow midnight anguish is lust

it’s lust like an apology that stalls out, somewhere between bile and teeth

like a rotting pomegranate, like a dead spider, blood and skin and eyes

smeared ever so slightly between your palm and the hole it was trying to escape to

it’s lust for as long as anger has to be yelling

has to seethe and bare teeth and throw plates at raised arms

as long as anger does not realize how to smile, to placate, to pray

(as long as i love you has to be true)

as long as you have to stare unblinking into the wound before it’s allowed to kill you

allowed to pus and rot and burrow through flesh until there isn’t any

lust like a maggot cupped gently into a corpse, bathed in sunlight

it’s lust because the grief counsellor can never dig quite fast enough

hard to keep up with the dirt, armed with your own inertia and twenty court-ordered minutes

and the kind of grief that doesn’t grip the silverware drawer to hurt other people

they never get to weapons made of strangers

to clothing that debrides skin if you fold it right, if you ask nicely

to throwing yourself against nails and teeth and flared collarbones

until the bruises start to slide together, till your skin is too stunned to scream at you

it’s violence but not for anybody else

it’s that godless sex that gets you frowned at, by family and holy men

like all this little fucking conundrum was missing was disapproval

and the bite roils in your stomach now, bile creeping up between cracked teeth

they are vicious and eager and can never sink all the way through

‘cause it’s rotting, that dry little center

and you can’t bring yourself to check just how much progress it’s made

you’ve always looked a little like roadkill, anyway

#spilled ink #poetry #poets on tumblr #body disphoria #aspec #sex and intimacy as anger #anger as expressionism #hey we get to skip the body horror tag this time! however #self harm #it's not the intent but self harm and personalized body horror are not that separate of entities #but you know what i've decided to be proud of myself instead of feeding into vicious negativity cycles about my work

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ohemgie · 10 months

Text

emira remembers her falling out with sydney clear as day.

almost three years ago, after coming back from a church event the two had been so excited to attend – until one of the temple leaders, one of her ‘brother’s, a devoted follower of the church, put his hands on her.

and before, it easy to separate the scummy-ness of the town from her religion. easy, because she had that outlet, that tiny bit of hope that someone may be looking out for her. a higher power? an unknown diety? someone, surely, had her back and she felt it when she prayed at night; when she shared her worship with sydney at the temple.

but after that day, her views on it all seemed to change. the world shifted in a way she could never explain if asked. sydney maybe realized too late, when emira stopped taking them up on their invites back to the temple, avoiding the church like the plague, avoiding them as if somehow, some way, they could be tied to it.

it was almost admirable how long she’d been able to slip away after school into the crowd, knowing sydney would be hot on her heels if she wasn’t quick enough, but sydney isn’t stupid. not in the least bit.

they caught her while she was leaving through the back courtyard of the school, hands on their hips and disappointment clear in their expression; like a parent, ready to scold their child.

“you’ve been avoiding me.” a statement, not a question. one emira sees no point in addressing since it’s clear she’s been caught red-handed.

still, she avoids their gaze. [ - - trust ]

“why.” sydney presses and the way they step forward, desperate for answers is nothing like she’d imagine her best friend of six odd years to treat the situation. she’d expected, hoped even, that she could become a blur in sydney’s memories. someone faded into the background as she always has.

god would never be so kind.

so she answers with her explanation, words bitter on her tongue as she recounts the events. until tears well in her eyes and sydney looks conflicted; hands clenching and unclenching as if they want to say something but they can't seem to find the proper words.

and as she finishes, the tears spill over her cheeks and sydney finally steps forward to brush them away, pulling her into a hug that holds no comfort as they say, “god must have a reason for this.”

the words hurt and burn and sting in a way that emira can’t describe – in a way that leaves her lashing out against them, shoving them away with a frown, “no good god should ever allow something like that to happen.”

sydney mimics her frown with furrowed brows, “but god is–”

“nothing.” emira wipes at her fast hastily, jaw clenched tight, “if there is a god, he is cruel and unjust and- and-”

a low whistle to the right of her leaves her floundering for words, eyes snapping to the new presence.

and of course, because god is cruel and unjust (and whatever else she was to add, she’s sure), whitney stands mockingly to their sides, hands shoved in their pockets with a sharp grin.

“trouble in paradise?” they guess, leaning back and nudging one of their friends with their elbow, “bet ya sydney the saint said they don’t wan’a sleep with a slut like her.”

despite the words being addressed to their friend, whitney’s eyes rake over emira’s form. [ + lust ]

her cheeks flare at the words, turning on her heel without another word instead of dignifying them with a response. sydney, though the wound of the argument is still fresh, calls out after her, to which they get no reply.

whitney throws their arm over sydney’s shoulder, pulling them in close with a snicker, “don’t worry ‘bout ‘em. i’m sure you’d hate sloppy seconds, anyways.”

then they push sydney away by the side of their head, laughing as they leave with their group in tow.

and because god is cruel, sydney remembers it just as well.

#they were friends pt 2 :(#emira lore !!!!#dol ; emira #dol ; sydney #dol pc #sydney the faithful #degrees of lewdity pc #degrees of lewdity #degrees of lewdity sydney

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eyelessfog · 1 year

Text

Hollow Empires au

Au in which empires smp characters (season 1 and two) are set into the game and world of hollow knight. The characters and who is what in the context of this story are in this reblog.

-----

It is as much you as you are it.

It's like a funhouse mirror. It is far taller than you, and thinner, and deader, and it is orange-gold where you are red-blue.

Something terrifying-awful-divine exists in the air between you. Something terrifying-awful-divine is the only difference between you.

Something terrifying-awful-divine screams in its voice, and you recognize both the voice and the face that is screaming - though you do not recognize them together.

The Priest is long dead.

He is only a puppet for an even deader god.

You pull out your nail. Adjust your mask on your face.

Your funhouse mirror tenses. So do you.

Nails clash. Sparks fly.

It's in pain. You can see it in every movement. But it is still larger. Stronger. It does not think (it is dead) but if you allow yourself a moment to heal, that is a moment for it to strike. (It strikes hard.)

The stranger that is family to you helps. You are a clone. He is a clone. Your originals were something like brothers.

He puts his needle through its mask.

(It is your original. You wonder if your stranger-that-is-family feels like he is killing his brother. You think back to when you first met. You wonder if that would make him any less likely to stab him through the skull.)

You reveal the dreamnail and pray. Words you don't say turn into a blade, golden light just like hers sharpening into something that cuts straight through flesh into soul.

Your stranger-that-is-family glances behind him at your blade and flinches. The priest is fallen, golden infection dripping from behind its mask like tears.

The priest is long dead.

You tighten your grip on the dreamnail and pierce it between your funhouse mirror's eyes and blink past the explosion of light that it causes.

You feel your prayers and your dreamnail slip into nothing. The power that hummed at your fingertips is gone, and the terrifying-awful-divine that suffocated you in the egg is both more potent and less, here.

It feels like air, here, instead of poison.

You breathe in deep.

She screams.

She is the terrifying-awful-divine. She is the plague upon a kingdom that you both know and don't. And she is the priest's god.

She flares her wings in the distance, taking form from the simple ball of light that she had been prior.

And then she explodes.

The scream, again, louder, and you can't see the sun or light or her, but nothing in this realm has dimmed, she simply is gone.

Until she isn't.

She's leaning down to look at you, hair flowing as though it's a living thing, wings splayed out to the side, surrounding you. Her mouth is turned in a frown, black mask barely visible against her own grey-black skin. Her eyes and tears are golden, and every tear streak seems fresh.

Her voice, unlike the rest of her, is soft when she speaks.

why must we fight this fight again? you will save me every time i die. i will save you every time you die. why will you not let me die first?

You do not blink. You do not breathe.

draw your nail and i will battle you. draw your nail and you will lose.

Her hand falls onto the platform you stand on, and she tilts her head.

draw your nail. and i will bring my priest back to me.

You draw your nail.

She screams.

And then the battle begins.

---

In the end, beyond the swords, the lasers, the light, you manage it. Your mask, as well as it has stayed with you on your journey, shatters. And as it shatters, so does the rest of your clay body.

You are only a clone, you know, but you are what’s left of the soul of the priest, and you know this move like an old friend.

You open your soul up like arms and wrap them around her. She falters for a moment.

this isn’t how it goes.

Of course, you agree. It’ll be over this time.

You squeeze her tighter and tighter and tighter. She doesn’t struggle, but when it gets far to tight, she sighs.

It’s relief. She seems so relieved.

goodbye.

Goodbye.

She pops - or does something like it - into glowing golden lights. You gather them all into your soul, holding them close, making them part of you.

And then, from the land of the dreams, where you’ve finally killed the God who was once your friend, you wake up.

#hollow empires au #[written in stone]#mythicalsausage #pearlescentmoon #. i feel bad puttibg it in those tags actually. um

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dragonologist-phd · 7 months

Text

Owlcatober Day 5 - Family

The Primm sisters say goodbye. Years later, they say hello again.

also on ao3

Rosemary dangles her feet off the edge of her bed, arms crossed, pouting up a storm. At fourteen years of age, she’s faintly aware that she’s too old to be pouting, but she can’t help it. Not when her older sister sits on the floor of their shared room, happily packing for her big adventure.

“It’s gonna be so boring without you here,” Rosemary grumbles as she picks at the frayed threads on her sleeve. She can’t even look at Myrcelle right now, the traitor.

“No, it won’t,” the traitor replies.

“Yes, it will. You’re leaving me with Callum.”

Myrcelle laughs, which just makes Rosemary feel worse. With her sister gone, who’s going to help her make fun of their stick-in-the-mud older brother?

“It won’t be long. You’ll be off to the temple in Daggermark by spring.”

“If they accept me. They only take a few new acolytes each year.”

“Of course they’ll accept you,” Myrcelle says with firm conviction. She leaves her packing behind for a moment and sits beside Rosemary on the bed, mussing her hair until the younger sister swats her hand away. “When has anyone met you and not loved you? You’ll see. You’ll be living it up in Daggermark in no time, and it’ll be great.”

It’s hard to argue with Myrcelle when she sounds so certain, and Rosemary can’t deny that the temple in the big city sounds interesting. More interesting, at least, than being stuck here in the tiny village she’s called home all her life. She’s been told she can learn art and music and even magic at the temple, and she admits she’s intrigued. She’s never had the head for potions and firebombs like Myrcelle and Papa, but she wants to be good at something.

Still, that’s not the point.

“I won’t know anyone there,” she says, and she lets herself fall against her sister, circling her arms around her as if she could keep them both rooted to their childhood home. “I wish I could go with you.”

Myrcelle returns the hug, and she kisses the top of Rosemary’s head. “I know. I’d sneak you away in my pack if I could, but Mama and Papa would kill me.”

She’s a rotten liar. Myrcelle has been nothing but excited for her departure, and she’s been talking about it for ages to anyone who will listen. It’s her big adventure, and even Rosemary knows she wouldn’t want her baby sister tagging along.

“I’ll send you letters all the time, Rosie. Promise,” Myrcelle says gently. “And you do the same, okay? You need anything and I’ll be back in a flash, no matter how far away I am.”

Rosemary pouts again, hating how childish she sounds when she asks, “Cross your heart?”

“Cross my heart.”

Myrcelle takes her leave of the little village two days later, off to wander and travel the world and find her fortune. It’s nearly a year later that Rosemary leaves, off to the temple to receive a cleric’s education. Promises are half-kept, and letters are sent that are full of half-truths. A few visits are made, but those dwindle in frequency as Myrcelle’s travels take her further away and Rosemary graduates from acolyte to a priestess in her own right. Each sister has her own path to walk, and those paths do not often intersect. By the time Rosemary disappears into an adventure of her own, the sisters have not seen each other for years.

The portal shimmers and flares, fighting to wink out of existence. Mercury prays to whatever gods are listening as she fights back, using every scrap of knowledge she picked up from the House at the Edge of Time.

Magic isn’t her forte, but at the end of the day, it follows the same basic principles as science. Mercury is a good scientist. She’s got plenty of motivation. She’s got firsthand knowledge straight from the planes of the fey.

And if she can’t finesse this portal into working, she’s going to blow it to smithereens until she blasts a hole straight through the planes.

Maegar Varn stands behind her, gripping his sword. A sword won’t do much against the portal, but he’d insisted on being here…and Mercury can begrudgingly admit that he’s earned that right. He’s given everything for this- every resource, every moment of his time for the last three years- and it’s almost enough to make Mercury forgive him for letting this happen in the first place.

Almost. He’s a good man, Mercury knows this, but she can’t even consider actual forgiveness until she knows her sister is safe.

A flash of light explodes from the portal, and cries fill the air as finally, finally, a figure appears and stumbles out.

“Rosie!”

“Rose!”

Mercury darts forward, and Varn has the good sense to stay back as she catches the woman before she hits the ground. Her eyes flutter open, her brow knitting in confusion as she takes in the scene. “Myrcelle? What…?”

Fey can be tricky, but Mercury’s family are the only ones who ever call her ‘Myrcelle’ anymore.

Rosemary is back.

Tears run down Mercury’s face as she clings close to her sister. Varn has fallen to his knees behind her, and Mercury can hear him crying, too.

Rosemary is still faint from shock, but slowly, she returns Mercury’s tight embrace. Her hands are scarred and bloody, Mercury notes, both other than that…she’s okay.

“Are you really here?” Rosemary murmurs, and Mercury hugs her tighter.

“I’m here, and you’re safe. I’ve got you. I promise.”

#owlcatober 2023 #ch: rosemary #ch: mercury #pfkm

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