#terracotta f

[bits-and-babs]

𝐀𝐭𝐭𝐚 𝐆𝐢𝐫𝐥 || 𝐉𝐨𝐞𝐥 𝐌𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐫 𝐱 𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

Previous Joel Fics: Mule [5.1K Words]

Summary: Marlene thinks Joel can save the fireflies. You’re not so sure.

Word Count: 10.2k!!!!

CW: LONG FIC. You have been warned! Slow burn Enemies to Fuck Buddies. Joel is 40 here, 10 years before the events of the game! Military and political themes because, say it with me now, “Jas loves plot”. Moody Joel, before Tess. Aggression. Slight gore. Power play. Hair pulling, f masturbation. Angst. Based off Game!Joel

Tease: “Look at you,” Joel growls. “Totally shameless.”

‘When you’re lost in the darkness, look for the light.’

The white graffiti paint drips down the chipped terracotta walls of the hallway you were designated to patrol. Your feet ache in the brand-new leather boots gifted to you in the last donation drop-off, and you want nothing more than to crawl back to bed and ignore the arrival of this smuggler that had Marlene promising that she could take control of Boston in a fortnight.

“What a bunch of bullshit,” you scoff bitterly, picking at your cuticles. The skin is red raw under the fluorescent lighting, crimson blood pooling around your nails. It's a nervous habit you picked up since joining the Fireflies, marginally healthier than staying up all night but still torturing your body somehow.

There was no light to this way of life, no promise that the darkness would ever subside. It was a brutal cycle of killing a handful of soldiers only for them to execute swathes of Fireflies. You saw it in your dreams, your colleague's brains splattered across the streets in the exclusion zone, a carmine reminder that the military would not tolerate any form of mutiny within their controlled zones. Too many had devoted themselves to suicide missions, but still, you had nothing to show for it. How much longer could Marlene continue to hurl young lives at a promise she couldn't fulfil? The likelihood of finding an immune individual grew smaller and smaller each time squadrons of Fireflies failed to return home, and even the most faithful of individuals were beginning to lose hope that this martyr would ever arrive. That was despite your dogged leader insisting that there must be someone out there that could help provide the vaccine that would eradicate the Cordyceps virus.

You hiss sharply as you subconsciously pull a hang nail down your first knuckle, resulting in a stinging sensation that rips you from your pessimistic thoughts. It's light outside now, and you wonder how long you will have to wait to meet this smuggler that Marlene speaks of so highly. She had claimed that she knew the man's brother, stating that Tommy had fought valiantly for the cause until he found himself unable to justify putting his life on the line for someone that they weren't sure even existed.

As Firefly numbers dwindled, so too did the morale that held the frayed edges of the organisation together. Everyone had sacrificed something and lost someone dear for seemingly no reward. Marlene's fantastical idea that one lone smuggler could change the course of the firefly's suffering left you feeling that options were running out.

As you begin to resign bitterly to your seemingly inevitable end, a pair of footsteps sound down the corridor in an indication of your saviour’s arrival, broken bottles crunching beneath his boots. When you look up from your throbbing finger, now stripped to ribbons, you are caught off guard by the view.

Marlene's expression is grave; eyebrows pulled together in a stark and silent warning. Soldiers aren't coming home today. You had seen that gaunt visage before. Hell, you'd seen it almost every week recently. However, the most shocking sight was the person who accompanied her.

The man is old, much older than you had been expecting. His mousy brown hair, trimmed short, is greying to match the thick, peppery beard that coats his jaw. The edges of his eyes are creased, no doubt carved with the years he spent fighting to survive. His thin lips turn downwards, and his eyes are cold and hardy, indicating his desire to get the job done and escape Marlene’s control.

"Soldier," Marlene addresses you with an air of authority that can only indicate she is attempting to impress her guest, "You will be coming with me."

"Yes, ma'am," you stand at attention and cast your eyes over the guest of honour, who is yet to introduce himself. He doesn't look as though he intends to. He watches you with an air of caution as though he doesn't trust you. It doesn’t surprise you. Everyone in this new world order is a threat. Perhaps this wariness is how he survived so long.

Falling in line, you follow behind your superior. There is an uneasy silence settling amongst you. The Commander and The Smuggler don't seem comfortable in each other's presence.

"So, say you take back Boston. What then?" The man's gruff Texan accent cuts through the silence like a dull blade. It's agonising, an unwanted intrusion to the apparent mutual decision to remain quiet.

"I think you know," Marlene speaks with frustration, "Restore democratically elected government control.”

"Didn’t you say that at the beginning? It ain’t as though you are any closer than 10 years ago." The smuggler points out, his assessment lacking any form of amusement. He doesn't seem to revel in the Fireflies' losses, yet he has the confidence to call Marlene out on her ridiculous ambition.

Marlene shoots the stranger a look of indignation, clearly not appreciating his accurate assessment of the Fireflies’ track record. She doesn't attempt to argue, instead leading him into a room and ushering you inside.

“Joel,” she begins, naming the enigma that had walked in and undermined the entire principal of the organisation he had joined momentarily. Marlene closes the door and locks it for good measure before turning to face her ‘last hope’. “I need you to tell me the plan. I can’t just let you blindly lead the last of my men into a war zone-“

“Didn’t expect you to,” he answers lazily, crossing his arms over his chest. The sleeves of his flannel stretch across his broad biceps, buttons straining slightly against his frame. You assume that his physique is thanks to lugging around the oversized backpack that rests over his shoulders, the worn nylon fabric practically bursting at the seams.

Marlene offers Joel a look, the kind that indicates she doesn't feel like joking around. He inhales slowly through his nose, then exhales as if preparing to begin a presentation at a job interview. In a way, that is exactly what this meeting was.

"Y’all can only gather the number of weapons you need from one place. You won't find this shit just lyin’ around. We'll have to take it from the military themselves."

You nearly choke on the oxygen in your lungs, rocked back by Joel’s confidence in his ability to steal directly from under the noses of the US Military. You knew that Marlene had faith in him, but this was lunacy.

"And just how do you suppose we do that?" Even Marlene, ever the optimist, looks at Joel as if he is crazy. There was no way to infiltrate the military bases that the Federal Disaster Response Agency sanctioned. They had the place secure, triple-locked to keep out humans and infected alike.

"We'll catch them on one of their supply runs," Joe answers her question simply, as though he thought of this already, “If we ambush during the night in the Outskirts, they’ll lack the defences to hold us off. At most, there'll be four of ‘em in the delivery vehicle.”

It's an insane plan. The soldier’s on the border of the quarantine zones are armed to the teeth to defend against the infected. The team would need to be stealthy, catching them off guard and dispatching them before they had a chance to call for backup.

Perhaps it's the kamikaze-like nature of Joel's plan, or maybe the lack of detail he’s sharing, but understandably Marlene seems unsure. "Do you think it'll be worth it, all that risk?"

"What, armin’ yourself and strippin’ them of their next lot of ammunition? Seems beneficial to me."

You can't help but wonder what Marlene is trading for Joel to run headfirst into a death trap like this. Likewise, is it wise for her to place all her bets on one man who seems intent on being captured and sentenced to execution?

The heavy sigh that rattles through Marlene's lungs indicates to you that she has nowhere else to turn. In exchange for Joel's basic scheme, she extends a nod of approval.

"You will be escorting Joel." It takes a second for you to realise that Marlene is talking to you, still caught up in shock. When you do, Joel looks less than pleased at the concept of having a babysitter. He drags his eyes over to you, expression flat. You can't say that you're precisely thrilled, either.

"Yes, ma'am," you offer confidently despite wanting to beg for mercy. She doesn't offer you the chance.

"Joel, gather all the men and firepower you’ll need." With that final comment, Marlene turns toward the exit, leaving the two of you alone in the unfurnished room. She seems animated and enthusiastic about getting this plot up and running.

Joel makes no move to leave, instead leaning against the wall and peering at the Firefly pendant that rests on your collarbone. You know what he's thinking, but he himself fails to speak the ‘why’ out loud. There’s an awkward edge to him, indicating a man who had grown too accustomed to surviving as a lone wolf.

"I heard your brother was a Firefly," you beat Joel to it, asking the question before he has the opportunity to interrogate you. This area of the conversation appears to irritate Joel, his eyes turning to the ceiling.

"Yeah, he wasn't happy with the way I did things. Said it was too violent. Instead, he joined you and continued his brutal crusade here despite criticisin’ mine." Joel scoffs, picking at the thread-worn sleeves of the flannel he wore. His words are bitter, leading you to believe that the brothers don't talk anymore.

"It's less of a crusade than an attempt to set things right," you justify.

"You're killin’ people," Joel accuses bluntly. It's as though he's tarring you with the same pitch-black brush as those who killed for their own benefit. It sparks a rage in you, the words spilling from your lips before you can stop them.

"You kill people to survive this world. I’m trying my best to revert it to the old one. If I have to kill soldiers to do it, who, by the way, act worse than the infected most of the time, then so be it.”

Joel appears to let your argument settle before he nods, pushing himself from the wall and making his way to the door. His boots scuff the flooring, the grating sound punctuating the silence as you await his response, which he delivers with an air of finality.

"Yeah, you just keep tellin’ yourself that bullshit."

—————————————————

Joel has a wealth of knowledge that can only result from his smuggling adventures and the network of insiders he worked with. He is somehow aware of the military's next supply drop-off date, which just so happens to coincide nicely with his arrival. It gave the team two days to plan their attack. It was almost too good to be true.

Your suspicions against the smuggler grow with your inability to discern his reason for aiding Marlene. There was no question that he was no longer involved with his brother Tommy, the two seemingly ending their relationship on less than amicable terms, and there also appeared to be no love lost between your sergeant and Joel.

Yet despite his apparent limited reward, Joel was focusing all of his efforts on ensuring that this mission was successful. His rucksack, which he had held close to him since entering the Fireflies’ hideout, was filled to the brim with rudimentary grenades and modified firearms. He admitted his knowledge of creating these weapons had come from manuals scavenged throughout his time as a smuggler. Reluctantly, Joel shares the blueprints, and the mission squad are armed with Molotov cocktails and nail bombs by the end of the evening.

You wish you could say that Joel's helpfulness had warmed you to his presence; however, you find yourself increasingly irritated by his constant attendance. You see him arrogant and consistently standoffish despite your fellow member's attempts to appease him with light conversation.

Following the half-a-day-long effort to sufficiently arm the team, Marlene had pulled all on-site members of the Fireflies into a meeting room. She stands at a table, an aged, worn map of the Boston quarantine zone spread across the surface. From where you're standing, you can see circles marked in red ink along the border.

Something akin to optimism clings to the air of the dusty meeting room. You feel it when the group goes silent as Marlene raises her hand for attention. Joel stands by her side, eyes assessing the map as he awaits the beginning of the briefing.

"Everyone listen in," Marlene orders, authority drenching her tone as she commands her army, "I want everyone confident in their role on this mission. We only have one chance to get this right."

You swallow thickly, readying yourself to hear how Marlene had taken Joel's absurd mission plan and cultivated it into a scheme for which her troops would feel comfortable risking their lives.

"We have information that the military is due a supply drop from FEDRA in two days. We are almost certain that this restock will contain firearms and ammo that could help us take down the military presence in Boston." A series of murmurs sound, those in the room comforted by the prospect that they may no longer need to ration their supplies.

"It is crucial that we obtain these weapons to take control of the Boston quarantine zone. With civilian support, we could increase our numbers and once again focus our efforts on obtaining a vaccine for the Cordyceps virus."

It was an unspoken truth that the Fireflies' efforts to acquire a vaccine had ultimately fallen by the wayside, the lack of soldiers, weapons and equipment making it increasingly difficult to travel across the country to the medical facility at Salt Lake City where the trials were taking place. The Fireflies focused most of their resources towards protecting the medical officials integral to finding a cure. Taking control of the militarised zone would provide more than enough manpower, vehicles, and firearms to travel safely and restart the process of searching for an immune individual who could help turn the tide of the war against the virus.

"I can confirm that most supply drops are handed over on the east side of the quarantine zone. Our best option is catching the vehicle containing the cache in the Outskirts before it reaches the wall.”

The Outskirts are notoriously dangerous, their desolate plains unlit and infested with runners that try their luck getting past the military blockade. If you somehow managed to survive the creatures, you then had to contend with the snipers on the wall. Many Fireflies had lost their lives crossing these lands to supply the medical facility in Salt Lake City at the peak of testing.

"I will be handing the mission over to Joel to ensure we have the best chance of obtaining these critical supplies,” Marlene finishes, stepping back and letting Joel take control of the meeting.

Wasting no time, Joel points towards the circled area on the east side of the quarantine wall. "They plan to hand over the cache at the gate on the East wall. If we can intercept ‘em before they reach the lit areas surroundin’ the zone, we should be able to take out the soldiers and grab the weapons before they can call for backup."

You're unsure where your frustrations come from. Perhaps it's the simplicity with which Joel delivers his plans, but you find yourself questioning whether or not it was possible to succeed without losing enough men to bring the Fireflies to their knees.

"I assume you expect us to travel through the underground tunnels beneath the apartment buildings. Who's to say we won't run into Clickers and Runners that drain our resources or leave us late and unable to complete the mission?" You question Joel with sincerity, but he looks at you as though you’ve queried his authority.

Marlene opens her mouth to interject and scold you for insubordination, but Joel raises his hand.

"I am gonna do a run of the smugglin’ tunnels myself and sweep for any infected so that the path is clear for tomorrow evenin’," Joel answered smoothly, despite the obvious irritation laced between his words, "Shipment is due at 9 p.m. tomorrow. We're gonna move out at 5 to make sure that we have enough time to get to the Outskirts and set up for engagement."

Still, you find yourself concerned with Joel’s leadership. None of you knew him. He hadn’t developed trust between the team and himself; instead, he kept you all at arm's length and maintained distance.

“How do we know you won’t hand us all in and take the weapons yourself? You’re a smuggler; you’d earn a lot from them,” you accuse, not unlike the tone Joel had taken with you hours before.

“Soldier-!” Marlene speaks up, running out of patience with your disregard for her ‘smuggling saviour’. Once again, Joel keeps his hand aloft to quieten her and fight his own corner.

“This is a job,” he states with a gravelly tone that betrays his relaxed posture, “I ain’t for your little militia group, and I’m not against it. I will lead this mission, hand the weapons over, take my ration cards and my cut of the firearms and leave. You wanna distrust me and end up dead? Be my guest.”

You can’t help but scoff, taken aback by his inability to choose his side of the moral compass. To fight for good with the Fireflies or battle to maintain the new world order with FEDRA. Instead, he doesn’t even sit on the fence. He’s situated in the shadows, benefitting from either side only for himself.

Joel’s expression serves as a warning to interrupt him again, pointing to the map as he begins to detail the step-by-step of his mission.

“Plan’ll go like this….”

—————————————————

You can’t exactly claim to be surprised that you had been left out of the mission squad and ordered to remain at the hideout after questioning Joel’s leadership. ‘One loose link’ and all that. However, you find yourself wracked with nerves as you return to your room for the night. What if they needed you? What if everything went south, and you were the one pair of hands required to maintain a grip on the delicate situation?

That wasn't to say that you didn't have faith in your fellow soldiers to carry out the mission successfully. Joel had picked the brightest and most skilled of Marlene's troops to carry out this night raid, and you knew they had enough experience to achieve this critical assignment. But what if…?

Marlene had delivered her scathing reprimand following the meeting when she had dragged you down a corridor and insisted you get your act together. You hadn’t been able to look her in the eye, believing her reckless for putting the lives of her troops, your friends, in the hands of a man who couldn’t care less what happened to them as long as he got his payout.

Were you being naive? Was it foolish to believe that every surviving person not aligned with FEDRA should stand opposed to the regime and attempt to restore some level of order? Or had humanity evolved beyond the return to everyday life, much preferring to fight for themselves, to remain in the dog-eat-dog system this virus had granted them?

You find yourself fearing the answer.

As you enter the doorway to the barracks, you hear the rapid pacing of footsteps down the hallway approaching you. The sound drags you from your thoughts, but not before a hand firmly grips your collar and pushes your back to the wall so hard that you hit your head off the jagged brickwork.

Pushing his forearm across your chest, Joel stares back at you with rage burning in his pupils. The metal of a watch strapped around his wrist digs into your collarbone painfully, but you grit your teeth in response, standing firm against Joel's display of intimidation.

His chest is heaving with heavy breaths, seemingly infuriated by your display in the meeting room. Despite his fury, his voice is relatively even. "You gotta problem with me?"

"Ha," you scoff, "That's funny. What was it you said? ‘Be my guest’?”

Joel answers first by applying pressure to your chest, his forearm balancing his weight and crushing your bones beneath it in a painful warning. You grab at the skin exposed by his rolled-up sleeves and dig your nails in, though it does little to de-escalate the tension.

"Look,” he sneers, brows creased together, “You don’t gotta like me. Ain’t even gotta respect me. But what you’re not gonna do is put doubt into your fellow soldier's heads. That shit’ll get them killed. You want that?”

"What's it matter to you? You don't care how many die as long as you get your payout," you dig in, not allowing Joel to think he could muscle you into submission.

He inhales shakily in anger, glaring at you as you attempt to pry his arms off. "The role Marlene gave me ain't to ensure the survival of your friends. My only goal is to guarantee y’all get your hands on those weapons, no matter the cost. So I suggest you assure their best chance of survival by keeping your mouth shut and your opinions of me to yourself."

"Aye, Aye, Captain,” you sneer.

"Atta girl."

The sarcasm dripping from those three syllables sets you off again. You grit your teeth while pushing hard on the limb that has you firmly pinned down, but your limited strength has little effect until Joel pulls away completely. Almost instantly, a bruising ache settles across your skin, and you suppose it's Joel's version of a parting gift.

There is a pause between the two of you as you take in Joel's command. He appears to be watching your expression for any sign of acknowledgement towards his order. You both breathe heavily, on the comedown from your respective anger aimed at each other. It's intense, the crackling tension in the air shared by both of you.

You're unsure how or why the mood shifts so violently in the room, but you can feel your heart racing as you watch Joel settle his hands on his hips. His tongue darts out to lick his lower lip as he exhales what must be the last of his anger. In this quiet moment, you note how handsome he is despite his weathered appearance. His usually aggressive, guarded expression is momentarily brought down and exposes the warm, earthy brown tone of his irises.

"Just…" Joel hesitates, searching for the correct words as he looks you in the eye. He's quiet for a long, drawn-out second as if processing you. "You ain't gonna like the guilty conscience of believin’ somethin’ you said is the reason your friends died. Trust me."

The gentle tone Joel offers indicates he has experience in what he's warning you against. When he offers this advice so calmly, who are you to deny this slither of kindness? So you just nod in acknowledgement, refusing to extend him any more appreciation.

Joel steps away whilst clearing his throat, appearing satisfied with your non-answer. He, too, provides little recognition, instead turning around and exiting your room in the direction he came.

You watch as he paces down the corridor, his broad back disappearing around the corner and leaving you alone to dissect what the fuck just happened.

—————————————————

On the morning of the mission, you see very little of Joel. It's all hands on deck, the mission team working hard to ensure they had the supplies needed for the hijacking. Every so often, you would catch glimpses of Joel's red tartan flannel or hear the rough intonation of his Texan accent. It was silly, but you began to think he was purposely avoiding you.

Yes, he had acted carelessly last night by cornering you the way that he did, though you're not sure that is entirely out of character for him. Instead, you believe that whatever happened that caused your heart to race when he pulled away was a shared experience.

Rather than concerning yourself with why he was skirting around you, intentional or not, you focus on enacting your promise from last night. You work hard to ready the troops for the deadline, a subtle nod that you approve of Joel's leadership to urge their confidence in him.

It is painful, but you take your time with each of them. There is almost a certainty that some may not return home, and so you commit them to your memory. It's something you did every time someone left to enter the field, but it felt especially pertinent considering how close the Fireflies were to shifting their luck. Those who died tonight wouldn't get to appreciate the spoils of their sacrifice.

By mid-afternoon, Marlene considered her soldiers ready for battle and ordered them at ease to relax and rest up before heading out. Some opted to share their last meal; others played card games while recounting the time they had spent together with fondness despite the difficulties shared.

Quietly, you had slipped away from the main halls and left them to their final goodbyes. You weren't going out there, so it felt disrespectful to sit amongst those waiting for the call to arms. Alternatively, you made your way to one of the medical bays to ensure that someone set up enough equipment for those who may come back wounded.

By now, you had set out multiple antibiotic syringes, readied bandages and sutures and prepped gurneys so that everything was ready should there be an emergency. You felt better this way, as though you had aided in the effort.

So caught up in the process, you failed to notice Joel leaning his shoulder against the doorway until he cleared his throat to alert you to his presence. When you look up, the sound having startled you, you find him watching you with his arms crossed over his chest.

"Do you… Uh-do you need something?" You offer awkwardly, unsure of what else to say. Joel shakes his head, eyes flitting down to where you had laid out the medical equipment.

"No. Everythin’ is ready, and the tunnels are clear of infected. Just comin’ to tell you I'm headed out." He walks across the room towards the desk you are sitting at, stopping at the foot of the wooden table and laying his palms flat along the surface. You can see the veins raised through his skin.

You look at him through your lashes, swallowing back the nervous energy you feel creeping to the surface as he leans over the table.

"Why should I care?" You ask. You intend for it to appear nonchalant, but it just sounds breathy even to your ears. Joel raises an eyebrow in question.

"Woah Woah, easy. Still bratty then, I see," Joel points out, his tone flat. You cringe inwardly, knowing that that must have been his attempt to extend an olive branch. "Thought we could put this little disagreement behind us before heading out."

"There isn't one."

"Could’a fooled me," Joel chuckles, but it lacks humour. His gaze slips over your body and appears to take note of all the tiny details. You hope it's all in your mind, but you can feel your face heat up and your heart thrum in your chest again.

"You know, you really remind me of Marlene."

Of all the things you expected Joel to say, that certainly wasn't one of them. You look back at him slack-jawed as you feel the warmth of what you assume was a compliment wash over you.

"Huh?”

"She doesn't put up with none of my bullshit neither. Always tellin’ me to take a hike when I'm outta line and put me back in my place," there's a hint of a smile and Joel's face as he recounts their strange dynamic. A fondness touches his eyes, a fraction of warmth you hadn't yet seen in the hardened smuggler. "Thinkin’ that's maybe how she managed to keep Tommy in check for as long as she did."

You hesitate in your response, unsure how to approach this conversation due to the awkwardness from this morning. Turns out you don't have to because Joel continues.

"Only difference between y’all is that you have the balls to question things you feel ain't right. That's a high-value quality in a leader."

You feel as though you've been bowled over. Yet another compliment from the man who had attempted to strangle the life out of you nearly 12 hours ago. They were starting to make you think that maybe he'd succeeded and that you had entered a strange alternate dimension.

Laughing awkwardly, you shift the syringes around the tabletop in an attempt to keep your nervous hands busy. "Don't let Marlene hear that, shall consider it mutiny."

That earns you another elusive chuckle, the Texan shaking his head in amusement.

"Yeah, well, it ain't mutiny if I ain't part of her little militia army. Don't think I got much to worry about." This dynamic isn't friendship, you figure, though it's undoubtedly more amicable than tussling in your bedroom. It may be the closest Joel ever got to anything akin to amity.

It's not hard to assume that almost 20 years of solitary survival might make it challenging to establish emotional ties. Plus, you know nothing of Joel's ordeals getting to this point. Still didn't excuse his arrogance, though.

Again, silence creeps between you and you feel your stomach somersault while Joel maintains his close proximity. You dread to think what you look like, horrified that your expression could give away your internal panic. Even if it did, it wasn't Joel causing it. It wasn't.

"I'm off," Joel grumbles, standing up and pulling away from the desk and allowing you to breathe a silent sigh of relief. You watch him stroll leisurely towards the door, his hands on his hips. "I'll see you in the mornin’."

Most people in the Fireflies were surprisingly superstitious. It wasn't often you heard someone announce with such certainty that they would return from a mission. Regardless of its abnormality, it manages to ease your nerves – not that you were concerned about what happened to Joel.

"Good luck."

The flippant comment causes Joel to stop in his tracks, pausing in the doorway. He peers over his shoulder at you as if to make certain that you said it. He appears surprised.

"Yeah. Thanks."

—————————————————

Pacing.

You're pacing uncontrollably, circling the room in a failed attempt to ease the nervous energy pent up in your system. No matter how hard you attempt to block out the repetitive dialogue in your mind, it rushes back to the surface of your brain. What if, what if, what if –

Joel and his squad had moved out the minute the clock struck five, just as he had promised. Although Marlene had provided Joel with a walkie-talkie, the mission's reliance on stealth meant that no one intended to use it. You were completely cut off, uncertain of Mission status or if the squad was even alive.

Hoping it would make your wait more bearable, you turned your ticking clock to face the wall and put your watch inside your bedside drawer. It had helped initially, but now the sun had set, and you were expecting their imminent arrival. Every second your colleagues don't step back into the compound, your faith dwindles.

Though she maintained a stony expression, you knew Marlene was equally anxious. The most wanted woman in America, though able to defend herself, still depended heavily on her armed personnel. Reliant on this mission being a success, she had offered them up to Joel in the hope that their experience would assure victory. You can't help but wonder if she feels exposed without them.

What if they didn't come back? Could she survive without them?

It’s bordering on the edge of midnight when Marlene informs you she’s turning in for the night. You can’t say you blame her, needing to sleep on the off chance the team didn't return. She had informed you upon the group's exit that if the mission failed, the two of you would be heading to Salt Lake City at dawn.

You opt to stay awake, knowing well enough that you won't sleep until you are confident there will be no return.

Continuing your anxious circling of the room, you pick at your wounded cuticles. They are weeping blood down their knuckles thanks to hours of torture, yet you can't bring yourself to stop the self-destructive behaviour. Not while you wait for news.

Your heart practically leaps out of your chest at the sound of the main doors creaking open. It's so quiet you almost miss it in the silence, the sound of your blood rushing through the shell of your ear nearly drowning out the barely audible noise.

Grappling for your pistol, you release the safety and suck in a shaky breath. No one had announced themselves, and without guards on the door, there was no way to discern that those who had entered the building were Fireflies.

You shake with nervous energy, carefully stepping across the rickety wooden floor to conceal the sound of your movements. Had the US military found your hideaway? Surely not; they would have moved in before any threat to their organisation could be enacted

Leaning your back flush to the door frame in an attempt to conceal yourself, you listen out for any advancing danger. It's quiet at first, but you hear the scuff of a boot against the uneven floor cut through the silence. Inhaling swiftly, you ready yourself before lurching out from behind the door frame with your pistol aloft.

Shock wracks your body upon setting your eyes on the intruder that stands before you. Joel. Covered in blood from head to toe, his hands drip the viscous liquid onto the floor. The shoulder of his flannel is ripped open, loose threads sticking to his sweat-soaked skin.

"Oh-oh shit-“ you gasp out, horrified by the state you find him in. Given the state of his clothes and the sheer amount of blood that continues to run from his hair down his temples, your immediate thought is to check for wounds-but you can't see any. Sure, there is a scrape on his shoulder where the fabric of his flannel has ripped open and a cut that spans the length of his whole knuckle that you can see when he wipes the sweat from his brow, but other than that, you can't see any wound that would cause that much blood loss.

Joel, however, appears relatively unfazed as he points over his shoulder.

"Most came out with minor wounds," he states calmly, his gruff voice laced with exhaustion, "Lettin’ Marlene know we are back and that I have her guns."

It's as though Joel had just completed a simple sweep of the hideout parameters rather than one of the most dangerous and vital missions since the fireflies began their fight for humility, all without having received a single major wound.

As he walks away and leaves you gawping after him, frozen in place, you hear your team filtering in through the main doors behind you one by one. They are shouting your name and proclaiming their victory as they surround you, holding their hard-won weapons aloft. Despite their hollering, you can barely hear them over the frantic thoughts buzzing through your mind.

How?

It takes hours to ease the excitement and adrenaline buzzing through each of Joel's soldiers. You stitch up the wounded and listen to their battle stories in awe. They are enthusiastic about informing you of Joel's brilliance, frequently admitting that they could not understate how much of this victory they owed to him.

“I’ve never seen anything like it,” one laughs incredulously. "There were more than we had expected, but it didn't phase him. He took out two of them on his own, and when his gun jammed, he knocked them out with his fists!”

Turns out that the four soldiers the fireflies had expected were accompanied by another five unaccounted for. Joel hadn't let it affect the team, pushing them ahead with the mission. By blinding them with smoke grenades, the team had been able to ambush successfully, and despite the physical tussle that resulted in Joel's bloodbath, the mission had otherwise gone just as planned, the fighting all wrapped up within moments.

According to the many recounts told as you patched up your friends, the only reason it took so long was that the weapons boxes were heavy and made for a tight squeeze in the tunnels. You could have cried at the stupidity of it all.

Eventually, Marlene joined in with the festivities, having been woken by Joel to confirm "Mission accomplished." Leftover Molotov cocktails from the mission we used as celebratory drinks that had the majority of your colleagues wasted within the hour - including your commander.

As fresh, golden beams of sunlight peered through the windows, you excused yourself to bed despite the drunken protests of your colleagues. After explaining your exhaustion, thanks to your immense concern, they reluctantly allowed you to leave on the condition you would celebrate with them later. You imagined their hangovers would be too severe for further partying.

Practically clawing your way to your barracks, you breathe a sigh of relief as you walk through the open door. You can still hear the shouts of jubilation downstairs, noting that you’d probably have to drown out the sounds by covering your head with a pillow. The mattress calls to you like a siren, promising rest. You plan to skip removing your clothes and fall into bed as you are-

"Didn't expect to be greeted with a gun to my head."

The heavy, Southern drawl that sounds from your doorway behind you makes the hairs on your arms stand on end. You wish you could say it was a fear response or disgust, but your heart leaps in your chest with excitement.

Swallowing thickly, you close your eyes to collect yourself before you turn to face him. Your inhale is so deep you feel the edges of your lungs ache at the strain before you turn around to face the Walking Headache.

Joel is leaning against the door frame as he had in the medical room before he left. He has bathed since you saw him an hour ago, scrubbing the gore from his body and dressing in fresh clothes. His hair is still damp, and you assume he’s been forced to borrow the outfit from one of his new-found friends, the seams a little too tight on his broad body.

"Yeah, well, I didn't expect to find a serial killer walking the halls either," you dig at the state he had returned in. It earns you a deep chuckle that resonates in his chest, and you can't help but note the way you hold your breath to hear the pleasant sound better.

"That how you treat all your commanders?" Joel questions, his voice lilting with a hint of humour that you find dangerous, your heart stuttering at the drastic change in him since the last time you were in this room together.

You let out a scoff that doesn't quite match the indifference you were attempting to convey. "Don't flatter yourself. You were consulted to lead one mission; that doesn't make you a commander."

He doesn’t like that.

Standing gormlessly in the middle of the room, you immediately regret the words as soon as they leave your lips. Joel is gazing at you with an intensity in his earthy irises, taking in your feigned lack of respect with a slight arch of his brow. It's less of a look of surprise than it is an unspoken challenge. It makes your body flush with heat.

The sense of security you feel with him on the other side of the threshold to your door bursts the moment he effortlessly steps inside. He has no issue with invading your personal space, finding it even easier when you fail to find the words to protest his intrusion.

Joel doesn't hesitate, but he also lacks urgency, taking his time to leisurely bridge the space between the two of you. Again, he is close enough that you can see the intricacies of his face. There is a myriad of delicate freckles and a small, ruddy scar that kisses the bridge of his nose.

You're so wrapped up in the tiny details that you almost miss the flicker of consideration in his eyes. Despite his steady, authoritative body language, he’s questioning whether or not he can say what he has in mind as he studies your expression carefully.

He leaps.

"Insubordination results in punishment, don’t it, soldier?" His volume pitches right down, each syllable buzzing through your veins as he maintains heavy eye contact that has your knees melting beneath you.

It's only when he speaks that you realise you have stopped breathing, your lungs burning in a desperate attempt to shake you from the trance he’s put you in.

You have no explanation for your response. You don’t have the chance to argue, to insult him for playing this ridiculous role. Instead, each word forces itself from your mouth upon your shaky exhale, coming out in a broken whisper.

“Yes, Sir." Your answer is spoken embarrassingly quickly. There’s a flash of something powerful in his eyes, like he’s still buzzing on residual adrenaline left over from the mission. It surges forward at your answer, and he clings to it, taking control of the room- of you.

“Atta Girl.”

It drips through you like honey, coating your insides and warming them. Your body tingles and pleads for Joel’s attention despite your best efforts to fight the need he draws from it as he drags his eyes across its length.

A tiny voice in your mind rears its ugly head. He’s probably pent up from fighting, and you’re still stressed from waiting up all night. You could give in to what you want. Doesn’t mean you like him.

Joel seems to hear it too, his eyes searching for a hint of approval. You can see he’s itching to touch you, to release the anger that you’ve built in him back onto you with tongues and teeth.

Doesn’t mean you like him.

“On your knees, soldier.” He commands, and it’s like his voice strokes something hedonistic inside of you because your body surges with arousal at the implication of his order.

Doesn’t mean you like him.

Against your better judgement, you slowly sink to your knees in front of Joel, eyes pin-set on the toes of his dirtied boots. The wooden floor smarts your knees, but you maintain your position in an effort to appease him.

Joel doesn’t move, feet firm in their place on the floor as you bow before him. He’s making you wait, arms loose at his sides. You don’t dare to lift your head to look at him, to urge him forward, instead straining your eyes upwards to watch the steady rise and fall of his chest.

Prickling heat teases at your skin, your arousal triggered, knowing he was watching you submit to him so easily. The tension grips you, finding it ironic that Joel entered every situation all-guns-blazing yet had utmost patience when it came to prolonging your suffering.

Your need condenses, acutely aware of Joel’s entire being. It’s as though you can feel his eyes trail over your body like a feather-light touch, and you swear that you can smell the dampness of his hair. Most of all, you focus on Joel’s even, quiet breathing, the expansion and deflation of his lungs acting like a metronome in the silence.

Then- God, then he’s moving his hand forward achingly slowly, fingertips pressing delicately against your left temple. The brush of his fingerprint over your skin ignites a humming arousal between your thighs, and you subconsciously press them together when he pushes his digits into your hairline.

Your jaw drops, slack as you exhale shakily. So starved for Joel’s touch, you’re more than grateful for the innocuous brush of his fingers along your scalp. It’s probably so obvious to him, your desperation, but he doesn’t mention it. Instead, he takes a step forward, his boot settling into the wooden planks you’re kneeling on, his feet on either side of your thighs.

Joel is so close you can feel the fabric of his jeans brush against your forehead. So frequently worn, the denim has lost that rough texture and could almost pass for cotton. You don’t dare to move, knowing if you so much as twitched, your nose would graze over his crotch through the material.

“Atta girl,” Joel murmurs, unironically this time, his voice rumbling in his chest. It cuts through the quiet so suddenly that it makes you jump, almost loud to your ears. He sounds pleased with your reception of his proximity, rewarding you by taking a firm but painless grip on the roots of your hair.

It’s as though you can read his mind. His pulse thrums in his palm against the soft flesh of your scalp, matching the thumping pace of your own. Joel doesn’t speak his thoughts out loud, yet it’s like he whispers into your ear. ‘Good soldiers get rewarded.’

The pressure he applies to the crown of your skull is minute, but it’s enough to push your face into his crotch. Your gasp of surprise is so loud that it almost drowns out the resonant hum that he releases, gripping tighter to your hair as you nuzzle into him.

Rock hard beneath your cheek; you can feel Joel’s cock twitch at the delicate friction you gift him. Having plunged so deep now, you no longer have to reason with yourself to take what you want, kissing the shaft of his dick through the fabric he wears. Again, your reward is to be pushed closer to him, the adrenaline pulsing through Joel’s veins causing a heavy-handedness that makes the walls of your pussy flutter.

“Look at you,” Joel growls as your tongue drags across the fabric his cock strains against, as if resorting to desperate measures to taste him, “Totally shameless.”

You can’t contain it, the whimper that bubbles in your throat. It sounds around Joel’s twitching cock, and it seems to rile him up, momentarily cracking his composure when he thrusts his hips forward slightly.

Fuck, it’s like he’s hypnotising you with his grunts and groans, your body liquidating as they heat you from the inside out. Heaving breaths indicate the magnitude of your desire, and you’re kneeling up before you can even think of the consequences of taking matters into your own hands.

Pushing your nose into the seam of the crotch in his jeans, you use the tip of your tongue to search for the zipper. The brass is warm when it brushes your tastebuds, a metallic tang coating them as you slide your tongue beneath it.

Carefully, you take the fastening between your teeth, lowering your head to drag the zipper down. You probably only manage four links of the chain before Joel’s hand shoves itself between you and the fabric, bumping your nose as he tears the button of his jeans open with a stuttery exhale.

He releases his cock from the confines of his pants, and God, you’re so thankful he does. A thatch of thick curls frames the base of his cock, a subtle curve to the veiny shaft that stands at attention beneath your gaze. The tip gleams in the low light seeping through your thin curtains, coated with precum that weeps from the head that’s flushed a dusty purple. He’s not too big, with a perfect girth and length to him that has you convinced he’d fit inside you just right-

Joel doesn’t allow himself to examine how you practically melt at the sight of him, wrapping his fingers around his shaft and steadying it with his thumb. In any other situation, the gentle slap of his cock against your cheek would have you leaping from the floor and throttling him, but you’re both so needy that you open your mouth greedily without prompt. It drives Joel insane.

“Hah,” he heaves, pressing the tip of his dick to your flat tongue, “Shit- oh shitshitsh-“

Joel sheathes himself inside your mouth with one long stroke of his hips, and you’re almost sure your throat stretches beyond its limits to accommodate him.

“Fuckin’ shit,” Joel curses heavily, watching your eyes brim with tears at the intrusion as you fight your gag reflex. When you glance up at him through your watery lashes, you catch the way his upper lip arches at the sensation of your tongue tracing the underside of his cock. He’s sweating, brow glistening with evident arousal on his brow, and your stomach flips at the concept that you were the one making him feel this way- breaking his almost impenetrable composure.

Carefully, you inch him further down your throat until the tip of your nose buries into the curls framing his pubic bone. A musky smell that is uniquely Joel coats your senses, and you find yourself almost dizzy at the concept of being totally surrounded by him, filled by him. Just hours ago, you couldn't stand him, couldn't bear to be around him, and yet now you think you'd cry if you pulled away.

Joel groans above you as you swallow around his length, his fingers grappling with your hair for purchase and gripping tightly to the strands at the crown of your head. You use Joel’s distraction to begin bobbing your head, slowly pulling off him and feeling him drag against the walls of your throat until the tip of his cock rests over the flat of your tongue. Before he can complain, you sink back down and take all of him back into your mouth, and you swear that you can see Joel’s eyes roll back into his school in your periphery.

"Ah- fu-“ Joel appears entirely enraptured by the sensation of the head of his cock catching on each little ridge of your throat, and you can see him watching you work him in and out of your mouth at a lazy pace. "Look at you- Hnng- So fuckin’ good."

As you get used to the sensation of the velvety skin bumping against your throat, you begin to experiment a little more. You use the slow, steady pace to drag your tongue over the length of his fraenulum and swirl it around the head. The salty taste of the precum beading at the slit pushes you further, feeling him twitch with your ministrations.

Throbbing aches begin to settle in your knees, complaining about kneeling against the wooden floor but are drowned out by Joel's heady groans and the tight coil of arousal between your thighs. It's as though you can feel your pulse throughout your body, complaining about the lack of attention, but also invested in the way Joel appears to be losing his composure that you can't find it in yourself to protest.

“Christ-“ Joel groans out above you, suddenly taking a firm grip of your hair and pulling you up and off of him. The burn in your lungs has you gasping for air as you look up at him in concern. Had you messed up?

Opening your mouth to ask him what you’d done wrong, you find the words die in your throat when Joel pushes the tip of his weeping cockhead against your lips again. He’s staring down at you with this look in his eyes, something dark and potent swirling in his pupils. You taste him on your tongue again, and Joel pushes your head down onto him again.

He's unable to control himself, driven by the sensation of your mouth around him. The comprehension makes your mind spin with pride, and again you submit to Joel.

It’s rough, your hair wrapped around his fingers to better his grip as he forces you to still. Your eyes tear up, leaking tears down your cheeks as he begins to fuck your mouth at a brutally satisfying pace. Despite the bruising sensation of his cock hitting your throat, you’re practically dripping in your underwear when seeing the way Joel snarls at the overwhelming bliss.

Grasping desperately onto his hips to brace yourself, you cling on as Joel fucks deep into your throat. The hinges of your jaw ache at the effort of holding your mouth open for him, but Joel doesn’t let your efforts go unnoticed.

His free hand brushes his rough knuckles across your cheekbone, sliding down your face so his palm can cup your throat. Joel lets out the most wicked groan, applying pressure to your neck to feel himself slide in and out of you.

“God- You feel that?” He laughs out incredulously, his cock twitching, “You’re takin’ me so fuckin’ good.” He’s mouthing off, a lot more talkative than usual. You put it down to the blood having rushed from his head to his co-

“Touch yourself,” he orders, and it’s like the oxygen he’s starving you of begins to make you think you’ve imagined it. Your eyes flutter and blink back tears, your brain working to figure out if he honestly said it. It’s only when he yanks your hair in an attempt to wordlessly urge you to do as told that your hands snap down to your waistband.

Blindly, you push your fingers beneath the waistband of your trousers, practically sobbing with relief as your fingertips clumsily brush your clit. It sparks white hot, the muscles in your thighs trembling as they brace your weight on your knees.

“Mhmmm fuck,” Joel rumbles, watching your face as he fucks into it, noting how your brows pull up at the pleasure you draw for yourself between your thighs.

It drives him insane. You can feel it. His dick twitches against your tastebuds, and you can feel his pulse in the thick vein that runs down the underside of his cock. Joel’s fingers paw at the back of your head, pushing you down onto his length and making you take him impossibly deeper. You’re choking on him, gagging around his girth. It makes your eyes stream, yet it just makes your fingertip swirl around your clit quicker, seeking that high you craved.

“Nuh-uh,” you hear Joel’s gruff voice, his palm patting you harshly on the cheek. Just enough to sting. “Focus right here, right here.”

Blinking through the teary haze and the surging arousal that grips your muscles, you only notice with a particularly sharp slap to your cheekbone that you had closed your eyes. Joel’s urging has you looking up through your wet eyelashes as he continues with his harsh thrusts.

Sinking your digits into your heat, you melt against the intrusion in your throat as the walls of your cunt flutter around your fingerprints. Severely neglected, your pussy aches and arches towards orgasm at breakneck speed. Under the weight of your body, your thighs tremble at your ministrations, and your brows pull together as if to brace against the impending crest of ecstasy.

“Oh fuck, yeah, just like that,” Joel rumbles under his breath, eyes set on your twisted expression as his hips begin to stutter. You feel his pulse on your tongue and draw clumsy, sloppy circles over your clit to match.

The groan that tears its way through Joel’s throat when he cums almost startles you, and you’re almost sure it does the same to him. His fingers are white-knuckling your hair in an attempt to brace for the surge of pleasure, his cum streaking down the back of your throat.

He watches as you desperately stroke over your throbbing clit and swallow his load without prompt. Even through your blurred vision, you can see his awed visage as he watches you take everything he gives.

Perhaps it’s the apparent appreciation he shows you when you hear him mumble a muffled ‘Jesus fuckin’ Christ’, or it’s finally rendering the argumentative Joel Miller borderline speechless. Still, you hurtle off the edge with barely any warning other than a split second of a hot white crackle up your spine.

Your body contracts inwards as you rub yourself through the crescendo, grateful Joel was with it enough to remove himself from your mouth just before. The ragged gasp you exhale sounds strangled, your orgasm blinding you in its onslaught. Your vision spots and slides out of focus, seeing double as the warmth ebbs away.

Soon, the only thing your hearing focuses on is the inhale and exhale of your lungs, sharp and clawing at the oxygen that keeps you from blacking out. Had you stopped breathing?

Joel turns away for a moment to right himself, pulling his jeans back up and buckling his belt again. The afterglow of such an earth-shattering orgasm makes everything slow, and you can’t help but smile almost dopily to yourself as you watch him ruffle his salt-and-peppered brown locks.

A sharp inhale drags you from your brain-melting comedown, settling back on your haunches and stretching out your aching legs as you watch Joel struggle for words. He looks conflicted, opening his mouth to speak and then firmly pressing his lips together in frustration.

Cotton sticks to your back thanks to the perspiration beading there, patches of the khaki shirt you wear stained with darker sweat patches. The birds are singing to fill his silence, allowing him a moment to approach his thoughts without awkwardness. You don’t push him.

“You wanna help me?” He tests the waters, mahogany eyes flicking to your face to gauge your reaction, “You know… Takin’ some time to smuggle instead’a doin’ this militia suicide task?”

It’s like he douses your sticky sweet, pleased muscles in ice-cold water in your shock. You certainly hadn’t expected him to like you, let alone ask you to work for him. It’s your turn to be speechless, the oxygen you had fought so hard to breathe catching in your throat and choking you.

“I-“ You swallow thickly, wanting to approach this carefully, “Joel, I made a promise.”

He nods slowly, eyes shifting to the wooden floor and seemingly tracing the rough surface of each plank as though it were the most exciting art installation he had ever had the time to take in. Perhaps it was. Joel didn’t seem the type to stop and smell the roses.

“I have to fulfil my promise to help find a cure,” you tread delicately, but it’s almost pointless because Joel agrees with a nod of his head, neither forceful nor resentful. He appears to take your word, wordlessly encouraging you to chase that ‘pipe dream’, as he had once called it.

“You got it,” he clears his throat roughly, clasping his hips with both hands as he exhales slowly, letting the implications of your decision sink into his bones. Certain death. There wasn’t much else out there for a Firefly, and you weren’t naive enough to think any different.

‘When you’re lost in the darkness, look for the light.’

You couldn’t turn away now. Not when these guns he’d hand-delivered made that light almost close enough to touch.

Chewing on the inside of your cheek, you watch him slowly pace to the door, wood creaking beneath his weight. He leans his palm against the frame, glancing back at you momentarily.

“There’s a spot for you, y’know? If you change your mind.”

A melancholy smile plays at the corner of your lips. The likelihood that you’d survive long enough to begin sufficiently regretting your decision and change your mind was slim, but the thought that Joel was willing to set a place aside for you…

“Thank you, Joel,” you whisper, shocked to hear your voice crack with emotion with the gratitude you show him.

Doesn’t mean you like him.

“Mhm,” he nods awkwardly, thumb brushing against the circumference of the watch that had dug into your collarbone 48 hours ago. There’s a tenderness in that touch, something that your cheekbones ache to experience. Instead, you ignore the infuriating pining of your body for the man who had irritated you only moments before, watching as he steps out into the hallway and out of sight, no doubt to grab his stupidly oversized backpack and slink away into the darkness of the underground tunnels and return to his regular trade.

Your heart strains in your chest, but it doesn’t mean you like him.

It doesn’t.

END

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[mooishbeam]

『♡』 Strawberry Lemonade

♡ featuring: toji x f!reader

♡ synopsis: you plan to make strawberry lemonade for the summer, but life has other plans. wc: 1.7k+

♡ cw/tw: just some fluff, toji kisses :3

notes: idk why i kept thinking about soft cottagecore toji my brain fhioshafiohiaf this was so self indulgent srry for any mistakes ive been sick for a few weeks lol <3 comments and reblogs are appreciated!

After heavy rain showers, sun rolled in and devoured everything beneath it.

Toji doesn’t like summer. He wasn’t exactly fond of the heat rays rippling across the pavement, his black slides bonding like tar if he stood in one place for too long. His bangs would mat to his forehead, and it was overall a hassle to tolerate. He’d much rather laze under air conditioning for the entire season.

Until you came along.

He’d never met someone so delighted over sweat and mosquitos before you. Maybe that’s why he slowly became accustomed to such weather. You weren’t shy about your strange habits. After all, on your third date it poured like no other, and instead of taking cover, you skipped through the rain. It was strange, yet he cracked a smirk at your wide grin.

You’re happy and that’s good enough for him.

You were elated at the promises summer bore, specifically for your plants. Fruitful flowers meandering on branches, the first sign of hibiscus blooming. Every year around that time, you carried your plants outside to bask in her warmth. It was all an invaluable gift from Mother Nature, and you did your best to honor her.

Of course, Toji had to purchase a house with the most sunlight, and a backyard to match—not with you in mind, at least that’s what he’d day as he avoided your gaze. He knew your housewarming gifts would consist of planting tools, but the sheer amount of it was staggering.

It was no surprise you planted your seeds the next day and watched them like a hawk. Toji was sure to mention how much of a “weirdo” you were for spending so much time caring for your perceived babies. A weirdo he loved, because he left marks of his affection in every nook and cranny. Sure, he feigned annoyance over it, but you knew better when he did things you didn’t ask for. Toji isn’t a verbally expressive husband, but his actions make up for the rest.

Like when he built a wooden potting bench to store the inventory accumulating in the corner by your plants. You came home as he was applying the finishing touches and embraced him for what felt like hours. He rolled his eyes, pretending to be unfazed by your gratitude, though you could still see the growing ghost of a smirk; “Don’t thank me, that thing was an eyesore.”

It benefited him, too, to gaze through the screen door in the afternoon and see the gorgeous sun-kissed glow on the apples of your cheeks. He adored your soft eyes that diligently monitored the seeds starting to sprout with a tender smile.

You filed chunky soil into terracotta pots you painted with various designs. The one that resembles a tiny cactus with a face grew a bundle of basil. The other one similar to a tiered strawberry cake grew a fitting crown of strawberries. You weren’t looking to bake an outstanding cake or be the best gardener. For the fruits of your labor, the only thing you wanted was—

A single pitcher of strawberry lemonade.

Toji trudges down the stairs half-asleep and enters the kitchen to pour the usual cup of coffee you make as you wake before him. However, there’s no jug awaiting him. He opens the screen door and finds you kneeling over the pots, sporting a bow knot straw hat and an overall romper in the sweltering heat. Your brows are furrowed, and you pick at the foliage.

He leans against it and scratches his ankle with the tip of his slides. The screen clicks the side, and you turn to him.

“Oh, hey.” There are somber notes in your voice, and something in his body wants to reach out and protect you from whatever’s pulling your face into a frown.

“Hey.” He walks over to you. Your lips are tucked behind your teeth, poking at the strawberry in your palm. He kneels on one knee and you glance at him, flashing a meek smile. He wishes he didn’t have a closer view as your eyes threaten to brim with tears. Oh…his heart, tight and struggling to beat.

Toji was used to loud, ugly love. But you—your love was as gentle as the petals of an orchid, and you’d changed him without even trying. That’s why he adorned your ring finger with precious diamonds. He became a better man and husband in your arms, and in turn he’d give you the world if you desired it. So why were you about to cry?

“What’s up?”

“Nothing…” His eyes follow yours, to the flourishing bunch of basil. And then to the lackluster strawberries.

The ones still hanging from their stems aren’t award-winning. They’re deformed, with multiple nubby ends protruding from every side. They look more like hopeful raspberries than anything else. There’s a considerable pale color washed over half of them. You mold one in your palm.

“Can’t be nothin’.” He picks the strawberry from your hands and observes it with two fingers. It lacks seeds and a deep, rich red. “I just don’t know what went wrong.”

"Who said somethin' went wrong?" You lock eyes, and he pops it in his mouth.

Yours widen, and you cup his face to try and force it out his mouth. “Don’t!”

Toji bites, and in an instant utter sourness prickles his tongue. There’s a strawberry flavor, but not enough to combat. The sting is strong, and when it coats his throat, his tongue contorts to fight the sheer bitterness.

Somehow, he remains stone-faced—a battle with his gut reaction. He can’t bear to break your spirit, not like this, not when you’ve spent months strategizing and waiting for your efforts to ripen. Toji tells the harsh truth, but when it comes to you, he’s willing to be selfish.

He continues to chew while you nervously fiddle with your fingers. You gaze at him, doe-eyed and anticipating his response. The lining of his cheeks excretes copious amounts of saliva, and he finally swallows.

“S’good.”

“R-really?” You’re shocked that they’re edible in this state. He nods and it relieves some of your worry, though you’re unsure about his honesty.

He thumbs the wetness on your lashes away. “Said I like it, so make some of that lemonade ya talked about so much.”

You place a handful of strawberries on the kitchen counter and get to work. You haven’t tried them out for yourself yet, but you don’t want to waste any considering how small they are. Toji stretches out on the chair, black tank riding up as he watches you slice the tips off the strawberries. Your delicate fingers handle them with such care, just so you don’t disappoint with an unpalatable drink. Cute.

When you’re done, the rose-colored liquid fills half the pitcher. You top it with basil and stir it around. You pass a glass to Toji, heart-shaped ice cubes floating on the surface, and sit across from him.

“Let’s try on the count of three.”

“Mhm.”

“Okay! One, two-“ Toji doesn’t stop for the counter and begins to gulp the drink. You take a sip of yours. The tooth-rotting sugar did some to quell the taste, but it was still insanely sour. Your lips purse and you shut your eyes, emitting a tiny squeal. It’s your first attempt and you know you shouldn’t be so critical of yourself, but you can’t help but feel like a failure.

When you open your eyes again, you’re dumbfounded at the empty cup in front of Toji. He licks his lips, “It’s good, baby. Why you look like that?”

“No way.” He tilts his head like he didn’t just consume a liquid jawbreaker. “Hm?”

“It’s…it’s really bad, Toji. You don’t have to lie to me.” You avert your eyes and stare at the condensation running down the glass of your unsuccessful project. He wraps around the table and leans against it while you’re sitting. He cranes your neck with a calloused hand underneath your chin.

“Look at me. I’m here”

“I really wanted it to work. I spent so much time on it.”

“I know, don’t take it so hard. I like it.”

“You just don’t wanna hurt my feelings.” You weren’t entirely wrong.

“It tastes good 'cause you made it.” When you don’t respond, a malicious smirk spreads on his mouth. “Wanna try?”

Toji bends down. He squeezes your face to puckering and plants a deep kiss on your lips. Rough and meaningful, and you melt into it. He releases his grip and follows it with warm plush kisses chasing your contact. His lips are soft but slightly chapped, fleeting hints of cane sugar and just enough basil to notice. Bitter like the descent of a bleeding sunset, the chill of autumn’s return. Silent assurance, that everything was okay, and will be okay.

He parts when you tap his sturdy bicep for fresh air. “Ya done bein’ a baby?” You giggle. Perhaps you overwhelmed yourself obsessing about it for months. He brings you back to Earth, and after the overthinking subsides, you think the outcome isn’t too horrible. A long deserved break is overdue.

“Yea” you sniffle, and he lifts you from the chair into his arms. You lock your legs around his back and bury your face in the crook of his neck.

“Now c’mon, I wanna lay down.” Lay down is his go-to phrase, but he actually means cuddle. He’d never say it, even when lying down quickly became Toji turning on his stomach and shuffling his massive weight onto your chest. It’s what you need right now, and the way his palm rubs up and down your back reduces your mind to mush.

“I’m being a bother” you mutter. He pecks your jaw.

“Nah. Love takin’ care of my little crybaby.”

Laying down becomes cuddling as you predicted, and you massage his scalp until he dozes off in slow breaths. Your favorite weighted blanket traps you between his muscles, and you happily accept.

You’re reminded of his vulnerability, his eagerness to trust without words. He took your problems and made them his. You both surrendered your fears and insecurities to love each other. You traded walls for strawberry kisses, and there’s nothing more you could ask for.

Daylight peaked at its highest point, and as you drift to sleep you wish summer wouldn’t end.

#toji fushigro x reader #toji fushiguro #jujutsu toji #toji x reader #jjk x reader #jjk

[lululandd]

content;

pairing: simon ‘ghost’ riley x f!reader

word count: 1177

warning: fluff, reader is into plants

notes: inspired by an instagram reel that @/myscprin sent (this fic is also on ao3)

summary: it started out with a stupid potted plant. 

Soap had drunkenly bought him one and would not stop whinging until he actually took it home. The man also had the audacity to ask him how the plant is doing, weeks after.

“Fine.” He lied. They were probably browning on his balcony, in a worse condition than he last saw them. It was funny; exciting even, to water the first couple days, having something easy to take care of, but then he saw signs of it not going to make it and subsequently avoided them entirely. Closed his blinds so he doesn’t have to see them die for good measure. The work call came immediately after, and he’s glad he doesn’t have to see it again for a couple months. He can just use work as an excuse next time Soap asks about the dead plant and be done with it.

But it wasn’t done with. Work took eight months, and gathering the courage to just step out to be greeted with a dirty balcony and a dead plant took two weeks extra. But it wasn’t dead. It was thriving. He might be remembering wrong—which is rare for him—but he could’ve sworn the pots were actual terracotta instead of stone painted to look like terracotta. Its leaves are supposed to be brown, or yellow, but they’re now different shades of red, some even resembling wine. Confused, he went back in and kept the blinds closed, joking to himself that maybe it just disliked seeing him, and was better off left alone.

Or so he thought.

The next day he came back to the balcony only to be greeted by a wet patch of floor, and droplets of water on the leaves. It didn’t rain at all yesterday, so either there's a leak that landed right where his plant sits, or someone watered his plants for him. His suspicions landed on the apartment above his neighbour’s, since they’re the only one with an abundance of plants on their balcony. Even though they shared fire escape stairs, and could easily come down to his portion of the balcony, he doubted they would walk down the stairs every single day just to water his plants. So he wanted to see how they did it. Perhaps just hose it from afar? Since they did horribly miss his pot today, from the evidence of excess water on the floor.

How mistaken he was.

It was a weekend, and as soon as he woke up and got his tea and digestives, he sat with his blinds barely open and waited. And waited. And waited. And waited. Until he saw your figure, half covered by the curtains, waltzing right to his plant and watered it as if it was your own. You were there for at most two minutes before walking back upstairs and out of his line of sight.

This has to stop.

Quietly, he took the plant off the balcony and into the apartment, setting it down on an unoccupied dining chair. The plant might seem normal on the balcony, but indoors it looked out of place. It was as if his whole apartment felt smaller and devoid of colour as he stared at it.

Ghost was cleaning a shelf the next day when he heard a loud gasp outside. His reflexes got the better of him and opened the door to see the girl on her tippy toes looking down as if searching for something, and then turned back to look at him. They both stared at eachother like a deer in headlights, although in their heads they’re the deer and the other is the headlights.

Ghost was a deer for not taking good care of his plant, hiding it, and opening his balcony door in record time, and the girl was also a deer because she got caught going to someone else’s balcony to water said plant.

“Sorry, I—“ They both started at the same time.

“Oh, no, I’m sor—“ They started again.

The girl raised her free hand, “I’ll go first. I got scared that your plant fell or something. Sorry if I startled you.” As she said her gaze fell onto the plant in question sitting (unhappily) on the chair.

He looked back at it, “Brought it in to brighten up the place.” He lied. He didn’t even like it. He didn’t  like it being indoors, making his already measly living quarters feel even more barren. For some reason her face brightened.

“I have some plants that are easy to take care of, if you want more? I have some that doesn’t need sunlight that much so you can put it in th—“

“No.” What in bloody fuck was she thinking. Did she forget why she watered it in the first place? Is she daft? “Thanks. I go on work trips often.”

To his confusion her face brightened even more. “I can take care of them while you’re away, if you’d let me?”

Oh.

He had fallen right into her trap. Dead fucking centre. If he perceived her as an enemy he’d kill her there and then. But no part of his instincts or his sharpened mind saw her as one. It was his ego talking.

“Nah. You fancy him?” He pointed at the plant.

She shook her head, “I have no more space at mine.”

He went back and reached for it. “Tell you what. I’ll put this boy right back out here. And you can have half of my space for your shit. Sounds good?” 

Unfortunately for Ghost, the girl’s wide grin and sparkly doe eyes got burned in his mind for good. 

“You mean it?”

“Yeah.”

Work called him to Iceland not a week later and he spent the next few months barely seeing the sun. The country lacked sunlight, which was good for clandestine missions, but he could feel it took a toll on his mental health. Those artificial UV lights made his body feel better but his mind longed for the real deal. So that's why as soon as he got home he opened his curtains to its fullest to bask him and his apartment in some warmth. It took him about fifteen minutes to process what he was seeing. The girl really did take half his space. The space that made him rearrange his apartment layout completely so he could sit down on any chair and still have a view of said space. She had filled it to the best of her abilities while still making way for him to walk onto. Different plants with leaves of varying colours and sizes sat on colourful pots. He spent one morning just sitting there with his tea, trying to spot silly little frog statues half hidden underneath the growth.

It had been a while since he felt something other than dread when he got home, it was the first time in his shitty little apartment that he felt a smile creeping up his face, and it was the first time in what seemed to be forever that he felt.. content.

part 2

#simon ghost riley x reader #simon riley x reader #ghost x reader #call of duty imagines #call of duty #scuffed writing #it sucks when i love angst but can only write fluff

[youwouldntdownloadapizza]

The Gates of Jackson | Joel Miller x F!Reader - Chapter 3

masterlist | ao3 | follow @youwouldntdownloadapizza and turn on notifications for updates

You showed up at the gates of Jackson with hands covered in blood and no memory of how you got there. That was two years ago. Since then, you've become Maria's right-hand woman and the person in charge of Jackson's logistical backend. Patrol schedules, inventory—all your purview. When a patrol gone wrong forces you to get to know Joel, memories of your past begin resurfacing—along with their consequences.

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pairing: joel miller x f!reader

rating: 18+, minors DNI

word count: 1.1k

tags: no use of y/n, eventual smut, no beta we die like sarah, jackson era, other additional tags to be added, slow burn, ellie needs a hug, joel lives, good parent joel, reader-insert, reader insert, forced proximity, only one bed trope, nightmares, childbirth, hurt/comfort, emotional hurt/comfort, angst with a happy ending, soft joel, cuddling & snuggling, fluff, masturbation, pining, joel falls first, possibly demisexual reader (tbd), ptsd, ptsd flashbacks, panic attacks, amnesia

chapter warnings: canon-typical violence, violence towards children, nightmares

Chapter 3

By the time you descended the ladder, Joel had everything set up. A clean, if dusty and threadbare, blanket was spread before the fireplace. He’d managed to get the fire going, and while it hadn’t reached a roar, it was plenty hot enough to heat some cans for dinner.

“What are you in the mood for?” Joel asked, gesturing between two cans with a pilfered can opener. “I’ve got alphabet soup or beefy ravioli.”

“Ravioli, please,” you said decisively, taking a seat beside him on the blanket. It took a second of him staring at you expectantly for you to realize he was holding out your selection. You took it and dug in.

“Holy shit,” you nearly moaned, the zing of 20-year-old marinara a delight to tired taste buds.

“That good, huh?” Joel asked. 

You nodded–yeah, it was really that good.

“Maybe Ellie’s onto something,” he chuckled, digging into his own dinner. You cocked an eyebrow. He elaborated, “She’s big on Chef Boyardee, too. Who knew he’d have so many fans in the apocalypse?”

“I don’t know,” you joked. “Fungal pandemics come and go, but pasta is forever.”

He laughed mid-chew, snorting so effusively a J-shaped piece of pasta landed at your feet.

“Huh,” you said. “J for Joel.”

You ate the rest of your food in relative silence, the levity of the first few bites subsiding once you realized how hungry you truly were.

A few minutes later, you set your empty can on the hearth with a clatter. “I’m gonna turn in.”

Joel nodded. “I’ll take first watch. Good night, Doe.”

“Night, Joel.”

Upon further inspection, the puke-covered couch appeared to convert into a mostly unscathed bed. It felt almost wrong to tuck yourself beneath such cozy bedding in your filthy patrol clothes. Especially since you had to be ready to spring into action at any moment, which meant your shoes stayed on too. But it’s not like there were other options. You lay your head atop the impossibly fluffy pillow, and let your eyes fall shut. Before you knew it, you were asleep.

* * *

You only ever saw Steffy in your dreams anymore. Your baby sister had been there for the collapse of the Salt Lake City QZ, escaping alongside you. But somewhere between fleeing and finding yourself at the gates of Jackson, you’d lost her. You’re not sure what happened exactly, but the dread in the pit of your stomach left no room for wondering: Steffy was dead.

She was alive right now, though. You were little again, sitting on the terracotta tiles of your Aunt Suzie’s back porch. It was summer, a gentle breeze rustling the leaves of the magnolia tree above you.

While the adults grilled, you and Steffy had a tea party. All the best dolls were invited, teddy bears too. Even Steffy’s favorite, a bedraggled rat plushie named Ratty.

“Ratty wants Earl Grey,” Steffy said, holding out a tiny teacup and saucer.

“Why, of course,” you replied in a bad British accent, pretending to pour him a cup.

Steffy made Ratty drink the whole cup in one gulp. “Dee-licious.”

You giggled. She giggled. It was contagious, the two of you devolving into downright guffaws when you noticed the adults’ chatter had stopped. Looking over your sister’s shoulder, your face fell.

“What’s wrong?” Steffy asked with a tilt of her head.

You wanted to tell her to run. You wanted to tell her to get behind you, that something was wrong. But you were frozen. 

That’s when the clicker sunk its teeth into her neck.

You woke with a start, flailing wildly, arm connecting with something hard, something that let out an ‘oof’ in response. Joel. You had hit Joel. Based on the proximity, you guessed he was trying to wake you.

“Sorry,” you panted, heart still racing from your dream. “Time for my watch?”

“No,” you could barely make out the shake of his head against what was left of the dying firelight. “It’s only been a couple hours. You were flailin’ about, looked like you were having a nightmare.”

“Oh,” you said. “Thank you. I’m fine now.”

“If you’re sure,” he said. “I’m here, y’know. If you want to… talk about it, or anything.”

You were still shaky. Your heart was still going so fast. But you weren’t about to discuss your dead sister with Joel Miller.

“I’m fine.” You doubled down, softer than you meant to.

“Okay,” he backed off, returning to his spot leaned up against the fireplace, eyes on the door.

Minutes passed, and your heart was still racing. Your hand throbbed, and you wondered how hard you’d hit Joel. Hopefully not hard enough to leave a mark.

“I’m sorry I hit you,” you said softly through the darkness.

“It’s fine, Doe. You were dreaming.”

You hated the way he brushed away your concerns, the way he gave you grace. In your experience, people rarely let others off the hook, not really. There was always some resentment that lingered.

If you were going to owe him, you might as well really owe him.

“Joel?” you asked.

“Hm?”

“I can’t sleep,” you confessed.

“I don’t know what you expect me to do about that.”

You took a deep breath, steadying yourself to ask for what you wanted. “Will you cuddle with me? It’s not you, it’s just…I need another person. We’re safe here, we don’t need a watch, not really. And I need you.”

“Thought you said it wasn’t personal.”

“It’s not,” you bristled. “But I thought it would be nice.”

“Never said it wouldn’t be, sweetheart.”

You lay there expectantly for what felt like ages. Then, finally, you heard the squeak of old floorboards under his boots, and felt the squish of the mattress as he climbed onto it beside you. You found a position easily, one arm beneath your head, his other loosely draped across your waist.

Your heart slowed marginally, but your breathing remained fast and light.

“Relax, sweetheart. You gotta breathe.”

“I can’t–” you started. He cut you off with a hand to your stomach.

“You can.” He pulled you back against him gently, not so tight you were crushed, but just enough for you to feel the expanding and contracting of his own breath against your back. “Breathe with me, alright?”

You nodded with a shuddering breath. He tapped your stomach lightly with his thumb. You matched his inhale, breathing deeply and resenting the fact that this shit works every goddamn time. Within a few minutes, you were calm. Or as calm as you were going to get, anyway.

“I get them too, you know,” Joel admitted.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

You were still pulled close against him, neither of you having made a move to scramble apart once your breathing returned to normal. At his admission, you relaxed into him fully, taking his free hand in yours.

Before you knew it, you were asleep once more, dreamless and deep, held safe and secure in the warmth of Joel’s embrace.

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#joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #joel miller smut #joel miller fluff #joel miller angst #joel miller series #joel miller fic #the last of us #tlou #joel x reader #joel x you #no use of y/n #joel miller x f!reader #jackson era #joel lives #ao3 #fanfic #fanfiction

[friendswithclay]

Sitting figure Mali (Djenné);

Beginning of the 13th century.

Terracotta; H. 25.4 cm.

Purchase, donations Trust Buckeye and Mr. and Mrs. Milton F. Rosenthal, Legs Joseph Pulitzer,

Rogers and Harris Brisbane Dick Fund, 1981.

#friendswithclay #ceramics #Mali

[guyfieriii]

Gem Amra Kheli

Translation: Games We Play

I finally did it, you guys. A lil' drabble is what I could muster for some fluff for you guys. It's set in the same story as Young Price and Bluebird.

Pairing: John Price x f!Reader

It started as something to pass the time. 

A stakeout wherein hours felt endless, like watching that drop of water dangling from a faucet unable to fall. You think if you kept your eyes turned away, it might surprise you — but lo and behold, it’s still fucking there. 

It makes you fidget. The waiting around for something, anything, to happen. It’s a weird kind of limbo to be stuck in. You’re on edge, as you often are, consciously aware and on the look for seemingly nothing. A harrowing trap in the betwixt and between tension and routine.

The consistent reverberation of the air conditioning that might as well have been a prop. The spice laden bouquet wafting upwards from the chaiwala on the pavement around the corner with his recurrent chorus of ‘Kichu chā chai?’ to everyone who passed by. 

“Just try it.” He insisted. 

You made a face at the terracotta cup he held between his thumb and forefinger — it probably held a little shy of three sips worth inside. 

“There’s a kettle in the corner if I want tea, John. You didn’t have to—”

“Try it.”

That was a week ago, and your kettle remained untouched.  

“Blue.” He began, his hand firmly planted on the back of yours— you were unknowingly peeling off the edges of your nicotine patch.

“Hmm?” You shook it off, smoothing over the frayed edges of the acetate film. 

Another day of nothing and no one. Not counting the ensemble of transient strangers at your feet, just going about their day. Too random to find a pattern in, not haphazard enough to find any interest in surveying. 

You watched the sun descend from its perpendicular position to half-mast, pulling with it a polychrome of burnt sienna and honeyed marmalade. The mismatched rooftops across your horizon interrupted its gleam in blocks of tan and taupe. 

You tried to count them all.

“Play a game with me.” He takes a drag of his cigar, a shameless grin etched across his face.

“Nasty little habit you started there, John.”

“Just as you quit yours, love.”

“Fuckin’ prick.” 

You resist the urge to inhale, let the murky smoke invade your lungs. The scent of it is a spiritous mix of all things provocative.

You glance down at your worn out patch and it mocks you back.

You might just—

“Go on, then.” 

“Timor-Leste” His voice crackles over comms, as you make your way through the streets of Leipzig. 

“Dili.” You pull your little notepad out from underneath the breast strap of your vest, and a pencil run down to its last couple inches, from the lip of John’s beanie which now rests on your head. “You’ve asked me that one before, John.” 

“Doesn’t count then. You better not add that one to the tally.”

“Already have.”

“Cheat.”

That summer evening in Calcutta inaugurated a tradition of you parading your geographical prowess. Whenever you grew listless, and the silence grew too comfortable, he would ask. Eventually you began to keep a running score, once yours and his intrinsic competitiveness seeped in. 

So far, you’ve only lost twice. 

You haven’t decided what prize the grand victor would earn. It could be anything — he said as much. 

“Can’t have it be a competition without something to compete for.”

“You’ll figure something out, I’m sure. Since I’ll win.”

“Bit naive to drop the chance to ask me for anything you want, love.”

You already know what you want, but—

“Remind me never to lose to you, John. Christ.” 

“Lesotho.” He starts again.

It takes you a minute before you answer, with some uncertainty. “Maseru?”

“That a question or the answer.”

“Am I right?”

He confirms eventually with a gruff affirmative. 

You peruse the pages of your now-filled notepad, the edges of it curving upwards — 154 tallies for you, and 42 for him. 

Amongst those are little messages swapped between you and him. A limerick, now and then, or maybe a reminder. A cartoonish sketch of him on the top right corner of a page which he’s since torn off. It now lives in the coin zipper of his wallet. 

As predicted, you won. 

And it was a victory rendered bittersweet by its arrival. You kept your ask simple. 

“Buy me a drink.” You said.

“I’ve bought you loads.” He countered with an expectant look. “We can do better than that.”

Yes, John. We can. 

“What would you have asked for? If you’d won.” 

“A kiss.”

“I’ll have the same, then.”

He obliged, of course. And it was everything you had imagined and then some. 

His breath still lingered with the taste of his last cigar. His lips, softer than they looked, pressed against yours in a way so chaste, you’d have thought it was his first. 

And when he finally pulled away—

“Let’s see how well you do with state capitals.”

Chaiwala - Tea Vendor

Kichu chā chai? - Do you want tea?

#john price x reader #price x reader #john price x you #captain john price x you #captain john price x reader #john price #captain john price #mw2 price #mw2 x reader #mw2 fanfic #mwii #cod mwii #mw2 #mw2 imagine #cod x reader #cod fanfic #cod:mw2 #cod imagine #cod smut #call of duty imagine #call of duty fanfic

[mydisenchantedeulogy]

The Road Ahead || Qin Shi Huang

A/n: my first time writing for this character. This took me a while and I went as far as connecting to my RoR soulmate universe via Yue-Lao, so please enjoy.

Warning(s): implied death, arrogant reader, one-sided opinions, female reader, soulmates, alcohol, make-out, brief oral (f), human and god relationship, rough sex, intense orgasms, mirror-touch synesthesia, and Qi.

No Minors Allowed!!

Humans are savage. Their souls are black and twisted, consuming even those who fight to right their wrongs. It irritates you to see them annihilate themselves with no care for their lives or the ones around them. So it is no surprise that like your fellow Gods and Goddesses, you desire to see them eliminated.

On the eve of Ragnarok, you wait with bated breath as the Gods lay waste to the humans. It isn't until the 3rd match that the life of a God is wiped out, that of the Sea Tyrant, Poseidon. 

You are horrified by his defeat, not certain how a human could win against him. It certainly shows how serious humanity is about living, an action you are both confused by and in awe of.

Why do they fight so hard? 

As you contemplate the question, you carry an ornate terracotta pitcher of wine to the VIP area, as instructed by the senior God of your pantheon as a means to share their condolences to Zeus for his loss. A familiar brute with blond hair, waiting outside, sees you upon drawing near.   

    

"It has been a while," Ares states with a sad smile. 

Too long. You nod briefly. Being close to the Gods and Goddesses of the Greek pantheon has its benefits. One of which is not being immediately struck down for simply speaking to them. 

"You have my condolences, Ares," you utter. "I can not fathom your pain and anger."

He hums. 

"Thank you, my friend."

Trailing his teary eyes down your figure, he raises a curious brow. 

"What is that around your ankles?" 

You hum in question, then glance down to see what he is referring to. Tied around them is a red cord that's length stretches down the hall from which you came.

"How– I must have not noticed it."

Raising a leg, you reach down to remove the cord but it passes through your fingers as if it is intangible. Your eyes widen in concern. 

"It won't come off."

Ares suddenly gasps, gray eyes widening.  

"I know what that is. A God has tethered you."

His face turns red, an action that concerns you.

"It means that you are the soulmate to someone," he explains. "I have only recently learned about this, but a God is responsible for it."

"Why in the hell would someone want to do that?" You ask in shock. 

It makes no sense. There is no reason to pair you with another, considering the fact you are a Goddess. Soulmates are a human concept. Now you have to waste your time figuring out how to remove the cord. An air of annoyance surrounds you. 

This is unbelievable. 

"Are you not going to see who the other end is tied to?" Ares asks suddenly. 

No. Why would you?

"I am not interested," you state. "But I am curious as to who did this to me."

After a moment of deliberating, you groan. 

"Please forgive me for my rudeness, Ares. I must get to the bottom of this."

Giving him a bow, you pace back down the hall before he can stop you. You aren't certain who can shed some light on this mistake, but you imagine the Valkyries might know something, wherever they are. 

You can't promise to be civil with whoever put this damned cord on you. 

Their reasoning had better be a good one.

As far as you know, the Valkyries are partnered with the humans partaking in Ragnarok. One of them has to know about the tether. Near the waiting rooms on humanity's side, you notice someone in the hall, a man of average stature with dark hair that has a single red streak in it. At first, you think nothing of him, but after you witness him lift his foot as though he has lost something, you realize that he is wearing a blindfold. 

"Do you need help?" You ask in curiosity, approaching him.

You have never seen him before, though admittedly, he is pleasant to look at with a handsome face inked with a centipede on his right cheek. An elaborate robe hangs off his broad shoulders, giving you a decent view of his muscular body. He scratches his head with a set of golden nail guards on his right hand and hums.

"Yěxǔ (perhaps)."

You raise a brow.

"I don't–"

Cutting in, he lifts his right hand and aims his pointer and index fingers at you, then directs them down.

"I was pursuing this cord," he states.

Cord? You glance down to see a familiar cord materialize around his ankles. Following the length of it, you notice in horror that he is connected to you.

Oh shit. 

"It's you. I am tethered to you."

The man grins. 

"The road ahead has led me to you."

Your face turns red. What nonsense is this? 

"It is the work of a God. And with any sense we should have it removed."

"You would throw away a blessing from a God?" The dark-haired man asks.

You frown. It is not a blessing.

"We are merely someone's toy."

The man grins. 

"You are fortunate, my rambunctious Goddess. Because you're in the presence of an Emperor and I will aid you in whatever way I can to see it removed."

Your face heats up again. What is with this man? He speaks as if he is–

He…he is a human.

The weight of the situation smacks you in the face like a bucket of ice water. Of course, he is a human. 

"How can this be? What kind of sick joke is this?" You ask in disbelief. 

Why a human soul? It made no sense to you. 

This has to be the dumbest notion I have ever seen. As if I would fall in love with a human. An arrogant one at that.

You sigh in annoyance.

"What is your name?"

Balling his fist in front of his chest, he encircles it with his other hand and bows his head.

"Qin Shi Huang, the first Emperor of China. Wǒ de róngxìng (it's a pleasure)."

You offer him your name and title in exchange, watching him grin in response.

"You are paired with a Valkyrie, are you not?" You ask. "Do you know where she might be?"

Qin nods.

"Perhaps my waiting room. But I have no idea where that might be."

You wonder if he had walked away not realizing that he was in his room. It must be hard to see with that blindfold over his eyes. 

"Let's just retrace your steps."

"Very well," Qin agrees.

He turns and saunters down the hall, giving you a view of his back. There is another centipede tattooed on him, running down the length of his backbone and vanishing in his robes. You have the urge to reach out and trace it with your fingertip and see where it goes, but you ignore it and follow close to the former emperor. 

Further down the corridor, you notice a massive hole damaging the ornate wall. It appears recent, but the plaster and smoke are clear from the air. How strange.

How did this happen?

Qin veers closer and steps through the hole to the other side.

"What are you doing?" You ask in disbelief. 

"Retracing my steps," he answers. 

Your eyes widen. Did he make this hole? Is he unhinged? 

Following him through the debris into another corridor with your hand over the pitcher, you notice a hole in the opposite wall too.

"Are you serious? Look at all this damage," you chastise him. 

Why are humans like this? Destructive and careless. 

"The road is where I lead," Qin states. 

You honestly have no idea what that means. With an uneasy breath, you allow him to lead you into a vacant room with a plush couch and a bed. It seems as though he tore through this room too. 

Why did he not just use the door?  

Deviating from the path of destruction, Qin sits on the couch and brings his legs onto the seat, crossing them. 

"This will do," he points out to himself. "Would you bring me that alcohol you are toting around? I'm parched."

Does he smell the wine?

"It isn't for you. I was to deliver this pitcher to Lord Zeus as a–"

"Come here," the human interrupts as he motions you closer. 

The nerve of him, Emperor or not. You narrow your eyes in irritation, but to humble him, you take a seat beside him. Between the cushion, you notice a tablet used to spectate the fights.

"The next round should be starting soon," you utter, eager to see who the Gods have chosen to avenge Lord Poseidon. 

Sliding out the tablet, you groan as Qin takes the terracotta pitcher from you. He clearly doesn't listen. You watch in annoyance as he lifts the ladle attached to the inside and takes a drink.

"Hǎo (nice)! This wine is delicious."

No kidding. 

"It was made special by the divinities in my pantheon," you mention.

"They have my gratitude," Qin states. 

It wasn't made for him. You open your mouth to chastise him again, but the tablet in your hand beeps as it comes on, showing the arena. It appears to be rebuilt in a modern city style that you have never seen before.

"Still not my turn, it seems," Qin mentions. "I grow tired of waiting."

You grin. 

"Whoever you are paired with will be no doubt strong."

"Moumantai (not to worry), I am strong too," he counters. 

And delusional. 

How does he expect to fight with a blindfold over his eyes? You raise your hand and wave it in front of his face, making him grin. 

"I can see you," Qin states.

"Then what is the reason for the blindfold?" You ask. 

The man grins and raises a finger to his lips. You tighten your jaw. 

"Keep your secrets, former Emperor. I don't care."

"Share a drink with me and I will tell you," Qin suggests. 

Didn't he hear you? Watching him set the pitcher in his lap, he dips the ladle into it and offers you a drink. To humble him, you ease closer, however, before you can reach out and take it, he gently grasps your chin and slants back your head with the ladle to your lips. 

The tart yet sweet red wine quickly pours into your mouth, but you are too far enamored in the gorgeous smile of Qin Shin Huang to swallow. And to your horror, the wine overflows and leaks down your chin onto his hand. 

Once this processes, you pull away in embarrassment, drinking it down in a rush. And to make matters worse, the emperor doesn't scold you. He merely laughs and brings his hand to his mouth to lick the wasted wine from his fingers. Your face heats up and your heart pounds against your chest in protest. What did he do to you?

 

"W-what was that? Whatever you are trying to do, you had better stop."

Qin hums.

"I was merely sharing a drink with my goddess." 

Bullshit. And I am not his. He is just a human…an incredibly attractive human, but that makes no difference. 

This has to be the work of the tether. You stand, clutching the tablet.

"We need to get this cord removed–"

"Sit," Qin orders. 

For some reason your body obeys. You don't move a muscle after that, waiting for him to react. He does so by motioning toward the tablet.

 

"I refuse to leave until I have seen the next match." 

Like a robot, you hand him the device. He takes it and grins. 

"Come closer. Watch it with me." 

You suppose he has every right to spectate. The cord isn't hurting you, though you fear whatever unwanted emotion it brings next. For the next few minutes, you sit close to Qin Shi Huang, watching the fourth round. 

As you had expected, the Greek Pantheon sent out a mighty warrior to avenge Poseidon, Hercules, the God of Fortitude. 

His opponent, however, is a man the statistic board is claiming to be an infamous murderer.

"What nonsense was that Valkyrie thinking?" You utter in disbelief, referring to Brunhilde.

"He is a fine choice," Qin claims.

You give him a look of shock. 

"Already he has withstood blows from the big guy that no human could. His understanding of the battlefield and speed make him an excellent countermeasure against his opponent," the Emperor continues. 

You sigh. This might be so, but to choose such a man as Jack the Ripper is absurd. It makes you wonder what tricks the man beside you has up his sleeves. Could it be his eyes? Does he possess something like Adam's 'Divine Reflection' or Kojiro Sasaki's 'Senju Musō'?

Lifting your arm, curiosity gets the better of you, but as your finger brushes the corner of his blindfold, he reaches up and grabs your wrist. 

"You said you would show me," you remind him. "Or am I to assume the first Emperor of China is a liar?"

He releases your wrist so that you can continue. Sinking your finger beneath the cloth, you slid it down to reveal his gorgeous, pale eyes. The centipede tattoo ends just below his right eye and each is lined in red.

"It's not a blessing or an innate ability, is it?"

"Mirror touch synesthesia," Qin answers. "If I see someone hurt then I too will receive the same injury, but inverted. It's a condition that I was born with, but I don't see it as such anymore. It is thanks to this skill that I am best suited to be a king. Because I can feel the pain of others."

You widen your eyes in shock. What a strange condition.

"That sounds unbearable."

You opt not to agree with him. His skill does suit his trade, however. A king who can empathize with his people is an effective ruler. You suppose he has that going for him at least. But to what extent?  

"Humans are still savages."

"Gods are no better," Qin states. 

Your eyes widen. He has no–

But he is right. Deities are no better. 

"We are offering you mercy," you point out. 

"By taking away the wills of man? That isn't mercy…that is control. And that notion is why we fight. So humanity can live and die as they please," Qin explains.

You have never heard it said like that. The Gods have always dictated humankind. No wonder they despise the deities.

"We never cared to ask."

Qin grins. "Because you are arrogant and afraid. And that is why we will win."

He seems so sure. You snort. 

"What is so good about being a human? We have longer lives, better lovers, and Godly powers that humans often desire." 

"Better lovers, you say," Qin repeats with a laugh. 

Is he in doubt?

"I have never met a human able to captivate me," you mention. 

While you have lusted after a few, none of them have been able to satiate your passion quite like one of your kind.

"You are not searching hard enough," Qin claims.  

As if. You snort in response. 

Raising his hand, he motions you closer. And like before, you lean in. 

"I shall show you."

Your face turns red. Is he saying that he will–

"I'll care for you like the goddess you are," Qin cuts in. His hand cups your cheek. "You have my word as an Emperor."

As appealing as this sounds, you would rather he not. But the offer you will gladly take. You are not against a fun time and this man has the charisma to lure you to the pits of Helheim with him. 

"Or fuck me like the ill-behaved woman I am." 

Qin traces his thumb over your bottom lip, then slides it into your open mouth, pressing down on your tongue. 

"How lewd you are, my Goddess."

He has no idea. Deities are often easy. A fine case in point is this moment. 

Removing his thumb from your mouth, Qin leans in to give you an open mouth kiss. He takes the opportunity to slide his tongue against yours, humming as you kiss him back. The lingering taste of wine urges you to close your lips around him, sucking eagerly on his tongue until he breaks the kiss. You watch in confusion as he grabs the pitcher, tossing it from his lap; it shatters against the nearby wall, staining it red. 

Before you can berate him for wasting the offering to Zeus, he pulls you into his lap. One hand slides around your waist while the other cups your face, leading you into another heated make-out. The wine is far from your mind now, especially with the cock that is pressed into your crotch. 

Gods I want him. 

To emphasize your thought, you reach down to stroke him through his pants. The low moan that pours from his mouth gives you goosebumps. You want to hear him come undone. Burying your fingers in his dark hair, you angle your head to kiss him deeper, however, the kiss is interrupted once he stands with you. In shock, you wrap your arms around his broad shoulder and lock your legs around his waist. The amusing look on his face makes you narrow your eyes in irritation. It seems he's desperate to be the one in control. 

Taking you over to the bed, he sets you down and then reaches behind himself to untie the robes around his arms. You waste no time removing your clothes, tossing them to the side in a messy heap. Once Qin is bare, you scoot to the middle of the bed and motion for him to join you. He does so, spreading your legs to position himself over you. His hard cock slides against your outer lips and you tighten your jaw, eager for him to continue. 

Sliding into you, he bottoms out and hits your cervix in a way that makes your body tighten and your heart flutter. You pant softly. 

"Does this bring you solace, my ill-behaved lady?" Qin asks, gently thrusting his hips. 

You eagerly nod. Yes, so much so. He feels incredible, more than you counted on. You want more, so much– 

But to your annoyance, he suddenly stops. A look of amusement crosses his handsome features and you know something is wrong. It dawns on you too late that it's not control he's aiming for, it's your atonement. He gave you just enough to make you crave him, then he took it away. 

You fear that you have been too snobbish toward the former emperor. It did not cross your thoughts that he would try to discipline you.

"Don't make me beg," you demand.

It takes everything in you not to whine, especially with his cock stretching you so well.

"I don't want you to beg me," Qin states with a grin. "I want you to admit that you need me. Not because a God bound us, but because you want this."

Is he serious? You tighten your jaw. As much as you want to deny him, you do want this. You want to come undone by him. The moment you felt your body react to him, you knew this would be intense.

Do I have to?

Can he not feel how bad you want him? You were wet before he even put his cock inside you. 

Withdrawing from you, he snorts as you narrow your eyes in frustration. But instead of teasing you, he sinks between your thighs and runs his tongue over your clit. A surge of hot pleasure zips through your body, forcing your muscles to tighten in response. You moan and clutch the sheets beneath you. For a human, he isn't half bad.

Taking your clit into his mouth, Qin gently sucks on it, drawing desperate moans from you. He continues to play with you until your body tenses, eager to come undone. However, he does not allow it. 

You whine in response, giving him a wretched look as he sits up and wipes your arousal from his lips. His eyes are different than before, you note. A star pattern is in each pupil.

"Your eyes," you point out.  

Qin darts them across your body and grins.

"I wasn't completely honest about what I can do with these. In battle, this ability is most beneficial, but I can use them here too, to see your Qi flow."

"Qi flow?"

Your face heats up. What the hell is a Qi flow? 

"It is the energy in everything. The life force that every person and thing has." He pauses to run his fingers across your chest and stomach, grinning as you arch into his touch. "And I can see its flow. How stressed you are, your Qi is stagnant." 

And he wonders why. He's teasing you to no end. But you understand his meaning. 

"You are a cruel man," you utter. 

Qin snorts and grabs your right thigh, turning you on your stomach. Your back arches in response as he trails his fingers down your spine; the guards tickle your skin on the way down. If you weren't so turned on by his teasing, you would have choked him out.

Resting his hands on your hips, he slides his cock into you again, humming as you sigh in relief.

Every quick and rough thrust rocks your body, stimulating your clit as the mattress rubs against it. Soft moans pour from your mouth as your muscles tighten. To get a better feel, you arch your ass against him.

Why does he feel this good? A mere mortal driving you to tears as he aims to fuck you senseless. And with the tension in your stomach growing quickly, you know you won't last. 

Will he even let you cum this time?

"Please," you utter. "I need this…I need you."

You are honest. You don't want him to stop; you need him to let you come undone. The tension is driving you insane.

"Shi Huang, please."

Qin does not offer an assuring word, however, his fingers clutch your hips as he thrusts into you harder than before. It feels like he's knocking the breath from you. Half-assed moans and broken sentences escape you as the surges of pleasure begin to increase. You aren't sure, in the end, if he utters something in old Chinese due to the ringing in your ears, but the aspect alone tips you over the edge.

Your body tenses up as an intense orgasm washes over you, forcing your walls to flutter around him and your eyes to roll back in bliss. An embarrassing trail of saliva leaks onto the mattress from the corner of your mouth as your brain seems to short-circuit from the build-up.

You've never felt this way before, satisfied by a human. Why can't it last? The feeling of bliss slowly ebbs away, but the former emperor is not at all done. His thrusts are just as rough as before, rocking your exhausted body. 

He gave you what you needed, there was no reason not to do the same for him.

You arch your hips again, catching out of the corner of your eye as two of the finger guards he wears are tossed aside. A hand slides beneath your thighs and slowly a finger circles your clit.

"W-wait," you whine in protest. 

You are still rather sensitive from the orgasm, but it isn't too intense to take satisfaction in.  Small shocks of pleasure and pain consume you. A film of sweat covers your brow as you press your face into the mattress. It feels as though your body is on fire; the only comfort comes from the cool bite of the nail guards on Qin's left hand as he presses them into your hips. 

Hearing him moan in pleasure, his fingers slip from your clit as he pulls his cock from your sore walls. A rush of cum hits your upper thighs a moment later, but you don't mind. Your weight presses down onto the mattress and you lie there for a moment to catch your breath, basking in the cool air as it consumes you. 

Once you are content, you sit up on your shaking legs, turning to face Qin. He looks worse off than you. His short bangs are stuck to his forehead and his body is covered in a sheen of sweat. You reach up and slide his hair back, resting your palm against his cheek.

"Why do you look more wrecked than I feel?" You ask with a snort. 

"My condition," Qin answers. He leans his cheek against your hand. "Moumantai (not to worry), I am fine."

His condition? Mirror touch synaesthesia? You do not understand.  

"I thought it only hurt you if someone was wounded."

"It ascended long ago to the point where extreme sentiments affect me, generally unfavorable sentiments. This is a shock," Qin explains. 

Your eyes widen. Is he suggesting that you are the one who–

"Are you hurt?"

Qin snorts.

"Bù (no). It feels pleasant. A surge of lightning burst through me."

How strange. You sigh. So long as he isn't hurt. This look, however, is good on him. Qin gently removes your hand from his face and scoots to the edge of the bed. You crawl up behind him, running your finger down his spine, tracing the tattoo on his back. 

"You know, for a human, you are quite divine."

Qin laughs. 

Much to your displeasure, he stands and faces you, eyes gleaming with the same ability he used to see your flow of Qi.

"I have decided to claim you as my empress," he responds, lifting his hand toward you. 

Your face heats up. Is he serious? 

"I am not a mere human," you argue in response. "You can not just lay claim to me."

No more than he already had.  

Besides, you have no idea why you were tethered to him. It certainly wasn't for you to become an empress. You are beyond those titles. And he should be too, seeing as he is not alive anymore. 

"When I win my battle, will you accept me as a soulmate and your king?" Qin asks. 

You tighten your jaw. Is there any chance for him to win? You don't know who his opponent will be, but you are certain the Gods on the list are strong. 

Thinking back on what he had said earlier, you hum. The will to live and die however humankind desires is much stronger than you can comprehend. If Qin Shi Huang is strong enough to take on a God then perhaps the humans have a good chance to win.

Perhaps I am wrong. 

Reaching for his finger guards, which were tossed onto the bed near the top, you hand them to him. 

"Should you come out first, then I will consider it."

Qin grins. 

"Hao (nice)! Come find me after the match."

You sigh. He has your blessing.  

–

Lord Hades is dead?

You can't believe it. Qin beat him. With haste, you walk toward the infirmary, ignoring curious looks from your fellow Gods and Goddesses. It takes some convincing to see him, but once you point out the red cord, the healers let you inside. It's strange but perhaps they do not see you as a threat to him. 

Or perhaps he knew that you would accept him.

Qin is barely alive, missing his left arm. There are various lacerations across his body, but somehow he is breathing. The healers advise you that he needs assistance, so you rush to his side and take his remaining hand as they prep his bed. He's going to be in their care for a while. 

"I am here," you assure him.

Qin grins weakly and grips your hand.

"Hǎo (nice)!"

You snort. This human is a pain.

It could very well be the tether controlling me…but I will wait here as long as I need to.

"Rest, my king." 

#record of ragnorak fandom #qin shi huang x reader #record of ragnorak fanfic #ror qin shi huang #female reader insert #soulmate au

[elfinbloodbag]

Just a Token

Pairing: Astarion x Áradíhena (f!Tav)

Summary: Light fluff, light longing, just a glimpse into a moment of their journey.

Word Count: 2,309

Warnings: I think this should be very safe, but mentions of blood, mentions of battle consistent with BG3.

A/N: I totally understand there is very little desire to read about original characters, this is mainly just my obligatory once every 3 years one-shot fic with whoever is my current OC. But, if you do read it thank you, and any (gentle) constructive feedback is really welcome as I am hoping to do something with an actual plot at some point!

Gravel crunches rhythmically under Áradíhena’s feet. Under all eight pairs of the rag-tag group’s feet. Leather creaks, metal clinks, and the gravel keeps on crunching. It was pleasant at first; a familiar pentameter for the elf to set her stride by. But after a few days of walking with blood and sweat and grime from their battle with Ketheric still rubbing sores under her clothes, it has become more like the sound of a mill, grinding her ability to think into the very finest of flours.  

As a group they had agreed the best course was to keep moving, to keep pushing forward to Baldur’s Gate. Individually, she thinks they really all would rather take a moment to rest. To really rest. To bathe and feel at least partly fresh and new again. Certainly Lae’zel would never say so, but perhaps if someone else were to speak up, and she could be the last to acquiesce... The terracotta haze across the sky starts dull and become grey around the edges of Áradíhena’s vision as the sun begins its descent into evening.  

After the lifetime spent in the Shadowfell every moment of sunlight, of life and of warmth, feels like a gift, and despite her weariness she can feel warmth seeping back into her bones. From the corner of her eye, she can see that Astarion has his face turned to the sun with his own eyes half closed - the hint of a smile playing about his lips. For a rare moment nothing about his behaviour is performative. He is simply basking in the light that he spent so long without. The warmth of that sight fills her as well. Truly it was a gift. 

Her toe catches on a rock and she stumbles slightly, kicking up more pebbles as she half-jogs forward, trying to use the momentum to catch herself. Lae’zel scoffs, Karlach guffaws, and Astarion chuckles through his words. 

“Careful there My Sweet, no need to fall for me twice.” The vampire’s hand catches her elbow, steadying her more effectively than she was able to do herself. It’s a tender gesture that she is still getting used to. His words carry their usual flirtation and teasing, his eyes are heavy-lidded - but his slender fingertips cupped around her arm, and the quickness with which he stepped forward to catch her can’t be entirely disguised.   

Áradíhena takes a moment to straighten herself up, brushing her hand over his with a light squeeze of thanks and trying to catch his eye. But he is in another world, watching that same hand he lowers his side as if it were the setting sun he had basked in moments before. 

“Time to get some rest I think, before our gracious leader here does herself a mischief.” Gale pipes up after a moment, and Ára hardly contains her sigh of relief. 

“Thank the gods you said it first!” She smiles warmly at him, “I’ve been thinking that for the past, oh, three days, give or take.” 

*** 

The group sits peacefully around the blazing fire, and Áradíhena shuffles her feet, bumping her knee against Astarion’s. On the other side of the fire Karlach elbows Wyll, perhaps a little too hard, in the ribs, saying something about how light on his feet he was as he practically danced to the fire after raising his tent. Halsin whittles a piece of birch he has been carrying for days, and Lae’zel bickers with Shadowheart about preferred weaponry, each firmly planting on opposite sides despite both being skilled with the other’s choice. Gale fusses over the fire, stirring the rich stew and occasionally flitting to his pack to add volcanic salt, or a small amount of dried plum, or some other herb he assures will transform the flavour. She has no doubt it will be delicious, and her stomach grumbles along with the stew. The smell of woodsmoke seeps into her still-damp hair - almost auburn in the orange light of the fire – but it’s better than the acrid smell of sweat that was there a few hours ago. 

She folds forward, laying her chin on her knees and dropping her hands to the floor, causing a series of clicks and snaps along her back. Cold fingertips graze the sliver of exposed skin on her spine, brushing lightly over where the tension has just released. A shiver runs through her and immediately the contact is gone. She begins to reach for Astarion, going to squeeze his knee, to find a way to tell him without words that the shiver was nothing to do with the cold, but drops her hands back to the ground. Instead of saying anything, she rakes her fingers through the fire-warmed earth, searching for something to distract her from the feeling. From the way the firelight seems to put life back into Astarion’s veins where they cord under the rolled sleeve of his shirt.

A small pebble catches on her nail and she rolls it between her fingers for a moment, feeling the sharp edges, the small crags in its shape, and lifts it into the light. It glows a soft, rosy-pink, casting a dull rainbow in a million directions as the light refracts on its unpolished surface. As she sits back up, she holds onto the little piece of beauty from the earth, digging it into her calloused palm and smiling through the instinctive wince. She is still soft compared to the rock. 

*** 

Each member of the party has lips stained red, and Ára adds another layer of colour as she takes a long swig of wine before passing the bottle left to Halsin. With a bust of laughter she almost spits it all back out when Karlach dips Wyll so low to the floor in their dance that his horns graze the floor and he squirms, unused to the sensation. She lifts him back to standing and then falls forward in a fit of laughter herself, slapping her knees so hard that Áradíhena is sure own would buckle with the force. There is an underlying understanding that they may not have long to enjoy these moments of levity and relative freedom, so they share in every piece of joy to be had. 

Áradíhena nudges Astarion with her elbow lightly, and with a rumbling ‘hmm?’ he tilts his head towards her, still watching the dancers with an almost fond expression. His white curls tickle the tip of Ára’s ear.  

“No Astarion, you have to look!” She unfurls her hand in her lap, rolling the rose quartz around her palm so it can catch the light for him to see.  

“What am I looking at?” 

“I found this in the dust. It feels like so long since we’ve had anything beautiful.” She lifts it higher, willing him to see what she sees, to share in this piece of joy with her. 

He leans in a little, and as he catches sight of it a sneer twists his lips, although he very quickly wipes it away and meets her bright gaze through lowered lashes. “Oh look,” he straightens back up and his breath flutters against the hot skin in the crook of her neck as he drops his voice to a whisper, “it matches you perfectly, Pet.” 

Heat spreads across her face and a vibration somewhere between a laugh and a purr runs through Astarion, adding fuel to her flush. One steadying breath later she takes his hand, unfurls his fingers, and drops the small stone into his palm. “Then I suppose it must be yours.” 

His head jerks back and he stares down at the stone, eyebrow cocked and lip curled, “Ára, you found this on the ground!” His voice is comically aghast, “Who knows where it’s been, what in the hells makes you think I want it? It’s not even precious!” 

Fine then. He would not be sharing in this with her. Trying to combat the overwhelming feeling of smallness that overcomes her, Áradíhena rolls her eyes and stands to walk away before she can watch him toss it to the ground as she is sure he will. Companionable and compassionate as ever, Halsin grumbles along and follows her to the stream where they wash up their wooden bowls in a comfortable if slightly solomn silence. 

*** 

The first light of the sun seeps languidly through the window, past the curtain, and casts a syrupy glow over Ára’s face. She’s in a bed. A REAL bed for the first time in gods knows how long, and yet the new day has found a way to rouse her from this small comfort rather earlier than necessary. She stretches out, kicking the sheet off her legs and touching her toes to the wooden bed posts. It was a blessing to find Elfsong Tavern when they arrived yesterday, and entirely worth the minor scuffle over who had first access to the bath. 

All around the room are sounds of sleep. The light snuffling from Scratch and the Owlbear cub could almost lull her back into her trance, if it weren’t for Gale’s muttering and what she assumes to be Halsin’s snores. She sits up, eyes drawn immediately to the opposite side of the room where Astarion normally rests. But instead of seeing the pale elf laying motionless, death-like, on his back when she glances around there are neatly laid sheets free of any sign of rest, and his shirt sits perfectly folded atop his pillow.  

For all his complaints about camping, Astarion hasn’t made best use of their temporary homestead. But, Áradíhena thinks suddenly feeling a weight on her chest, he has the hardest time with rest, with stillness and certainly with finding peace. She hopes that soon they will reclaim that for him. For now, his fearful habits remain. They had spoken alone very little since the quartz incident two days ago, and when they had his growing tension about returning to the city had been evident.  

Although not long ago Astarion had confessed the depth and reality of his feelings to her, she felt more distant than ever. On the verge of losing him to the Rite of Ascension, to an attempt to kill Cazador, to the Elder Brain, or to any one of the myriad of barriers in their path.  

She quickly shrugs on her own loose shirt and begins to stoke the fire, busying herself to distract from the fear, and then from the guilt at her selfishness. Gale and Shadowheart would be glad of coffee when they wake, and she can lay still no longer. 

*** 

“I’m really not sure where to go from here, it feels as though there are one hundred and one things we need to do in the city, all equally important. I’m lost.” Áradíhena hands Gale the steaming coffee, perhaps unceremoniously. She had hardly given him time to dress before seeking counsel, or comfort, or something like either. 

“You know we will all – correction, most of us will – follow your lead here. You haven’t taken us astray this far Áradíhena, I trust you’ll make the right choice on what lead to follow first.” 

“You’re not helping Gale! Everyone wants something different, everyone will be frustrated no matter what I chose–“ 

“You know that I wo-“ he interrupts, trying to reassure her. 

“And don’t think I’m not including you in this!” 

“Then you’ll need to put up with some frustrations. You can’t make everyone happy at all times you know…” Gale smiles a little sadly at her, but his tone is soft.  

Áradíhena heaves her shoulders and rolls her head back with a dramatic sigh, but before she can bounce back with a laugh, Gale claps his hand onto her shoulder, and she knows he isn’t fooled.  

There’s a slight nudge at her wrist, bringing her back to the present. Scratch must have noticed the two of them as the first to be up and about and doubtless wanted to be free of the coup. Odd that she didn’t hear him padding over to them, but she has so much on her mind... “Just a minute, Scratch.” She feels another tug and wafts her hand slightly to temporarily shoo him away. 

She looks back to Gale, saying brightly “How about a morning wa-” but stops short as she sees him smirking, brows raised a little in incredulity. “What?” 

Gale just chuckles and nods towards her hand. 

There, pinned to her cuff with the most delicate golden clasp, is a gleaming red teardrop. A highly polished, beautifully cut ruby in the richest shade of blood.  

“I... how..?” She casts her eyes about the room, slightly slack jawed and looking, she is quite sure, like a fool. In the opposite corner Astarion lounges back on his bed, a carefully curated air of nonchalance all about him as he runs one long finger delicately down the pages of his book and with the slightest flick turns the page.  

The corner of his lip curls into the hint of a smile as he feels her eyes scanning him with less subtlety than she should, and the glint in his eye perfectly matches the ruby. “Now that we’re back in the civilisation, Darling, I thought you really ought to know what a stone of value looks like.” 

“It’s beautiful Astarion, thank you.” She beams and her chest swells, even as she worries about him sneaking out to steal from merchants without her to act as a distraction. 

“Pffft, it’s nothing, just a token. Don’t mention it.” He is blasé, looking back to his book with an air of finality.  He raises his hand to wave her off and brush away the sentiment, and she barely catches the flash of pink inside his sleeve, where he has carefully sewn her rose quartz into the lining.  

#bg3 #astarion #baldur's gate 3 #bg3 astarion #astarion x tav #bg3 fanfiction #bg3 fanfic #astarion fanfic #astarion fanfiction #astarion x tav fanfic #astarion x f!tav #aradihena #aradihena x astarion #my writing

[neathyingenue]

Hard-launching Silvia and Caoimhe's.... whatever they have going on in an ooey-gooey tooth-rotting fic!! Thanks to @the-insouciant-scientist for sharing Caoimhe with me and egging on the Situations!

💌"the happiest kind of sorry for myself": Read on AO3 or below the cut 💌

Gen, F/F, 1070 words, no archive warnings apply

Other tags: Pining, Fluff and Angst, Feelings realization

Summary: Silvia Salcedo is happy to fall in love with a different woman every other week. With Caoimhe Coledoc, though, the prospect frightens her. Or: a self-indulgent fic featuring my Fallen London OC Silvia and @the-insouciant-scientist's OC Caoimhe!

Mariana the lamp-cat heard Caoimhe arrive first. With a loud meow, she leapt off Silvia’s vanity and darted for the flat’s entryway. Sure enough, moments later, Silvia heard footsteps on the outside stairwell and a knock on the door. She felt herself flush. Damn. Was Caoimhe early? No, Silvia was running behind; she’d swapped her aubergine-colored suit for a terracotta one at the last moment and spent far too long arranging her dark curls to frame her face. Now there was nothing to do but sling a tie around her neck without knotting it and follow the cat.

Outside on the landing overlooking the Bazaar side-streets, Caoimhe stood in a cycling suit of blue wool serge. Her freckles and freshly-cropped hair were the color of rostygold.

“Silvia! Good afternoon. Here—someone was selling these along the way, and I couldn’t resist.” Caoimhe drew one hand from behind her back to reveal a small bunch of orange chantrelles, staghorns, and orange peel fungus wrapped in a wide slate-colored ribbon.

“Oh, Caoimhe, how lovely! Please, come in, but you really shouldn’t have gone to such trouble.”

“Nonsense. Look, they match your frock.” Caoimhe pushed the bouquet into Silvia’s hands and stepped through the doorway. Then, to the cat: “Dia dhuit, Mariana! What do you have there?”

Caoimhe scooped up the lamp-cat and held her at arm’s length. The creature was gnawing on something—and in horror, Silvia realized it was her necktie, now stained with seawater from Mariana’s paws and jaws. Silvia groaned and tugged the tie away from the cat.

“Mariana, ay, pendeja, traviesa! That’s the tie I always wear with this suit. I’m not even sure what else I have that will match!”

The lamp-cat wriggled out of Caoimhe’s grasp, and Caoimhe smiled—a small smile for anyone else, but Silvia knew Caoimhe’s expressions well enough to know that this was the investigator’s equivalent of an ear-to-ear grin. Now Caoimhe’s gaze flicked to the mushroom bouquet.

“I’ve got an idea,” she said, and took the posy from Silvia. With an expert yank, Caoimhe freed the gray-blue ribbon from the bunch of mushrooms. Then she handed the bunch back to Silvia, took a step forward, and looped the ribbon around Silvia’s neck.

Caoimhe’s hands smoothed Silvia’s shirt collar, tied the ribbon into a bow, plucked at the knot to make it fuller. All at once Silvia could scarcely breathe. She had the urge to take Caoimhe’s hands and keep them there on her chest. Fortunately, her hands were full of fungi, so she had no choice but to remain still and notice how the ribbon exactly matched Caoimhe’s eyes.

When Caoimhe was satisfied, she took Silvia’s shoulders and gently—Caoimhe was always so gentle—turned Silvia to face the entryway mirror. The ribbon matched Caoimhe’s suit as if they had planned their ensembles together. Seeing them both in the mirror, the golden mushrooms in Silvia’s tight grip, Caoimhe’s hand still on Silvia’s shoulder, Silvia felt a pang. After a moment she realized, frightened, that what she felt was desire.

Ordinarily, desire made Silvia fall into someone’s arms and damn the consequences. But with Caoimhe, a gesture like that was unimaginable. Even after two months of friendship, Silvia knew so little of Caoimhe still. A silence hung over the investigator’s past and present that Silvia longed both to dispel and protect. Their relationship was comfortable in that silence. The only interruptions Silvia could bear to make were the little attentions she and Caoimhe paid each other, not quite friendly, not quite flirtatious.

So Silvia touched the ribbon and said: “You’ve got a good eye, but I know what will make this perfect.” She plucked a chantrelle from the bunch and tucked the single mushroom into the buttonhole of Caoimhe’s lapel.

The corners of Caoimhe’s eyes crinkled. “Thank you, Silvia.” She reached out and pulled another fungal bloom from the bouquet. “When you get your jacket, I can make you a wee buttonhole too, if you’d like.”

Silvia could hardly bear the earnestness that shone from Caoimhe’s face. She turned away. “I think I’ll put one in the band of my hat. That would look nice, don’t you think? But I need to find somewhere to put the rest of these.” She looked about frantically. The table under the entryway’s mirror was stacked high with papers. Why on earth didn’t she have a vase there like a civilized person?

“If you hang them upside-down,” said Caoimhe, “they ought to keep their color and some of their smell.”

“I’ll put them on my nightstand for now, so when I wake up—” Silvia broke off. “I need to get my jacket from my bedroom, anyway. Will you wait for me?”

“Of course! I’m in no hurry. A Mahogany Hall matinee never starts on time.”

Silvia managed to laugh at that before she fled to her bedroom. There, she flung the mushrooms into an empty coffee-cup, snatched her suit jacket, dodged the cat again. When she arrived back in the entryway, Caoimhe was fastening the remaining chantrelle to the band of Silvia’s hat, taken from its hook on the wall. The twinge in Silvia’s ribs sharpened. She tried to laugh again, but it came out sounding choked, and Caoimhe knit her eyebrows together.

“I’m all right,” Silvia said. “It’s only—you’re so sweet to me, and I’m making you wait.”

Caoimhe held out the hat. “Why would I mind that? It’s only prolonging the time we spend together.”

“Caoimhe!” Silvia took the hat and shook it indignantly. “You mustn’t tease me so.”

“I wasn’t teasing! Well, maybe I was a wee bit, but I meant it, too. Shall we, then?”

There no one in the Neath handsomer than Caoimhe, who always had solemn eyes and a smiling mouth, or a solemn mouth and smiling eyes. Silvia stabbed her hatpin into her coiffure rather more emphatically than she meant to. Then she took Caoimhe’s proffered arm, allowed her to help them down the stairs.

This was all part of the game they played. The investigator and poet would walk arm in arm down the side-streets. Caoimhe would hand Silvia into the hansom cab, and Silvia would thank her with a peck on the cheek. At the theatre, the ticket-taker might think they were a couple. They’d let him.

For now, the give and take was enough for Silvia. It was enough.

It had to be enough.

#my writing #silvia salcedo #caoimhe coledoc #i love writing this weirdly intimate lesbian friendship (??) sooo much #and i'm so excited for y'all to see the other bits we've been cooking up :) :) #i should make a tag for the two of them #grieving bilingual lesbian disasters #ok hm we'll workshop it

[foggysilverfeathers]

Hermit Permit Masterlist

! This is a WIP due to not every hermit’s video being out yet !

! This is also not yet up to date with any trades, please let me know if any have happened that aren’t on this list !

Bdubs:

Cub: Nylium, White Glass, Amethyst, Purple Terracotta, All Horns, Prismarine

Doc: Magma, Blue Glass, Dirt, Blaze Rods, Pots and Sherds, All Dyes (and flowers)

Etho:

False: Totems, Saddles, All Nether Plants, Glow Lichen, Pink Terracotta, All Concrete, JOKER

Gem: Clay, All Nether Bricks, Yellow Glass, Moss, Tridents, All Coral

Scar: Orange Glass, Light Grey Wool, Cyan Glass, Black Terracotta, Bricks, Sand and Gravel

Grian: Leads and Bundles, Red Sand products, Campfires, All Ice, Mushroom Blocks, Iron and Gold

Hypno: Grey Glass, Cobble, Lava Buckets, Green Terracotta, Coarse Dirt, Tough Stuff (e.g obsidian, ender chests, etc.)

Jevin:

Impulse: Brown Glass, Brown Wool, Grass, Light Grey Terracotta, Red Terracotta, Quartz

Iskall: Purple Glass, Horse Armour, Cut Grass, TNT, White Terracotta, Rockets (flight)

Joe: White Wool, F Tier Books (e.g Bane of Arthropods), Black Glass, All Leaves, Nametags, Oak and Birch Logs

Keralis:

Mumbo:

Pearl: Mossy Cobble, Magenta Wool, Purpur, Bone Blocks, Grey Terracotta, All Templates (i.e armour trims)

Ren: Rails, Lily Pads, Light Grey Glass, Diorite, Honeycomb, Conduits and Beacons

Skizz:

Joel:

Stress: End Rods, Coal, Light Green Glass, Blue Terracotta, Deepslate, Packed Mud

Tango:

Beef: Dripleaf, Book and Quill, Basalt, Light blue Terracotta, Shulkers, Warped and Crimson Stem

Wels: Light Blue Glass, Red Glass, Stone, Magenta Terracotta, Blackstone, Redstone #2

XB: Cyan Wool, Black Wool, Ferns, Cyan Terracotta, Granite, All Food

Xisuma: Lime Wool, Grey Wool, All Bucket Mobs (e.g Axolotls), Rooted Dirt, Yellow Terracotta,

Zedaph:

Cleo: Red Wool, Soul Sand and Soul Soil, Hay bales, Orange Terracotta, Lime Terracotta, S Tier Books (e.g Mending)

#ravenrambles #hermitblr #hermitcraft #masterlist

[scary-grace]

Love Like Ghosts (Chapter 18) - a Shigaraki x f!Reader fic

You knew the empty house in a quiet neighborhood was too good to be true, but you were so desperate to get out of your tiny apartment that you didn't care, and now you find yourself sharing space with something inhuman and immensely powerful. As you struggle to coexist with a ghost whose intentions you're unsure of, you find yourself drawn unwillingly into the upside-down world of spirits and conjurers, and becoming part of a neighborhood whose existence depends on your house staying exactly as it is, forever. But ghosts can change, just like people can. And as your feelings and your ghost's become more complex and intertwined, everything else begins to crumble. (cross-posted to Ao3)

Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13 Chapter 14 Chapter 15 Chapter 16 Chapter 17 Chapter 18 Chapter 19 Chapter 20 Chapter 21

Chapter 18

There’s something wrong with your house, but you knew that when you bought it. This morning, the thing that’s wrong with it is the potted plant that’s heaved over the fence into the front yard just past three am. The sound of a terracotta pot shattering wakes you up, and when you fumble for your phone to check the time, you see that you’ve got a text from Dabi. Your dumb horny idiot wouldn’t leave me alone until I gave him a plant. Whatever the hell he wants, I hope it’s worth it.

As far as Dabi goes, it could be worse. You send him a thumbs-up and a thank-you and wonder idly if Tomura really thinks one potted plant is going to get the two of you through a second round of sex. But when Tomura materializes in your room seconds later, he doesn’t try to start something. Instead he crawls under the blankets on your bed and wedges himself in beside you. Phantom’s excited to see him. She walks all over you to plop down between the two of you, her wagging tail thumping against your cheek.

You shift her to one side to avoid the onslaught and peer at Tomura through blurry eyes. “What?”

“Go back to bed.” Tomura sets Phantom down on your stomach and presses close against your side, wrapping one arm around you to hold you even closer. “I mean it. Go.”

You don’t like being told what to do, but you have work in the morning, and you’re still worn out from last night. You close your eyes again.

It’s a busy morning, so busy that your plan to get the morning-after pill before work is derailed within two minutes of your alarm going off. You were so tired last night that it was all you could do to make dinner, feed Phantom, and go back to sleep, which means you now have to shower and pack a lunch in addition to all your usual morning chores. And somewhere in the middle of that, you have to explain the plan for killing Tomura’s conjurer to Tomura himself.

Tomura, as predicted, is not pleased. His first protest is that he can do it himself, at which point you text Hizashi to come over later and explain – from outside the fence – what happens to ghosts who kill their own conjurers. Tomura follows up by pointing out that the others weren’t very helpful handling Garaki, and you counter with Tomura’s own statement about being his conjurer’s only remaining ghost. Finally, Tomura gets around to what seems to be the main point of contention. “I don’t trust them. Not with you. Not from him.”

Tomura doesn’t talk about his conjurer very much. From what he’s said, he barely remembers him. But you knew he’d say something like this, and you have a response ready. “If you’re materialized, he’s cut off from the world between. He’ll just be a human. And humans die.”

“Don’t copy me,” Tomura says. He knows you’re quoting what he said to Garaki. “Who’s supposed to kill him, anyway? If they try this stupid plan.”

“The rest of the adult humans,” you say. Then you think about it. “Probably Keigo or Aizawa. And probably Aizawa. He’s got a gun.”

“Spinner would. And Jin.” Tomura speaks with a lot more certainty than you’d expect. He sees the way you’re looking at him. “What?”

“Nothing.” The electric teakettle hisses and you pour hot water into your travel mug before dropping in a tea bag. “Usually you aren’t nice about them.”

“They came over while you were gone. For games.” Tomura crouches down to pet Phantom, who’s come over with her favorite toy. “Himiko, too. It wasn’t bad.”

You didn’t expect that. You didn’t think he’d do anything but hang out with Phantom while you were gone, and you suddenly feel guilty for not asking. But you’ll ask more when you get home from work, or text him about it on your lunch break. Right now you have to get moving. “So, the plan?”

“I haven’t said yes yet.”

“We’re not doing it today,” you say. “Just think about it. If you’ve got ideas, we could use them. Your last plan was pretty good.”

Tomura looks pleased with himself. You gather up your work backpack, plus all the research you’re bringing to Mr. Yagi in exchange for his and Izuku’s notes on his master’s journal, and head for the door. Phantom follows you. So does Tomura. “Get more plants on the way home.”

You say goodbye to Phantom and feed her a treat. “Plants are expensive.”

“They’re everywhere outside. Those don’t cost anything.”

He wants you to go out, dig up random plants, put them in pots, and bring them home so the two of you can have more sex. “I’m not stealing plants in my work clothes,” you say. “Maybe after dinner.”

Tomura grins. He dematerializes from behind you and reappears in front of you, leaning against the front door and blocking your path. “I want a kiss first.”

“I was going to kiss you anyway.” Your hands are full, but you step forward anyway and press your lips against his.

You haven’t kissed him since last night. The two of you don’t usually kiss unless someone’s trying to start something, and kissing him goodbye on your way out the door to work has always felt a little too intimate, a little too serious for whatever the two of you are. Except now the two of you have said you love each other. You defined the relationship. You went all the way, to the degree that you’re having to make an effort not to walk funny. You can be serious, because it is serious. A goodbye kiss is something you’re allowed to have.

You’re five minutes late by the time you stagger out the door, and as you push the speed limit to get to work on time, you find yourself wishing you had someone you could tell about all of this. Maybe not the sex part. Probably not about that. Definitely not about that – but the rest of it. The part where you’ve got a boyfriend who loves you in whatever way ghosts love humans. It’s the kind of thing you’d talk to your old friends about, but they’ve found their own lives and pulled away, just like you did. There’s got to be somebody else. As you cruise the courthouse parking lot looking for a parking place, your usual spot long since snagged by somebody who got here early, you’re horrified to find yourself considering telling Nakayama.

The spot you find is way back in the corner of the lot, almost out of sight of the doors. If it was dark there’s no way you’d think about parking here, but it’s broad daylight, and you’ve got pepper spray somewhere in your backpack for the walk back after work. You take a second to get yourself organized, then grab your backpack and get out of the car, walking around to the passenger side to lift your research folder off the seat.

You don’t see a shadow fall across you. You don’t hear footsteps. The first thing you notice is something touching your shoulder, and the last thing you see is an enormous hand swathed in a wet, stinking handkerchief coming down over your nose and mouth. You have time to identify the smell – not alcohol, something stronger, chloroform? – before the world starts to blur at the edges. Somewhere in your head, alarm bells are ringing. You’re in danger. You’re being kidnapped. Something’s gone really wrong.

By the time the realization settles over you fully, it’s too late. All you can do is throw your elbow backwards, connecting weakly with something solid, before everything goes black.

You come to with a splitting headache and all the adrenaline and terror you didn’t have time to feel before flooding through your veins. As soon as your eyes are open, you’re fighting, but there’s no point – your arms and legs have been shackled down at the wrists and ankles, and there’s a restraint pinning you to the table at the waist. You’re trapped. It’s not even funny how trapped you are.

When you look up, all you can see is the bright glare of a fluorescent light, the kind that gets shined on your face at the dentist’s office. When you turn your head to the right, there’s nothing. When you look left, you see a rolling cart with a tray on top of it. The tray is covered in sharp, shiny metal implements. Surgical implements.

This can’t be happening. You thrash, trying to find any give in your restraints, but there’s nothing. It’s around then that you realize you’ve been stripped of your shoes, socks, shirt, pants – you’re down to your bra and underwear, like some parody of a kidnapping in a movie. But this isn’t a parody or a movie. It’s real. Whoever brought you here is planning to hurt you badly. Maybe kill you. Probably kill you.

“Don’t worry. I don’t plan to kill you.” The voice issues from somewhere behind you, and it rings a distant bell in your head. Too distant, when the rest of you is worried about whether your kidnapper can read your mind. “In fact, my plan hinges on your survival. I have great things in mind for Tomura, and the death of his human at my hands will not improve his listening skills.”

“Shigaraki Akira,” you say, and Tomura’s conjurer laughs. “I know who you are. We all do.”

“Yes, you made it quite far in your investigation! Tomura certainly chose his human well,” the conjurer says. He sounds delighted by it, which is the opposite of how you expected him to sound. “It’s quite unusual to see a human so bent on protecting a ghost – and terribly unfortunate that Tomura wasn’t quite so careful when it came to you. So full of ghostly power – you were all too easy to spot.”

You have the incredibly stupid thought that this wouldn’t be happening if the condom hadn’t broken, then push it aside. The conjurer’s voice is familiar. You’ve met him before. When? Where? “Where did you find me?”

“You don’t remember?” The conjurer sounds surprised. Then he laughs at himself. “Of course. You can’t see me. My apologies.”

Footsteps behind you. A shadow falls over you, and although it’s hard to see the conjurer’s face, you know exactly who you’re looking at. “My fellow gardener,” the man who gave you his handkerchief the day Garaki died says. His smile sends a bolt of pure terror down your spine. “We meet again.”

All this time you’ve been plotting against Tomura’s conjurer, and he’s known where you are. He’s known where you are for more than a month. You thrash against the restraints harder than before, watching as Shigaraki picks his way around the table you’re strapped to and reaches the cart with the instruments. He pulls on a pair of gloves, and somewhere behind you, a door opens. More footsteps. Shadowy figures come to stand along the walls, and Shigaraki continues to talk.

“It’s quite a strange existence your neighborhood has carved out,” he remarks, lifting one tool after another to the light and studying them. “So many beings who once held immense power, leading such quiet, mundane lives. I must say, I’ve never understood the appeal of humanity, of mortality. Why should we settle for one life, one world, when we could have so much more?”

Silence falls, and stretches. Tomura’s conjurer glances at you. “This isn’t a rhetorical question. I’m interested in your answer. What is so wonderful about mortality?”

“It’s not wonderful,” you say. Shigaraki Akira arches an eyebrow. “The world between is worse.”

“Ah, I understand. You’ve stared into the abyss, and you don’t like what you saw.” Shigaraki raises one hand and beckons, and eight shadowy figures converge on the table, holding down your arms and legs even tighter. If you couldn’t get out before, you’ve got no hope of it now. “Perhaps you simply need to look a little longer. You will get the chance.”

When he speaks again, he’s not speaking to you. “Hold her down tightly. We must remove all traces, or our plan will be spoiled before it can begin.”

“What plan?” you ask desperately. “What are you going to do to me?”

“For all your impressive qualities, you’re only human,” Shigaraki Akira says, almost indulgently. “In order for you to properly partner Tomura, I must make you into something more.”

There’s something about that you should understand. Something you should know. But then the blade of a knife meets your skin, carving deep through its layers and down to the fat beneath it, and your ability to understand anything at all vanishes into a helpless howl of pain.

It’s terrible enough to drive you into unconsciousness, but Tomura’s conjurer doesn’t let you stay there. When you pass out, the knife lifts, and the process doesn’t begin again until you wake. You don’t know why you have to be awake for this, unless he’s trying to torture you, but he sets the knife down every so often to assure you it isn’t personal. How could it not be personal? He’s carving into your skin, peeling back long strips of it with agonizing slowness, stopping only when you fall unconscious or when his hands grow too slick with your blood to hold the blade. There’s no rhyme or reason to where he’s cutting you. Your left shoulder. Your right forearm. A spot on the side of your torso that feels like it takes hours upon hours to peel back. Every time you black out, you pray that you won’t wake up, that the conjurer won’t be able to rouse you. And every time, your eyes open again.

It's been quiet in the room, save for the conjurer’s voice and your unheeded screams, but after some endless amount of time, you hear another voice. “Too much blood loss,” it says, low and rumbling. “We’re running out of excisions.”

“There’s nothing to worry about. I expected her to be strong-willed, and we have plenty of excisions left for my purposes,” Shigaraki Akira says. “When we exhaust our options on the anterior, we’ll turn her to expose the rest. The one on her back is quite fresh.”

What’s on your back? You know Tomura left scratches there last night – and then you understand what the conjurer’s doing, what he’s spent the last interminable hours carving out of your skin. He’s removing the marks Tomura left on you. All of them, one by one.

You don’t know why he thinks Tomura will be happy with this. Seeing what’s been done to you will enrage him. You wonder what time it is, whether anyone’s noticed you’re missing, whether anyone’s asked where you are. How long will it take Tomura to realize you aren’t coming home? How long is he going to be angry at you before he realizes that something’s gone wrong? You think of him pacing inside the house, Phantom following him, anxious because he is. You wish you were anywhere but here, but more than anything, you wish you were home with them. You’re never going to see them again. Your throat, raw from screaming, closes off. Tears begin to drip down your cheeks, and the next time the knife cuts into your skin, you endure it in sobs instead of screams.

Your other arm. Your opposite shoulder. The other side of your waist. At some point the conjurer inserts an IV, and fresh blood begins to flow drop by drop into your veins. He wants you alive. Why? You try to make yourself listen to what he’s saying, to learn anything that might help you survive, but there’s nothing. Just the friendly exterior, the friendly voice, and the hands cutting you apart piece by piece.

“I can’t call this failure Tomura’s,” he muses as he carves a piece of flesh out of your upper arm. “He doesn’t know any better. Toshinori, on the other hand – the fact that I snatched you from under his nose will haunt him for the rest of his pathetic human life.”

You want to defend Mr. Yagi, but there’s nothing left of your voice. It’s almost as raspy as Tomura’s, and you’ve barely used it for anything but sobs and weak whimpers of pain. The conjurer’s voice takes on a dangerous note. “Nothing to say? Your stubbornness was charming at first. Now it’s getting excessive.” He jabs the knife into your skin, peels a strip back, and you wail like a wounded animal. “There’s no point in resisting. No one is coming for you. No one knows where you are. No one even knows you’re gone. The longer you resist, the worse it will be.”

No one knows you’re gone. That means it’s still the same day, because if he’s been watching you, he knows what time you’d be expected home. How is it the same day? It feels like it’s been forever. “That’s right,” the conjurer continues. “The longer you hold out, the more painful this will be. When it ends is entirely up to you.”

When it ends? Your mind is too hazy with blood loss and pain to come up with an answer, and before you can even come close, the knife bites into your skin again. You pass out almost instantly. He revives you just as quickly. It begins all over again.

You can tell the conjurer is growing frustrated with your unwillingness to do whatever it is he wants you to do. You also have a feeling he’s running out of marks to carve away, and sure enough, he orders for you to be uncuffed and rolled over, so he can reach the marks on your back. They uncuff your legs first. Nobody’s trying too hard to prevent you from running, which makes sense. You can’t run. You don’t even know that you could stand.

When your right hand’s uncuffed, the conjurer takes one look and bursts out laughing. “How did I miss this?” he asks, pulling the bracelet from your wrist. “Shimura’s work. Of course she’d continue to plague me from beyond the grave.”

Conjurers can’t touch the souls of the dead. If you die, you’ll be free of this. Free from him. The thought comes to you, settles around you, comforting and cold. You don’t have to survive this. It can end. You can go.

Shigaraki Akira laughs. “So this token was the underpinning of your resolve. Moonfish, retrieve the ghost. We’re ready.”

His voice is benevolent again, almost cooing, with a sickly undertone that makes you want to tear off the rest of your skin. He uncuffs your other wrist without looking, without spotting the bracelet there, covered in blood and practically glued to your skin. “I imagine Tomura will be very fond of my gift. Once your binding is complete, he’ll have no need to embody himself again.”

A ghost. He called for a ghost, and he’s talking about binding – a Nomu. Tomura’s conjurer is planning to turn you into a Nomu. He tortured you until you lost your will to go on, and as if you needed proof that he succeeded, you’re lying completely unrestrained on the table without even the faintest urge to run. “As for this,” Shigaraki continues, “it’s only fitting that I break Shimura’s last trinket on the day I break her ghost’s will.”

He raises the bracelet and slams it down on the table. You hear it crack. A sheet of white light blasts through the room.

You don’t understand what’s happening. It feels like it happens too fast, and at the same time, you see it in slow motion. Shigaraki’s blown backwards, clawing at his face and howling. The table you were tied to tips and overturns. There’s a sharp sting as the IV comes out of your arm, and pain explodes through your body as you hit the ground and sprawl out. Your mind’s a second or two behind the times. You’re sprawled out on the ground. Your arms and legs are free. You could get up, if you wanted to. You could run.

You struggle to your knees, try to stand, and realize that crawling’s your best bet. In the wreckage of the laboratory, nobody’s paying attention to you – they’re all trying to aid Tomura’s conjurer, who’s still howling in pain. You gather your strength and what’s left of your resolve and crawl for the door.

The operating room was clean and pitilessly bright, but the hallway outside is dingy, and crawling through it feels like it’s going to give you twenty kinds of diseases. It’s that thought that forces you to your feet, and not a second too soon. One of the conjurer’s minions is hurrying down the hallway towards you, carrying a matte-black box that’s rattling in his grip. You don’t even think before you act. You reach out and swat it from his hands, and the instant it strikes the floor, the ghost inside it bursts free.

The ghost could kill you. You see her thinking about it, but then the conjurer’s servant lunges through her, towards you, and she materializes all at once. You’ve never seen a ghost trap someone else with its own body before, and it’s hideous. So is what’s happening to the minion – massive dents are appearing in his body, like the way a car looks after a few rounds in a demolition derby. His eyes are blank as his body deforms, but the ghost looks at you. She has dark skin and pale hair and a look of unrestrained fury in her red eyes. “Run.”

You don’t need to be told more than once. You set off down the hall as fast as you can go, stumbling on almost every step. If anyone catches you, you’re doomed, but if you can get out of the building, maybe – you think about your home, Phantom. Tomura. But even if you make it out of here, you don’t know where you are. You don’t have money or your phone or your ID. You don’t even have clothes. When you hit the street, you’ll be doing it bloodstained and in your underwear, and there’s no guarantee that you’ll make it that far. You remind yourself again. Phantom. Tomura. You have to.

Something seizes you from behind, and your destroyed vocal cords shudder around a scream – but it’s only the ghost from the box. She begins to drag you down the hall, much faster than you were able to move on your own. “I’ll get you out, but that’s it,” she says through clenched teeth. “Whatever you did in there, do it again as soon as we’re outside.”

You still have the other bracelet. You nod and struggle to pick up speed, but the ghost makes an irritated sound and yanks you completely off your feet. It’s faster this way. Still, you’d give almost anything not to see the long smear of blood your body is leaving on the ground, and of course being dragged around like this hurts. Everything hurts. You’ve never felt pain like this before. All you want is for it to stop.

No, that’s not all you want. You want to go home. You think of Phantom, think of Tomura, and hold on tight as the ghost kicks down a door and drags you through onto the street.

It’s almost full dark. The air smells sooty and metallic, which tells you that you’re in the old manufacturing district, a long way from anybody who could have heard you scream. The ghost drops you next to the building and gestures impatiently. “Do it. You’ll need every second of a head start.”

You raise your left hand and bang your wrist against the wall of the building. Not hard enough. You throw yourself against the wall, hoping your body weight will do the trick, but there’s no luck there, either. “We’re too close,” the ghost says suddenly. “Give me that.”

She pries the bracelet off your wrist, drags you five feet, ten feet, twenty feet away, then hurls the bracelet against the wall from a distance. The blast of light takes a chunk out of the side of the building, and the entire thing begins to collapse – but that’s all you see of it. The ghost drags you away from the damaged building, towards the more populated downtown. As bad as being dragged across the floor in the warehouse was, being dragged across concrete is worse. You black out after about three seconds, and this time, there’s no conjurer trying to wake you up.

The next time you come to, you’re huddled in an alleyway, limbs flopping uselessly as the ghost tries to stuff you into a set of clothes that smell freshly stolen. “Go out there,” she snaps at you once she sees you’re awake. “Someone will see this and help you. This is as far as I go.”

“Thank you,” you mumble. “You got me out –”

“We got each other out. He dropped my box because of you.” The ghost straightens your shirt, then hauls you upright by the front of it. “Good luck, human.”

“Wait,” you say, and the ghost glances at you again. “What’s your name?”

“Rumi.” The ghost dematerializes and vanishes completely.

Rumi’s saved your life, and now she’s saving her own. The rest is up to you. You lean against the wall for a moment, fighting off the urge to lay down and give up, then start down the alleyway and into the street.

It’s a street you recognize. You lived near here, in the last apartment you had before you bought your house. It’s been almost two years. You don’t know anyone here you can ask for help, so you struggle down the sidewalk, pausing at one of the city’s few remaining payphones before realizing that you don’t have anyone’s number memorized. You could look through the phone book – Mr. Yagi’s almost certainly listed – but that would take money and time, and you’re getting unsteadier on your feet by the second. You spot the sign for the train station up ahead and aim for it. The train will take you out of the city, and maybe you can sit down.

Hopping the turnstiles is something you’re familiar with, but your muscles are desperately weak. You get one leg over, then get stuck, and sprawl out hard on the tiles on the far side. You know you leave smears of blood when you get to your feet, but the clothes Rumi stole for you don’t show it except in slick, dark spots, and there are so many of them that it probably looks like a pattern in the fabric. You leave the bloody outline of your body on the floor and pick yourself up again, dragging yourself onto the first train that pulls into the station. You hope it’s the right one.

On board, you huddle in your seat, shivering. You’ve always liked the cold, but you’re used to being cold on the outside – from air or water or wind or from Tomura wrapping himself around you, visible or not. This cold is crawling up from inside you, cold like the world between, hollowing you out one cell at a time. No matter how tightly you curl up, you can’t shake it. It hurts so badly. Everything hurts, and there’s no one to help you, and you’re so far from home. And even if you make it, you’re a mess. You’ll have scars, horrible ones, and enough nightmares to keep you awake for the rest of your life. Imagining going back to work, back to your life, feels impossible. What’s the point?

The point is Phantom, who loves you. The point is Tomura, who loves you too, who will never forgive you if you leave him like this, or at all. You have to keep it together for them. At least long enough to see them one more time.

By some miracle you got on the right train, the one that runs all the way out of the city proper to reach your stop. When you hear your stop called, you haul yourself upright and stagger off the train, leaving another bloodstain on the seat you were in. You almost make it down the stairs from the platform, but you miss a step and fall down three more, sprawling out headfirst on the concrete. You barely bring your arms up in time to shield your face. And then you’re stuck. You don’t have the energy to pick yourself back up again, and even if you could, it’s still miles between you and home. Instead of trying to rise again, you curl up, whimpering when the movement breaks the few scabs that have managed to form over your wounds. You have a hard time imagining you have any blood left to lose.

This is it. This is how you die, then – in a bloody heap on the sidewalk, because you could escape but you couldn’t make it home. You’re going to leave him. It’s the last thing you want, but you can’t help it. Maybe you can find some way to stick around, just like Yoichi did, but deep in your heart you know you’re not that strong. You’ll leave Tomura, go where humans go, and you’ll never see each other again.

The thought makes you cry, but crying hurts your throat, and the horrible raspy sounds you’re making do a great job of covering up the sound of a car pulling over. Then the sound of footsteps. But there’s no way you can miss the sound of your own name, shouted in a familiar voice. “Hey, where have you been?” Spinner demands. “If you don’t get back soon, Tomura’s going to – wait, are you okay? Did you fall?”

“I knew I smelled blood!” Himiko’s here, too. You hear a car door slam shut, and more footsteps darting towards you. “A lot of blood. Not all of it’s hers.”

“Did she kill somebody?” A hand reaches out and shakes your shoulder, then recoils – just like you’re doing, because their hand came down over one of your wounds. “Fuck, look at this. She didn’t try to kill somebody, they tried to kill her. Get her up.”

Hands seize you – at least three sets of hands, three people pulling you upright. “Careful,” Spinner is pleading. “Don’t touch the blood –”

“I can’t do shit about that. It’s everywhere.” Now you can place the third voice – it’s Dabi. What is Dabi doing out here? “Something fucked her up bad.”

You force your eyes open and see that you’re being carried towards the dark shape of the Buibaigawara family’s minivan. Jin is in the driver’s seat, and you see him grinning at you. “Hey, there you are! We gotta get – Himiko, shit, is that blood? Did you do that?”

“I wouldn’t,” Himiko snaps at him, sounding more than a little hurt. “Somebody cut Tomura’s human. We have to take her to the hospital.”

“No.” The voice from the passenger seat sounds more like Kurogiri than Shirakumo right now. “We must return to the neighborhood.”

“You’re not the one with her blood all over your hands. She could be dying!” Spinner protests. “If we get her to the hospital –”

“She’s vulnerable to the conjurer,” Kurogiri says. Dabi, Spinner, and Himiko dump you into the middle row of seats in the van and he twists around to look at you. “He’s the one who did this.”

“I got away.” You cringe from the sound of your own voice. “He got hurt. Maybe dead.”

“Did you see the body?” Dabi asks. You shake your head. “If you didn’t see it, he’s not dead.”

“He’s right. If Tomura wasn’t materialized when it happened, the conduit was still open, and he could have used Tomura’s power to survive.” Spinner looks miserable. “We can’t know for sure.”

“We have to go back,” Kurogiri repeats. “Jin, drive.”

The minivan lurches into motion. Himiko and Spinner are trying to figure out what to do about your injuries, while Dabi gets on the phone. “We’ve got her. Pull everybody back,” he says. You can’t hear the other person’s response, but you hear Dabi’s answer. “She looks like something mauled her.”

“It’s not that bad,” Spinner says hastily, trying to reassure you. It’s – sweet. “You’re going to be fine. I bet they’re not as bad as they – holy shit –”

Himiko’s just pulled up your shirt. Spinner rolls down the window in a hurry and sticks his head out, gagging, while Himiko stares for a moment with her jaw dropped. Then her pupils narrow to slits, sheer rage settling over her face. “He cut out Tomura’s marks,” she says. Dabi swears into the phone, then swears again as the person on the other end of the line barks at him in response. “I’ll cut him.”

You always thought Tomura’s thing about not touching other ghosts’ humans was just a weird Tomura thing, given how much time Dabi and Hizashi spend lowkey threatening you, but apparently it’s not. The idea of someone removing a ghost’s marks on their human is enough to seriously piss off Dabi, Himiko, and Kurogiri at once, until the car is crackling with their fury. “Can you guys cool it?” Jin asks anxiously. “I’m a nervous driver.”

“You sped the whole way here!”

“I was nervous about finding her. Now I’m nervous about you guys blowing up my mom’s car,” Jin says. “What’s going on is fucked. I want to kill something! But if even I can pick up on what all of you are doing, Tomura will, too.”

“We can’t let that happen,” Spinner says at once. “If he finds out about this he’ll go ballistic. There’s no way he’ll stick to the plan.”

“You can’t just hide it. I could smell her blood from down the street.” Himiko peers at you, her pupils dilating again. “And her soul’s not right. It’s unstuck, kind of. It’s wrong. He’ll know. He’ll know his marks are gone, too.”

Dabi hangs up the phone, then dials another number. He speaks while it’s ringing. “I’m letting the humans know. He can’t read them like he reads us. When we get back, you all get on her and stay there. You too, Kurogiri. As long as she smells like the neighborhood he might not notice.”

“She’s still bleeding,” Spinner says loudly. “If we bring her back and she dies –”

“Keigo knows doctor shit. He can help her.” Whoever Dabi’s calling picks up the phone, and Dabi starts talking. “Yeah, we’ve got her. She’s fucked up. Here’s what we’ll do –”

You’re among friends now. People who will help you, whether it’s out of obligation or because they care, and now that you know you’re not going to die alone, it’s somehow harder to hang on. The drive back to the neighborhood goes by in a long, slow blink, punctuated by Himiko and Spinner repeatedly shaking you awake. “Come on,” Spinner says, still sounding sort of like he wants to throw up. “You have to make it through this. Tomura’s naming his Pokémon all kinds of stupid shit and you’re the only one who can talk him out of it.”

“Stay awake,” Himiko tells you. She’s been patting your cheek lightly, which you don’t mind. Your face and neck are the only parts of you that the conjuror left untouched. “You’re my only human girl neighbor. I’ll be sad if you die. Tomura will be so sad if you die. You don’t want him to be sad, do you? You love him. Humans don’t want the people they love to be sad.”

“Ghosts don’t, either,” Dabi mutters. Then, to Jin: “Park at the top of the street, across the street. Everybody’s falling back to my house and the idiot’s. We could use the extra barricade.”

Jin skids to a stop at the top of the street, and Spinner opens the door. You see people hurrying up the street towards you and identify them distantly – Keigo, Hizashi. They reach you just as everyone else is hauling you out of the car. Hizashi takes one look at you and swears, his pupils narrowing to slits just like Himiko’s did. The embodied ghosts never look more inhuman than when they’re angry. “When he gets here, I’ll kill him myself.”

“Calm down,” Spinner begs. “If he figures it out –”

“He knows she’s back. If you’re any good at lying, Spinner, get down there and tell him we’re hiding her in my house so the conjurer won’t find her when he comes looking for him.” Hizashi’s a good liar, and it’s a logical plan, but you absolutely don’t want to be left alone with Hizashi right now. “Keigo, Dabi, with us. Everybody else, battle stations. Shigaraki’s on his way here, and he’s not happy.”

The group splits, Himiko bolting down the street while the others follow at a slower pace. You’ve had enough of a rest that you think you can maybe walk a few feet, past Atsuhiro’s house and up Aizawa’s front steps, if only so Tomura doesn’t spot you being carried and catch on to what’s really happening. Keigo hovers next to you, ready to catch you if you stumble, while Dabi and Hizashi trail behind you. “What are you doing up here?” Dabi asks Hizashi. “He trusts you about as far as he could throw your rotting corpse.”

“So, pretty far, then.” Hizashi ignores the disgusted noise Dabi makes. “He trusts my human more than me, and my human can lie to him better than I can. And since he’s got my human right now, he’s got all the leverage on me he needs to make sure I’m right here to take the hit against his asshole conjurer.”

“Fucking asshole. And I thought ours was bad.”

“Ours didn’t need us like his needs him.” Hizashi snarls low under his breath. “Cutting out the marks is a new low. It would have been better if he’d just killed her.”

“Don’t say that,” Keigo snaps at him. You push open the front door, then stumble over the threshold into the house. Keigo catches you, guiding you towards the kitchen, and – “Hey, calm down! I just need to get a look at your injuries!”

You can’t look at the kitchen table without feeling sick. “I’m not laying there.”

“Fine. The living room. Get on the floor.”

The floor is fine. It has a carpet, and Keigo yanks a pillow off the couch for you to prop your head on before he pulls out a pair of scissors and starts cutting away your bloody clothes. He studies you and sucks in a breath. “Okay, cleaning these out and bandaging them is the best I can do, but it’s not going to be enough. The skin’s the biggest organ in the body and right now it’s got a bunch of holes in it. You need antibiotics and some of that fake skin as soon as we can get it, or sepsis will set in and kill you.”

“You can’t just stitch it up?” Dabi asks. “That’s what you did for me.”

You wonder what the story was there. “These are too wide for me to do it with what I’ve got here,” Keigo says. He looks down at you. “The cleaning part is going to suck. Can you keep quiet?”

You nod. He doesn’t look convinced, so you clear your throat and try to talk. “I can take it. It won’t be as bad as when it happened.”

“What happened, exactly?” Hizashi asks. He’s at the front window, while Dabi leans with his back to the door. “We’ve been careful. You had those bracelets. When did we get made?”

“Same day –” The cleaning process starts in earnest, and you hiss in pain. “Same day we killed Garaki. I left to get the plants. I met him at the nursery.”

Dabi makes a skeptical noise. “You had the bracelets. Those things work. He shouldn’t have been able to tell.”

“He could.” You bite the inside of your cheek and try not to howl. What was it that Shigaraki said? “He said I had ghostly energy. That I was full of it.”

“Ugh. Don’t tell me shit like that. I don’t want to know.”

“That’s not what he meant,” Hizashi says suddenly. He turns to look at you, and if you didn’t know better, you’d say he looks like he’d seen a ghost. “When did you meet him? Before Tomura’s lesson or after?”

The fact that Keigo’s helping you instead of hurting you on purpose doesn’t make what he’s doing hurt even less. You squeeze your eyes shut. “After.”

“Fuck,” Hizashi mumbles. “It’s my fault.”

“Huh?” Keigo sounds puzzled. “It sounds like bad luck.”

“It’s not. I made Tomura practice discharging power before the fight, and I made him practice on her.” Hizashi’s voice is full of venom. “He’s got the self-control of an elephant on an acid trip, so of course he overdid it. The bracelets wouldn’t have done shit to hide her after that. Anybody who was looking could have seen her from space.”

You remember something he said that day: She’ll glow in the dark until it wears off. Hizashi was trying to make you leave, but all he did was turn you into a walking signpost pointed directly at the neighborhood. Is it his fault? Blaming him would feel good, maybe, if none of the rest of this had happened. You don’t want to think about it. All you want is not to hurt anymore.

It’s cold, and getting colder. You think some of that could be the blood loss, and the fact that your clothes are partially in tatters once again, but when you exhale, you can see your breath. Keigo notices, too, and you watch the blood drain from his face. “Guys –”

Hizashi and Dabi are huddled by the window. “These can’t all be his,” Hizashi is hissing.

“They’re not. I’ve seen some of them before,” Dabi hisses. “They’re like you. They came here on purpose, and now they’re free.”

“And they’re following him?” Keigo says, incredulous. “Why?”

“For kicks? I don’t know.” Hizashi shrugs uselessly. “I’m a little out of touch these days.”

You can hear low whispering from outside the house, and the air is getting colder by the second. If everybody else is down at the other end of the street – “Call them. Warn them –”

“They know already,” Hizashi says grimly. “Trust me.”

Just like Garaki before him, Tomura’s conjurer speaks first. The mirror sound of his voice makes you cringe and curl in on yourself. “Good evening, Tomura,” Shigaraki Akira says. “What a quiet life you’ve led since we last saw each other.”

Dabi and Hizashi rose to the bait instantly when Garaki called out to them. Tomura stays silent. “Not even a greeting?” Shigaraki asks, and clucks his tongue. “I suppose I never taught you manners.”

“You’re trespassing.” Tomura’s voice rings out, vibrating with power. “This is my neighborhood. Get out.”

Shigaraki clucks his tongue again. “Poor thing. I see now that I’ve been neglectful. I should never have left you with the impression that this was your home.”

“How many are out there?” Keigo asks, keeping his voice low.

“Hundreds,” Dabi says, and the floor feels as though it’s fallen out beneath you. “Nomus. Embodied ghosts. Live ones.”

“None of them are his,” Hizashi says. There’s a savage note in his voice. “He’s only got one.”

Tomura hasn’t responded to his conjurer’s latest taunt. His conjurer speaks again. “You’ve built quite a comfortable existence for yourself, haven’t you? A secluded kingdom. Servants who bend to your whims. Even a human of your own.”

“What human?” Tomura scoffs. “I don’t have a human.”

Even knowing he’s trying to protect you, even knowing that he’s lying, your heart sinks. “You know better than to lie to me,” the conjurer says. That almost-indulgent note is back in his voice.  You roll to one side and dry-heave onto Aizawa’s carpets. “Where is the human girl? Has she failed to return home?”

“She’s home,” Tomura snaps. “Safe from you.”

“Have you seen her?” Shigaraki inquires. He sounds honestly concerned. “Who told you that she’s home? The others? The ones who fear your wrath so deeply that they have every reason to lie?”

“She’s here.” This time, it’s Shirakumo who answers – Shirakumo, not Kurogiri. “You know I’m telling the truth, Tomura. So is Himiko.”

“Yes, your human is home,” the conjurer agrees. “But safe? I think not. Dabi, Hizashi, Keigo – come out. Bring Tomura’s human to him.”

“No,” Tomura says, but there’s an uncertain note in his voice. “Stay where you are.”

“Come out,” the conjurer repeats. “No one will harm you on your way. Tomura’s human is in a delicate condition. I won’t risk anyone dropping her.”

He’s pretending like he’s not the one who did this to you. Like he really cares about making sure you get back to Tomura safely. “Stay where you are,” Tomura orders again. “You can’t trust him.”

“I’m the only one here who’s telling you the truth,” Shigaraki says. “Hizashi, Dabi, Keigo. Bring the human out. If you won’t, I’ll be forced to send my friends to retrieve her – and unlike me, they don’t much care about preserving your lives.”

You lift your head with an effort and see Dabi and Hizashi trade a glance. Then they turn from the window and come towards you. “It’s strategy,” Hizashi insists as he drops a coat over you, as Dabi hoists you upright. “If they come get us here, we’re all dead. Your house is a lot easier to defend.”

But he wouldn’t let you go back unless he thought it wouldn’t matter. He’s playing all of you, and you’re too weak and exhausted to see what his endgame is. You’re semiconscious as Keigo, Dabi, and Hizashi carry you down the front steps, but you keep your eyes open with an effort, and you see the conjurer’s army parting the way to make a path, one that runs straight as an arrow down the street until it reaches your house. Hizashi sets a brisk pace, just below a jog, and you jostle along between he and the others. You don’t see where the conjurer is, but you hear his voice. “Very good,” he says, encouraging. “A wise choice. I’m sure Tomura will be merciful in turn.”

You hear the others’ voices as you get closer to the house, all of them trying for damage control. You start agitating to be set down. You can’t risk Tomura losing his temper on the others, and the worse off he thinks you are, the angrier he’ll be. He needs to see that you’re fine. You’ll be fine. Keigo sets you down carefully, then steps in close, arm around you to hold you upright. You survive the step up onto the sidewalk and shuffle along until you’re walking parallel to your own fenced yard. You have to keep walking. You have to keep walking long enough for Tomura to let Hizashi and Dabi in, or he’ll strand them outside.

The gate swings open as you reach it, and Tomura’s voice drifts in from nowhere. “She wasn’t wearing that when she left,” he says. Dabi steps through, then Hizashi, and he shuts the gate behind him. You have time to register that every last one of your neighbors is inside the property line before your vision begins to blur. It’s not blurry enough to block out Tomura as he materializes at the top of the front steps. His next question is for you. “Why were you late?”

You can’t talk. Talking will give it away. You climb the first step, then the next, and it’s not until you’re just outside the warm glow of the porch light that your legs give out.

#lovhalloweenhorror #shigaraki tomura x reader #tomura shigaraki x reader #shigaraki x reader #shigaraki x you #reader insert #x reader #shigaraki tomura #ghost story #loser nerd ghost boyfriend

[bad-fucking-omens]

The Witch Twin (Alec V. x OC) - Chapter 8 - Welcome

Summary: When I thought about my future, I was sure that I had the rest of my life vaguely planned out.

Then, my older sister moved up from Arizona to stay with us — and turned my entire life upside down.

I had no idea just how bad it had gotten until I was standing in a castle in Italy, convinced that I was about to die.

Length: 3.2K words (Complete fic 71.8K words)

Fic warnings: Graphic depictions of violence, death, explicit smut (M/F), referenced/implied past child abuse, emotional manipulation by sibling

Chapter warnings: None

Read on AO3 or read below

8. WELCOME

I woke up just as the private jet was about to land in Florence, Italy. My eyes fluttered open and I lifted my head from Alec’s shoulder. He smiled at my tired expression and deftly brushed my hair away from where it had fallen across my face.

“Good morning,” he murmured softly.

“Is it morning?” I asked.

Alec’s smile grew. “No. It’s about seven in the evening. The sun is just starting to set.”

He lifted the shade that covered the window next to him. Golden light spilled into the dim cabin and I leaned closer to him to look out of the window.

“It’s so beautiful. . . .”

I could see the entire, large city of Florence beneath us. The Renaissance-style buildings were all varying shades of pale yellow and beige and white, their roofs all lined with terracotta-colored tiles. The basilica cathedral in the center of the city stood above all of the other buildings. A river ran through the city and mountains surrounded the city on one side.

“It is,” Alec agreed. He looked away from the city to look at me. He trailed his cool fingertips along my cheek. “But not as beautiful as you.”

I smiled at him and kissed his cheek. “You’re so sweet.”

“Only for you,” he whispered teasingly. I laughed and laid my head on his shoulder again. Alec hummed and rested his head against mine, taking my hand and linking our fingers together just as the plane began to descend.

Alec carried my suitcase for me as we walked down the stairs from the jet onto the pavement. He took my hand in his again and led me across the landing strip, through the airfield, to the small parking lot nearby. He put my suitcase in the front-trunk of a white Lamborghini. I smirked and raised an eyebrow at him. Alec simply grinned and moved around the car to open my door for me. He closed the door once I was seated and got into the driver’s seat. He took my hand again once he started the car and began driving.

“How far are we from Volterra?” I asked, looking out of the dark-tinted window and watching the gorgeous Italian countryside pass by.

“About half an hour,” he replied.

I nodded, though I could feel the anxiety begin to crawl under my skin at the thought of returning to the place where I thought I would die. Alec rubbed circles on the back of my hand with his thumb and said, “Eve, I promise that everything will be okay. I will be right by your side the whole time, and I would never allow you to be harmed in any way — not that anyone would dare to harm you. You have nothing to worry about, my love.”

My heartbeat slowed as my nerves settled. I looked at Alec and smiled gratefully. “Thank you.”

He smiled back at me and squeezed my hand gently, linking our fingers together. He said, “Aro requested that I bring you directly to see the masters when we arrive. Aro wants to greet you properly, as my mate.”

“You’ll be with me?”

“Of course,” he said. Alec lifted my hand up to his mouth and pressed a gentle kiss to the back of my hand.

Alec drove through the gates of the city. I looked around at the Tuscan-style buildings as he drove carefully through the narrow streets. Volterra was even more beautiful than I remembered, especially now that the streets weren’t flooded with people dressed in red and I wasn’t worried about my sister reaching Edward in time or worried about both of us dying.

The castle where the Volturi resided finally came into view. Alec brushed his thumb along the back of my hand as my anxiety spiked again and my stomach twisted uncomfortably. The wrought-iron gates to the castle opened to allow the car past the tall, pale stone walls. Alec pulled the car into a part of the castle that turned out to be a garage filled with expensive, European sports cars. He parked in a spot near the doors that led inside the castle.

We got out of the car. Alec grabbed my suitcase from the trunk, then took my hand in his once again. He led me into the castle, to the lobby where the receptionist was sitting behind her tall, wooden desk.

“Welcome back, Alec . . . Eve,” Gianna said with a smile.

Alec led me past her, ignoring her without a second glance. Halfway through the hallway that led to the throne room, Alec stopped walking. He drew me into his arms and held me against his body. I closed my eyes and rested my head against his chest, winding my arms around his waist.

“Do you feel a little less anxious, now?” Alec murmured softly. I nodded. He hummed and kissed the top of my head.

“Alec.”

We broke apart from each other and turned towards the voice. Jane was standing a few feet away from us, dressed in a knee-length, black, sleeveless dress with her hair tied back in a simple plait. Her face was neutral, until she met my gaze. Then, her eyes narrowed slightly at me. Instinctively, I pressed a little closer to Alec’s side, glancing down at the floor.

“Jane,” Alec warned, a slight edge to his voice as his arm tightened around me. “Play nice, sister.”

I looked up as she huffed in annoyance. She looked back at me and said begrudgingly, “Hello, Evelyn.” Her crimson eyes flicked back to Alec. “Don’t keep them waiting much longer, brother.”

He nodded. Jane walked past us and into the throne room. Alec looked down at me and brushed his thumb along my cheekbone.

“Let’s go, my love.”

I followed Alec down the length of the hallway. He slid aside the piece of paneling and opened the plain wooden door hidden behind it. Alec walked in ahead of me, clearly protective as he took measured steps and kept my hand firmly in his, using his body to shield mine.

“Ah, you have returned to us, young Eve.”

I gripped Alec’s hand nervously as Aro approached us, smiling. The other two leaders, Marcus and Caius, were sitting in their thrones, a bored expression on Caius’ face and a passive one on Marcus’. The guards I had seen on my previous trip — and several that I didn’t recognize — were gathered in the room, their red eyes all watching me curiously. All the attention was unnerving, so I pressed closer to Alec’s side and he squeezed my hand gently.

Aro laughed lightly and said, “Relax, young one. We are all quite happy that you have decided to join our dear Alec, and us by extension.” I saw Jane roll her eyes from the corner of my vision. Aro either ignored her or didn’t see her. He extended his hand to me. “May I?”

I placed my hand in his. He clasped my hand between both of his frozen ones, his cloudy crimson eyes staring into mine intensely. No one spoke or moved while Aro searched through my thoughts.

Finally, he blinked and smiled, gently patting my hand. “Thank you, my dear. I am sorry that you anguish over causing your father pain by disappearing from your previous life.” My heart twisted in my chest as Aro looked at the vampire standing beside me. “Alec, take your mate to your chambers. We shall allow her to settle in for a while before she is turned.”

“Yes, Master,” Alec said softly.

Alec bowed his head to Aro before he guided me out of the room. As soon as the door closed behind us, he wrapped his arms around my waist and lifted me up off the ground. I laughed and wrapped my legs around his waist as my arms curled around his neck. He kissed my cheek, then lightly pushed my head down to nestle in the crook of his neck. I smiled against his ice-cold skin as he carried me through the castle.

I barely felt him move, so it surprised me when only a couple seconds later, Alec loosened his grip on me and let me slowly drop down to my feet. He kept his arms around my waist as I turned to look at the room.

The bedroom was large and rectangular, made of the same, light, beige-colored stone that the rest of the castle was built with. Dark oak-colored bookshelves lined most of the walls from floor to ceiling, almost every shelf filled entirely with books. Some books looked ancient and delicate, made of leather and parchment, while others were clearly more modern. A black leather couch, matching armchair, and a dark, wooden coffee table — which also held a couple small stacks of books — stood in front of a fireplace that was built into the wall. A large, flat-screen TV hung above the fireplace and a few gaming systems were resting on the mantle.

A king-sized bed sat between two of the tall bookshelves, covered with a dark gray comforter and pillows that were tucked into black satin pillowcases. To the right of the doorway to the hallway, there were two doors fitted between another couple of bookshelves. I assumed that they led to a closet and possibly a bathroom. Directly across the room from them, to the left of where we were standing, laid a balcony with an intricately designed wrought-iron railing behind two glass doors.

“Your room is amazing,” I said.

“Our room,” Alec corrected softly. He pressed a kiss to my hair.

I laughed quietly. “Our room,” I repeated. I turned around and rested my head against his shoulder. Alec smoothed his hand over my long, dark hair. I reached up to play with one of the drawstrings of his hoodie, twisting it around my finger lazily.

“My sweet girl. . . . We should put your things away.”

I nodded, though neither of us moved to pull away from each other. Alec chuckled warmly and I smiled. Just hearing his laugh made me feel warm and happy.

Alec wrapped his arms around me and picked me up easily. He moved us over to the couch, where he laid down with me laying on his chest. Our legs tangled together as I rested my head on his chest. Alec pulled a thick blanket that had been hanging over the couch over us, gently tucking it around my body. I hummed happily, nestling into his side as his hand rubbed along my back.

“I’m so happy that you’re here with me,” he murmured, brushing my hair away from my face. He took a deep breath and sighed. “I wasn’t sure that I would ever meet my mate, and I would never have imagined that I would bond with you so quickly, but now I cannot fathom living without you.”

“I think in some ways, I’m still in shock from all of this,” I mumbled. “I mean, it’s crazy that just a few weeks ago, I had no idea that vampires were real, and I could never have imagined that I would fall in love with a vampire. But I wouldn’t trade any of it for the world, Alec. . . . Will you tell me something?”

“Anything.”

“What happened to you when I decided to stay in Forks?” I asked, pushing myself up a little to look at him. I could see his hesitation and I said, “Please tell me, Alec. I want to know. . . . Please .”

I could see his resolve crumble at my plea. He sighed and looked up at the ceiling as I laid back on his chest. His voice was quiet as he spoke.

“I . . . I was barely able to do anything other than sit in the corner of my room and focus on the pain in my heart. It . . . it was the second worst pain I’ve ever felt in my life. . . . I kept the shirt that I had been wearing when I first met you. It still had your scent on it, and every time I caught your sweet scent, it made the pain worse and better, as strange as it sounds. The day I came for you, Marcus had come to me. He convinced me to go to you.”

“I’m sorry,” I whispered, curling closer to his body.

“Don’t apologize,” Alec replied quickly. “This was not your fault, my love. You were manipulated and lied to. . . . But you’re here with me now, and that’s all that matters.”

He brushed his lips along my forehead and I let my eyes flutter shut.

“How long do I have until I’m turned?”

“Aro suggested three days. Is that okay?”

I nodded. My eyes fluttered open as Alec very gently pushed my head up with his finger under my chin. He looked into my eyes for a long moment before he pressed his lips to mine for the very first time.

I gasped softly against his mouth. His lips were as hard and cold as ice, yet somehow he was so very gentle. I took a deep breath through my nose, breathing in his perfect, sweet, intoxicating scent — which put my mind into overdrive. Everything except the feeling of his lips on mine faded away. I fisted my hand in the soft fabric of his hoodie and pressed as close as I could to his body. All I could think about was pulling him closer, closer, closer.

Alec pulled away, carefully holding me back with a gentle hand on my shoulder. I sucked in a deep breath, filling my deprived lungs with air. I panted softly as he brushed his hand along my cheek.

“Are you okay?” he asked anxiously. “I’m sorry, I knew that it would be overwhelming–”

“I’m fine,” I assured him, still a little breathless. My lips tingled the same way my skin had when he had first touched my cheek. “Don’t apologize. It was amazing.”

He smiled a little smugly and I rolled my eyes at him. I jokingly slapped his chest, then hissed at the pain that radiated through my hand. Alec quickly wrapped his hand around mine, letting his cold skin soothe away the ache. He raised my hand to his mouth and brushed his lips across my knuckles.

“Careful, sweet girl,” he murmured.

I sighed after a moment and said, “I really should unpack my stuff.”

“We can just lay here, if you want.”

“But if I unpack, then we will have nothing to do other than cuddle together.”

Alec laughed and said, “That’s a good point, love.”

We slowly untangled ourselves and got up off the couch. Alec moved my suitcase onto the bed and unzipped it. He put his arm around my waist.

“I can take care of all of this for you in a few seconds,” he offered. “Then we can go lay down again.”

“You’re very persuasive,” I teased with a smile.

“Is that a yes?”

I nodded. Alec hummed and placed a kiss on my cheek. Then, I only saw a blur moving around the room as things disappeared from my suitcase. Mere seconds passed before he returned to my side, only the photo of me and Charlie left. I took it from his hands, smiling sadly down at it.

“I wasn’t sure where you would want it,” Alec said.

“Um . . . I’m not sure.”

“Maybe over here?” he suggested, leading me over to one of the bookshelves. I hadn’t noticed earlier when I was looking around that two of the shelves in this particular bookshelf held small paintings and pictures of him and Jane and a couple other members of the Volturi over the years. He took the picture from my hands and tucked it into the corner of one of the large picture frames.

“We’ll get it it’s own frame soon,” he said.

“Thank you.”

“Of course, love.”

“Where did you put my books?” I asked.

Alec smirked and teased, “Somehow I knew you would ask that first.” He took my hand in his and led me over to another bookshelf. He knelt down and traced his fingertips along the spines of the books that I had brought with me to Italy.

“Which one is your favorite?” he asked.

I brushed my fingers through his silky, dark brown hair. Alec leaned into my touch as I said, “That’s a hard question. . . . I really enjoyed Frankenstein when I read it, more than I thought I would.”

“Mm,” he hummed.

I smiled down at him. Alec seemed far more focused on my fingers in his hair than my answer to his question. He rested his head against the side of my thigh and closed his eyes. My smile widened as I watched him, continuing to run my fingers through his soft curls.

“Get off the floor, Alec, you are not a dog.”

The sudden, vicious voice in the room made me jump. I pulled my hand away from Alec’s hair, my eyes going wide as I looked over at Jane. Her lip was curled into an angry sneer, her hands balled into fists as she glared at me.

I looked away from her quickly, glancing down at Alec. Alec’s bottom lip was just barely jutted out into a slight pout, likely from our moment being interrupted. He sighed and took my hand in his, looking up at me as he pressed a lingering kiss to my knuckles. My anxious heartbeat slowed even as I blushed at his affection. Alec stood and turned to look at his twin sister, hiding me partially behind him.

“Jane,” he greeted.

Her eyes finally moved away from me and her gaze lost all hostility as she looked at her brother.

“I was coming to steal you away for a while,” Jane said pleasantly. A surprisingly soft smile curled her lips as she waited for his response.

“Sister, you know that my mate just joined me. I won’t leave her alone,” he replied carefully.

The blonde girl frowned and shot me another glare from over Alec’s shoulder. Guilt twisted my heart.

“It’s okay, Alec,” I said softly. “You should spend time with her.”

Alec turned to look at me, and my heart ached even more when I saw the confusion and slight hurt in his eyes. But only a second later, it all disappeared and he suddenly looked determined. He turned back towards his twin.

“I will visit with you later, Jane. I promise,” Alec added in a softer tone when she sent me another annoyed look. I looked down at the ground. “I want to spend time with Eve right now.”

Jane growled angrily and whirled around, quickly leaving the room. Alec turned fully towards me and lifted my chin gently so I was looking into his crimson eyes.

“Do not put anyone else’s feelings or desires above your own,” he murmured. “Jane will adjust to not being able to monopolize all of my time. We have spent the last twelve-hundred years by each other’s sides. She can handle a few days without me.”

“I just don’t want to come between you,” I said.

Alec took my face in his hands. “You won’t, sweet girl. Jane just needs time to adjust and get to know you.”

I nodded. Alec leaned close to drop a kiss on my forehead.

“Okay. Now, I’ve been a little daft and have forgotten that my beautiful mate is still human and needs to eat,” he said. I smiled with him. “Let’s go get you something to eat.”

“Lead the way.”

#alec volturi x reader #alec volturi imagine #alec volturi fanfiction #alec volturi #volturi fanfiction #volturi #twilight fanfiction #fanfic #twilight imagine #twilight

[thatcoyperson]

Alright were saying F it we ball and I'm posting writing for the Overthrown AU cause I feel like it [yes it has a name now, yes I'm insane]

Honestly if I put any more thought into this au this'll probably become outdated but whatever it's fine I'm proud of it either way

[@stiffyck enyoj]

• -------- • -------- • -------- •

“Scar,” BDubs toyed with a Royal Emerald, moving it around with one hand with his other resting across his stomach, “Can I be honest with you for a second?”

Scar looked at where BDubs was slouched in his mini throne through the side of his sunglasses, Hotguy bow loaded and pulled back, pointing towards the stone brick wall of the throne room. “Of course you can, my mossy friend!” His smile was evident in his voice, and he let go of the arrow after he spoke. A piece of flint on the arrow rest scraped along a bit of iron near the arrow nock, setting the arrow ablaze before it cut its way through a banner, leaving a jagged hole which was charred around the edges.

He pushed himself to sit upright more, staring at the green gem in his hand, “Look, I know I’m the one who made Ren king and all, but he’s not-” BDubs laughed as he spoke, “He’s not doing a very good job at it, I have to say.”

BDubs looked up from the emerald and watched Scar walk over towards the main throne Ren used, taking a seat and setting the bow beside it, “Oh no I agree,” Scar said, resting his elbow on the armrest and propping his chin on his hand, “Like I don’t mean to doubt your wisdom BDubs, but he used magenta glazed terracotta to mark out road plans, and use of that block is an unforgivable sin! It's a crime against minecraft that it even exists!” he said, hitting the armrest with the fist of his free hand for dramatic effect, “Plus the whole economy thing I guess.”

BDubs laughed at Scars drama about the whole situation. “No you’re right! I thought that he’d be a good fit! He was planning things out around the shopping district and the server was a mess, so I thought that he might be able to… I dunno, take some action to start cleaning it up!” he explained, putting the emerald down and moving his hands around as he spoke to emphasize his words. “And I mean to give him some credit, he did do that, but- just between you and me Scar” he leant over the arm of his smaller throne and lowered his voice to a hushed whisper, Scar mirroring his actions, “I think- I think the diamonds went to his head.”

Scar gave a small nod. “Good!” BDubs sat back properly in his chair, “Good I’m glad we’re on the same page with that-”

“Y’know we could do something about it,” Scar suggested casually, returning to his former position on the throne, head resting on his hand, “Since neither of us like having him as king. And I know other hermits don’t exactly like him either.”

“I suppose so, yes,” BDubs said slowly.

Shifting in the throne to look forwards down the throne room, “I mean we already know about the soup gang and their shenanigans, plus Grian’s complained to me so many times about it. Though, that's mostly been about royal emeralds lately, and the general diamond loss.” leaning to the side, he rested his cheek on his hand, tapping his temple with his finger which was covered by the archers glove he still wore. “Which I mean I can agree with. I was in charge of a shopping district in season 7 and it wasn’t that hard to keep track of the diamonds.”

BDubs nodded along as Scar spoke, turning his head to look over at the man sat on the king's throne.

“Like I understand that those diamonds belonged solely to the shopping district, but so should these! Sure, it can be a little bit tempting to spend those diamonds on personal stuff, but an important part of a good leader is being able to have people trust you to do the right thing, y’know, like not use the server diamonds only for personal decoration,” Scar glared over at one of the many piles of diamond ore that littered the castle.

“I know that sounds hypocritical cause of the diamond trees and diamond throne, but the thing is that was decided by me, you and Grian- well the throne was, and the diamond trees were for the shopping district. I mean they were already sittin’ there doing nothing! Plus I used them to pay back to people who helped fix the shopping district up and make roads. These diamonds were meant to be redistributed back to the hermits to try and balance the economy. But here they sit, doing nothing! They probably have dust on them by now!”

Scar let out a long sigh and slid down the throne, then laughed to himself. “The more I talk about it the more frus- fr- fru- frust- hang on,” BDubs chuckled along with Scar as he stumbled over the word. “Frus- frustrated- there! The more I talk about it the more frustr- gosh dang it. You know what I mean!”

“I do, I do. And I really- I can’t help but agree with you,” a quiet laugh came through as BDubs spoke, sounding far more exasperated than a typical BDubs laugh. His forehead was rested on his hand, facing forwards down the throne room as he spoke. “He started off doing so well too! Like I know I already said this but he did! He had the whole quest system to give the diamonds back in a more evenly-distributed way so that we didn’t have a few hermits with hundreds of diamonds while everyone else has so much less, and I mean it was a pretty good system! It worked!”

“I mean personally,” Scar pushed himself to sit upright in the throne, looking over and putting his hand to his chest, “I would have preferred to keep the diamonds, but I guess the quest system worked.”

“I- You’re biased! You had a good chunk of the diamonds! You don't get a say here.” Being just as expressive as he normally is, BDubs shot up in the chair to lean over the arm towards Scar, pointing towards his friend and giving him a well-meaning, though very angry looking glare.

The overzealous reaction caused Scar to lean back in the chair, his legs pulling up towards his chest a little bit as he gave a full laugh. He sighed, “I guess you’re right, yeah yeah. But I worked hard for those diamonds. My hands were calloused for weeks I say, weeks! …I sound like Grian right now,” he laughed to himself at the small observation, and BDubs once again joined in.

“You do, yeah. But clearly we’re both on the same page here,” he got up from his small throne, mossy cloak dragging across the seat before falling and hovering just above his ankles. Scar watched from behind his sunglasses as he walked to stand directly in front of the throne, facing the man sat in it. “Neither of us like Ren being king, so, why don’t we do something about it like you said? You do look good sitting on the throne, after all.”

It took a long moment for Scar to clock what BDubs was implying, his expression visibly changing and lighting up once he did. “Wait, are you… saying that we should dethrone him?” His tone was almost hopeful. BDubs did nothing more than smile in response. “Because that's what I’m picking up here.”

“That is exactly what I’m saying. Like come on, what’s Ren gonna do if his advisor and knight both turn on him? I’m almost certain no one else in his court would oppose us,” he opened up his arms, holding his hands to the side as though he were holding something in each. “We team up to overthrow the king - maybe get the Soup Group or Resistance Assistance involved as a distraction - and then once Ren’s out of the way you take the throne for yourself. Then we can start making changes to get the server back to some sort of normalcy.”

“You don’t want the throne?” BDubs seemed shocked at Scars question. “I mean you’re probably just as qualified as I am, seeing since we seem to be having the same thoughts about it.”

“Oh no no no! I’m not one to take the throne myself, more of a king-maker than a king, you feel me?”

Scar silently stared at BDubs for a moment, then signed and sunk down in the throne slightly, “I guess…”

“Yeah. Out of the two of us, you’re definitely more the leader type. Plus, you did a great job in Season 7 as mayor,” BDubs stretches his hand out towards Scar, who's still slouched in the throne, “So, whaddya say Scar? It must be nice being on the throne again.”

A long moment passed where Scar stared at BDubs’ outstretched hand in silent thought, before he pushed himself off the throne and walked over to meet his friend. Grabbing onto his hand, Scar smiled. “Let’s do it.”

#forgot to tag this oops #anyways yeah im insane #calling this the overthrown AU for the sillies #...yeah #gtws #gtwscar #goodtimeswithscar #bdubs #bdoubleo100 #king ren #rendog #overthrown au #coy writes

[whatsnewalycat]

Psychomanteum / Chapter 4

Pairing: Dieter Bravo x F!Reader

Chapter 4: The Past Is A Grotesque Animal

Chapter Summary: You and Dieter use the psychomanteum.

Rating: Explicit (18+ only)

Word Count: 7.6k+

Content / Warnings: alternating POV, death, drug addiction, grief, dead parent, psychomanteum, PTSD, flashbacks, cocaine use & dependence & comedown, cannabis use, homophobic hate crime mention, suicide mention, angst, YEAAAARRRRNING, fluffy things, dirty talk, nipple play, fingering, cuddling

Notes: Chapter title from "The Past Is A Grotesque Animal" by of Montreal. Which is honestly one of my favorite songs ever. The lyrics are fucking beautiful and weird UGH. 10/10 recommend listening lol. Hey so, about this chapter... the top half is pretty heavy but there's some cute stuff in there. I read through research papers on psychomanteums to get reports of people's experiences, and these are things that were actually reported to fucking happen. Which I think is neat.

[ Tag List ] [ AO3 ] [ Spotify Playlist ] [ Series Masterlist ]

Psychomanteum Recipe

Ingredients: 

Mirror

Comfortable Chair

Lamp with 25-watt bulb

Room draped in black 

Directions:

Mount mirror on one side of the room

Place chair about 3’ in front of and facing mirror

Place lamp directly behind chair

Surround area floor-to-ceiling in black

Eliminate all light except the lamp

“What now?” Dieter asks, wiping beads of sweat off his forehead with the back of his hand, “Do we do some kind of a ritual or something?” 

He’s standing in your bedroom, hands on his hips, panting from the exertion of dragging an armchair from the living room into the closet. 

“Let’s see…” you hum to yourself, clicking your tongue against the roof of your mouth as you scroll down the webpage and nod along, “Ok. Yeah, ok, now you go in there and I murder you as my human sacrifice,” you keep your face neutral as you peak over the top of your laptop screen and watch his body relax into amusement. 

“Counter productive,” he states in an accusatory fashion, pointing at you, then adds with a scoff, “and rude.” 

He walks around the bed and sprawls out atop the terracotta comforter. The mattress shifts, jostling your body from side-to-side as he rolls onto his side, propped up on an elbow, cheek pressed to his palm. 

You smirk and return your attention to the computer screen, scrolling down the page as you skim the article, “I don’t think we have to do anything else. Just go in there and, I don’t know, try to talk to them? See what we see? I think it’s kind of up to you what you do. Pretty subjective.” 

He doesn’t say anything, but you feel his eyes on you. You turn your head and meet his gaze. Heat creeps up your neck, tinging your cheeks,  “What?”

His mouth gapes open like he’s holding words hostage on the tip of his tongue, then he shakes his head, “Nothing. Who’s going first?” 

“Do you want to?” your eyebrows press together, hope creasing your forehead. 

“I, um…” he glances at the closet, then back to you, Adam’s apple bobbing before he says, “Ok, yeah. I’ll go first.” 

“You sure?” you search his face, watching the way his jaw gnashes back and forth, the way he's staring at the closet door with dimly lit eyes. 

Dieter nods, then pushes himself off the bed with a grunt. He shakes out his wrists and rolls his shoulders as he approaches the closet, then turns back to you, “So I just go and think about him and ask him questions?” 

You close the laptop and slide it towards the foot of the bed, then sit up and cross your legs into a pretzel. Your guts are tangled in a similar knot. But you ignore it and confirm, “You got it, chief.” 

“Alright,” he strides towards the closet door, looking back to salute you before crossing the threshold, “See you on the other side."

Dieter sinks into the armchair. Black sheets hang on all four sides of the setup, which was a real pain in the fucking ass to hang up. It’s dimly lit and insulated by your clothing. His leg bounces on its own accord, and he stares down at his hands for a minute before gaining the courage to look up into the mirror you propped up on a tall chest of drawers. 

It reflects a black void. 

His hands find the tops of his thighs, thumb rubbing against the mound of coke contained inside his shorts pocket. Temptation hooks his insides. The barbs tug his skin tight and uncomfortable. It would be so easy to snort just a little before doing this. Just enough to make this bearable. Something, anything, to sheath the knife ripping his stomach into pieces. 

It would just take a second. Barely a second. He could have been done with it already if he didn’t start fucking arguing with himself. 

He shakes the devil from his head and slides his hands onto each armrest, feeling the grooves of the tangerine colored cotton upholstery on his palms. His voice is quiet and shaky when he asks the mirror, “James, are you there?” 

The blackness of the mirror stares back at him. 

Unease settles into his skin when he realizes that he may have to dig deeper than surface level into his memories. The painful things he’s been hiding from for decades. 

The thoughts of James have been locked away, buried beneath a growing pile of coping mechanisms and bad decisions. Every time James comes crawling out from his designated lockbox inside the depths of Dieter’s mind, he comes out swinging, seeking to collect the compounded interest for grief unfelt. 

Whenever he sees a man with straw blonde hair and an Appalachian accent, James peaks out and asks, "Would I look like that if I were still alive?" 

Each attempt to empty a screenplay from Dieter’s brain onto paper, James is there, reminding him, "You'll never be able to write without me." 

Once, Dieter met a flight attendant who asked him politely what he'd like to drink. When he looked up to meet her eyes, they were too fucking familiar. Brown irises bleeding into ocean blue like another BP oil rig spilling petroleum into the Pacific. As if they had been plucked from his dead body and squeezed into her eye sockets. 

He ordered a double shot of whiskey. 

And another. 

And another. 

Dieter’s brain is haunted by the ghost of him. Each brawl with James leaves Dieter broken and bruised, brittle and hollow. Alone. Guilty. He numbs himself, doing anything to get rid of the agony burning him alive from the inside out. Anything to get that beautiful voice out of his fucking head. Each and every time, right before the point of oblivion, he hears James whisper, "I feel like I don't even know you anymore," before disappearing into his lockbox again. 

When Dieter saw the way you were reeling from your drunken confession, wearing that tortured expression of self-loathing people only get when they're deeply ashamed of themselves, he knew he had to tell you about James. He needed you to know that you're not the only one who has wanted to go beyond the grave to get answers to the questions that keep you up at night. 

You’re not alone. 

He needs you to know that. 

Dieter stares into the black nothing of the mirror and opens the vault, willingly this time. 

As a kid, Dieter had seen best friends on TV shows and in movies, and his parents always talked about best friends, but he never saw them. These “best friends” seemed like a myth, only existing as pictures on screens and voices in telephones. But on the first day of school after the Bravos were stationed at Camp Lejeune, Dieter sat next to a kid that drew comics in the margins of his notebook. His name was James, and Dieter found out that best friends were real. 

They clicked immediately. Both boys were innately creative and rebellious, but not in a “cool” way, like the teenage heartthrob stereotype of a misunderstood bad boy. No, they were more like the stereotypical theater kids. Minus the theater, since, of course, Lejeune High School only offered sports as an extracurricular activity. 

Regardless, Dieter and James created new worlds, people to fill them, stories for them to live out. Dedicating whole school days dressing up and living as the characters they invented, bringing them to life. They made scripts and screenplays, then acted out scenes for the one person audience of Dieter’s mom. 

Then there were Saturdays at The VIP Lounge. 

Every Saturday morning, Dieter trailed behind James, eyes glued to the freckled, sunburned square of skin between his shimmering golden hair and sweat-drenched t-shirt collar. Tree branch shadow puppets danced on his shoulders as he breezed past the ferns and milkweed that littered the soft forest floor. 

And every Saturday morning, they stepped out from the treeline onto a secluded patch of sand that they had lovingly dubbed The VIP Lounge. A sanctuary for the boys to be themselves, carved from the New River’s bank with their awkward teenage hands. They packed blankets, snacks, sketchbooks, notepads, ditch weed, and stolen cigarettes. 

It’s all they needed to conjure half-baked schemes for fame and fortune, really. 

Over time, their close friendship had begun to take on a new dynamic. Touches and glances would linger longer, sending Dieter's heart racing. Soft, fluttering feelings crept around the edges and closed in on their relationship. Dieter, aware of the attraction he started to feel towards his friend, would test out these new waters occasionally. When sitting next to James, he'd inch closer, carefully studying his reaction for signs of disapproval as the proximity between them decreased. 

James didn't flinch away. In fact, he often would smile and blush, or sometimes even scoot even closer, until their legs were touching and their palms were sweaty. 

During one sleepover, James’s voice cut through the pitch black of his bedroom, asking Dieter, “You ever think ‘bout what it’d be like to kiss a boy?” 

Dieter remembers his heart thudding so loud it’s all he could hear in the silence. The wet squelch of his throat when he swallowed hard and whispered back, “Yeah.” The sigh of relief James exhaled through lips Dieter always felt drawn to. Dieter blinked his eyes open and rolled on his side to face James, trying to see his face through the darkness, "Do you?"

"Yeah," James confessed. 

“Do… Do you want to try?” Dieter heard himself asking, lowering his voice even quieter to make sure nobody else could hear, “With me?” 

James slowly rolled on his side to face Dieter. Adrenaline flooded their nervous systems and poured into their bloodstream. Teen hearts beating as fast as a hummingbird's. 

Dieter reached out with a shaky hand, finding James just inches away, fingers landing on his freckled cheek. His thumb brushed against the flushed skin. Their faces grew closer, until they could both feel the other's trembling breath, and they were certain they couldn't miss. 

It was awkward the way first kisses always are. A hesitant peck in the dark with stiff lips. They got better at it, though, over the next year. 

Until General Thompson found out about them. 

Dieter realizes the reflection shown by the mirror is no longer a featureless black void. He squints and sits up straight, leaning towards it. The image being displayed… isn’t really an image at all, because it’s in motion. A current of midnight blue with occasional sprays of white. 

A river running from the left side of the mirror to the right. 

Once he realizes what it is, he leans away, back pressing against the chair. His brain fires off smoke signals to the rest of his body, tapping into the ancient part of his brain that responds best to danger. He scrambles backwards out of the psychomanteum, trying to get the fuck away from the mirror as fast as possible. 

“Already?” 

Your voice faintly reaches Dieter's ears as he stumbles out of the closet. By the time the word has finished crossing your lips, he's no longer in your bedroom. All he can think is GET OUT GET OUT GET OUT. 

He hears you calling his name, but it’s just background noise that’s silenced when the apartment door closes behind him. 

You’re perched on the edge of your bed, staring after the sound of your apartment door slamming shut, face twisting in bewilderment. The quiet lingers with an edge that slices your ego. You get to your feet and pad into the kitchen, grabbing your phone from the counter to see if he sent you an explanation. 

Nothing. 

What the fuck happened to make him storm out like that? 

When you call him, the loud hum of vibration sounds from your living room. You follow the noise like a beacon and sigh as you push aside a few stagnant takeout containers, then pick his phone up off the side table. 

You set the phones down side-by-side on your kitchen counter and return to your bedroom, then poke your head into the walk-in closet, narrowing your eyes at the black bed sheet hanging across as a divider. Your teeth clamp down onto your tongue as you take a step forward, carefully pulling a corner back to inspect the psychomanteum’s contents. 

There’s nothing odd about the setup that isn’t overtly obvious. The small space encloses a dim standing lamp, your plush, orange armchair, and a mirror that holds your reflection. Your hand rests on the back of the chair and you take a deep breath, thrumming your fingers against the upholstery. 

A compulsion wills you forward. You settle your body into the chair's embrace and swallow hard as you look up into the mirror. This new angle shows you a black abyss. You stare into it and fill your brain with fond memories of Ethan. 

You think about the passenger seat of his car, how you carved out a home for yourself there, tagging along when he went to do drug deals. The two of you would get stoned and drive around the city streets, listening to music, telling stories, doing whatever the fuck you felt like. 

One night you confessed that you missed seeing stars in the night sky. He drove out to Jones Beach and the two of you laid on the hood of his car, staring up at the expansive galaxy for hours. Neither of you could identify a single constellation except for The Big Dipper, but it was fucking beautiful. The next day he bought two packs of those glow-in-the-dark plastic stars and stuck them to the ceiling above his bed. 

“So you can see the stars every night.” 

Tiny pinpricks of white light surface in the black reflection of the psychomanteum’s mirror. The shimmering lights vary in size and brightness. Stars in the nighttime sky. 

Your lips part, and you’re struck by the sensation that you’re no longer alone. The already small space feels even more crowded. Your hair stands on end. Icy cold air surrounds the chair and you shiver. Your left hand begins to feel like it's been dipped in frigid water. 

“Heya, sweet pea,” a familiar voice echoes through your head. 

You haven’t heard it in ages. His presence wraps around you, squeezing you tight like one of his bear hugs. Memories flood out in an unstoppable tide. Being taught to ride a bike. Road trips to papa’s cabin. Playing scrabble. Watching baseball. Stargazing. Making breakfast for mom on Sundays.

On your next breath in, you smell pancake batter and maple syrup. Despite the temperature drop that raises mountain ranges of goosebumps across your skin, a warmth radiates from your chest. You feel completely at ease. It’s just like that feeling you had when you died. An omnipresent sense of oneness and belonging. 

You blink. 

When your eyes open, you’re in an infinite white space. Your father, as you remembered him when you were a child, is in front of you. He's absolutely beaming at you, radiating light that heats your skin like sunshine. An otherworldly sense of love spreads across your consciousness. 

Your vision blurs with tears and when you respond, your mouth doesn’t open. Rather, the message is sent telepathically to him, “Hi Daddy.” 

The "place" you're in, although to call it that might suggest it abides by Earth's rules of time and space, feels like a room. There’s an indefinable quality of insulation to the area, but there are no walls or floors or ceilings. Just this endless, bright warmth that hosts the two of you in its clutches. 

A sea of love. 

Your dad steps forward, holding his arms open, and envelops you in a hug. His arms squeeze around you tight, tighter, as tight as he can. As always, you try with all your might to match his strength when you return the hug. 

Safety and comfort radiates from him to you, and you hear his voice in your head again, “I love you, Lou. I’m proud of you. You're right where you need to be.” 

“I love you too,” you tell him, still squeezing him, inhaling the familiar scent of citrus and musk. Then you open your eyes to look up at him… and you’re back in the cold psychomanteum, holding nothing. 

It’s long past sunset by the time Dieter returns. 

In that time, you cleaned your apartment from top to bottom, dismantled the psychomanteum, made a batch of cannabutter, prepped for the next day’s orders, and started to worry-bake. You're pulling a pan of chocolate chip cookies from the oven when the intercom buzzes. The aluminum pan clatters on the stovetop as you toss it down and nudge the oven door closed with a thunk. You yank your oven mitts off and walk over to the white box, then press TALK. 

"Yeah?"

"Hey, I left my phone, can I come up and grab it?" 

You hold down the DOOR button for a few seconds. A current of nervous energy starts flowing from your scalp to your toes. You wring your hands together and start pacing the floor in an attempt to calm yourself. When he knocks, you swing the door open, "Jesus Christ, Dee, I was so-" 

Thoughts flee your brain when you lay your eyes on his face. It's pallid and gleaming with sweat, eyes hidden behind a pair of rectangular tortoiseshell sunglasses. His jaw gnashes from one side to the other as he raises his eyebrows, "What?" 

"Are- are you ok?" you reach out and grab ahold of his clammy hand, pulling him through the doorway. 

"Of course I'm ok, why wouldn't I be ok? Totally fine, doll," he follows your guidance inside, then promptly shakes off your grasp as he peers around the apartment, "Do- do you have my phone? Did I leave it here?” 

His speech matches the erratic, jerky pace of his body movements. Dieter spots the device on the kitchen counter, picks it up, and starts texting someone, unbothered by your watchful eye. He rips off his sunglasses and tosses them on your counter, then resumes texting. A familiar kind of unease sets your hair on edge. 

You bite the inside of your cheek and cross your arms in front of you, "Where'd you go?"

His blown-out black eyes peek over the top of his phone and he shrugs, "Met some friends."

You nod and drop your gaze to your feet, "You left without saying anything. I- I was worried about you.”

"What is this, a guilt trip?" he scoffs, tossing his phone onto the counter with a thud that makes you jump, then tilts his head to the side and sneers, "Sorry I didn't want to do your little uhh... mirror trick thing. I had to get out of this creepy fucking apartment, Lua. I mean, you get that, right? How fucking creepy it is in here?"

Earlier today, before he left, it was impossible not to notice the way Dieter’s eyes would linger on the hallway or the spare bedroom door. You’d interrupt his teeth grinding, foot tapping, absent stare and ask what’s wrong, and he’d dismiss your question with a wane smile. 

But you feel it, too. The ever-present tingle at the back of your neck that tells you that you’re being watched. 

Your cheeks burn with embarrassment, and you nod again, trying to ignore the tears burning behind your eyes, "Yep."

"You know he's still here, right? Ethan, I mean. I see him in that fuckin' room. Saw him in there last night," he presses a knuckle to one of his nostrils and sniffs a postnasal drip back into his skull, "Just standing in the dark like a fuckin'- like a fuckin’ uhh…” 

He snaps his fingers a few times in rapidfire, trying to jog his own tenuous memory. Agitation spikes your blood pressure. 

“Fucking hell, Dee, go sit down,” you pinch the bridge of your nose and point to your couch, then breeze into your bedroom before Dieter can start running his mouth again. 

You pull open your bedside drawer, grabbing an ashtray and a joint out of its designated altoids tin. When you return to the living room, Dieter is pacing back and forth, running his fingers through his hair, muttering to himself. 

“Sit,” you command while raising a lighter flame to the joint, puffing away until its tip is glowing orange and spilling thick plumes of smoke. He ignores your request, but stops pacing and watches you. The THC blooms in your lungs and a haze begins to settle in your brain. You take another puff and hold the joint out to him, “Hit this. You’re crashing hard.” 

He accepts the offering and takes a hit while you go fill up the biggest cup you own with ice water. You drop cookies onto a plate, then return to the living room, “You wanna stay out here or go lay in my bed?” 

His brow furrows and he frowns, “I- I- I- no, I have to meet-”

“No,” you shake your head, “You’re gonna be out of commission for a while, love, so… living room or bedroom?”

He takes a hit off the joint and exhales, shifting his weight from one leg to the other, swinging his hands around in grand gestures as he talks, “I’m gonna be fine, Lua, look, I know what I’m doing, ok? I just need to call my guy-”

“The fuck you are, Bravo,” you interrupt, setting down the glass of water and plate of cookies on the side table, “When’s the last time you slept?”

“Doesn’t matter, I’m fine, I know what I’m about, babe,” he scoffs, puffs the joint, starts pacing again, “You- you- you can’t tell me what to do, you know. I’m my own person. Everyone always trying to tell me what I can and can’t do and I’m fucking sick of it,” he stops, sniffs away his coke drip, and narrows his eyes at you, “This is your fault, anyway. You know that, right, Lua? If I didn’t have to think of fucking James, and that- that- that fucking river,” his voice cracks and his shoulders sag, face falling into sadness as his eyes well up with tears. 

His accusations pierce sharp and precise into your heart. You remind yourself that this isn’t Dieter. It’s the obvious cocaine binge that has set his brain on fire, steering him towards self-destruction. Your lips remain sealed and your eyes drop to the black stain on your carpet. You remind yourself that this isn’t Ethan, either. Dieter can still be brought back to sanity. 

He takes a puff off the joint and exhales, staring up at the ceiling with watery, far-away eyes, “I loved him, you know. First love. But his dad-”

Abruptly, he plops down on the floor, crossing his legs as he buries his head in his hands. All is still for a moment before his body starts to heave with sobs. You crouch down next to him, plucking the loosely held joint from his fingers. As you stand up, you take another hit, then crush the glowing cherry in an ashtray. 

You return to the heap of a man crumbled on your floor and sit facing him, knees pressed against his shins, and remind him, “I’m here, Dee. Talk to me.”

“His d-dad saw us k-k-k-kissing, and he- he- beat the shit out of him, Lua. Almost fucking killed him. And I just stood there. I didn’t do anything. I- I let it happen,” he takes a deep, shattered breath, then continues, “He wasn’t the same after. It’s like he fucking died right there in front of me and I let it happen. Word got out, and we moved to a new base. And-” a high-pitched squeal of agony fades into more choked sobs, and he looks up at you, face sopping wet with tears and utterly fucking tortured, “He drowned himself.” 

“Oh, Dee-” tears blur your vision as secondhand sorrow aches your chest. Your hands find either side of his face, thumbs wiping away his tears in vain, “Can I hug you? Is that ok?”

He nods and you climb onto his lap, wrapping your arms and legs around his torso. You squeeze him tight. Your best attempt at a bear hug. He buries his face in your neck and continues to cry. You slide one arm around his head and cradle him against your chest, petting his sweaty, messy, hair, and you whisper to him the phrase you tell yourself every day, “It’s not your fault, ok? Not your fault, Dee, I promise. It’s not your fault.” 

His sobbing starts anew, and he pulls you close. Hot, wet tears drench your neck and shirt. Anguish rolls off of him in waves, and you wish you could absorb every ounce of pain from him like a sponge. He nuzzles in closer, and you allow yourself to sink into the comfort of his body wrapped up with yours. You trail your fingers through his messy locks with one hand while the other gently scratches his back. 

Something stirs inside you, soft and sweet. 

You think about the numerous phone calls with him throughout the past few months. FaceTime, text messages, Snapchat. How his name popping up in your notifications always makes your heart skip a beat. How seeing his handsome face, or hearing his voice, always seems to make your day better. How he flew across the country for the sole purpose of spending time with you for a few days between projects. 

Granted, this visit has been a complete and utter shitshow so far, but there have been moments that you find yourself staring at his lips, longing for his hands on your bare skin, imagining the heat of his body pressed against yours. 

In his absence today, you couldn’t stop from wondering whether or not he would return, thoughts always drifting to the worst. You typed his name into Google, searching for the latest headlines to make sure he wasn’t found dead somewhere. Nothing surfaced, of course, except for the latest exposition on his divorce, which you avoided reading even though it piqued your curiosity. 

The idea of losing him ate away at you more and more with every second. You’re grateful to be curled around his shattered breaths, knowing that even though he’s crashing and burning, he’s alive. 

It occurs to you… that you care about him deeply. 

He takes a deep, shaky breath, and it seems that the active flow of tears has slowed to a stop. You close your eyes and squeeze him hard. He pulls back to look at you, eyes all swollen, red, and glassy. His hands slide to your waist, and his thumbs smooth circles against your sides. The contact pools liquid hot in your belly. 

You search his puffy, tear-stained face, running a hand through his hair, “Wanna go lay down for a bit?” 

He nods and peers behind you, sniffling, “It smells good in here.”

The corners of your mouth upturn, and you bring your hands to meet at the nape of his neck, “I made chocolate chip cookies, do you want some? You must be hungry.” 

“Fucking starving,” he admits, but his grip on your waist tightens and he nuzzles back into your chest, “I don’t wanna move, though.” 

Warmth radiates across your chest and you hope he can’t hear the way your heart just started pounding. 

“We can cuddle in my bed. I’ll bring cookies and make a frozen pizza. Does that sound ok?” you rest your cheek on the crown of his head and stroke his hair.

He hums in the affirmative, pulling you closer, and mumbles against your drenched t-shirt, “Dibs on little spoon.” 

This pulls a chuckle from your belly, “Fine, but you have to drink at least two glasses of water and take a shower. Then you’re gonna stay here while your comedown passes. Deal?” 

“Deal.” 

After eating half a dozen cookies and two frozen pizzas that have to be at least 50% cardboard, guzzling down 2 quarts of water, and taking a hot shower, Dieter lays his head down on your bosom and promptly passes the fuck out for 12 hours. 

Withdrawal keeps him pinned down at its mercy for another two days, allowing him to only exist as a hollowed out zombie who shuffles from your bedroom, to the bathroom to use your toilet, then to the kitchen for food and water, then back into your bed to sleep. 

It’s a miserable kind of half-existence. Blanketed in a thick, web-like fatigue that anchors him to the bed. 

He catches glimpses of your day-to-day routine while cycling through this pattern. Sometimes you would be in bed next to him, watching tv or writing in a journal. Sometimes you were in the kitchen, dancing and singing along to music while baking. Sometimes you were in the living room, reading or fucking around on your phone. Once, you were talking to a client who spotted him and asked, “Is that Dieter Bravo?” 

You gaslit the shit out of her and shooed her from the apartment. 

Now when he wakes, blinking his eyes open to find the sky is still a dimly lit dark blue, casting a cool light onto the room, he is relieved to find that the fog in his brain has lifted. There’s a tranquil silence in the apartment that he inhales like his first breath. He rolls onto his side, relaxing into this unfamiliar feeling of peace, sinking even further into your mattress. 

This is when he notices that you’re in the bed, too. 

Your back is facing him, body completely still except for the gentle expansion and compression of your ribcage, quiet puffs of air escaping your nose. 

His stomach churns when he remembers how he treated you when he was strung out. The hurt he saw in your eyes when he mocked the psychomanteum. How he tried to pick a fight with you. He was angry, lashing out at you for making him confront James. 

You didn’t really make him, though. It was his choice. His anger was misdirected. 

It was like all his emotions were collapsing in on him at once. This crudely pasted together façade of a man crumbled into pieces on your living room floor. And what did you do? 

You looked at him, a sobbing trainwreck on the ground, and embraced him. Told him it wasn’t his fault. Let him empty his tears onto your shirt. Fed him, sheltered him, nursed him back to some semblance of a human. 

Without hesitation, you graced him with a kindness he’s never encountered. How could he ever repay you? 

Nothing he can think of is adequate enough to express his gratitude. 

You take a sharp inhale and start to stir. Dieter scoots closer, drawn to the notes of vanilla and macadamia nuts that waft from your hair. To the warmth of your body that he longs to feel against his skin. 

He reaches out and hesitantly presses the pads of his fingers to your shoulder. Testing the waters. You hum and lean into the touch, scooting back towards him. 

In one swift movement, he pulls you into an embrace, snaking an arm under your head, draping the other over the dip of your waist. Your back against his bare chest. The sections of skin peaking out from beneath your tank top stick to him like glue, both of you tacky with a gleaming coat of sleep sweat. He nuzzles into the crook of your neck, taking a deep breath of you, letting your presence consume him. 

Tears burn behind his eyes as it dawns on him: you mean more to him than he ever anticipated.  

When he met you and recalled his visions of your future together, he expected something, of course. Although a skeptical part of him always had reservations.  

But he never expected to feel safe with you. Never thought another person could see his ugly, broken pieces and beckon him closer instead of shoo him away. His heart thuds with humility and adoration. 

You hum again, wriggling further into his embrace with a sleepy sigh, “G’morning.” 

“Good morning,” he whispers back. A fat, salty tear breaks loose and rolls down his cheek, onto your shoulder. 

“Feelin’ better?”

 He nods, mumbles against your neck, “Much better,” then his voice cracks as he says, “Thank you, Lua.” 

You reach back, finding his cheek with your hand, and rub your thumb against his patchy beard. The motion sends tingles all the way down to the base of his spine. His hand at your side slides up to your belly and grips the fabric of your baggy tank top. 

“I’m sorry for being a fucking asshole to you,” he adds in a whisper, “I feel terrible.”

The gentle circles against his jawline continue to trickle down the center of him as you mumble, “I’m just glad you’re feeling better, love.” 

He hums and closes his eyes, concentrating on the tiny movements of your body against his. How you’re arching towards him ever-so-slightly. The soft little huff you let out when his grasp on your shirt tightens. He feels the muscles in your legs tense and shift, like you’re trying to create friction between your thighs. 

When he thinks about sliding his hand between them, his heart starts to thud in his chest. Blood laced with desire, spreading this aching, heavy-handed lust throughout his body like a virus. His fingers twitch at your belly, where they release your shirt and slip underneath, splaying across the heat of your skin. 

You hum in approval. He swears you try to move even closer. 

“Let me make it up to you,” he wets his lips, then presses them against your pulse. You gasp and grab ahold of the hair at the nape of his neck, and he starts to back away in a panic before realizing that you’re pulling him closer. 

He lays another kiss down on your neck, then mumbles against your skin, relishing the salty bite of sweat that transfers to his tongue, “No strings, right? That’s what you want?”

Beneath the covers, his fingertips slide across the soft skin of your belly, and you let out a soft gasp as you nod, “Can- can we still be friends, though?” 

His fingertips graze the elastic band of your underwear and he leans into your ear, “Nothing has to change if you don’t want it to.”

Dieter props himself up on his elbow and stares down at you, watching your eyes flutter and face flush in reaction to his wandering touch. The tip of your tongue darts out and licks your lips. He imagines what the soft muscle would feel like in his mouth. Against his neck. Along the length of him. 

The thought pools hot lava that urges him to touch you more, grip your skin harder, move this along faster. He wants to feel your arousal douse his fingers. He wants to taste you on his tongue. He wants to hear your moans when you're falling apart in his hands. 

His muscles burn as he tries to keep himself tethered, reigning in this mounting animalistic need to devour you. 

“I want to show you how grateful I am, Lua,” he lays a slow, gentle kiss on your shoulder, pressing his lips to a torn up, blackwork tattoo of a pomegranate. His fingertips trail along your abdomen, entranced by the way your whole body trembles under his touch, “Do you want that?”

You nod, peering up at him through your lashes, meeting his lust-blown black eyes. Desire rolls off of him in waves, washing over you, condensation collecting hot and damp at your center. 

He tugs at your underwear under the sheets, sliding them down your legs inch by inch, his whisper burning in your ear, " Say it , baby. Tell me what you want." 

A whimper escapes your lips and you arch your back up towards him, "Touch me, Dee, please."

Your underwear at your feet, he pulls the covers back and reveals you to the morning light. 

He hovers above you, licking his lips, drinking in the sight of your pussy as his hands ghost along the tender skin of your thighs. When his gaze falls on your tank top, he shakes his head and yanks on the thin fabric, "We gotta do something about this."

Without hesitation, you pull it off over your head and toss it on the ground, "Better?"

"Fucking perfect. You are-" he cuts himself off with a groan, biting down on his plush bottom lip. Dieter sits up and stuffs a few pillows behind your back. The heat of his palm presses against the base of your skull and his warmth drips down to your cunt. His other hand splays across your sternum, pushing you back until you're resting atop the pile of pillows, head cradled in his impossibly large hand. 

You follow his wordless guidance, watching him in awe, completely mesmerized, aching at the thought of what he'll do to you. 

The bridge of his nose presses against your cheek, his breath a furnace on your skin, and his fingertip traces the outline of your mouth, "Open."

You obey, parting your lips for his thumb. It scrapes against your teeth and draws circles into a pool of saliva on your tongue. He withdraws and brings his hand to grip the soft flesh of your breast, brushing his wet thumb across the bud. The contact is electric, sending a current of pleasure rippling across your skin, dripping down your spine. 

A whimper escapes your lips and he hums in approval when you puff out your chest against his hand, "That's it, doll, I wanna hear how good you fucking feel."

Your gaze drifts to his face, and you lift a hand to his chin, turning his head to meet your eyes. When they lock on, all the air whooshes from his lungs. You drag your thumb along his bottom lip, and he opens his mouth for you to enter. 

Mimicking him, you collect spit from the soft velvet of his tongue. When you pull away, a web of his saliva gaps the growing divide and falls across your chest as you grab your unoccupied breast, using his lubrication to tease your nipple. He groans, eyes drifting back to watch you squeeze and pinch yourself. 

"Do you like to be handled rough?" he asks, gaze returning to study your face when he rolls your nipple in his fingers, applying firm pressure.

You shudder, "S-sometimes."

"Is that how you want it now? Hmm?" he brings his lips to your shoulder and catches your skin in his teeth, making you gasp. His fingers clamp down on your nipple hard and he growls, "You want me to fucking wreck you?"

And- fucking hell - the way he talks to you like this, so direct, so eager to learn exactly what sets you on fire, it fills you with a heavy, aching need. With a breathy moan, you answer him, "Yes- yes , fucking destroy me, Dee."

His grip on your head tightens, balling your hair tight in his fist, tugging at your scalp. Your body shudders and you bite your bottom lip, closing your eyes to revel in the ecstasy. His lips press against your neck in a gentle kiss that makes way for his tongue to roll circles onto your thudding pulse. 

A trail of trembling nerves follow the pads of his fingers down your torso to your vulva. He stops here and tugs at your thicket of pubic hair, "You like having your hair pulled?"

You gasp in surprise and your eyes snap open to meet his hot gaze on your face. He has a mischievous grin plastered on his face as he pulls at your hair from both sides, watching the way your face contorts with bliss. In a half-chuckle, half-moan, you admit, "That's really fucking good, actually, holy shit -"

"Yeah?" his smile widens and he pulls harder, sending a jolt of electricity to your cunt that makes you moan. 

"That's what I want, sweetheart, want you to feel fucking amazing. You deserve that, you know?" He drags a finger along the seam of you and purrs, "You're a caretaker, aren't you? Always taking care of people?"

Your eyelids flutter and you nod with a moan as he spreads your lips and runs his fingers through your arousal. 

"Mmm, yeah you are," he finds your clit and traces the swollen bud with precision, "Well right now, I'm taking care of you, ok?" 

"Ok," you pant, swallowing hard as you look up at him and whimper, "Fuck , Dee, that's so good ."

His dark eyes meet yours with intensity, searching your face as he draws tight circles that echo pleasure throughout your body. Ecstasy rolls steady in your center. You buck your hips against his touch, hungry for more friction as your body starts to feel weightless. 

He takes your cue and applies pressure through his fingertips, rubbing you harder, faster.

You nod and gasp, "Yes, just like that, baby, yes."

His grip on your hair tightens and a moan rips from your throat. He growls, "Pussy is just fucking dripping wet for me. So fucking-"

His hand slides down your front as he sinks two digits deep into your cunt. A wrecked sob bubbles out your throat as the sensation electrifies you. His palm bears down on your clit, and he starts to rock his hand back and forth, fingers squelching in your arousal as they slide in and out. 

You are enveloped in a haze of lust, completely fucking lost in the feel of his hand stretching your walls. 

"So- fucking- wet, sweetheart, do you hear that?" he starts at a brutal pace, broadcasting the unmistakable sound throughout the quiet apartment. His jaw is slack and his eyes wild as he meets your gaze. 

You nod and whimper frantically, glancing down at his parted lips as his tongue darts along them.

The thought only crosses your mind for a moment before you're grabbing his face and pulling him towards you, pressing your lips against his. He responds with a moan against your mouth and returns the kiss with enthusiasm. 

It's just like you hoped it would be. 

Messy and passionate, painting his saliva on your tongue and lips, bodies bumping together as his fingers slide in and out of your cunt mercilessly. Your body finds a new plane of existence, twisting and turning into a thick static of pleasure that starts to overtake you.

"Dee , I'm-" you whimper against his lips, "I'm gonna fucking cum, don't stop-"

"Good , baby, that's good, cum for me, Lua," he pants, stealing pecks from your lips between breaths, "Cum all over my fucking hand, baby- wanna feel you squeeze my fingers-"

Bliss crashes down on your body in waves, hot and all-consuming, making every part of your body tremble with ecstacy. You cry out as Dieter works you through the orgasm, pressing kisses to your sweaty forehead, to your cheek, breath hot against your face as he groans, "Fuck, yes, oh that's so good, sweetheart, fucking amazing."

"Holy fuck, Dieter," you pant as your body starts to soften and relax. 

He grins down at you, chest heaving, and pulls his pussy-drenched hand to his mouth. His lips wrap around each digit, licking them all clean before he leans in to kiss you. 

The kiss is soft and slow, generous with an intimacy that tugs at something warm and cozy inside you. He pulls back and meets your eyes again, a new kind of hesitancy lingering in his gaze. 

"Will you cuddle me again?" you ask in a shy whisper, face heating with embarrassment. 

"C'mere, doll," Dieter grins wide and nods, beckoning you closer. 

You roll to face him and his arms wrap around your naked body, pulling you flush against his skin. His hard-on, still trapped within the confines of his boxers, presses against you. Your body flushes when you start trying to picture it in your head, imagining what he would feel like inside you, wondering if that will ever happen or if this is a one-time occurrence. 

"So, are you going to run away from me now?" he rumbles, cupping your cheek, running his thumb along your cheekbone affectionately. He reeks of you. And you like it. 

The question rolls around your head as you consider it. What does this mean for the two of you? Your friendship? He said it doesn't have to change anything. Unlike the variety of bar and tinder hookups you've had in the past, you don't immediately want to banish him from your life. 

This is actually… really fucking great. The warmth of his body against yours, his touch on your skin, the closeness that feels natural when you’re with him. You don’t want him to leave. 

Which is a good sign, right?

"We're still friends?" you ask in return, searching his face. Your palm rests against his chest, soaking up the heat from his pounding heart. 

He nods and cards his fingers through your hair gently, "Absolutely."

"Then, no, I think... I think I'll keep you around," you meet his warm eyes and shrug jokingly, "I guess. If you want. Or whatever.” 

"Wow! So nonchalant, Lua," he grins, then pulls you into a bear hug against his bare chest as you giggle. He mumbles into your hair, "I do, I do want that." 

With a content hum, you ask, “What now?”

[ Next Chapter ]

#dieter bravo x f!reader #dieter bravo x female reader #dieter bravo x reader #dieter bravo x you #dieter bravo #pedrostories #pedro pascal #pedro pascal characters #pedro pascal fanfiction #pedro pascal character fanfic #pedro pascal fandom #psychomanteum

[friendswithclay]

“Ife, Nigeria, terracotta, height 8" (20 cm).”

Elisofon Archives, Museum of African Art, Washington, D.C.

Photo: Eliot Elisofon.

From: “Images in clay sculpture : historical and contemporary techniques” by Speight, Charlotte F., 1983.

#friendswithclay #pottery #Nigeria

[in-pleasant-company]

yoyo from Claudie's Christmas Accessories

detail of an Attic kylix showing a boy playing with a terracotta yo-yo, c. 440 BC, Antikensammlung Berlin via Wikimedia Commons

a possible photograph of Pedro Flores, ca. 1920-1940, Smithsonian National Museum of American History

Flores Yo-Yo, circa 1928-1929, Wikimedia Commons

Based on the age of an ancient terracotta toy and a painting on a Greek vase from the same time period, we know that the yoyo has existed since at least 500 B.C.

The modern Yo-Yo, which uses a different method of attaching the string, was popularized by a Filipino immigrant named Pedro Flores, who played with a yoyo during his lunch breaks at the California hotel where he worked as a bellhop. He began manufacturing the toy in Santa Barbara in 1928. In 1929, the company was bought up by Donald F. Duncan, who built up the Duncan toy company around the success of the Yo-Yo.

The product description on the American Girl website says that a yoyo was called a quiz in the 1920s. While it's true that this toy has been called a quiz in English since the late 18th century, from what I've found it seems like the French term bandalore (also spelled bandelore) was more widely used, even in English.

#american girl #claudie wells #Instagram