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utterlyotterlyx · 2 months

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A Fate Inked In Starlight

Part Five

Eris x Fem!Reader x Azriel

Summary - After crashing into the Autumn Court with no idea who you are, where you are, or how you got there, Eris takes it upon himself to hide you and care for you with the help of the Night Court. That is until souls from other walks of life infiltrate Prythian searching for you.

Warnings - blood, angst, mentions of ptsd, some fluff, Amren not knowing when to pick the right moment, some real intense stuff happening, you don't slow down do you?

Part One Part Two Part Three Part Four

Open the door.

Open the door, Y/N.

Azriel hadn't left your side. Neither had Eris. It had been three days since Nesta had allowed them to see you, she came to them pale faced with traumatised eyes, her hands were covered in your blood, and her voice was barely above a whisper.

Nesta had forbid them from being in the room, the extent of your injuries meant that you'd have to be bare in order for Madja to tend to you, and she didn't want any male seeing you like that. The eldest Archeron sister sat on your bed with your head laying on her thigh as she ran her fingers through your hair and felt your tears dampen her skin through her dress.

There was so much blood.

Nesta had faintly heard Madja mutter something about poison on the blade, an off world substance that she had never seen which was the cause of your slow healing. Though, she didn't listen to much of it, instead staring at the eight pointed star inscribed into your lower back scattered amongst the rest of your runes which bent around it.

You had weakly asked for Amren with a strangled voice once you had felt Madja begin to finish her work and help to dress you in loose fitting clothes. Nesta had listened and called for her, frowning when you asked to be left alone for a moment, leaving Nesta in the hallway itching to get back inside and put you to bed whilst Cassian attempted, but failed, to comfort her.

Amren had stalked from the room minutes later, minutes that felt like eternity to those who wanted to see you, to hear your voice; she wore a look of total determination, ignoring their questions and simply telling them she would see them in a few days, that she had things to do.

Nesta still didn't let them in, she helped you into the bed, soothing down your hair and apologising when you winced before making you drink the tonic Madja had left for you, a sleeping tonic which would knock you out cold for as long as your body needed.

It turned out that your body needed three days to feel ready to face the world again, and you couldn't be in that house when you decided to rejoin them.

Open the door.

It was the first night that your violet shadow companion hadn't visited your dreams, or your reality, you weren't sure what was real anymore.

A breeze floated over you skin, coaxing your nerves back to life, your darkness began to pale, and you felt a dull thud in your mind and the dryness clutching to your throat; you felt your blood flowing through your body and the beat of your heart. You were alive.

Blurred vision welcomed you, the brightness of the room making you blink down hard, your eyelids fluttered as they adjust and you let out a gentle sigh, moving your hand flat against the silk sheets beneath you, "Hey," a voice that you often dreamed of called to you through a tunnel, muffled but definitely there, a warm hand slid into your own and you felt your heart sing at the contact.

Opening your eyes fully, the light adjusted and you saw him, "Eris?" It came out as a strangled whisper but heard you, nodding to you from where he sat to your side.

"I'm here," he looked sleep deprived, worry was prominent on his face, his brows were dipped and eyes laced with guilt.

His fingers traced the runes on your skin, the ones that Nesta had filled him in on, negating to divulge in the rather interesting piece on your lower back that she wasn't sure even you knew about.

A ghosting touch floated over the silken sheets and around your fingers, shadows curled around your digits and you smiled slightly at how careful they were being. Azriel appeared to your left, looking equally as bad as Eris, if not worse; he slid a hand beneath your head, tilting it downward so that he could lift a glass of water to your lips, and your throat hummed in thanks to the liquid sliding down it and soothing the rawness of your cries.

Azriel watched your chest rise and fall intently, like he was waiting for it to stutter and halt, he was scared, the thought was clear in him. You reached for his hand, limply grasping onto his second finger, "I'm okay, Az."

It all felt like a dream, or a horrifically brutal nightmare. You remembered fragments of it, the feeling of blood seeping through your dress, the vision of drowning that thing, the ripping of that knife from your abdomen, the name they had called you, the relief of finding Nyx unharmed.

Sitting up abruptly, you hissed as the wave of pain that consumed your stomach, Azriel wrapped his arm around your back and you looked to him frantic and pleading, "Nyx. Is he- where- is he alright?"

Azriel's fingers drew a line down the side of your face, pulling your attention to him, his hazel pools of rippling frenzy washed over you, releasing a calm within your soul as you drew a deep breath, breathing with him, "Nyx is fine, you protected him, he's safe."

You took a shaky breath, relaxing in the comfort of his grip, that scent of cedar pouring into you like a waterfall into a creek, and you began to cry. Azriel immediately bundled you into his arms, shushing you and running his fingers through your hair, he forcefully told Eris to find Nesta and you knew that his eyes were slicing through the Autumn heir, silently threatening him to move along.

Azriel had come to realise just how much he needed you when you weren't there telling him to play nice or to smile. When you were lying there lifeless in that bed, or lying in that pool of blood that night, he'd never been so terrified of losing anything his entire life. The need to be near you at all times had intensified past the point of subtlety, and Eris had noticed, and Eris hated it.

As soon as Eris closed the door behind him, Azriel took your face in his hands, it was hurting him seeing you like this, the pain it brought him was red hot and violent, "You did amazingly," he told you, manoeuvring his head so that his eyes connected with your own, "Nyx is alive because of you, you are alive because of you," he brushed away a stray tear with his scarred thumb, his breath fanned across your face and you exhaled through your mouth, "I'm sorry that I wasn't here, I'm sorry that you had to do this. I never should have left you."

"It's not your fault, Az," you mirrored him, placing your hands on either side of his face, feeling his stubble under your fingers.

Azriel's gaze flitted over your face, taking in every single blemish and line, he noted the exhaustion in your eyes, your relief and sadness, he wanted nothing more than to take it from you, to consume every bit of your pain and live with it for eternity if it meant that you'd be safe and smiling.

The Shadowsinger pressed his forehead to yours, drinking in everything that you were, closing his eyes and thanking the Mother that you had woken up and hadn't left him.

The entire of the Inner Circle watched you carefully as you cradled Nyx into your chest and rocked softly back and forth, chin atop his head and eyes squeezed closed like you were afraid if you opened them that it would all be a lie.

Azriel had scooped you up and taken you to the seating room in the House of Wind, he knew you couldn't be at the River House anymore, that you weren't ready to face it yet.

Before Nesta had arrived with Nyx, Rhys had asked to see what had happened, he had been working nonstop to piece the puzzle together of that night; he had been examining the blade that definitely was not made in their world, he had assigned Amren to look into the poison to which she had come up empty handed.

Your memories had helped, they were foggy, and it was clear you had omitting something from them from how disjointed they felt, and Rhys couldn't blame you from locking some parts away, he could only imagine how awful it must have been for you to fight like that to protect not only yourself but Nyx too.

"I think I know my name," your eyes were still screwed shut but you had relaxed into your chair, opening them, you saw the room peering at you, the world begging for more information, "Y/N."

"Did they call you that?" Mor asked from her place beside Feyre, the latter whom was smiling sadly at you holding her son with desperation.

You shook your head, "No," you glanced to Amren who shuffled in her seat whilst Nyx emitted soft snores against your chest and your heart clenched, "A voice spoke to me whilst I was asleep, a woman I think, she wants me to open the door."

Elain visibly flinched, alarm written in her eyes, and she looked to Lucien who nodded with encouragement before she spoke to you, "I heard it too, I've been hearing it since the day you set foot in Velaris," Elain felt awful to spring such news on you when you were so fragile, but it wasn't a coincidence anymore, "I've seen a door of rippling starlight," her eyes glazed over, "I've seen fire and I've heard the most inhuman roars I've ever heard, and I've seen you, stood in the centre of every vision I've had ever since and it's you but it's not you and you don't say a word, you're just glowing in white light but surrounded by shadow. I can't explain it. Nothing makes sense."

"I think I can help with that," Amren leaned forward, looking at you and asking a silent question, if you wanted everyone to hear what she had to say, "I've researched into that name you asked me about. Tiamat. The name they called you that night," Azriel moved closer to you, feeling your emotion calming at his touch whilst the room held a breath.

"It took me awhile but then I remembered where I've seen it before, a book about a time before the creation of anything," Amren produced the book in question and laid it atop the table in the centre of the room, Theories of Creation From Alternate Worlds; Gods, Goddesses and Monsters, she gave you a grave knowing look, "Tiamat is the primordial goddess of the oceans and the chaos of creation, she predates all life, she is life." Amren opened the book, the pages stained with age and the ink faded; she flipped through it until she found exactly what she was looking for, "You're right, Elain, it wasn't human roars you were hearing," Amren turned the book around so that everyone could see the sketch that consumed the two page spread, a sketch of a large black dragon with demented eyes, monstrously large wings, breathing flames of billowing water.

Amren continued, "Tiamat is depicted in lore as a dragon with a fae-like alternate, she was said to have birthed all life, every continent, the heavens and Hel, everything came from her. Tiamat is creation and everything that came before it, she's not from our world but we have our own depiction of her."

Feyre gasped, her blue-grey eyes wilding moving over you, to the sleeping child in your arms, "The Mother."

The Mother. The one who created Prythain. The one who created everything. The one they all prayed to. Their deity. Their goddess.

Everyone had turned to you, you felt sick, you could feel the bile bubbling in the pit of your stomach, "Take him," you gave Nesta little to no notice before you passed Nyx to her, bolting from your seat and trying to desperately find somewhere else to be.

Open the door.

Tear blurred your vision. It couldn't be. You couldn't be Tiamat, you couldn't be The Mother. It wasn't possible. How was it possible. How.

Ignoring the calls of your name, not Flora, not Tiamat, your real name, you flew out of the door, embracing the cold and wild wind in the open arched hallway that blew right against you, whistling in your ears. You set off running, up and up through the home, up the winding staircases and down the halls until you were stood on top of the house, looking out at Velaris below with the wind ripping through you frantically, begging you to stop as you stepped on the edge, your toes hanging off of the stone.

Nothing was quiet, your mind was screaming at you, your body was howling in agony, "I'm Flora. I'm Y/N. I'm not this, I can't do this," you sobbed to yourself, your hands clawing at the sides of your face, trying to plead your head into silence.

The stars shined overhead, peeking through the clouds and flickering ferociously at the bodies that had piled onto the platform.

"Y/N," red hair entered your vision, "It's okay," Eris held his hands out to you, approaching you slowly, you took a step back, wobbling on the precipice of the home which lay 10,000 steps in the air.

Azriel appeared next, nearly breaking at the sight of you standing on that edge, consumed by confusion and pain and everything else that you were feeling, "We can figure this out, Y/N. Let me help you."

"I never should have left her here with you, look at what you've done to her," Eris growled, his beautiful little flower was hurt and breaking, Azriel and Rhys were supposed to protect you, and now you were standing on the edge of your sanity, staring up at the sky and reaching toward the stars.

"Don't you dare, Eris," Rhys moved between them, moving closer to your dazed body, "You're not dangerous, Y/N. You're confused and we can help you, we can figure out how to open the door, together, okay? Just come with me." Rhys pleaded, managing to get close to you with Azriel a step ahead, taking advantage of your glazed over eyes; he already lost his sister, he just couldn't lose you too, but as he watched your body sway in the wind, he felt utterly powerless against the voice in your head.

You were so gentle and pulled his family together like glue, you looked out for all of them, you soothed all of them just by being you. Being The Mother or not, nothing changed your place in his family.

Open the door. Open the door.

Swirling spandrils of rippling starlight blinded you, the tightly locked doors in your mind bellowing to be opened, rattling in their frames and splashing pools of glittering liquid onto the floor.

Open the door.

Azriel was so close, so close that he could feel the warmth emitting from your body.

Then, he watched you tip off the edge and fall downward through the sky.

"NO!" Azriel roared, diving off of the edge after your body that was soaring down the edge of the mountain.

Your dress danced in the wind that zipped past you, your hair bustling over your face, and your hand was still extended upward to the sky. You weren't looking at Azriel, if you were then you would have seen the tears in his eyes, you would have seen his hand reaching for you and you may have decided to change your course, but no, you were focused on the stars. The same stars that had left their heavenly perches and were instead hurtling through the air to reach you, flying past Azriel and slithering around your limbs, blasting their light at the Shadowsinger and projecting him backward.

Azriel let out an audible cry, frantically regaining his stance before flying for you again, being powerless to stop the stars from consuming you in their light and ripping open the air beneath you, exposing a portal of rich warmth and plush green grass, of sunlight and lapping waves, and they wasted no time in pushing you through the rift of their souls before sealing it shut and tossing away the key.

All Azriel was left with was the sight of your eyes, soft and peaceful pools of awakened bliss, and the movement of your lips as you whispered his name into the wind.

Author's Note

Hopefully this was a part worth waiting for x

Please give feedback as always!

Taglist

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jayden-killer · 3 months

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Greediest man in the Stone World.

summary: you've just being awaken by your old friend and classmate, Senku, in a whole new human era. But, who's this young guy claiming you as his? a/n: waahh, i sincerly apologise if i disappeared...again. i literally forgot my tumblr writing page, and life took a.. strange turn of events(?) kinda. i hope this first ryusui one shot will make me forgive!!!

☆

Dark. And then... a golden beam of light passed through my eyes, blinding me. My muscles began to melt. I felt them sore, as if I had slept in an uncomfortable position all night. Or maybe, for three thousand and fifty years. This was what was brought back to me when I woke up from that sleep I thought was eternal. The first thing my eyes noticed when they hatched was a blinding sun. There was so much green. So much vegetation was not seen even in the well-preserved jungles. Then, a group of boys with familiar and unfamiliar faces. My eyes met his.

"Senku..?"

I uttered that name in a subtle tone of voice, and the boy did nothing but address to me that mischievous grin of his own.

"Yoh, Y/N...we need your help".

[ Time skip...(*ゝω・)ﾉ ]

"So... you need my dexterity in putting these little pieces together so you can build, um... Repeat it, thank you".

"An oxygen tank" Senku rest, without even thinking of getting that smirk off his face.

His attitude hadn’t disappeared after 3,500 years. Not even when he claimed in front of a professor that their speeches were meaningless.

Here we go again...

Between a sigh and the other I immediately set to work, while in the distance I heard Senku arguing with what seemed to be his colleague.

Just in the middle of my work I felt someone touching my shoulder gently. A delicate touch, like that of a… "Child?" The girl in question wore a watermelon helmet on her head, with lenses inserted in the two holes that created a space for the eyes. She made a sound of wonder, her hands to her mouth.

"So, you are new here!" With a confused look I lowered myself to her level, able to have a face-to-face conversation with the little creature. " I suppose so..? And you are...?" That little girl who didn’t immediately show her intentions and courage was pretty to say the least. "Suika wanted to welcome you to the Science Team!" she said clearly, now showing me her hand to shake her. I took her, and with a kind smile, I accepted her request. "How kind of you! Since I am now a new addition to your team, can I have the honor to meet my future colleagues and companions?"

Little Suika nodded happily, running in the opposite direction where I was working. Heck. Maybe it was me who was no longer a child like her, but Suika seemed really fast in the race, not giving me a chance to keep up. I didn’t know where he was taking me; we passed through several huts, erected on wooden structures, running as if someone was after us.

The only one chasing her was me. Looking back to see if we’d actually drifted apart, my foot tripped on a double-sized rock. The collision with the stone made me lose my balance; I was ready to crash on the dirty ground and have some bruises all over my face for a few days. Only that never happened. In the instant that I was about to feel my face against the damp soil, two arms wrapped my waists not too strong, but with determination, preventing me from slipping a second time. I didn’t even realize I closed my eyes. "It’s not even the first day you’re back here on Earth, and you were destined to get hurt. Pff, not very convenient for our team, huh?"

A moment later my eyes sprang to meet his, and those eyes reminded me of an autumn now close to winter. " Well, lady killer, now you might as well put me down. I’m not meant to be your princess." I said authoritatively. His powerful arms let go of my body, and with a little thump my butt bounced off the ground.

What an idiot!

Not only was he now laughing at me with a fat laugh, as if I had just said the funniest joke on Earth, but he didn’t even deign to preseed himself! The blond slightly lowered his head, as I was still on the ground, and with an energetic voice he replied: "Not yet", later going in the opposite direction, with firm step. Oh, what kind of weird I had in front…

˗ˏˋ ♡ ˎˊ˗

"Become mine! With all my Drago you would become the luckiest woman in the world!"

Somebody kill me...

It had been two months since I had made my unexpected (better to say, unlucky) acquaintance with blondie, who had the name of Ryusui Nanami. With his egocentrism and sheer avarice, he had proved to be one of the most promising members of the Kingdom of Science so far, with great skills for navigation. Apparently he came from one of the wealthiest families in Japan, and he certainly had not lost the habit of being indulged in everything, even after 3,500 years. And since our first meeting, he hasn’t stopped trying once. On every occasion he would give me his flirtations comments (sometimes shabby), he would become handsy, or he would try to buy me with his stupid Drago.

I was not one of those women who was so easily deceived, especially if a situation was about money. He thought I would give in so easily. I was so determined to prove to him the opposite, during these months, that this would give him up. With a gesture of the hand, I pushed him away. " I’m sorry, Ryusui. As I’ve explained many times before, I’m not interested." I took a dramatic break. ".. to you."

He whined loudly like a little baby, fogetting his money behind to get close to me. "You’re making a mistake!" "I have made many mistakes in my life," I answered sharply. "Then add another to your long list." I nailed him down with my sharp look, sketching a tight smile. Nothing to do. That man would never wave the white flag in the sky. However, it was becoming a nuisance, and having it close to me like a fin was starting to run out. For the worse. I had only one idea that could have saved me in that instant, from a near future in which he was no longer clinging to me like an octopus: make him believe he had a chance with me. A bold idea; nevertheless, it had to be tried. Either it will make it or break it. "Maybe, in the future, you might have a chance…" I implied in a vague tone, already heading somewhere, any, to get him off my back. I could swear to see his eyes shining remarkably with hope, and a new fire, fueled by determination.

He snapped his fingers, his iconic gesture that everyone, by now, had learned to recognize, and if he did, it was because he decided to do something. There were no roads back. "HA-HA!" His laughter seemed to flow throughout the Ishigami village. Even Senku and Chrome turned to us, with confused scowls, to see what was so funny at the time. But Ryusui found nothing amusing in this situation, except a challenge to complete.

"So be it! I’ll show you how much I’m willing to change your mind. Anything to get the chance to become yours!"

Though I did not turn to look at him, once again, his muscular arms clasped my waists, turning my body to meet his. Face to face. "You, damned Nanami, what do you want now?!" That gesture had taken me by surprise, because he was not used to come so near me, but with his cheeky smile, he kissed me on both the cheeks. A quick gesture that made me blush remarkably in my face, almost to feel it burn under the palms of my hands. "What the f...?!" "You don’t know it, but you’re already mine!"

#dr. stone #senku #dr stone x reader #ryusui nanami #ryusui nanami x reader #senku ishigami #senku ishigami x reader #senku x reader #ryusui x reader #anime imagines #anime and manga #anime x reader #gen asagiri #imagine #one shot #sfw

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thedgeoftheuniverse · 4 months

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and i believe (because i can see) | post-outbreak!joel x f!reader

prologue — where we find ourselves

He told him how he thought that dog was going to rip her to shreds, and the only thing he could do was stand frozen in place because he’s not the man he used to be, no longer a ruthless killer who could have taken anyone and anything down in his path—he needed Tommy to understand that part. He needed Tommy to know that the only piece left of the man he once knew was the weak, aching flesh and bones sitting in front of him. He was no more capable of taking care of Ellie than he was of Sarah, but he was staring at him as though he were lying.

[ WARNINGS/TAGS ] loss of a child, angst, enemies to friends to lovers, grumpy!joel, angst, eventual smut (minors DNI!!), slow burn, canon-typical violence, cursing, joel miller desperately needs a good therapist and an even better hug, no use of y/n, no physical description of or named reader, shifting pov (see individual parts for warnings per chapter. please let me know if i miss anything. if any of these tags are triggering/upsetting/harmful to your wellbeing in any way, please do NOT interact.)

Winter came suddenly.

The summer had seemed to eternally endure, the heat from the sun leaving you drenched in sweat and with a constant sunburn across the bridge of your nose. The long days of trudging through woods and down back roads left your body hopelessly sapped of all energy and grotesquely deprived of proper hydration. A thin sheen of sweat seemed to permanently coat your body, leaving you feeling sticky and terribly uncomfortable; you had no intentions of concealing your discomfort, opting instead for—as your traveling companion charmingly described—incessant bitching. You've always found peace in the swaying of treetops and the warmth of the sun on your cheeks, but this was extreme, even by your standards. Nevertheless, the everlasting summer faded, as it always does, into an autumn that seemed to only last for a week or two, much to your disappointment.

Fall was stunning; a magnificent sea of yellows, oranges, and reds decorated canopies of trees, eventually falling and littering the ground and making a satisfying crunch underfoot. But then, as it always does, the fleeting autumn gave way to the bitterness of winter. A piece of you thought it came faster this year, as if the Earth was beginning to realize how far back it had fallen and desperately hoped that it could speed along the passage of time to correct some kind of miscalculation—a foolish notion. Nevertheless, you soaked up the fleeting weeks of fall with gratitude before you soured over winter. The harsh weather nestled into your bones, stiffening your joints and drying your skin—your knuckles remained almost permanently cracked and split during winter, regardless of gloves or warm evening fires. Perhaps there was a morbid beauty to the desolation of it all or a metaphor that would bring you some form of understanding for the misery you've endured.

For the moment, though, you were just freezing.

The small campfire you huddled in front of did little to warm your freezing body; the cold, having seeped well into your skin, stiffened your joints and tinted your fingernails with a purple-ish hue.

“Need to find you a new jacket.” Joel’s voice breaking through the silent night momentarily startled you. You looked at your coat with a huff and recalled the events from that same morning—your once warm, tastefully worn coat now decorated with a large tear down your left arm. Had it not been for the thick material shielding you from the maw of that Clicker, you would likely have already turned or been shot by him.

“Not before you get some new boots, old man.” You lazily motioned towards his shoes, raising an eyebrow as he began his nightly task of taping rubber to leather.

“Funny.” He clearly was not amused. “I’m serious. You're gonna freeze to death.”

“Well, if you can find one out here,” you gestured to the expansive forest surrounding you, “then be my guest.” He rolled his eyes at you, though with less disdain than he used to; if anything, it was affectionate. “You could share some of that whiskey if you don't want me so cold.” He passed the tarnished silver flask to you with another roll of his eyes, and you took a swig of the smokey, bitter liquid. It was far from high quality; in fact, it was hardly drinkable, but it succeeded in filling your gut with a fuzzy warmth that spread through your body after another sip.

You noticed Joel staring at Ellie with a fearful glint in his eyes as she stood atop a rather large boulder, staring at green lights illuminating the sky. He was about to say something; you could only guess it was going to be an attempt to get her back on the ground. “Give her another minute. Who knows when she'll see it again?" He paused, looking as though he still wanted to say something. You could practically feel the anxiety radiating from his body. You knew he would deny it until the bitter end, but he worried for Ellie as if she were his own child; however reluctantly their relationship started, he’s wrapped around her little fingers, even if he hadn’t caught onto the fact. A part of you wished he had developed similar affections for you, but Joel seemed to have come to only tolerate you. Sure, he was not half as surly or aggressive towards you as when you first met—you were shocked he did not kill you on the spot, considering your previous affiliations—and he would engage in lighthearted conversation, but you sensed an underlying disdain.

The longer you traveled with him, the more it made your heart ache.

This was not part of the plan.

A high-pitched whistle broke your thoughts, followed by his gruff command: “Come on down from there. You’re gonna break your neck.” Reluctantly and with a hefty sigh, Ellie made her way from the rock after sparing a final, unobscured glance at the sky.

The rest of the evening passed in mostly amusing conversation. You chose not to participate, though you intently listened. You saw how Joel tensed up when Ellie asked what they—no, he—would do after the cure; it was a question that, until less than a year ago, was wholly absurd and could never be answered. His answer was not surprising. You never expected Joel to be the kind of man with ambitions of settling down with someone, living in a big city, or pursuing anything more than a life of solitude. The sheep, however, made you giggle to yourself, and he shot you an unserious glare in response. You also saw the way Ellie’s face lit up as she talked about space and “Sally Fuckin’ Ride” and the moon and stars, and the sadness (or was that guilt?) in Joel’s eyes when the conversation inevitably shifted to the loss of Henry and Sam, and how Ellie seemed to somehow feel responsible. It wasn’t long after that that she decided it was time for bed.

“Do you wanna take first watch or second?”

Joel sighed. “I’ll do both.”

“No, you won’t. I’ll take second.” You piped up. Something in Joel’s eyes told you he would not be waking you up for the second watch, a debate you would have to settle at a later date.

“Get some sleep. Dream of..." he trailed off for a moment. “Sheep ranches on the moon.”

/ / /

Joel, in fact, did not wake you up for second watch. Not because Joel himself took both first and second, but because he fell asleep less than three hours into the night. He awoke from a fitful sleep with a start, distress seeping into his bones as he realized the sun had risen, he was asleep, and he did not know where Ellie or you were. He shot awake, his eyes glazed over with panic as he looked to you, still asleep on the ground, and then to Ellie, who was standing watch with the rifle that was much too big for her in her hands. An overwhelming feeling of guilt accompanied the anxiety in his gut—try as he might, he never seemed to stop failing.

“Still mumbling in your sleep.” She observed. “I woke up early. You guys were passed out, so I took second watch.”

Joel’s words were rushed, betraying his normally stoic demeanor. “You gotta wake me up if that happens.” He slowly stood up, the unavoidable ache in his lower back and knees seemingly worse that morning, perhaps from walking the last hundred or so miles, or maybe it was the rock that dug into his back during the night. “You can’t do things like this.” He said, gently nudging his companion’s still sleeping body on the ground with his foot; his poor back would not be tolerating him leaning down to wake you with a gentle grazing of his fingers or nudge of your shoulder. He chose to ignore the fact that he always felt afraid to touch you—not because he thought you were fragile, but rather because you made him feel as though he was. Your skin made his hands feel like he was electrified, on fire, or frozen in place, and sometimes it was all three. Sometimes, he wished he had left you back in Boston, and sometimes he wished he had found you twenty years ago; on more rare occasions, he wished he had met you thirty years ago—when he was still whole and he was still alive, Joel Miller and Sarah were still alive, and he would’ve seen you as you were meant to be. Those thoughts never lasted for long, but they made his stomach turn nonetheless.

"Uh, I can. I just did.” Joel had grown very familiar with the sarcastic smile she flashed at him.

“I’m responsible for you.” “She is too; don’t see her complaining.” His gaze flitted back down to you, barely awake and wholly confused by the situation at hand.

Joel took the rifle from Ellie, who was attempting to explain her precautions as she stood watch. “You wake me up next time.” “Yes, sir.” She responded.

That day started the same as each one for the last eight—was it closer to ten?—months had: a grueling trek across wooden terrain in what Joel hoped was the right direction, consistent sarcastic quips from Ellie, and your soothing presence at his side. It was a normal day, a normal fucking day, and he was mostly on course again, and everything was normal, normal, normal, and for the life of him, Joel could not fathom how he managed to find himself sitting in a bar drinking whiskey from a glass with his little brother. There were the horses and the dogs, and the all-consuming fear that Ellie was going to die and that you were going to die too; the knowledge that you would be after Ellie, and you would be lucky if the only thing these people did was kill you. Then he was hugging his brother for the first time in years, and everything felt fuzzy, and his stomach ached worse than his knees.

“Thanks for still giving a shit about me.” As if he ever stopped thinking about him. As if he hadn’t spent nearly a year in search of him. As if he were not the last thing of his old life that he had left, and he wouldn’t fight for that until the bitter end. And then he was asking about Tess (she’s good, she's fine), and it felt like a punch to the gut, and he was asking about Ellie (she’s the daughter of some Firefly muckety-muck). (There's a payment.) He could no longer breathe, and then he asked about you, and he was at a loss for words. What could he possibly say to justify you? Sure, your previous affiliations are what initially convinced him to bring you along, but he could have easily gotten what little information you had without trekking across the country with you. He could have left you at Bill and Frank’s or in Kansas City or in a random spot in the woods early in the morning; he did not have to take you with him. There was nothing in it for him; there was nothing to gain except another mouth to feed and the knowledge that you could have killed him in his sleep at any time you pleased.

And then Joel was seeing red because, how dare he say that?

How dare Tommy expect him to be happy when he was being handed the very thing that destroyed his life? He was there. He watched his niece scream and cry and bleed out as he pleaded for help; he was there after he tried to follow her into the unknown, and he was the one to clean the wound on his temple. He was there for it all, and then he left. How dare he sit back with his comfortable life, his house, and his family after Joel had lost everything? How could he sit there and judge him after he compromised every moral he thought he held near and dear to keep him alive? Sarah’s blood had not been washed from his hands before he committed what little was left of him to keeping his little brother safe. How dare Tommy find the life that Joel lost?

He stormed out of the bar with that same goddamn feeling in his heart, and he thought he was going to die there for a moment—he had to have, at least for a second, because Sarah looked so real in that moment. The rest of that day passed in a blur. Joel found himself sitting in an old shed, the smell of wood and tools flooding his senses as he grew frustrated, fruitlessly trying to repair his tattered shoes.

“The guys said I might find you here.” Somehow, seeing his face again, Joel could not bring himself to continue to stoke his anger towards his little brother, however fixed the scowl on his face was. “Figured you could use these.” An awkward silence filled the room from his lack of response, but what was he supposed to say? How was he supposed to tell Tommy, his brother, that he almost hated him for finding a better life without him in it? “I shouldn’t have said what I said... I don’t even believe it. I know you’re happy for me; it's just—it’s complicated for you. I’m sorry.”

In that moment, Joel did what he had always done best and ignored it. “This ride to the university—is it a suicide mission?”

“No. It’s dangerous, but it’s nothin’ you can’t handle. Just prepare and do what you do.” He said it as if he were not a shadow of what he used to be. As if he did not freeze when Ellie was in danger, and he didn’t fall asleep on watch, and his hands were still strong, his back didn’t ache, and he wasn’t holding back a torrent of tears.

“You’ve had people go that way and come back?”

“All of ‘em.” He has said too much, “What is this?” And god, how was he supposed to hold this any longer? Where was he supposed to sit the last eight months down—or was it nine?—if not with him, that would not leave a path of destruction behind him. Tess, and Ellie, and the Fireflies, and Bill and Frank, and Henry and Sam, and Kansas City, and you? It was swallowing him whole, ripping him open from the inside; it was so heavy and he was so weak, more sorrow than man, and he could no longer bear the weight on his own.

“She’s immune.”

“What?”

“Ellie. She got infected, but she didn’t get sick.” He looked like he was ready to chase the girl down and put a bullet between her eyes. “Tommy. Tommy, I saw her get bit myself. That was months ago. Months. She’s immune.”

“From the beginning.” And he did. He told Tommy everything—about Tess; about Marlene and the Fireflies and how Tess made him swear to take her; about Kansas City and how Ellie saved his life; and Henry and Sam and how someone else had to save Ellie’s life because he could hardly hear out of his right ear and how desolate Henry’s eyes were after he shot his little brother (he overlooked how Ellie’s scream felt like a knife in his gut). He told him how he thought that dog was going to rip her to shreds, and the only thing he could do was stand frozen in place because he’s not the man he used to be, no longer a ruthless killer who could have taken anyone and anything down in his path—he needed Tommy to understand that part. He needed Tommy to know that the only piece left of the man he once knew was the weak, aching flesh and bones sitting in front of him. He was no more capable of taking care of Ellie than he was of Sarah, but he was staring at him as though he were lying.

“I was so afraid.” Joel could not hear himself speaking anymore. He knew the words were leaving his lips—he could see Tommy react to the syllables as the sound waves traveled through the air and to his ears, but he could not hear them. The ringing in his ears had never been so loud. “You think I can still handle things, but I’m not who I was.” A single crack in his voice. “I’m weak.” And god, he still looked at him like he wanted to argue against the points he so clearly laid out. “Lately, there are these moments when the fear comes up outta nowhere and my heart… feels like it's stopped…

“And I have dreams. Every night."

“What kinda dreams?"

“I don’t know. I can’t remember.” Another crack in his voice. Another reminder that he is incapable. “I just know that when I wake up, I’ve lost somethin’.” Tears began to fall down his cheeks. “I’m failin’ in my sleep. That’s all I do. It’s all I’ve ever done is fail them again and again and again.” Them?

“You want me to take her.”

“I’m just gonna get her killed. I know it. I have to leave her.”

“And what about her?” Joel’s heart truly stopped at the mention of you. “You still haven’t said a damn word about her or why she’s with you. Who is she?” He took in a shaky breath. He knew that Tommy would ask about you; he had sent a silent prayer that he would gloss over you. He could not bear to face the truth about you.

“What about her?” Denial was always his closest friend, but it seemed determined to betray him.

“Joel.” He wanted to seem indifferent; he wanted to lie, but the truth came spilling out of his mouth the same way hot tears streamed down his weathered cheeks. It did not ask for permission—it took whatever it wanted from Joel. The truth wanted everything from him this time; it begged to be free from its shackles. What was he supposed to say about you? How could he justify this? How could he explain that you had completely bewitched him without him having ever known until it was too late? How could he tell Tommy everything without admitting a truth he had tried so desperately to ignore?

“C’mon. From the beginning.”

[a/n: buckle up we're gonna be breaking hearts here]

MASTERLIST // AO3

#the last of us #tlou #joel miller #the last of us hbo #pedro pascal #tlou hbo #joel miller x reader #joel miller x f!reader #joel miller fanfiction #ellie williams #joel miller x female reader #ellie the last of us #joel tlou

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readychilledwine · 5 months

Text

Pack Mentality

Summary - it's an Autumn Court tradition for males to present their mates with a kit, and Amelia just wants to gift Eris something he struggled to walk away from.

Warnings - none

A/n - Eris and Amelia's journey begins here ❤️

Amelia sighed as she shut the door of the cabin, resting her back against it as she cradled a puppy in her arms. She had limited time to hide the sweet boy in the spare room.

She moved silently through the halls, stroking his soft ears as she did. She paused at the door, hearing a soft whine from another animal followed by Eris's gentle voice. “I know little one,” she heard him moving followed by another whine. “I promise you will be held and loved to your tiny hearts content.”

Amelia looked down at the pup, then back to the door, she knew it was coming. Knew the sweet boy was now curious. She closed her eyes as it came, a soft high pitched bark breaking the silence and causing the room before them to grow still.

She knew he would know that noise without even needing to hear it a second time. They'd been visiting this litter multiple times the past few months, and Eris had his eye on this little male from day one.

He didn't show much promise as a hunting companion, but he was fiercely protective. He had thrown himself between Eris and Amelia, growling at the heir for kissing her.

They had both wanted to take him home, but something had held Eris back. Yet he still wanted to visit him daily. Each time they did, the smile on Eris's face was one Amelia could not recreate. She didn't bother moving or hiding when she heard his footsteps rushing to that spare room door.

“Well well well, what do we have here,” Eris put an Arm to the upper part of The door frame, leaning forward with that serpent-like smirk she had fallen in love with. “Hand him over, mate.”

Amelia couldn't help but to smile, craddling the pup closer and Kissing his nose. “I do not think I will. We are supposed to exchange our gifts after supper, not before,” she paused as Eris rolled his eyes, moving to her and kissing Her gently before taking the small smoke hound. “You weren't supposed to be home.”

Guilt flashed across his face. “I lied about having the meeting with father. I thought if I made It sound like you'd be alone most of the day, you'd be gone. Not sneak off for Less than an hour.” He towered over her, warmth radiating off of his body. “Perhaps we can begin our own tradition? I have someone waiting to meet you as well.”

He took her hand leading her into the room without second thought of the consequences they'd face for not involving his family in their first solstice exchange.

Curled up on that spare bed, laid a small long furred animal. It had hidden It's small face behind a bushy red and brown tail, but those black little ears still sat perked up.

Eris continued to pull her into the chair in the room, sitting her in his lap. “It is an Autumn Court traditional for males to present their Mate with a fox as a way of asking for the consumption of the bond,” he ran a hand through her long blonde hair, curling a piece of it as he went. “In human terms, it would be like a marriage offering.”

Amelia swallowed hard. It had been a year since she came to Autumn, and They had discussed marriage and the bond off and on, but never like this. Eris kissed her left hand before continuing. “It is also Autumn court tradition for the female to accept the fox with a gift centered around her mate's passions and interests.”

“Like a smoke hound,” she whispered softly, making Eris nod.

“That's why we are doing this alone,” he tilted her face towards his, that warm hand making her shiver in delight. “I will not take the pup as a sign of that, unless you would like it to be one.”

She watched as the pup struggled before getting up in the bed and moving slowly to snuggle the kit. Both of the small Creatures sighed in delight and comfort as they cuddled into each other. “They already have a pack mentality.” Eris nodded at the statement. “It would be cruel to give him less Meaning than that sweet little fox.”

His only response was to pull her face to his, crashing warm lips on hers and kissing her deeply. when They pulled apart, his forehead found her own, resting there. “Happy solstice, Amelia,” he put her hair behind her ear. “To 100 more.”

“Happy solstice, Eris.”

#acotar #eris vanserra #eris x oc #eris fic #eris vanserra x oc #pro eris #pro eris vanserra #eris x archeron!oc #kissedbyfire #elizabeths.maternitycelebration

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cheweduplego · 9 months

Text

Early Bird

Paring: Simon "Ghost" Riley x f!Reader

WC: 1.2k

Tags: stand-alone fic, first entry in this fandom, fluff, plenty of kisses, morning sex, oral (fem receiving), fingering, not-really-somnophilia (reader is mostly👀coherent before any finagling happens), slight overstimulation, breeding kink implied (I mean, he asks nicely), soft Simon, Reader and Ghost work together (an ode to reader's callsign, Osprey)

Summary:

he loves you so dearly, he doesn't care what hour of the morning it is, he'll show you, his beautiful early bird.

a/n: this is my first fic on Tumblr (that will see the light), so I hope you all enjoy! let me know your thoughts <3

The soft crack of the curtains, shifting in the early morning breeze, awoke Simon. At the unfurling of his eyes, he gazed upon your sheet-clad form dusted in the dawning sunlight. Your drift from him in the night was large enough that he felt a disconnect of your warmth, so he reached his deft, callused fingers to drape across your hip. He was nothing but happy. Content. The both of you home from such treacherous places, the blood and grime, long gone down the drain of the bathtub.

Dragging you closer, he nestled your naked forms together, two pieces of one whole. Your neck provided him the solace his soul so deeply craved. Soon, you began to stir – though the warm breath of your burley companion was soothing in ways, the tickle of hairs was almost unbearable. Barely coherent and in the smallest voice, you pleaded, “g’back to sleep, Si.”

Though you wriggled to position his face elsewhere, he didn’t obey. All he could muster was a hum – maybe in defiance – you’d never know, as his lips now moved across the expanse of your jaw.

“Not tired, love.” He breathed in your very essence. You groaned; you loved this man, but lord, why did he never leave you to sleep? He moved, pressing kisses down the plateau of your shoulder as his hand cascaded up to the depression of your waist, running across your ribs. You were too tired to think about him; the breeze of an early autumn morning chilled you, so you were secretly happy about his persistent intrusion. The man could have been a space heater in another life.

“You see, love, I think you would love to go back to sleep, but” – a shift down, his face peppering your collar bones in kisses, “I think it would do you good to be an early bird.” A large hand encapsulated one of your breasts while his mouth took to the other – You both let out almost identical moans, low and heady, full of desire. Your back arched just slightly in your sleep-drunk haze, exposing the sweep of your tits to him, urging him to take more, to take you.

You whimper, a particularly rough suck placed on your nipple in tandem with a dragging pinch to the other. An almost ridiculous wet pop fills the space, a string of spit breaking as he releases you, “So lovely, princess, want nothing more than you.” He rubbed his bare face into your chest, licking, sucking, savoring your skin.

He traversed lower, fingers and teeth alike, softly twisting into your torso. Time was blurring; you couldn’t tell if it had been two minutes or twenty, but you did know that you’d been painted with fleeting bites and purpling kisses. Fuck, his spit, drool, coated your hips and the tops of your thighs. You were a mess, the sheet had long fallen to the floor by the bed, revealing the incessant rise and fall of your chest. The room was filled with your pants and moans, only accompanied by Simon’s groans, so deep they were almost growls.

Your eyes remained closed, an arm draped across your flushed face. Strong arms hooked under your knees, pushing your legs apart as he sat back. Persuaded by your needy thoughts, you peek at him, and fuck, he looks just as ruined as you already feel. Your eyes searched his face, lips puffy from exertion, and God, his eyes were dark, full of lust and whole-bodied admiration. “Christ, love. You gonna let me taste your pussy? Please darlin’, c’mon, you’re leaking all over the sheets.” You knew he was right, the breeze chilling the dampness that shone at the apex of your thighs.

He was begging you, his eye found yours, completely lost and wanting. His claws wrapped tightly around your hips, pulling you to the end of the bed where he lay, rutting his clothed cock into the mattress. Stubbled cheeks ran over your inner thighs, inhaling so deeply as though to ingrain your scent into his DNA. You couldn’t wait anymore, letting out a strained noise, you groaned, “Please Si, p-please– need you, always need you.”

Your pleading was all he needed, his tongue darting out and bullying its way into your entrance. The buck of your hips is involuntary as is the nearly pornographic moan that leaves the both of you. “Ahh–! Si-” you cry out, hands twisting into his hair, pulling him into you.

His tongue was hot, searing as it dragged up through your folds, gathering every drop of your juices. He was groaning out muffled curses into you, the vibration exhilarating as his lips sealed around your clit. “G-god, I- Uhh–!” You couldn’t think. All you could do was feel the energy in your body wrenched from you. The sounds coming from the man between your legs had you thinking he was doing this for his enjoyment – which would be correct. He was insatiable, tongue and lips holding you in an onslaught of painful pleasure.

He had no words for you, just growls. His fingers dug so hard into your hips that you were sure there would be bruising. You whined, hips twisting, not sure if you were trying to get away or get more, as the tip of a finger pushed into your fluttering hole. “Christ, you taste so good, Birdie, so sweet, makin’ me so hard.”

His finger took no time easing in as he began to fuck you with abandon. The squelches and screams he pulled from you had long drowned out the rustling wind. Heavens, you couldn’t think, his fingers were so thick and rough, a welcome difference from yours. “I can’t- Nghh–! Si, please, too mmm-much!” You felt him smirk against your core, tongue catching under the hood of your clit just the way he knows you love.

He wants you to die, surely, that must be it. You were essentially in tears, mouth parted in a silent scream as the only sound that came from you was a choked whimper. Your hands released his hair as though it burned you, in fear of tearing it out, as you came. Your thighs seized around his head, hips canting up and trying to pull away from his mouth. Yet, the purchase his arm had across your lower stomach kept you firmly in place as you gasped, remembering to breathe.

The tears began to fall, so much pleasure, too much, beginning to overwhelm you. “Si, p-please, too much, I came, Ahh–! Christ please, I’ll be g-good–!” Your cunt was clenching hard around his digits, quivering and flexing at each broad lick he laid against you. You felt weightless, mind blank and eyes squeezed shut just as he released you with a filthy slurp.

“Such a pretty girl, did s’well for me, didn’t you?” He whispered in an almost teasing tone. His eyes cast down to look at your puffy cunt, completely covered in slick and spit. Your nipples were hard– he knew you’d argue it was the wind– but lord, when his eyes reached your face, he almost came. Your eyes were heavy, lashes thick with tears, pants rolling from your parted mouth hidden behind your palm.

You only realized he still had your leg in his hand when he pulled it farther to make room for himself. You could barely whimper fully as he released his hard cock from its confines, tip red with desire and leaking beads of precum. He wasn’t done with you just yet, lining himself up, “Be a good Birdie, and let me breed you, Hmm?”

#first post #cod mw2 #simon ghost riley #simon riley x reader #simon ghost riley x you #ghost x reader #cod mwii

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acourtofwhatthefuck · 2 years

Note

hello love 💕 i absolutely luuuuuv your writing (as you already know). i was wondering if we could get a lucien piece where they’re mates but she leaves him to protect him from something but lucien finds her eventually and he’s so angry but also relieved because he found her and maybe he tries to convince her that he’s better off with her? 👀 mostly angsty (and perhaps a bit 🌶?)

Hello Hello! Thank you loveee <3 I adore this idea...and Lucien, as you well know 😉

Hope you like this! ❤️

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

Just You and Me - Lucien x Reader request (SMUT!!!)

🌶️🌶️spiceberg right ahead🌶️🌶️

Four years.

1461 agonising days, every single one worse than the last.

That was how long it’d been since you left him. Since you’d left, and never looked back.

The pain, the longing, had become a constant companion, weaved among the inner workings of your brain. Sometimes it consumed you so thoroughly that you couldn’t focus on anything else. Sometimes it dragged you from sleep, drenching you in a cold sweat.

It was worth it, you told yourself every day. You were keeping your mate safe.

You’d never forget that awful day your father had found out about the mating bond between you and Lucien Vanserra. He’d seen it as a betrayal of the worst kind; nobody hated The Autumn Court more than your father did, and he would sooner slaughter the Autumn High Lord’s youngest son than see you mated to him.

And you’d known — you’d known he’d make true on that threat, ruthless and evil as he was. You’d seen no other choice, after a blissful year of seeing your mate in secret, than to cut Lucien off completely. To never see him again. You could still see the tears on his cheeks. Could still hear the crack in his voice.

Your father had kept you on a tight leash these past four years, doing everything to make sure you never disobeyed him again. Reminding you of what would happen if you did. You didn’t step a toe out of line.

You had a feeling that was all about to change.

A meeting across the courts — perhaps the biggest one to have ever occurred — to discuss a sudden spate of attacks across the wall. Your father had simply brought you along because he didn’t trust you enough to leave you at home — but he’d made sure to lock you in the room of the huge palace the meeting was taking place in. You were resigned to having dinner on your own, and only would you be released from the room when it was time to travel home.

You were close to climbing the walls. To tearing your hair out. Your mate was somewhere in this palace — you knew it. Could feel it.

You didn’t touch the measly meal that was brought to you. You paced and paced, watching the hours tick by, wondering how long it would be before you could leave. The mating bond was pulsing inside you, leaving your skin itchy. You couldn’t eat, couldn’t sleep, couldn’t read—

The door handle was yanked down suddenly, making you jump. Whoever had tried to open the door seemed to pause, before a fist was pounded against the wood.

Your father. Obviously he’d come to check up on you, to make sure you were behaving. It didn’t matter if you had or not — he’d find a way to punish you either way. Not wanting to keep him waiting, you hurried over to the door.

You’d barely inched it open when the person pushed their way in and whirled round to face you.

The sight was breathtaking. Not your father at all. Fiery hair. Russet eyes. Golden-hued skin.

Your mate.

He was staring at you just as thoroughly, as heatedly, as you were taking in every glorious inch of him.

He’d matured so much in the last four years. Grown his hair out past his shoulders — shoulders that were far broader, arms packed with muscle. He was taller too. Adolescent roundness was gone from his face, leaving in its place a strong jaw and defined cheekbones.

The mate you’d walked away from had been an eighteen year old boy.

Standing before you was a man.

“Y/N.” Lucien breathed, taking a step towards you. He outstretched a hand.

You stepped back so fast, your back hit the door. “Don’t touch me.” You whispered. “You can’t be in here.”

“I knew you were here. I could feel it. I had to see you—“

“You have to leave, Lucien. Now.”

Something flashed in his eyes. Not the hurt you’d feared, but — anger. That was what it was. It somehow matured his face even more.

“I’m not going anywhere,” He snapped, “until you tell me what the fuck I did wrong.”

You wouldn’t tell him. No way. The situation — the conversation — was better left untouched. Closing your eyes, you lowered your chin and refused to look at him.

A sound akin to a whimper left Lucien’s throat. “Why did you leave?”

Breathe. In through your nose, out through your mouth. You slammed up the cold exterior you’d spent the last four years honing and pushed away from the door.

“It doesn’t matter why.” You said, brushing past your mate. “I left, and that’s that. It’s done. Now leave.”

Lucien wasn’t going to back down that easily.

Before you could take another step forward, he grabbed your hand, turning you to face him. The backs of your legs almost buckled against the edge of the bed.

“If it doesn’t matter,” he hissed, “then why have you lost weight? Why do you look like you haven’t had a good night’s sleep in four years? Why do you look like you’ve lost the will to live?”

He was close — too close. Mere centimetres between your bodies. You could smell his delicious earthy, gritty scent, hear the harsh thudding of his heart, feel the heat of his skin through his thin tunic.

Too much. You broke. Completely and utterly broke. The dam holding back your emotions crumbled, and the tears began to fall.

“Because I have.” Your voice cracked around a sob. “Because my father found out about us and he would have killed you if I didn’t leave.”

Lucien had gone completely still. Had he seriously not worked this out? Seriously thought that you’d simply left because you didn’t want him anymore?

The tears were well and truly falling now. “You know how he feels about you — your family. I couldn’t let him get to you. If he’d taken you away from me—“

“Look at me.” His firm hands gripped your arms, almost painfully. “I would never let anyone take me from you.”

“You don’t know what he’s capable of, Lucien.”

“I don’t care what he’s capable of.” He cupped your face then, his thumbs wiping your tears. “You are my mate. Mine. And I am yours. Fuck your family. Fuck mine. Fuck everyone. It’s just you and me.”

You couldn’t keep yourself upright anymore. Your legs giving out beneath you, you perched on the edge of the bed. Lucien slotted himself between your thighs, still wiping your tears with soothing strokes.

“We’ll go somewhere.” He angled your face up, forcing you to look at him. “Somewhere far away from all of this where it will just be us. Where nothing else matters.”

He could have no possible idea of how many times you’d imagined that very scenario over the past four years. All the different ways you’d pictured yourself ending up with your mate. But to have it dangled before you…for it to not come to fruition—

“Please.” Lucien whispered. “I love you.”

You were so close to crumbling, and he could sense it. With such heartbreaking care, he kneeled down until your faces were level, his eyes pleading.

“I love you.” He repeated.

“I love you too.” You whispered.

That was all it took. Lucien’s strong hands were suddenly back on your face, and he was surging forward to kiss you. The force of it knocked you backwards on the bed, but he didn’t let your lips part for a second.

He kissed you harder, firmer, his body a solid weight hovering above you as he moved one of his hands to tangle within your hair. He nipped at your bottom lip, sliding his tongue in when you gasped.

“I’ve missed this.” He groaned. “Missed you.”

“Show me.” You breathed. You grabbed his hand, moving it down to your breast.

He pulled back just slightly. Just to give you that smirk you loved so much, wicked intent in his eyes. “Gladly, my mate.”

The next few moments were a delicious, heady blur of tearing clothes and tongues and teeth. Hands roaming each other’s bodies. Kisses that left your heart thumping in your throat. Lucien tore his lips from yours, his eyes roving your now naked body with nothing but feral hunger. You wished he would take his clothes off, show you all of him, but he seemed to be in a trance as he moved. Slowly — so slowly it was painful — he kissed his way down your body. Lifted your legs onto his shoulders.

He didn’t take his eyes from you once as he tied his silky hair back into a knot. And then he lowered his face between your legs.

That first, teasing lick up your centre had your hips arching off the mattress. Lucien chuckled, the delicious sound of it vibrating through you, and he splayed a hand across your stomach, holding you still.

“Gods.” You gasped as he grazed your clit with his teeth. The slight, painful pinch of it was immense, addictive. He did it again. “Fuck, Lucien.”

“Shh.” He chuckled again. “Voice down, my love.” His tongue licked a stripe back down to your entrance, and you felt yourself clench. “Feel good?”

“Mm.” You bit out with a strained nod. “Mhm.”

He slid a long, callused finger inside you, causing your hips to jerk again as he began a steady rhythm of thrusting his finger in and out, his tongue once again wrapping around the nub of nerves at the apex of your thighs. Only when he felt your legs begin to tremble on his shoulders did he sink a second finger in.

“Oh gods.” You threw your head back, the sensations too much. Stars were beginning to burst in your vision.

“That’s it, my mate.” Lucien grunted. “Ride my hand.”

You realised, then, that you were doing exactly that, your hips undulating as you urged Lucien’s fingers deeper, harder. A cry tore through your throat, and you reached down in a trembling, pathetic attempt to still his hand.

“I want you inside me.” You gasped.

Lucien’s laugh was guttural. “Not tonight, love. We have the rest of our lives for that. Tonight is about you.”

Any protests you may have mustered became lost in your throat as he picked up his pace, his tongue keeping up the same rhythm and devouring every damn drip of you. You could feel yourself coming undone, your body nothing but delicious flames.

He thrust once, twice, three times more, and with his tongue swirling your clit, release barrelled into you with the force of four years of heartbreak. Your body trembled so much, you weren’t even able to move your legs from his shoulders.

He did that for you. Gently lowered your legs, and then wiped his mouth with a satisfied grunt. His face was flushed, glistening, and as he stood, you could see the solid hardness of him poking through his breeches.

But he barely acknowledged his own arousal. He lowered himself down beside you, pulling your trembling, naked body into his side. He stared down at you.

You’d missed that — that look of pure adoration as gazed upon you. Seeing it now, you weren’t sure how you’d survived four years without it.

Seeming to follow your thoughts, he leaned down and kissed you.

“I love you.” He whispered against your lips. “Never again will we be apart.”

#ask #request #lucien x reader #vanserra x reader

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twopoppies · 1 year

Text

like a boomerang by youwill (M, 48K) Very loosely based on the movie Groundhog’s Day (essentially just the concept of re-living a day over and over), this fic is delightful and charming and really worth a read. Link is to a download.

my heart is breathing for this moment in time by usedtothebeach (E, 160K) Probably my absolute favorite time travel fic. I’ve read it more times than I’d like to admit, and every time I love it more. One of the things I like most is how organically the author weaves in canon events…every little moment is an easter egg without it being so obvious that it pulls you out of the fic. Anyway, this one is so moving and so absorbing, I hope you like it if you give it a try! There’s an 18K companion piece to it as well, but you’ll see the link at the appropriate time when you’re reading the main fic.

your quietest voice by flimsy (E, 8K) Beautiful writing (like, just savor the sentences…they’re so pretty) and a really unique concept for time travel.

as we move slowly by snk (GA, 3K) A canon fic tinged in magic and truly gorgeous, poetic writing.

feel the chemicals burn in my bloodstream by togetherwecouldbealright (M, 123K) I read this one so, so long ago that all I remember is that I loved it, that there’s some really romantic and sweet moments, and that my notes from way back when only say, “OMG this one is so good! And I’ve barely gotten to the smut!” HAHAHAHA! (Link is to a download)

every universe but ours by @28finelines (E, 50K) This fic isso touching and funny and sexy and I read it all in one go! Please go read it because it’s like reading multiple Larry fics in one, each one with that “I would find you in any lifetime” vibe.

Soul of the Sea by vurdoc (E, 33K) A gothic romance set in a small Scottish village. Mysterious, melancholy, tender, and such a pleasure to read.

The Woods are Lovely, Dark and Deep by @helloamhere (WIP, 4 part series, mixed ratings, 128K) Amazing world building, complex characters, beautiful writing.

Black With Autumn Rain by Whimsicule (T, 93K) This writer is a favorite. If you like intense, creative stories, with complex characters and tight dialogue, you should read all of their fics. This one has the flavor of a Daphne du Maurier novel – dark, creepy, and moodily romantic. Plus a supernatural edge. It’s so good.

i was at an all night diner by @yoursongonmyheart (6K, NR). This is more of a prose poem, and i really enjoyed the way the author built such an intimate portrait of the 5 boys in so few words. It’s beautiful and dreamy and I think about it still.

I Won't Let You Forget by graceling_in_a_suit / @graceling-in-a-suit (T, 7K) I love the writing in this one. It’s one of those fics that has that kind of melancholic, dreamy feel to it that I really enjoy. Plus, it has a “no matter what, I would find you in any lifetime” vibe. So good.

Take Care Down By The Water by shyserious (M, 37K) Oh my goodness I loved this fic. Magical realism, mythical creatures, dreamy/moody atmosphere, beautiful writing. The link is to a download.

The Haunting of Louis Tomlinson by @helloamhere (T, 31K) Like everything else this author shares with us, this is so well paced and so well written and just charming. Great dialogue, great zouis friendship, and this one also has one of my favorite tags ever: Harry is a complete drama queen and also A GHOST

Loyal Knight And True by rainbowninja167 / (E, 52K) Really original story, mystery and magic, great characterizations. All around a very good read!

the bearded stranger by juliusschmidt (E, 2K) This is a wild twist on strangers to lovers and it’s fun and funny and really kind of hot.

You Take Me Over, You’re The Magic In My Veins by supernope (E, 36K) I read this years ago and my notes are not terribly helpful: “medieval princes. Pining forever! Sexy though.” 🤦🏻‍♀️ But I like this author, in general, so if that sounds good, give it a whirl!

For more magical fics, check out these recs:

Time Travel AU fic rec

Mermaids and Other Mythical Creatures

Witches and Wizards

Magical

#magical realism AUs #my fic rec #last fic rec #magical realism

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wispstalk · 1 year

Text

business

Mjoll, as usual, is the first one on the scene of the scuffle. The victim slumps on the boardwalk, his feet dangling over the dark canal, while his companion stares despondently at the empty sky.

“What happened?” she asks, though she has a guess. She heard the flapping wings, the screeches, the subsequent stream of curses.

“Crows!” He lets out a harsh bark of laughter. “Damn crows stole my purse, every coin I had.”

Mjoll pities every newcomer to this rotten city. In Riften, these days, there is more than one reason to watch the skies. Though he mustn’t have tried to fight back, the way some do, because he’s not all scratched to hell. His woman, her eyes glistening, clutches his arm and tends to the invisible wounds of humiliation.

“We’ll be all right, Bassianus, we will. You’ll find work and it’ll only take a little time to recover…”

“We’re only paid up at Haelga’s for the next week,” the glum young man laments. “Then what? We run back to Ivarstead with our tails between our legs?”

Young love, Mjoll thinks with a smile, and village kids to boot. Perhaps they had visions of autumn picnics in golden forests, evening strolls in Plankside, making a little fortune for themselves in the big city. Little did they know the forests are deadly dangerous and the canals are rank and slimy and the city thick with thieves so desperate as to die over a single silver candlestick.

“I will try to get your purse back,” she announces, and Bassianus gives her a befuddled look. “From the crows?” he says.

—

She doesn’t have to go past the gates to find Seadhna. The girl sits splayed in the road, just before the bridge to the Bee, grinning up at an unfamiliar woman. The stranger looks like a farmhand, or a millworker maybe— tall and muscular and dressed in grimy work clothes, though she has a gigantic bone hammer strapped beneath her rucksack. Leave it to Seadhna to mess with a woman like that.

“Bet you a silver piece I can tell you where you got your boots,” Seadhna is reciting, and Mjoll groans quietly to herself.

You got them on your feet, the girl’s smug answer will come, and then Seadhna will follow this newcomer until she makes good on the bet just to be free of the haranguing. Mjoll tries to catch the woman’s eye, waving a deterrent hand round her throat.

The stranger, when she speaks, has a soft voice at odds with those thick arms and that brutish weapon. “I got them,” she says with a cool smile, “out from under your mother’s bed this morning.”

“Oho!” Seadhna cackles, and waggles a finger at her mark. “You’re quicker than you look.”

“You’re just unlucky. That scam is an old Leyawiin standby.” She turns to Mjoll, her expression blank. “I suppose you’ll be the next to try and roll me? Third time is charmed.”

“No,” says Mjoll, offering up weaponless hands. “Though you’re wise to be careful. Riften is not so kind to strangers.”

“Ah. Well.” The woman gives her a nod as she strides past. “Ful nii los.”

"That one might be all right around here." Seadhna, still grinning, watches the woman go, then glowers at Mjoll. “I was just having some fun. None of your business.”

Mjoll gives her the sternest look she can manage. “My business is with your crows.”

—

The birds beat their wings and sound a raucous warning as they approach the beech tree. The camp looks quite a bit shabbier than the first time Mjoll tracked these infamous crows to their lair. The tarpaulin on the lean-to has seen better days, and there are axe-marks in the poles that hold it. Someone also seems to have kicked the fire ring apart to scatter it before it was rebuilt; there are burnt patches among all the duff.

Seadhna lets out a sharp whistle and flings her arms out wide. Scrawny and ragged as a scarecrow, but these ones don’t fear her. Six of them land on her, rasping in greeting, and the girl turns to face Mjoll with a vicious gap-toothed grin.

“Well,” says Seadhna, tossing her shaggy brown hair from her eyes, “have you learned to tell them apart yet? Name your thief and ask it to return the purse.”

“Absurd girl,” Mjoll mutters. “I name the one who trains them.”

“S’not my fault what they bring me. It’s just anything that catches their eye. Look what was left on my bed yesterday.”

The birds lift off her shoulders with a loud protest as she dives beneath the lean-to. Tucked against the low side, there is some sort of altar or shelf, little more than a weather-beaten plank propped up on stones, cluttered with trinkets and dried flowers and the occasional glint of something shiny. She crawls back out and lifts up her prize.

“A pinecone…” Mjoll’s eyes widen. “It’s huge!”

Seadhna grins and nestles it carefully back within the display. “Ever seen one that big? Me neither. To the crows it’s just as special a gift as the coins, only I can’t use to buy food, now, can I?”

“It’s no matter to me if they bring you flowers and pinecones, but that purse belongs to a young man with no gainful employment and nothing else to his name.”

“Not my problem.”

“Isn’t it? Tell me truly that you don’t know what it’s like to starve, Seadhna.”

The girl scowls at her, and Mjoll tries to maintain her stern expression against the sympathy that needles her heart. This child is a long way from her people.

“And why should I care what you think? You’re not a real guard, no one put you in charge. Law-Giver might give you pats on the head but even you can’t pretend she doesn’t dine with Maven every week.” She folds her arms. “Turn me in, then. Maybe the Jarl will put my crows on trial. She’s clueless enough to try it.”

Mjoll sighs. After all she’s seen and survived, no one cows her: not brutal callous Maul, not even Maven who is so strong she needn’t lift a finger to hurt her foes, but the words of this malnourished teen go through her like a Dwemer bolt.

So she changes the subject.

“What will you do come winter? It’s not so harsh as the Reach, but you are alone out here.”

“I get through just fine. There’s always the Ratway,” she mumbles, scuffing the leaf litter with the toe of her wrapped leather shoe. “Reeks, but it’s warm. Warmer.”

Mjoll grunts as she buries her seax blade into a spray of pine. “Perfect. So that slime Brynjolf can get his hooks into you.”

“Bryn’s friendly to me, at least. You’re not.”

Mjoll, in answer, keeps working until she has an armload of branches, then pointedly begins layering them over the half-rotted canvas, patching all the gaps. Seadhna huffs and scrambles up the tree, hopping light-footed along a quaking limb that sends the crows aflutter, then flinging herself down into a net hammock strung from the branch. Like a sullen teen slamming a door, if she had a door to slam.

Since it seems the subject of the crows is done, Mjoll does a turn around the grove, gathering any long length of wood she can find. With the butt of her seax, she drives four tall stakes into the soil along the windward side of the lean-to, just beyond the fire ring. Then she stacks the lengths of wood inside the stakes, gradually building up a long low wall.

“Oh.” Seadhna’s face peeks up above the edge of the hammock. “I never thought to try that.”

“It will keep you warmer. You don’t use firewalls in the Reach?”

“Never made one by myself,” she mumbles, and vanishes back behind the netting. “What do you know about living out of doors, anyway.”

Mjoll resists the urge to smile. “And what do you know about me? I’ve traveled the breadth of Tamriel, girl, hunting treasure and game. I’m no stranger to building a shelter. Sleeping in ruins will keep the weather off you, but it’s risky.” She grimaces. “Maybe someday I will teach you what I learned in Valenwood. The Bosmer know ways of camping that hardly leave a trace. It’s kinder to the forest, yes, but their methods also hide you from view of those who might plunder your camp.”

No answer, but she can tell she has Seadhna’s ear. There are those in Riften unsavory enough to ransack the pitiful camp of a teenage girl, and it’s likely happened more than once.

A long pause. Then: “You’re an adventurer?”

“I was.” Mjoll stands back, satisfied, to survey her work. “I’ve claimed riches all your crows couldn’t carry off.”

Another pause. Seadhna doesn’t peek above the netting of her hammock again, but Mjoll can almost feel her curiosity crackling through the air, and she stifles a laugh.

“Well,” she says, “since it seems our business is concluded, you’ll have to come back into Riften if you want to hear more. Aerin’s house is small but the hearth’s as warm as anyone’s, and we have the makings for fish stew tonight.”

“Aerin,” the girl scoffs. “He’s a bigger prig than even you. No thanks.”

“Suit yourself,” Mjoll shrugs, and turns on her heel, her boots crunching in the leaves.

“Wait,” comes her voice from the safety of her tree. One of the crows echoes her, in a strange and tinny voice. Wait! Wait!

“You’ll come?”

“No, not that.”

Something hisses in the trees, and the crows flap and croak, and a wooden pail attached to a rope thunks to the forest floor. Inside, among beads and lengths of wire and glittering chips of mica, Mjoll spies a leather coin purse. A truce, then. Mjoll tosses and catches it, the clinking of the coins serving as her acknowledgement, and the bucket is hoisted back up among the branches.

“Just this once!” Seadhna calls after her, by way of farewell. “Just this once,” Mjoll agrees.

#introducing a new character. they're multiplying in here #skyrim #mjoll the lioness #oc: seadhna #ray writes

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flow-it-show-it · 7 months

Text

Calan Gaeaf

Gathering Fiki Trick or Treat 2023 10/22 TRICK prompt submission: The God of Harvest receives whatever sacrifice the God of Harvest desires

RATED: Gen

Pairing: Fili/Kili from the Isca Silurum world of @linane-art to whom this is dedicated

Content warning: Omen of death

Synopsis: A harvest festival custom stirs fear of an untimely fate.

Author's note: This is meant as an autumn companion piece to my early-summer story Nos Calan Haf. As "Nos Calan Haf" is summer's eve, Calan Gaeaf is the first day of winter after the harvest. Here, the God of Harvest is never named but hovers just behind the surface of things.

AO3 link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/51269722

______________________

I don’t understand, said Kíli.

The remains of the coelcerth smoldered faintly in the frosty morning air. Most of the villagers had already pawed through its ashes, found their prizes, and stumbled home to sleep off the previous night’s carousals. But by some sorcery, Kíli found himself anchored to this spot.

I don’t understand, he repeated. It ought to be here.

Yester-eve had marked harvest’s end. Crops in and slaughter complete, the Silures met on the greensward to rejoice over cider, honeycomb, and nine-root stew. Silhouetted against the bonfire’s flames, they celebrated without restraint, as if night and winter did not both approach—and swiftly. But as the day’s last light dwindled, Silures young and old wended their way to the bonfire. Into it each cast a stone painstakingly scratched with their own name. Come morning, if all went well, they’d find their stones made clean and pure by the flames, nameless once more as stones ought to be.

The problem lay in not finding one’s stone at all. For then, it was said, you’d go the way of your name within a year.

Puzzled, Fíli unfolded Kíli’s slack fingers to reveal a palmful of greasy soot. Are you sure this side of the fire is where you cast it?

I wasn’t so drunk that I’d forget where I stood.

What did it look like?

Greyish, as large as hen’s egg, with a little dip where my thumb fit. Kíli demonstrated on a phantom stone. It’s how I held it still while I graved my name. He squeezed his eyes shut, as if simply imagining the stone would magically summon it to his hand. When it did not, he stamped the earth in frustration.

For the sake of his people as well as his husband, Fíli kept his voice soothingly low. Don’t fret over it, my love. It doesn’t mean anything.

Kíli’s irritable gaze swung toward his companion. You speak as if this fear is mine alone, when you know that’s not so. You yourself explained the lore to me, and I have seen it come true twice. Remember Bedwyr? And Gwilim?

Bedwyr had been ill for a year before he died, rebutted Fíli, drawing his woolen cloak tighter around his shoulders. He didn’t need a stone to tell him his time had come. As for Gwilim… He tossed his head in contempt. Even the smallest child of our tribe knows it’s madness to hunt boar during their winter rut— and in the dead of night, no less. Gwilim always had a reckless streak, a taste for the forbidden. His own stupidity killed him, not a stone.

But I’ve done nothing reckless, forbidden, or stupid! Roughened by the anger in which fear so often clothes itself, Kíli’s voice – normally calm and even – came out as a growl. I’ve followed all the laws and customs of your tribe as you taught them to me. I’ve participated in all the rites permitted an outsider—

Not an outsider. One of us.

And therefore subject to the will and whim of your gods—

Though he let himself be steered, Kili dragged his feet all the way to the holy man’s hut. In the main, he’d embraced his adoptive people and their ways, but he could not ignore his instinctive dread of Gwalchmei.

Who wish their people well, not ill! Fíli objected. Remember two harvests ago, when Dilys’ winter-eve stone could not be found? She was with child then, and everyone feared she might die in the throes of birth. Yet little Cerigyn came with no difficulty, and both mother and child are hale and happy. Isn’t that proof that not all omens are doom-laden? He twisted a corner of Kíli’s cloak around his fingers and gave it a tug. Whatever we Silures face, be it blessing or curse, Gwalchmei explains it to us. Let us go and see him.

The previous night, the druid displayed himself naked and stained head to foot with blood from the slaughter— a fearsome sight that infused Kíli’s pre-dawn dreams with dark unease. But this morning, Gwalchmei looked like any other villager— bleary-eyed from cider and sheltering from the harsh, head-splitting sun.

What have you for me? he said, unpleasant as ever.

As was proper, Fíli took charge of their half of the parley. Bowing slightly to Gwalchmei, he replied, Kíli’s winter-eve stone is missing from the coelcerth.

A sardonic sniff. He should return to Rome to look for it.

Gwalchmei may have been justified in returning Kíli’s disdain, but Fíli had no patience for a sparring match. We want to know what can be done, he stated firmly.

Gwalchmei inhaled deeply and let out a protracted groan. Drama, it seemed, was fully part of the druidic curriculum. He’d kept them on the doorstep long enough to determine their motive; to not invite them in now would be rude.

For Gwalchmei, rudeness came naturally.

The moment they cleared the threshold, he motioned roughly to Kíli. Come here.

Obedience led to a literal manhandling. Kíli found himself grabbed, thumped, and prodded fore and aft. Two large hands seized his cheeks and pulled him in for an uncomfortably close nose-to-nose examination, then spun him and pummeled his shoulder blades like a drum...

Hm, said Gwalchmei.

Hm? questioned Fíli.

They make these Romans large, don’t they.

That, they do.

Would take a lot to bring him down.

Not as much as you’d think—

ArraREERooo yoh, said Kíli in the midst of having his teeth perused as if he was a prize horse. He meant to say I can HEAR you, you know, but sensed correctly that his companions were already well aware of it.

At last Gwalchmei let Kíli go. Scuffing across the hard-packed earthen floor, he flipped open the lid to a yew-wood chest and removed a folded cloth, which he carefully spread upon the ground. From a leather pouch he extracted a fistful of what appeared like peeled sticks. Each had been scored with a linear symbol into which soot had been rubbed to make them more legible. Gwalchmei unceremoniously flung the entire bundle up into the air. Down the twigs rained upon the cloth, landing every which way but none touching the floor.

Hm, said Gwalchmei.

Hm? questioned Fíli.

The staves do not foretell a swift end, but rather a long one. Pause. An exceedingly long one.

Fíli scowled to conceal his mirth. How long would you say?

Well, you’d know better than me—

Enough, growled Kíli. In contrast to the dignified augury practiced in Roman Londinium, this tossing-about of twigs and unseemly jest at his expense smacked of hazing.

With a sigh, Gwalchmei stooped to gather up his twigs. Lad, there’s nothing to tell you, he muttered to the floor. You’re healthy as an ox and in no danger from the spirits. Thirty or so years from now, you’ll die in a comfortable bed— that is, if our chieftain doesn’t grow weary of you sooner.

Kíli started forward and halted Gwalchmei’s hand before he could sheathe the twigs in their leather scabbard.

What do those markings tell you? he demanded. What do they say?

You know what they are.

I’ve seen them, yes, but I don’t know what they mean.

Now it was Gwalchmai’s turn to be puzzled. Then by the heavens, how did you inscribe your stone? Did Fíli do it for you? Because by rights it’d then be Fíli’s, and were it me who lost the chieftain’s stone, I’d make sure to be halfway back to Rome by nightfall.

I wrote it in my own language, not the Silures’.

Absolute silence in the round house. From a distance, one could hear the croak of a raven calling to its kin.

Gwalchmai turned in a circle, searching, then snatched up an iron skewer from atop a basket of hearthfire peat fuel. Show me. Scribe it in the dust, here at our feet.

Kíli did as he was told.

K D LEG AVG

Ah, said Fíli, who could read and understand.

Gwalchmai – who also could read and understand, but who would rather have taken a spear-wound than admit so – stood lordly over the letters. Now answer what you asked of me: what do these marks mean?

They are the abbreviated form of my name followed by my rank, replied Kíli. ‘Kilius Durinus Legatus Augusti’— Governor by the Emperor’s wish.

Well, there is your problem, countered Gwalchmei, snatching back his skewer. You’re no such thing here. As long as you stand on our soil or sleep under our chieftain’s roof, your Roman name and rank are meaningless. Had you written them in our tongue, in our ogham, perhaps the fire would have given your stone back clean.

Chastened, Kíli stood silent.

I’ll also say you’re not much of a governor back at your own fort, either, continued Gwalchmei. Unless a governor is what you call a puling lovelorn fool. That’s as true written in ogham as in your foreign markings. But so long as you’re here – Gwalchmei tossed the skewer back atop the peat basket – use ours, would you? It’s only polite.

Strolling hand in hand with Fíli back to their round house, Kíli. I suppose he’s right. When I’m here, I should abide by your ways.

They’re becoming your ways now, but still you cling to Rome, suggested Fíli. You’re not ready to come all the way over. But you might in time. A thought struck him. Kílius Durinus Legatus Augusti is fading. Perhaps he’ll be gone within a year, and you will remain.

Kíli took a deep breath and gave it back to the rose-gold morning in a puff of white mist. He squeezed Fíli’s hand.

As my Emperor wishes, said he.

#GF’s Trick or Treat 2023

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swordbreakerz · 1 year

Text

Day 15: time is long

I wrote a love letter about my weird timeline listening to friends at the table that is very rambly and doesn't have much of a point and is a little personal and I'm putting it under a readmore because I'm shy and going to throw my phone into the ocean after this posts

This July marks a full year since I got back into friends at the table. I watched the NNAF stream live, the first day at work since it was my last day (what were they gonna do, fire me?), and the second day at home, half dozing through the first three hours because I wasn't used to being up at 9am on a Monday. The Marielda one shot and stretch reward of a Hieron epilogue finally piqued my interest in that campaign, and I started Autumn in Hieron the next day.

It had been probably a year and a half since I'd listened to any day at that point, back in October 2020 (the 23rd, to be exact, according to my discord DMs) a friend of mine got me interested and I started listening to COUNTER/weight. I blew through it in a couple weeks, finishing it on November 17th, and it has the high honor of being one of the only pieces of media to make me cry after finishing it before I was medicated. I jumped straight into Twilight Mirage, but only made it about halfway before I quit the job I'd been working, and fell off of it, because I'd been using my 8hr shifts to burn through episodes. Despite quitting my job Again just as I was getting back on though, last year it stuck and I caught up with the entire backlog of podcast, including Bluff City, in maybe… four or five months if I remember right? It truly caught me by the throat.

Now, I'm fully caught up and staying on top of weekly releases better, being employed helps so I have a dedicated task to do while listening. It's become a regular fixture of my life and I've been thinking about voices defining a time in your life, and how summer 2022 will forever be my summer of friends at the table. The friends were my constant companion, I listened to the least amount of music that year than I maybe ever have, my spotify wrapped minutes on music were dwarfed by the nearly ~700 hours of podcast (spotify is easier to binge with at work, and I like stats).

This podcast reignited my creativity and drive after an art slump and brought me closer with one of my cherished friends, it taught me things about storytelling and political theory, it forced me to process old grief while sobbing for two hours straight after finishing Marielda. I could probably keep going, but being vulnerable makes me want to dig a very deep hole and lie in it forever, and honestly if any of the cast does see this I think I might die if I put anything too personal in it.

I'm not sure where the point I was leading to went. This podcast is like a reliable clock (hah) to me. It's my Friday work treat when seasons are live, Animal Out of Context can lull me to sleep in less than 30 minutes, Orbital made me laugh so hard I nearly cried in front of my coworker. Having something become such a north star in your life, especially something close to the ground like this, is fun and weird and scary all at the same time. I went from barely paying attention to ttrpg news to The PBTA Guy in my friendgroup in a matter of months. I still cry if I think about The Chime or Hella or Maelgwyn or Fero or Lem too hard. I'm getting a tattoo based on C/W at some point for gods sake.

Anyway. It's amazing how time and passion can worm it's way into your heart. Keep telling stories, keep loving eachother, I'm going to go dig a deep hole now, mwah

#15daysoffatt #15 days of fatt #fatt #f@tt #friends at the table #and z speaks #almost didnt tag this bc talking about my feelings gives me hives but i love it here a lot so. u all can see it a little i guess

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stargazerlillian · 2 years

Text

“Day of the Paper Sun” (for Yoel)

Ballantine discovers a life-changing secret.

Serves as a written companion piece to these images.

Ballantine Ruggaboor belongs to @yoel-o-fellow

Content warning: Mild language, themes of family trauma, mentions of death, and a whole lot of angst.

——————–

August 31, 1982

The Ruggaboor Residence

Stoke-on-Trent, England

7:50 PM

One glance.

That was all it took for the war in her head to ignite once more.

When Ballantine went rummaging through the drawers of her father’s nightstand one golden evening, all she really expected to find amid all the bits and bobs was the pack of cigarettes he confiscated earlier.

What she did not expect to find was the missing piece of an incomplete puzzle that occupied its own little place in her mind for all her life.

This missing piece came in the form of a small bent black and white photograph found in an old shoebox, covered in dust, in the bottom drawer. On it was a young woman in bed, tenderly holding an eerily familiar dark-haired infant in her arms. She had flowing light hair, glasses, full lips, and a long pointed nose - just like her own.

Written on it in the most elegant cursive writing were five simple words.

“I’ll always love you.

-Mum”

Ballantine instantly felt all of her insides plummet.

The woman in the picture... was her deceased mother.

The one her father had been hiding away from her for over sixteen years.

The one he mercilessly killed in cold blood one cloudy late autumn night.

And the infant in her arms… was her as a baby.

For several minutes, Ballantine could do nothing but stare at the photograph. The world around her seemed to freeze completely, not uttering a single sound. Even her breathing fell silent.

This was her mother. Her actual mother. She had to be the most beautiful woman Ballantine had ever seen – far more beautiful than Glinda could ever be.

Her head swam as the reality contained in this artifact of her life began to sink in. If it weren’t for the fact that the date the picture was taken was written on the back, she wouldn’t have believed that what she was holding in her hands was the least bit authentic.

But her moment of truth was far from over.

Also in the shoebox was a neatly tri-folded letter, written in the same cursive handwriting as the photograph. What it contained made Ballantine’s eyes widen and stomach tighten with every word.

“Dearest Sebastian,

This is the little one I first told you about all those months ago. She was born at 7:06 PM on the 6th of June, 1966, and weighs 3 kg. As of this letter, she is barely over a week old, and does not have a name. I’m leaving it up to you to decide on one for her.

The reason I have sent her to you is because you are my only hope in ensuring she is raised and cared for under the roof of a proper home. As much as I want to keep her, nurture her, and love her, the doctors at the ward say that I am in no condition to care for a newborn child - that my mind is ‘too unstable’ for such a task. So now, I am putting all my faith and trust in you.

I don’t know when - or if - I’ll ever be well enough to be released back into society, but if that day ever comes, the first thing I will do is come visit you and the children. And perhaps, just perhaps - we can try to make things work out together - as a family.

In the meantime, all I ask of you is that you please take good care of my, no, OUR baby girl.

All my love,

Your lifelong companion, J.

P.S. Along with this letter, you will find enclosed a photograph of me with our daughter from earlier today. If I am not released by the time she comes of age, show it to her, and tell her that no matter what happens to me, I want her to know in her heart that I will always love her. Always and always. Even if I never get to see her grow up. Even if I never get to hear her voice. I will love her until the Earth’s skies fall dark forever, and even beyond that. For always, and always, and always.”

The words continued to play on an endless loop in her mind for what seemed like ages after her eyes crossed over the last sentence. By the time she finally had the strength to put the letter down, she found her knees trembling and heart racing.

These words sounded nothing like the woman her father described to her growing up. There was no way a mere “whore” could have written something like this.

These were the words of a woman who had so much to give, and so much to live for, only for all of it to be taken away from her by the cruel hands of fate.

She huffed and roughly turned around, barely pinching the photograph in her trembling fingers. An overwhelming wave of heat rose to her face, and the back of her eyes burned intensely as she at last came to a horrible conclusion.

Everything her father had said about her mother was a lie. Who she was, where she was, why she couldn’t be there with them – all of it had been a lie.

It hurt learning that her father lied to her face about her mother all her life. It hurt learning that her mother could have been her last chance at a decent family. It hurt learning that she was mentally ill and stuck in a sanitorium for years on end. It hurt learning that she loved her and never knew until this very moment.

But what truly hurt the most was that her mother referred to her father as her “dearest” and referred to herself as his “lifelong companion”.

This meant that she had known him for most, if not all of her life. She likely got to grow up and experience life in a time when her father was probably not so terrible. There was friendship, tenderness, vulnerability, and even love shared between them once. There had to be for Ballantine to even exist at all, let alone for her mother to trust her father enough to look after her.

And yet... he killed her.

He. Killed. Her.

In the shadow of the golden sun setting beyond the bedroom window, Ballantine tilted her head down and grit her teeth tightly as tears finally began to fall from the eyes her mother gave her. She wanted so much to scream, to cry, to unleash to the heavens all the pain she had been holding inside the past sixteen summers.

But out of her mouth, only one word managed to escape.

“Dammit...”

#The Ruggaboors #My writing #Fanfiction #Other's OCs #Ballantine Ruggaboor #Gifts for others #YoelOFellow

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strywoven-moved · 2 years

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@tenebriism asked : ❝ i have this weird feeling that you’re going to leave.❞ // from Ganon. ;_;

𝑷𝒓𝒐𝒎𝒑𝒕𝒆𝒅.

A fire burns bright and bold despite the chill the evening brings ( lo’ how the seasons do change ; the burgeoning grasp of summer is at last relenting allowing the first fresh-breaths of autumn to sweep the plains ) – welcome though it is , the qilin finds c o m f o r t in the simple , welcoming comfort of the flames. When the Gerudo speaks , eyes blink open , roused and waking from near-sleep to set attention onto her beloved companion. The expression he dons – the inflection in his tone – attests to his driving FEARS . A foreboding , she thinks , as if he has gleaned a future she herself has not yet seen nor is not acquainted with ; as if he truly believes their paths are doomed to d i v e r g e as once they had afore ( & how painful the memory still remains , the loss of his presence in those months were amongst the coldest she has ever endured ) . So perhaps , he is just in giving a voice to his worry — perhaps it is simply another necessary evil that need be felled ( another unfortunate beast that disturbs & attempts to threaten their path forward as one ) .

She stands from her place opposite of him , moving ‘round the burning piece set ‘tween them and settling beside him. In a gentle and now-common motion , she l e a n s into him ; horned head resting to his shoulder and blanket-covered hand cast ‘round his back with claws smoothing over tensed muscles in hopes to absolve them of their hardened host. “Leave ?” Lhore asks in turn , tilting her head to look up towards him with a small smile. “But wherever would I go ?” She lifts herself those remaining inches h i g h e r , pressing a tender kiss to his lips ; both affectionate and reassuring in nature. “I’ve everything I need right here with you , Ganon , I’ve no reason to be anywhere else.” The words are spoken in EARNEST , she’s no intention of going anywhere ( & even if she were to wander away , their bond would call her back to his side again ) , though she can see – by way of the fireglow catching in his eyes – that the residue of his worry remains behind. “My dearest , please , tell me : is there anything I can do to cleanse these woes from your mind this night ? It pains me to see you so fraught with concern for our future.” Something she , too , has been found guilty of some few times afore.

#❧ ━ ❝ OOC || maybe QUEUE really are just some forgotten story in the end || queue ❞ ━ ☙#❧ ━ ❝ ch. LHORE || answered ❞ ━ ☙#tenebriism #tenebriism || ganon #she just wants to help!!

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bisexualvampires · 3 years

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for @floral-cas fall floralnatural celebration :)

(a companion piece to Truth Blooms In The Meadow, a post 15x18 love confession fic)

summary: 1.3k. Castiel is dreaming in the Empty. Finding himself in a barren forest, the angel searches for hope.

read below or on ao3

There are no dreams in the Empty, the entity said, wearing the face of an old friend.

Yet Castiel was dreaming.

He preferred the endless dark; the silent slumber of the eternity that was his prison. Yet Castiel stood in a forest, void of the kiss of mother nature.

It was a cold place; worse than the endless nothing of his waking hours. The ground below his feet made no sound as he walked along a path unexplored by gentle creatures. No dangers lurked between the gnarled trees, untouched by moss or lichen. It was a sunless world he navigated on aimless feet.

The angel found himself lost, without hope to point him in a direction. Without will to find a path.

Castiel recalled the beauty of a world he’d once watched sprout from infancy. There was nothing of it here in this barren land. No birds to sing the songs of the forest. No rabbits to feast upon the greens. There were no squirrels gathering for the winter. There was no winter at all. For there to be seasons, there must be change. For there to be gathering, there must be family. For there to be feasts, there must be hunger. And Castiel was empty.

You should be grateful, Castiel’s heart said, to still have your eyes.

Yes, the Empty whispered, to see all that you have lost.

You should be grateful, Castiel’s heart said, to still have your legs to walk on.

Yes, the Empty whispered, to carry you on paths that lead to nowhere.

You should be grateful, Castiel’s heart said, to still have a voice.

Yes, the Empty said, with no one around to hear it.

Alone, Castiel sat by a tree. It crumbled beneath his touch, the bark falling away to dust at his fingertips. The grass at his feet had never known the beauty of green. This forest had no inkling of the colours that bloomed in the world he’d loved. There were no reminders of the eyes that watched in fear and relief as Castiel confessed his truth. This forest could not know that shade of life and joy.

But Castiel did not care for this forest. He did not weep for his loss, for the burden was too heavy for his heart to bear. Asphodels snaked through the forest floor. Their petals blooming at the height of their stalks; the colours dull and lifeless as the angel’s spirit. Castiel got to his feet and stepped on the flowers. Every destructive step he took, more asphodels grew in their place.

Everywhere he walked, those same flowers crawled from the earth. It was cruel, the angel thought, that his choices lay in nothingness or in apathy.

Soon, it made him angry. Castiel stomped on the asphodel, twisting his foot over the broken stem. As though all its siblings lamented, every flower wilted to ashes; dry as autumn leaves. The air was thick with the sharp remains, and they nicked at the angel’s skin. He felt nothing, not even a sting.

The angel cried out in despair, willing fury into his veins. How was it, he asked himself, that experiencing such pure joy had led him to this place? Did he not deserve to enjoy the feeling of love? He’d conquered his greatest fear; looked the man he loved in the eyes and said the truth he knew he could not take back. Why had he learned to love only to die for it?

Petunias sprang from the forest floor; their petals red as the handprint he’d left behind. The only reminder of his presence, and it was a stain on the man he loved. Petals of the petunias drifted through the air as the angel raged at his fate.

There is no love in the Empty, the entity said, wearing the face of his beloved.

Castiel looked at the thing that was not truly Dean, and life blossomed in the forest. Hydrangeas of deepest violet and primroses of delicate pink climbed the trees. Wisteria rained from the branches above, and at his feet grew fuchsia, gardenia and mallow.

You are beautiful, the angel said, as he looked into eyes that were not Dean’s.

There is no beauty here, the Empty whispered.

You are the reason there is beauty in the world, the angel said.

There is no beauty here, the Empty hissed, growing angry.

I would not know how to love the world without your beautiful heart to teach me, the angel said.

The Empty changed its face, tearing the angel away from his happiness for a second time. The flowers wilted around Castiel; the wisteria dripping like darkest ink upon his shoulders. Tiger flowers appeared in the space between the angel and the entity that had trapped him.

Castiel turned away, determination taking root inside him. The farther he walked, the louder the forest became. He crossed streams that trickled hesitantly and passed by foxes caring for their cubs. Birds whistled and insects chirped, and soon the sound of the forest drowned out the whispers of the Empty. Each step took a mountain of effort, and in each footprint grew dandelions.

The angel paused to look behind him, worried that each step had been too slow, that the Empty would soon catch up. Instead, he saw the evidence of his progress in the floral footprints he’d marked on his journey. The flowers covered his tracks, masking the struggle he’d felt on his course. Determination had gotten him this far; the beauty of his own progress was all the encouragement he needed.

Purple coneflowers appeared before him, carving out a path that led to a clearing in the forest. Castiel followed the strange trail, taking comfort in the forget-me-nots that grew in its midst. He remembered those flowers from a meadow far from the reaches of this forest. He’d been reborn once before in that carefully selected green, shaded and protected by an old windmill. The scent alone filled his heart with hope. He’d gotten free of this place before. He could do it again.

There is no hope in the Empty, the entity said, wearing the face of his son.

I know you, said the angel. You gave me my faith when I’d fallen so far from its reach.

There is no faith in the Empty, the entity said, with doubt growing in its voice like weeds.

Sword lilies bloomed in the clearing around them.

You are everything that is good in the world, the angel said to the face of his son.

There is no good in the world, said the Empty, falling to its knees.

Castiel stepped toward his captor. He could see himself in Jack’s features, but it was Dean who lent the quiet hope to his son’s eyes. The angel stared into those eyes, seeing family. Seeing home.

Cas?

The thing that was the Empty scattered like pollen among the flowers. Before him now, stood hope.

Castiel embraced the nephilim. His son. Their son.

We’re going home, Jack said, with the promise of joy.

Hope bloomed across the plains, raining from the skies and blossoming from the ground. Birds sang their forest songs and rabbits hopped across the fields of emerald green. Castiel took one last look at his footprints, watching them fade away as pure golden sunlight flared around him.

There was no smell of flowers or hissing whispers when Castiel opened his eyes once more. It was a mortal world he stepped into, full of life and noise and possibility.

Castiel was awake. He was alive. He was free.

Sunlight faded to a familiar fluorescent light. The scent of flowers was replaced by the scent of home. The first touch his skin felt were the warm, familiar hands cupping his cheeks, branding him gently with the memory of love. The second was a hug so tight bruises formed on their chests. Somewhere, everywhere, flowers blossomed as Castiel heard the voice he'd never expected to hear again.

Don’t you ever leave me again, said Dean, with the seeds of I love you pressed secret to his heart, only days and courage away from blooming into truth.

#i know it starts out sad but there's a happy ending i promise!#fallfloralnatural #destiel #castiel #the empty #fanfic #fix it #creativecaviar #my writing

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fleckcmscott · 3 years

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Coffee & Donuts

Summary: Arthur’s thrilled to be part of a crowd. Though the evening doesn’t go perfectly, Y/N’s flirtations make it sweet.

Warnings: Smut

Words: 4,602

A/N: Alright. After the heart wrenching angst of my last piece (which I love, by the way; don't get me wrong! 😂), I had to write another story in which Arthur and Y/N are happy and together. It's inspired by one of Arthur's visions during their kiss. I hope you all like it! Special thanks to @jokerownsmysoul for beta-ing!

If you have any thoughts or questions, please comment, feel free to message me, or send me an ask. Requests for Arthur and WWH are open!

Parties and celebrations weren't foreign to Arthur. He'd worked plenty, enough to make him realize what he'd been missing out on. He was well-versed in pin the tail on the donkey, musical chairs, and balloon animals. But as an adult, those activities didn't satisfy. He wanted to be included rather than paid. Connect with people, introduce himself. Discuss his experiences and pursuits. Feel sufficiently at ease to loosen up a little and have a good time.

Now he was a guest - a certified guest - at Patricia Gorman's fifty-sixth birthday party. The first party he'd been invited to since being the weird kid in class who'd rotated between three worn out sweaters and could never afford a gift.

He'd been a tad apprehensive about going to Burnside. Gotham's nicest borough had a reputation for high rents and low tolerance. When Y/N and he had entered 2E, however, Patricia's greeting ("You made it!") and the apartment were thoroughly welcoming. Crocodile brown walls and forest green shag carpet made the spacious living room a cozy hideaway. Marigolds leapt across the polyester of the T-cushion sofa and its easy-chair companion. The floor lamp's amber, crimped glass shades cast the spacious living room in a glow borrowed from warm autumn days.

Patricia's husband, Robert, was out on an emergency call. An HVAC had gone haywire in a residential building in Hinckley. Her daughter, son-in-law, and grandson had been by for lunch. That meant the only other guests were Matt - Y/N's old boss - and a bottle-blonde in a black halter dress and spike heels, who Y/N introduced as Laura. ("She's Matt's ex-wife," Y/N later disclosed. "He's been trying to win her back since I moved to Gotham.") Both shook Arthur's hand when he offered it, and he felt a little thrill whirl his stomach when Y/N laid claim to him by telling the woman, "This is my husband."

A collection of appetizers served as dinner, a fun and novel menu. The slow cooker meatballs Y/N and he had lugged over on the subway were a bit tangy; he still couldn't believe the recipe called for grape jelly. The deviled eggs with paprika, a pleasant mix of savory and sweet, was a dish he'd heard about on television. Cream cheese and cucumber sandwiches were light and airy, a good match for his iced tea. Only the artichoke and spinach dip gave him pause. Its beans and hot sauce made his taste buds wince.

That unpleasant flavor was quickly forgotten when Y/N pulled him to sit next to her on the sofa, so Patricia could open her presents. She proudly showed off the orange, clay ashtray her grandson had made for her. Arthur, having successfully kept the secret of her light smoking from Y/N, chuckled at Patricia fibbing she'd put candy in it. She thanked Matt and Laura for the champagne, wrapped in a silver bow with a simple "Happy Birthday" tag. The bottle wasn't popped. Upon peeking into the large giftbag Y/N placed on her lap, she made a soft sound. The Dazey whirlpool bath, which attached to the side of the tub and had three strength settings, was a hit. She announced her plans to try it in the morning. The dark blue Rexbuilt briefbag was intended to replace her cracked, leather briefcase, Y/N explained. Patricia ran her fingertips along the expanding inner compartments, the personalized planner that included the credential "CLA" after her name, and flipped through the included steno pads, eyes brimming.

She sipped at her cocktail and put an arm around Y/N. Melancholy tinged Patricia's voice. "At my age, the people in your life tend to stay the people in your life. Whether you like them or not." She reached further and patted Arthur's knee. "I'm glad an old dame like me gets to call you all friends." His throat clenched in gratification, though he wasn't daring enough to squeeze her hand and thank her for deciding he was a friend.

Still on top of the world an hour later, Arthur sauntered to the red and white enamel dining table to serve himself a second slice of upside-down pineapple cake. The evening had gone well, better than a guy with a natural inability to mingle could've expected. He bobbed his head to the beat of "Come Fly with Me." It was a happy coincidence that Patricia's taste in music aligned with his. She'd regaled him with tales of seeing Sinatra and Count Basie on her and Robert's honeymoon in Vegas. Arthur took a bite absentmindedly, wondering how long it would take for him to save the money to surprise Y/N with plane and concert tickets.

The daydreaming didn't last long. Matt's plodding footsteps preceded him, followed by a long sigh as he propped himself on the beige stone of the dining area's accent wall, across from the u-shaped kitchen. He held out a Budweiser and smirked. "Marriage is a hell of a lot of work."

Pleased that he was being treated like one of the guys, like a regular husband with a regular relationship who got to speak about his regular wife, Arthur accepted the beer and considered the comment. Matt's sentiment was hard to grasp. Dr. Sally had said marriage could be difficult, and Y/N's first hadn't survived the ripples of her life. But it didn't feel like work with her. Their arguments were minor. Her nagging him to find a primary doctor for annual check-ups, even though he'd survived this long without one. Or back in Missouri, when he'd told her to stop shielding him and trust he could take anything she had to give.

Arthur adopted a similar nonchalant posture and jutted his hip against the table's edge. "I like it. It's easy to take good care of her." He wasn't able to completely erase the smugness of success from his tone.

"You're what? Two years in with the most headstrong woman in Gotham? She's great and all, but she spikes my blood pressure." Matt slapped Arthur's back and let out a hearty guffaw. "Give it five more and you'll be in my office trying to avoid alimony."

"Don't. Say that." Arthur crinkled the can in his grip and glared up at him.

"Hey," Matt started, withdrawing even as he tried diplomacy. "It was just a joke. I didn't mean anything by it."

Flinching, pulling at the cuffs of his red sweater, Arthur fought the surge of anger in his veins. It wouldn't do to lose control and cause a scene. Of course Matt's comment about them splitting up was supposed to be a joke. But Arthur didn't find it one bit funny. Even with his complete faith in her and his firm belief that they were meant to be together, the possibility that she'd stop wanting him hurt. It didn't occur to him that the implication of the punchline could be that he'd get sick of Y/N.

With a muttered apology, Matt walked to the others in the kitchen. Arthur glanced over to see her laugh tipsily, until she grabbed her stomach and swatted Patricia's shoulder, a stark demonstration of how much he and Y/N differed. She always knew how to respond to people, the right comebacks. Appropriate timing and levels of interaction. It seemed she was in her natural element, the loveliest swan on a lake. Whereas after years of therapy and practice with her, he was still a fish out of water, flopping around on the shoreline in hopes some stranger would take pity on him and throw him back into the sea.

Maybe that was the real punchline. Eventually their contrasts would no longer complement each other and instead become a chore.

Scowling, he ambled towards the record player stationed before two double-hung windows. Increased the volume to drown out the intrusive notions. It didn't really work. He settled on a grounding technique he'd practiced, all the while lamenting that he couldn't handle a party without needing it. His attention went to the spinning LP, the needle following its grooves. The bright blue album cover, where Ol' Blue Eyes beckoned him, the scuff marks on the cardboard's corner edges. He acknowledged the spider plants sat on the windowsill, worried a papery leaf until it broke off. He stared out the window, taking in the whole of the city. Pinpricks of light dazzling in the darkness.

"Gotham's beautiful at night," Y/N said from behind him. He glanced over his shoulder to watch her approach. Her cheeks glowed with alcohol and good cheer, the collar of her ivory blouse unbuttoned. "There's a life behind every light out there. Ten million of them. Here. Try this." She offered her hurricane glass, filled with an off-white slush.

He sipped the pina colada with cautious skepticism and grimaced as soon as it hit his tongue. The blend of pineapple and coconut tasted of cheap sunscreen and tropical imitations, the kind advertised in smudged brochures for bad cruises to islands with made up sounding names. "No, thanks."

Snorting, she shrugged and embraced his back at the waist. "How are we doing?" she asked, curling into his side. After a few seconds, she prodded him. "Had your fill of Matt?"

"He was just joking." Arthur rubbed the back of his neck and sighed. She set the drink next to the record player and brought her hand to his, trailed it over the inside of his wrist, up his forearm. She pecked his chin and nudged him until he turned to her. As soon as their gazes met, the concern in hers told him she'd continue to pepper him with questions. But he wasn't about to let his misplaced doubts spoil her evening. And he knew the perfect way to distract them both.

A new song started. An oldie that sang of Jupiter and Mars, playfulness among the stars. He cupped her cheek, thumb sweeping the corner of her mouth. "Dance with me," he said. Before accepting his proffered palm, she laid a sloppy kiss on him. With a flutter of her eyelashes, she grinned, and his smile grew to match her own. As he held her side, led her in a slow, swaying circle, he marveled at her. At her ability to soothe every molecule, every lingering ache. Self-assurance welled in him, chased away his earlier dejection. He cradled her to his lanky frame, trembled and felt himself blush. She was the only woman for him. That was as certain as his cigarette habit.

Despite Patricia's reassurances she was fine, that Robert working late wasn't unusual, Y/N insisted on staying until he got home. Though Arthur would have preferred they take their leave an hour earlier, being allowed to smoke inside blunted his grumbling. The disarming flirtations she bestowed on him also didn't hurt. She'd pour herself a drink (four in total, if he counted correctly), help Patricia make a plate of leftovers for her husband, then throw him a wink. Whisper and cackle while cleaning, then kiss his temple.

Around midnight, Patricia put her foot down. Ushered them out with a promise to call and a hug fierce enough to crush his ribs. She raised a brow at Y/N's unsteady gait, grasped Arthur's arm, and said with a wry, tired smile, "Make sure you put that woman straight to bed." His dark brows shot up and held. Had she intended a pun? Or had Y/N's spare caresses caused the interpretation? Either way, he liked being trusted to take care of her. And the hint of arousal that flared in his belly.

By the time they stumbled into their apartment, that arousal had reduced to a dull exhaustion. She kicked off her heels on the way to the bathroom, calling a slurred "night!" as she closed the door. Yawning, he put dish soap and hot water in the crockpot, scrubbed burned bits of sauce from its rim, turned it upside down on a towel to dry. Once he'd brushed his teeth for one minute rather than the recommended two, he tossed his sweater, trousers, briefs, and socks in the hamper, and went to the bedroom. He found his blue pajamas in their usual spot, the chair in the corner, and slid them up his skinny but toned legs. Tucked in next to her, he was carried to sleep on waves of fatigue and her quiet, wet snoring.

~~~~~

A tickle threatened to rouse him. Whispers along the waistband of his bottoms. Heat snuggled his back. Delightfully drowsy, he cuddled deeper into cozy, cream-color sheets, already returning to a pleasant, dreamless slumber. But a rumble of exhaust, likely from a bus that needed a new muffler, dragged him to consciousness. Arthur grumbled and tucked his arm under his pillow, not ready to transition to a world of overcrowding and concrete, commotion and bad jokes.

Yet, Y/N's insistent grazes continued, luring him with promises of placid pleasure. Her toes wiggled at his heel until he made space for her to slip her foot between his ankles. The corner of his mouth quirked. He was reminded of last night's playfulness, her endless teasing. The way he'd held the crockpot as a shield to fend off her advances on the train home, her forwardness to the point that he would've preferred having a laminated card to present on her behalf. Forgive my wife: she has a condition. It causes frequent and uncontrollable displays of affection.

Nimble fingers edged lower, loosened the tie of his pajamas before dipping beneath the loose elastic to lace through his dark brown curls, darker than the chestnut hair on his head. Her knuckles ran over him, lazy caresses full of intent. Up and down, up and down. Delicate. Deliberate. The blood racing to his groin, the pleasant swelling, made his abdomen twitch. Soon full and heavy, the sensitive tip straining the cotton seams, he pressed his lips together. When she skimmed the tender skin resting on his inner thigh, he flexed the muscle at the base of his erection. It bobbed and hit her wrist and she let loose a girlish giggle, more intoxicating than wine.

With her left leg draped over him at the knee, she undulated against his rear. Plush lips brushed the boney knobs of his spine, damp breath fanned the nape of his neck, labored, needy. Pebbled nipples grazed his back through the thin nylon of her nightgown, taunting and compelling. He made up his mind to throw an arm around her, to yank her on top of him. To eagerly take part in her seduction.

But she withdrew from his bottoms to palm his stomach and plant a gentle kiss to the shell of his ear, whispering, "Sleep tight." The mattress shifted and she rolled away from him. He furrowed his brows. She rarely relented this easily - other times he'd awakened, hard and aching, enveloped by the captivating wetness of her mouth. What was she up to?

Covers rustled. Her calf bumped his. And the opposite of what he'd assumed occurred. Instead of light footfalls leading out of the room, there was silence, silence that seemed to stretch on and on...

Until a hitched gasp gave her away.

Touching herself. She was touching herself. She'd just been all over him, acted like he was some sort of model on the cover of Vue magazine, and now she was touching herself. Right beside him! Ecstatic to have inspired such brazenness, he grinned and fisted the pillow. Her fleeting, stifled moans tangled him in knots, implored him to give her what they both burned for.

He flipped in her direction, his hand shooting under the sheet to grab hers. "Gotcha."

Eyes wide, she gaped at him in surprise. But adoration softened her expression as she entwined their fingers. "How long have you been awake?" she asked.

"Long enough."

He stretched to rewind the shades, the diaphanous curtains staying in place. Sunlight diffused over them, wrapped around her face, lent her disheveled hair a warm luster. He twirled a feathered lock and pecked her eyelids. "Finishing what you started on the subway, hm?"

"Me?" Y/N brought his knuckles to her mouth. "You're the one who came to bed without any underwear."

"Well, it was a late night." The pad of his thumb tugged at her bottom lip to reveal the pink tip of her tongue. He bent to claim it. "I was lucky to find my pajamas."

Chuckling, she broke their connection. "Did you have a good time?"

"Yeah. The cake was good. And the music. Everyone was nice."

"Patricia loved having you there. She thought you were very sweet." A pause as she mapped a dimple. "Matt said he'd upset you. Something stupid about breaking up?"

Vague shadows of discomfort flashed through Arthur, a frustration he'd mostly moved on from. He did his best to ignore it, waving her concern away. "Don't worry about it."

"He was just jealous, you know." Her nails ran along the small of his back. "He wants Laura to look at him the way I look at you."

Arthur had spent so much of his life yearning for change, to understand his purpose in the world and improve himself. The idea that a man with a good education, a successful career, and no disabilities could ever be jealous of him was, frankly, bizarre. But he didn't correct Y/N, instead locking her praise within his heart, preserving it for when he needed it most. He boosted himself on his forearm and fiddled with her V-neck, traced its button loops as he slipped the plastic knobs through them. "And how's that?'

A hint of scandal glimmered in her irises. She arched into him as he eased a strap down her upper arm to reveal her shapely breast, the lilac fabric momentarily catching on its taut peak. "Like I can't get enough of you."

He huffed at that, fondled her faintly before his lips met the velvety skin of her chest. A tonic comprised of the musk oil she'd dabbed on before the party and distinct sexual wanting wafted to his nostrils. He licked at her nipple, the bumps on her areola, and drew it between his teeth. She whined softly and lifted the bottom of her nightdress to her waist.

Hurriedly, he yanked on the waistband of her cotton panties, pushed them past her knees. She kicked them off while he knelt to lower his bottoms. Straddling her, he pumped himself back to hardness and opened the drawer of her nightstand. He searched haphazardly until he retrieved a small, glass bottle of lubricant. (She'd ordered it from a mail catalog, both of them a bit too bashful to walk into an adult shop, even together.)

She snagged it from him and poured half a teaspoon in her hand, then palmed herself. He moved between her legs and she grasped his length, coating him with the warm, slippery liquid. He pushed forward into her. Gradually, slowly, savoring every millimeter of her enticing heat. He noted the stretch of her mouth, the jut of her jaw, the lifting of her upper lip. "Mmm..." she breathed and begged him to keep going. When he did, her head tilted back into the pillow, eyelids falling shut. A smile cut across her cheeks as she purred her satisfaction. "Arthur, I love you."

His touch wandered down the curve of her thigh. At the sight of her subtle writhing beneath him, the sway of her slightly uneven breasts in time with his languid thrusts, he pushed her knee into the mattress, splayed her wider. He grunted lowly. "Look at me."

Their gazes met but didn't hold for long; hers dropped to where they were joined. She caressed right above his pubic bone. "I love seeing you like this." Her fingertips walked a line up his sternum to his chest. "And touching you like this." She wrapped her arms around his middle and drew him to her, locked their lips in a greedy kiss. "And making love like this."

He snorted. "I think this is the only reason you married me."

"Well, not the only reason. There's your good hair, too."

"I've been thinking about cutting it. Trying something new."

"Don't you dare." She tugged at his loose curls, wore her best pout. "What else would I hold onto when we're doing this?"

Laughing lightly, he bumped his nose to hers. Falling into her was like falling into his old fantasies, the ones that'd sustained him through years of isolation. Dates at diners, at comedy clubs, at donut shops, at home. Their shapes had changed as he'd matured, his role in them, his aspirations and infatuations. But they'd remained a warm comfort nonetheless, a place that felt like belonging. And now he belonged with her. Hunger filled him. Happiness. And love. So much love, more than he'd ever believed he'd carried in him. He bucked a little harder. "You feel so good," he murmured. "You make me feel so good."

A strained cry left her and her pelvis answered his steady rhythm with demands of its own. Her calves rose to squeeze him closer, encircle his narrow hips. They were pressed together so tightly; it felt like they were one flesh. He never wanted it to stop. But a dizzying euphoria had ignited, one that eclipsed the romantic yearnings of his heart, twisting his desire to last all morning into the desperate drive to possess her. Gasping, Arthur raised himself to his knees, delving deeper with each push. Their foreheads met and he grit his teeth at the scald of her, the texture of her walls. She fit as though she'd been made for him.

He supposed she was.

Pressure began in the base of him, building and building in terrific torment. The muscles of his inner thighs contracted inward. Tingling climbed his shaft, his tailbone, his spine. He wove his fingers into the sheet, his grip a vise that wrested its corner from the mattress. She kissed the spot where his jaw met his neck, all the while murmuring encouragements for him to let himself go.

Bliss shot through him, from the tips of his toes to the follicles on his scalp, and his back stiffened as he whimpered and poured into. Fever engulfed his frame, sublime in its frenzy, leaving him in a heady stupor. Aftershocks made him tremble. Once, twice. Until, sated and spent, he landed on top her. He closed his eyes, ribs rising and falling as he forced air into his lungs.

A minute later, he swallowed and looked down at her. "You didn't come."

She carded through his sweaty locks. "It's all righ-"

"Shh." He slid out of her and settled at her side, reached between her legs to swipe at her core. "I'm not done," he declared, tracing the edges of her entrance, slick and swollen. One of his favorite things about getting her off was demonstrating his prowess in bed, how well he'd learned with her. His thumb met her plump clitoral hood, and he felt her throb beneath his ministrations.

Nails biting his bicep, she rocked upwards. A bewitching blush crept up her breast, her neck, spread across her cheeks. Shallow pants hit his face, short puffs suffused with high-pitched whines, utterly irresistible. He circled her nub at a steady cadence, tapping when she'd shiver, and she clasped the back of his hand. He swirled his tongue around her nipple, sucked the pretty peak, and lowered the other strap of her nightgown to bare her completely. A hushed plea fell from her lips. "Please, please..."

Suddenly, her vulva grew white hot and she seized, her hips stuttering with each flutter of his touch to her folds. She thrusts her breasts towards him, a sharp moan caught in her throat. Liquid pooled against his fingers, proof of her rapture that made him wish, with mild amusement, that he could be an unmedicated young man again. He would've gladly taken her a second time.

Giggling and rubbing her temple, she released a long exhale and opened her eyes. He brushed her hair back and grinned, completely smitten, like the first time he'd heard a joke and understood the punchline. The light brown picture frame on his nightstand caught his attention, and he regarded the wallet size photo in it, one of the shots of Y/N from the booth at Amusement Mile. The last thing he looked at before turning in each night. He lay his head her shoulder and hummed, listened to the drum of her heart.

She smooched his hairline and wriggled out from beneath him to stand. Her nightie had been reduced to a crumpled stripe of lilac cinched about her waist. It felt tawdry and shameless and he wanted to see her in it for the rest of the weekend. But she peeled it down her legs, wrinkling her nose when it got stuck on her thighs, and stepped out of it one foot at a time. She dropped it on the floral bedspread and retrieved her bathrobe from the closet. "Meet you in the kitchen," she said, opening the door.

The sun had risen higher, its beams slanting across the covers. He basked in it, catlike, then swung his legs over the side of the bed. He pulled on his pajamas, got a new pair of socks from their dresser, and made his way to the kitchen. He washed off the remnants of Y/N's arousal from his fingers, popped open a prescription bottle and took a tablet. He poured water into the coffeemaker, grabbed the can of grounds from the second shelf, added three scoops to the paper filter. Their three-tone brown mugs sat in their spot next to the machine, waiting to be filled.

When the glass coffeepot was half full, Y/N emerged from the bathroom, chuckling to herself. She opened the breadbox on the opposite counter and took out a wax paper bag. "Do you have any idea how dull this morning would have been if we'd never met? I'd have read the Sunday paper, had a drink. Probably worked on a file." He handed her a couple dessert plates, watched her put a donut on each one. "I wonder where you'd be. What woman you'd have breakfast with, what jokes you'd be writing, what magic tricks you'd have learned."

"Um..." At first he wanted to ask where this speculation had come from, if Matt had let her in on exactly what he'd said. But the confident slant of her smirk told Arthur she was teasing. He tried to play along but winced. No matter how appealing, how extraordinary she found him, his gut told him there wouldn't have been another woman. There'd be no more stand-up routines, no more Carnival. He certainly wouldn't be taking care of Penny. He'd likely be locked up in the hospital, maybe even dead. Without an anchor, his life would have lost what little sense it had.

Y/N was one of his anchors now, hooked into the sand alongside his material, treatment, the ability to pay bills. He seized her hand and squeezed it tight, unaware he was squishing her fingers. "I don't wanna think about it," he said quietly.

She sidled up to him and pulled him to her side. Rubbed his flank soothingly and pecked the corner of his mouth. "Don't worry." She took his chin and guided him to look at her. The intimate comfort of her smile helped him believe her next words, even before she spoke them. "I'll always be here."

~~~~~

Tag list (Let me know if you want to be added!): @harmonioussolve @ithinkimaperson @sweet-nothings04 @stephieraptorr @rommies @fallenstarsabyss @gruffle1 @octopus-plasma @tsukiakarinobara @arthur-flecks-lovely-smile @another-day-in-chuckletown @hhandley80 @jokerownsmysoul @fakestreet @ralugraphics @iartsometimes

#arthur fleck #arthur fleck fanfic #arthur fleck smut #arthur fleck x reader #arthur fleck x female reader #arthur fleck x ofc #joker 2019 #watchwhathappens

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hammeredalcoholic · 3 years

Text

my only friend

kira yoshikage / reader ;

rating: mature, no 18+ content yet ; kira & reader are portrayed as 18 years old ; tension at the end of chapter

here is chapter 2! link to chapter 1. hope you guys enjoy this, i am falling back in love with writing this thing. cross posted to ao3.

here is a spotify playlist to go with this fic.

“you've been riding two wheelers all your life it's not like i'm asking to be your wife i wanna make you mine, but that's hard to say is this coming off in a cheesy way?”

The skies were covered in clouds, smoldering and dark, threatening to spill rain at any time. The air was chilly, causing goosebumps to line your arms and make the hairs on your neck stand up. Fall was just upon you, the summer months had passed within seconds it seemed. Not that you really cared-- autumn was beautiful, bringing colored trees and pretty sunsets.

Your shoes scuffed against the concrete you sat upon, your fingers barely holding onto a lit cigarette. You really ought to quit-- but the high of nicotine was just too much to give up. The taste of tobacco on your tongue was all you tried to focus on, but it was hard.

Hard when you sat outside of a dingy apartment, of a person you didn’t know, waiting for your companion to take their miserable life.

This was normal. You’d go a few days on the road, staying at whichever place you could, before Yoshikage started to feel the urges, as he called them. He had said it once before to you, and it was something that you hadn’t been able to quite let go.

“I just-- can’t help it,” His words were soft, and small. His hands were fidgeting in his lap, ghosting over the frayed edges of his baby blue sweater. “I can’t control myself when I get this way. It’s just that it’s in my nature to kill.”

Kira’s eyes were hidden behind his blond bangs, deep and dark and full of sorrow. He couldn’t help that he was this way, despite the fact that he wanted to live a quiet life. He didn’t want to be a bother on others, but it seemed like he had just dug himself in a hole.

Your mind jumped from that memory to another. The phone call. The one that changed your life drastically.

3:31 AM flashed on your alarm clock. The landline was ringing, practically jumping off your bedside table. Who the hell would need to call you right now? All of Morioh should be asleep-- your hand reached for it, gently picking it up off the receiver and holding it to your ear.

“Hello?”

A shaky voice was on the other end. Distant and gravely-- barely speaking above a whisper.

“D-Did I wake you up? I-I’m so sorry,” He sounded awful. Hiccups between every word, and you were positive he had been crying. “Yoshikage-- What happened? What’s going on?”

Yoshikage Kira had never sounded like this. He sounded so broken-- like a glass vase shattered across a concrete floor. There was a small hiccup, and a breathy sigh on the other end. “I made-- I made a big mistake. I need your help.”

A big mistake? What the hell did that mean?

“Can you please meet me at Reimi Sugimoto’s house? You know where that is right?” He sounded even more desperate with each passing second. Yes, you did know where she lived-- it was on your walking path to and from school everyday. It should only take you about 5 minutes to get there, if you booked it.

“Yes, yes, okay. I’ll be there soon. Whatever you do, don’t run away.” With those words being said, the line was cut off. Quickly, and being as quiet as possible, you got some pants and a sweatshirt on, stuffing a pillow under your blankets to make it seem like you were still sleeping. Thinking semi-clearly, you grabbed a backpack and put some extra clothes and your trusted pocket knife inside.

Slinging the bag over your shoulders, you grabbed your keys from your desk and slipped out of your room. This wasn’t the first time you had snuck out, so you knew each creak and cranny in the wooden stairs leading to the main entrance of your house. As quickly as you could, you slipped out of the house without a sound.

You quickly bolted to your car that was slightly down the street, thanking your past self for the distance. Your parents wouldn’t hear the car start, or you driving off to save your friend. Hopping in and starting the engine up, you quickly left in the direction of the Sugimoto residence.

Screams were faint in your ears.

Deciding that another cigarette was inevitable, you quickly pulled it out of the pack and lit it. You could have waited in the car, but-- you didn’t want Yoshikage to get hurt. You wanted to be there for him until the very end, so there you sat, against the grimy brick wall, feeling all sorts of out of place.

You let your mind drift again.

Driving well over the speed limit, you made it there in less than 3 minutes. From the outside of the house, it didn’t look like much had happened. The lawn was normal, the house the same as when you had driven past yesterday. That was until you noticed him-- a figure, clad in a pale blue sweater, sitting on the front steps of the building.

His hands, covered in his sleeves, were pressed firmly against his face. If it hadn’t been in the middle of the night, you would have been able to make out the bright red stains that coated his clothes. Quickly pulling the car to the side of the road, you got out without a second guess.

Quickly rushing up to the boy, you stopped only feet away from him.

“Yoshi… What-- What happened?” Blood. Blood on his sleeves-- his pants-- his hair. Fuck, his face was even coated in it. His hands dropped from his face, and he looked up at you with wide, cold-dead eyes. They were bright red and puffy, telling that he was sobbing his eyes out only moments previously.

“I-- I made a mistake.” Kira’s voice was only a whisper. If you hadn’t been listening, you would have thought it to be the midnight wind. “What mistake?” You pressed, stepping closer to the seated boy.

“I-- I,” Yoshikage stuttered, before tears lined his eyes. “I killed them.” He spoke so softly, before looking at his blood stained hands. “I killed them.” He stated, louder, looking up at you again. “I killed her parents. Her dog. And then-- her.” His voice was shaking, tears now freely flowing down his cheeks. “I don’t-- I don’t know what to do.”

You stared at him in disbelief. He-- Yoshikage Kira, the boy that grew up with you, silent but friendly, playing with only you throughout elementary, hanging out with you during middle school and high school-- your best friend. He had killed someone. Not someone, multiple people.

Fist shaking at your sides, chills running up your spine, sweat practically dripping from your temple.

You had a choice to make.

Leave him, let him get caught-- probably executed. Or--

“I’ll help you. Let’s go.”

You’ve never seen Kira’s eyes light up like that before. Bright blue, even in the pale moonlight. They were so blue, you swore you could have gotten lost in them. That’s your favorite part of the memory, thinking back on the relief he must have felt. It sent warmth through your body, butterflies floating in your stomach.

You knew, despite how much you question your own motives now and again, you wouldn’t be able to leave Kira. He’s been a staple in your life, much like you must have been to him. Why would he ask you for help if that wasn’t the case?

The skies had grown dark as you were reminiscent, and your stomach growling had alerted you that it might not be a bad idea to get some food. Glancing at the door to the apartment, you briefly wondered if Yoshikage would even notice if you left. But, then again, he might be hungry too. You weighed your options, and decided it would be best to just ask him.

Getting up to your feet, you flicked the butt of your cigarette over the railing of the complex. Your feet tingled with sleep, and your fists clenched as you stared at the awful wooden door. Your mind ran a million miles an hour, going through several thoughts about what he could possibly be doing behind that wretched piece of wood.

Just as you were about to knock on the door, it opened.

Kira stood there, eyes wide when he noticed you standing in front of him. He was absolutely drenched in blood-- his sweater was stained, khakis barely recognizable. His face and hair were also decently covered. His eyes quickly darted to his ruined chucks, and he spoke very softly.

“I-- I’m done.”

You let out a quick sigh of relief, and decided not to question him. “Well if that’s the case, how about we go get some food and find a place to clean you up?” Kira didn’t say anything, just nodded. With that, you both left the apartment complex.

As the night went on, you both decided that getting some fast food and trying to find a laundromat was in order. You were rather thankful for the dark, as the person who took your measly ones at the burger joint didn’t even bat an eye at your companion’s appearance.

Luckily, there was a laundromat just down the street. Pulling up and parking in the vacant lot, you both got out your burgers and ate in relative silence.

After downing your food in what felt like 3 bites, you looked over at your friend. He didn’t look like he was thinking about much-- his hands were steady, eyes somewhat glossed over from the food, and completely ignoring the fact that he was still very much covered in blood.

“Do you feel better?” The words felt almost foreign on your tongue, despite feeling like you asked him this every single time. Kira looked over at you, swallowing the bite he was chewing before responding. “Yeah. I do,” He rolled up the remaining half of his sandwich in the wrapper, putting it back in the bag. “But I would like to clean up my clothes.”

You snorted, grabbing your drink from the console and taking a few gulps. “I’m sure you would. It looks like it’s fairly empty in there, so I’m sure we’ll be fine.” You glanced at the clock in your car, and the bright red numbers informed you that it was well past midnight at this point. Kira must have noticed it too, and he began to get out of the vehicle.

Doing the same, you pulled the bag of quarters you keep in the console out and stuffed them in your pocket. You followed Yoshikage inside, quickly turning and locking your car before entering the building.

The place was very much run down-- old washing machines lined the dirty walls. Neon lights glimmered from outside, casting weird shadows across the floor. Kira kept walking to the back of the building, deciding to use the machines that were farthest from the windows. You followed him absentmindedly, hoping up on one of the machines and pulling out your little sack of change.

Yoshikage’s eyes glanced at your before they went down to his feet, and he quickly shrugged off his baby blue sweater. You swore that thing had been through its life cycle already-- ever since he got it at the beginning of high school, it seemed to be the only article of clothing he wore. He threw it into the washing machine next to you, his hands going back up to unbutton his undershirt.

At that point, you found it hard not to stare.

Yoshikage Kira may have been your best friend from preschool to now, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t attractive. Bright blonde curls and icy blue eyes-- along with a jawline that could surely cut glass.

The coins in your hand quickly became your second priority, as your eyes lingered on each inch of skin he revealed. This wasn’t even your first time seeing him semi-nude-- he sleeps in the same bed as you most nights. But this-- this was different.

Soon enough his button up was shrugged off and tossed in the washer, and you quickly averted your eyes to the coins you held in your palm. You were playing a very dangerous game, and you weren’t sure what Kira would do if he caught you looking at him like a piece of meat.

As you tried to count the quarters that were needed for the machine to run, you heard your companion’s shoes be kicked off. Then, the sound of a button and fly being undone made your cheeks heat up within seconds. Your mind was doing mental backflips, going back and forth between looking, and keeping your eyes down.

From the corner of your eyes, you saw his soiled khakis drop around his ankles, and he carefully stepped out of them, throwing them in the machine.

“Hey. I need a dollar and twenty-five cents to start it.” His words practically made you jump, and you held out your palm with the money he needed. Kira easily noticed how flustered you were, and let his fingers linger in yours while he took the coins. Soon enough, the machine roared to life, and you heard Kira take a seat next to you.

Swallowing your pride, you decided it wasn’t worth avoiding his gaze, so you looked over at him.

His skin was almost glowing in the awful lighting of the building, collar bones prominent and his muscles were exceptionally toned. You felt your eyes linger on his hips, almost tracing the V shape that dipped into his boxer briefs. As soon as you realized what you were doing, your eyes immediately went up to meet his own.

They had grown dark, silver pools watching your every move. A small smirk had formed on his lips, and you almost had to bite your lip from making any sort of noise.

Your mind screamed at you to look away. Stop staring at him and just look at literally anything else.

But then, something else happened that made your world turn upside down.

Did he fucking wink?

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dazedbypark · 3 years

Text

Sceneries At Dawn | kth

Pairing : Taehyung × Reader

Genre : strangers! au, slight fluff, kind of comforting

Summary : At the time of dawn, when the sun had not yet risen and the night still was finding its way towards morning, you met him.

Warnings : None, except bad writing.

Word Count : 873

Song Companions : Scenery by V, Scenery (piano version) by Paintamelody (I myself wrote it while listening to the piano version)

Author's Note : This is my first ever drabble so I'm nervous as hell. Please do provide feedback, whether bad or good. It'll be a great help for me. A huge shoutout to @ggukseoulcafe for taking so much efforts to make this beautiful banner for me🌻 Thank you, love🤍

To all those are reading this, please enjoy! (i really hope you do enjoy it *laughs nervously)

═════════════════════

Dawn.

It was the time when the birds chirped, quietly raising their wings to fly away. It was the time when tiny droplets of water found themselves perched upon the smooth leaves of grass. It was the time when the sky was swirled with the ink of colours of the night and the morning sky. It was the time when the night slowly but surely found its way towards morning. It was the time of the day you loved.

You were walking the grey streets by yourself, wearing your favourite brown trench coat. The usually busy and bustling streets were emptied of the crowds. They were almost still. The sun was still hiding somewhere, but some of its rays still found their way into the sky.

You had walked a long distance. The city now was left far behind you; bathing itself in the colours of dawn. You wish you had a camera to capture it all. But even that wouldn't do the justice it should to the beauty of this world. It looked beautiful; especially on days like these.

That's when the cold breeze swept in, making you shiver a little. Your hands sneaked into the pockets of your trench coat. The warmth still wasn't enough. But it was okay, because you liked the cold of this time of the year. The time when summer was still dabbling into the cold and colours of autumn.

Finally having reached your destination, you smiled. It was a park; stretching far and wide. Long lanes stood between trees swaying with the colours of this season. The dawn sky peeked at you from spaces between, perhaps smiling in the form of rays of light that cast a glow on this park.

As beautiful and calming as the walk had been, you still were tired from it. So you walked towards one of the granite benches that lay in the shade of the trees.

And that's when you noticed him.

With one squinted eye behind the camera and one on display in all its honey-brown glory for you to gape on. His long, slender fingers pressed on the button of the camera, clicking a photo of the scenery that you walked into and disturbed. A smile took hold of his otherwise intimidating features as he gazed at the clicked photo.

"That was a perfect shot. I hadn't clicked one in a while," he said, his deep voice rumbling through the emptiness of the park. The ghost of a smile could be seen on his sharp features, his intense brown eyes on you.

"I thought I had ruined it," you said, confused as to how you could make a shot better. But who knew?

"No, no. Definitely not. It's beautiful. I'm Kim Taehyung, by the way."

"I'm L/n Y/n. Just Y/n is fine by me."

"So, Y/n. Do you love parks or do you love dawn?" he said, his eyes looking into yours.

"Considering the fact that I'm in the park at dawn, I guess both? I just find the world to be so much more prettier at dawn. The world is stiller. Slower."

He only continued to gaze at you. There was something about him that was so different. Perhaps, it was the dawn playing tricks on your eyes, but he really was the most beautiful person you had seen. And strikingly so. Like a perfectly sculpted piece of art. And maybe because he was wearing a brown trench coat that was similar to yours, he had stolen your interest as well.

He wore an expression of pure curiosity as he gazed at you, almost lost. And with every word he spoke, the warmth that had been absent in your hands was slowly being filled; even though you were both standing at a huge distance from each other.

"Isn't today a good day?" You turned to look up at the sky.

"Yes, it is. A particularly good day, in fact."

"Are you aware of the fact that you're really intimidating?"

That caught him off guard. His eyes widened as he turned to look at you and broke into a laugh.

It echoed in the park, engulfing you into the sound of his deep laughter. It was the prettiest sound you had ever heard.

"I am aware. But no one usually remarks on that," he took a step towards you, still smiling.

"Is that bad news or good news?" You, too, started to walk towards him; the distance between you two gradually decreasing.

"Probably good."

You were in front of each other now. You stopped and smiled. The sun had risen up into the sky and the time of dawn had flown fleetingly by; hard to catch in the palm of your tiny hands no matter how hard you tried. Reality knocked on your door, reminding that you had work to do; a life to return to. That this exchange was going to end soon; turning into a tattered old memory.

"Taehyung?"

"Hmm?" He hadn't moved his eyes away from you. They were still watching every movement of yours.

"I have to leave soon. But before that, can we meet again?" you asked him, breath held in.

"Yes, of course. As soon as possible," he said, flashing his boxy smile at you.

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#taehyung × reader #taehyung fanfic #taehyung fic #taehyung #bts fanfic #bts fic #bts × reader #bts scenarios #taehyung scenarios #bts imagines #scenery #btsv #tae fic #bts v x reader #taehyung au #bts au fanfic #bts aus #bts au

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