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#he is weary. and this ain't no place for the weary kind
gaytedlasso · 2 years
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baptized in blood,
it drips from my nose
with no absolution.
what if it was easy?
Dean Winchester - patron saint of the weary
~
for my beloved Sana @sobernatural celebrating 2k
prompt: young Dean
inprnt / redbubble
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elysiumarchieve · 1 year
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Got any Scara sleeping / cuddling headcanons? ♡
sleeping scara is a blessing honestly
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scaramouche sleeping/cuddling headcanons
warnings: scaramouche's past, angsty fluff?? it's mostly fluff but it's scaramouche what do you expect at this point
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✧ scaramouche does not have a decent sleeping schedule
✧ in fact, being a puppet formerly created to hold onto a gnosis, i don't think he actually requires sleep in the same way that normal humans do - it was something that already bothered him during his time as the nameless eccentric wanderer
✧ unlike all other humans, he did not feel sleepy or tired in the same way they did. emotionally drained, yes, and there was also this dull aching in his chest, but no signs of weariness
✧ however, closing his eyes nowadays brings back memories he would rather like to forget and bury in a dark place within his mind, memories that remind him of how cruel betrayal was and how much he despised everyone
✧ and considering that he was seemingly tossed aside by his own creator for crying in his sleep, he even hates sleeping, so have fun trying to get him to rest his eyes
✧ scaramouche refuses to sleep nor to rest near you. he doesn't require it, so why should he lay down? is he supposed to bore himself to sleep for eight hours straight?
✧ if you sleep, that's completely fine with him. you're human and it's only natural for your weak body to rest - otherwise you might end up suffering even more from your lack of sleep (and he doesn't need to have a tired and groggy s/o tagging along)
✧ the rare moments in which you'll ever keep a glimpse of how he presumably could look like while he's asleep is when you wake up in the middle of the night
✧ with one arm around your shoulder and gently holding you close to him, you can't even feel a muscle move or a single sound from him - at first you might even believe he's actually dead because he doesn't even breathe (does he even need to breathe is a legitimate question at this point)
✧ in case you're lucky enough you might even have to chance to glance up at his face to see how his face actually looks relaxed
✧ his eyes are closed and his eyebrows aren't knitted together as when he's talking to anyone below his value
✧ it almost feels unreal to see him like this, calm and not snapping at people who bother him; especially since most of the time, you'd find him staring into nowhere particular and he'd call that 'resting'
✧ you have no idea what he dreams of and neither would he ever tell you. his dreams aren't worth mentioning and besides, why do you even believe the balladeer of all people dreams?
✧ you might catch his eyebrows move a little before his eyes just violently snap open and he's back from 'resting his eyes' for five minutes. he almost looks,, sad? there's a look in his eyes that whatever he just saw were things he actually wishes to leave behind
✧ if he catches you staring at him, he'll ignore you and simply tell you to stop gawking at him. if you managed to remain undetected however, you can practically feel how his hand around your arms tightens a little - not to hurt you but to actually feel that you're right next to him
✧ scaramouche doesn't really 'cuddle'. he doesn't see the necessity for it and thus deems it as unnecessary for him. but if his s/o wishes to cuddle him to go to sleep, he'll probably groan but do it anyways
✧ cuddling with him is kind of,,, complicated. he's stiff, doesn't really know where to put his hands and in the end, he'll only complain about it which makes this entire thing even worse
✧ he genuinely has no patience for any of this and he thinks it's below him to learn how to 'cuddle' with you. however, since it's you, he'll try (while complaining and groaning about the entire ordeal)
✧ while he's somewhat stiff, he tries copying what you do to him - but he's completely silent while doing it which makes it somewhat uncomfortable. in a way, you two look absolutely ridiculous
✧ if you happen to fall asleep on him, congrats, he ain't having it. what if he needs to move and you lay right on top of him? he can't have that
✧ however, what is rather sweet of him is that he wouldn't simply push you off of him - if you fell asleep on him he'd try waking you first. if that fails, he'll do his best to get you off almost too carefully before putting you in your bed and leaving you there while he goes about what scaramouche does in his free time
✧ scaramouche, however, never thought however how comforting it was to just lay there and feel the steady beating of your heart when he holds you, and just listen to it - no thinking, no tragic memories crossing his mind, just the besting of your heart and your gentle snores if you had fallen asleep
✧ in fact, it's enough to make even him drowsy enough and help him close his eyes even for a few minutes (hours?). when his eyes usually open again it's bright outside and he curses you for cursing him in such a cruel manner (what if you disappear or betray him? is he getting weaker again?)
✧ actually, he doesn't even understand how you manage to fall asleep with him, but he always makes sure to remind you that you look stupid in your sleep (you don't)
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qveerthe0ry · 13 days
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Lions Ain't the Kind - Part Three
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Summary: You and Frankie talk about your feelings. And also bang. Word Count: 3,053 (it's short but porn with the tiniest bit of plot) Pairing: Frankie Morales x NB/Gender-fluid! AFAB! Reader Rating: 18+ Explicit Warnings: 18+ mdni, subby!Frankie, soft dom!reader, talks about narcotics anonymous, amab terminology for afab genitalia, kissing, making out, p in v intercourse, frottage, dirty talk, Frankie has a praise kink, no use of y/n, no physical descriptions of reader A/N: As always, thank you to @for-a-longlongtime and @perotovar for beta reading and motivating me ilysm
Maybe it’s a little reckless, you think. It’s a Thursday night, and Frankie’s at your place for the fifth night in a row. 
Sunday and Monday he left when you both were yawning into the wee hours. Tuesday, he fell asleep on your shoulder as you watched a movie on cable, and you had to kiss his sweet little sleeping face until he woke to send him on his way. 
Wednesday, he came over later than the days prior, after his weekly community event. He opened up to you about what that meant, his weekly NA meeting, and showed you his one and two year chip, preciously tucked away in his wallet. He told you about how he’s nearly halfway to getting his third, and thinks he wants to become a sponsor soon. 
He goaded you to ask him questions you may have, answered them patiently, and thanked you for listening. He looked tired, that night. He wore a long day of work, a bit of anxiety, and the challenging conversation all in the dark circles under his eyes and his slumped shoulders. 
So you took him to bed for the first time, made him a warm mug of tea as he weakly protested, and settled your favorite weighted blanket on top of him. You let some satisfying YouTube compilation play at low volume, dimmed the lights, and snuggled into him while he sipped the chamomile with sugar. 
When he’d finished, you let him rest his heavy head on your chest and close his eyes. 
“Can I sleep over tonight?”
His voice was small and weary and you couldn’t possibly say no to him. So you set an alarm for him, turned off the bedside lamp, and slept. 
And now it’s Thursday, and even though you woke up with him and showered with him and kissed him goodbye before you both went to work, you still crave the feeling of being near him. 
Actually, you’re fully convinced that you’ve never felt so good in your life than you do right now, lazing in bed with bellies full of pizza and your head resting on Frankie’s solid chest. 
It’s raining, as it has been pretty much all day. The kind of gloomy that begs you to go home and snuggle up with someone. You want to pretend like that’s the reason you’ve yearned for Frankie all day long, but you’d only be lying to yourself. 
The TV is on, but it’s long been abandoned. You breathe together as you both watch the rain through the small slits in your bedroom blinds. 
Easy. 
Always so easy. You’re content to just enjoy the feeling of being this close to him, listening to the storm and the soft breaths. 
But there’s a bit of a heated energy between you. You can feel it in the way his half-hard cock twitches against your thigh, the way his hand slinks lower and lower with each pass he makes across your back. 
You can’t mask your reaction either, the way your breathing hitches every time his fingertips graze the bare skin between your hoodie and your briefs. Humidity builds quickly between your thighs, and feeling his strong one pressed against your cock has it throbbing in no time, has you arching into him for more. 
“Hard for me, guapo?” 
His whisper tickles your forehead, and you crane your neck to look up at him and nod. 
“Can I get you off?” 
You nod again, drowsiness and arousal clouding your brain a bit too much to conjure up words. He coos at you as he presses his thigh harder against your package. Your nails sink into the bare skin of his chest where you’ve snaked your hand under his t-shirt, and it makes him gasp and curse. 
“What can I do? What do you want? I’ll give you anything.”
Jesus. 
Your cock pulses at his eagerness to submit to and serve you. You sense he feels it, because he rolls his thigh into you again. You huff and pull your hand out from under his shirt so you can grip his shoulder, then wrap your hand around the back of his neck to pull his lips to yours. 
His groan mixes with your own, and his hips buck up to find relief against your thigh, too. You fucking love this. You love it so much your entire chest swells with it. Lazy and turned on, exhilarated but tired, and so so comfortable here. You’re in your pajamas, and Frankie’s in a borrowed pair of yours, and you press and roll against each other like a dance you’ve practiced millions of times. 
You shift to straddle him properly, and his hands find your hips, to guide you or to ground himself, you can’t be sure. His dick presses against yours and you gasp, and his teeth sink into your bottom lip. 
“Shit, can you take these off?” 
You slip two fingers under the elastic of your shorts that sit snug against his hips and he nods quickly. 
You work to get yours off yourself as he shimmies his down his legs and before he can even kick them off you’re spitting into your palm to wrap it around his heavy, warm prick. 
His eyelids flutter closed at the feeling and he goes lax into the mattress under him. You make quick work of slicking him up before you lower yourself back down. He hisses as you slide your cock against his, grinding into his frenulum, and for a moment you’re worried that he’s too sensitive. 
The anxiety falls when his hands press you against him harder, and his hips buck up, and he lets out a sweet groan. You rock your hips, reveling in the wet friction of your cocks sliding together, the tips of them kissing before every retreating roll. You bend down to kiss him, open-mouthed and uncoordinated. The rough bumps of his taste buds against your own make you shiver, make you thrust your hips a little faster. 
And his noises. He’s so fucking vocal, it makes you even more wet, that much more turned-on and desperate for him. You match them, unable to hold back the raw desire that’s overwhelmed you in such a short amount of time. 
His prick twitches deliciously as it slides back and forth through your folds, and you start to roll your hips even further, to feel the head of it press against your soaking entrance. 
You aren’t always so into penetration. You have to be in a certain mood, and you have to really want it. 
But right now, as you feel him catch on your rim, and the accompanying gasp when Frankie feels it too… Well, you really fucking want it. 
You bite down on his plump bottom lip maybe a bit too hard, and he hisses as you pull away. 
“Fuck, Frankie,” you pant, “can I— Can I put it inside?” 
You watch him squeeze his eyes shut, and feel his hips jerk at the question, and hear his whimper cut off as he replies.
“Yes, anything. Take anything from me. I want it.”
His babbling eggs you on, and you tilt your hips and lean back enough to let his cock press into you. You watch his chest rise and fall rapidly as you sink down onto him, so easily with how turned on and soaking wet you are. 
He fills you perfectly. Your nails bite into his skin with how fucking good it feels to clench around him. 
“You— Oh god.”
His eyes are squeezed shut, and his grip on your hips is bruising.
“Okay?”
“Too fucking good, you feel amazing,” he pants.
You lift yourself up and begin to ride him, watching with heavy lids as he writhes under you. You work together beautifully, meeting each other halfway. The angle has him grinding into the perfect fucking spot, and you know you won’t last long. You can tell he won’t either by the way his eyebrows are pinched together in an effort to hang on. 
“Touch me,” you breathe, spreading your thighs wider. 
You watch as Frankie’s big, brown eyes open and gaze up at you, then down the arched line of your body, to where he’s pressed deep inside of you. 
His hand twitches on your hip, and you realize you haven’t really done this with him yet. But it’s okay. You’ll show him, you want to show him. And more than just to get off, but because you want him to know you, every part. 
You take one of his hands into your own. His eyes follow them both where you bring them to your mouth. You suck on his thumb first, and watch his eyelashes flutter as he grinds out a ‘fuck me’ through his teeth. You repeat with his index finger, and let the sloppy job you’ve done leave a thin string of spit between him and your mouth. 
He squeezes your hip with his free hand as you guide his other down, past your heaving chest and your belly, to rest on the hairs on your mound. You hear his breath hitch, and it makes you smile, and then you coax him to take your cock between his thumb and forefinger. 
You whimper as he squeezes experimentally, and then you move his hand to start stroking you. 
“Like this?” He asks, eyes so wide as he looks up at you. 
“Just like that. Please don’t stop.” 
He nods and continues to jerk you off, and you finally start moving again, your knees screaming as they lift you up and back down on his cock. You feel it jerking inside you, so heavy and thick. You cry out when you find the perfect angle, and you grind and bounce on him like that until your ears ring and your vision goes fuzzy and you’re coming around him. 
He cries out too, nails nearly breaking skin as he feels you squeeze him and as your dick pulses over and over again between his fingers. You both watch it, the way it throbs in his grip, and the creamy white droplets that leak out of you around his prick. 
You pull his hand away when it’s too much, but you keep riding him. He quickly sits up on his elbows, grabs one of your hips with his big hand. 
“Gonna— Ah, fuck. Gonna come. Tell me where,” he pants. 
“In me, fill me. Want you to,” you say, equally out of breath. 
He keens, whining as he buries his face in the sweaty skin of your neck. He’s supporting himself with just one hand now, the other wraps around your waist as he fucks up into you. You hold his head steady against you, fingers tangled in his hair as his cock pounds into the sensitive nerves inside you.
You’re both a heap of a mess, sounds of your pleasure and your bodies colliding and the bed creaking all mixed together. You feel it when he releases, in the way his dick jumps and twitches inside you and the way his grip on your waist tightens and the way his teeth sink into your skin. 
“Fuck,” he breathes, “Jesus. Shit.” 
You giggle, chuffed with yourself, but also at the way his breath tickles your goosebumped skin. His lips and tongue soothe the nasty bruise he left fairly high up on your neck. You tug on his hair to get him to look up at you.
He always looks so goddamn gorgeous after he comes. So relaxed, hazy, eyes dark and glassy. You press your lips to his and feel him go lax against you as he lets out a big breath. 
“Guapo,” he mumbles low against your lips, “so fucking perfect.”
His voice is all slurred and low and it rumbles your own chest where it’s pressed up against his. You hum your agreement and rest your foreheads together. 
For a moment you just rest there like that, listening to your breaths even back out again, and the accompanying rain against your window panes. His hands draw soothing patterns on your lower back, and you can’t stop running your fingers through his slightly damp curls. 
Whe Frankie goes soft enough to slip out of you, you regretfully have to stumble off to the bathroom. You stare in the mirror a bit too long, eyeing the love bite you will DEFINITELY have to pull out your makeup bag for in the morning. But you also notice your exerted face, the sweat that lingers on your skin, and most of all, the smile that you cannot get to go away. 
When you come back to the bedroom with a towel, Frankie seems to be having a similar problem. 
All cleaned up, you crawl back under the covers with him, coax him to roll over so you can hold him from behind and rest your hand over his heart. 
“Gonna start charging you for rent, Pretty Boy.”
He chuckles, wiggling his ass back into you. 
“Surely there’s some other way I could repay you.” 
It shocks a huffed laugh out of you, and you move to grab his hip and dig your fingertips into the warm flesh. 
“Would you like that, Francisco?”
It still delights you, how tangible his reaction is when you say his full name. This time, you get to see the goosebumps break out on the back of his neck. You press your tongue against them, then your teeth, and chuckle when his response is stilted. 
“Yeah– yes. Fuck.”
You get a wicked feeling that curls around your gut, hot and sticky, almost whiplash to be right back here again so shortly after such an intense orgasm. 
Your hand moves to his thigh, where you toy with the hem of your shorts. 
“You want me to fuck you, Pretty Boy?”
He arches into your touch, encourages you to reach higher. He’s forgone his underwear, you discover, as you stroke the skin just under his asscheek. He shivers as you tease him, cuts off a noise high in the back of his throat to respond. 
“I do,” he whispers.
You grab his hip once more, grinding into him, finding the juncture of his neck with your mouth and suckling before you speak against it. 
“Shit, Frankie. Gonna be my pillow princess? Let me have my way with your cute little ass?”
He yelps when you bite the thin skin behind his earlobe, but his back just arches even more to press back into you. 
“I can’t– I can’t go again right now.”
You huff at that, and smile against the curls at his nape, pinch his asscheek once for good measure. 
“That’s okay. We have time, right?”
He turns in your hold and finds your lips with his own in an instant. Bruising, his mouth is insistent against yours, while his hand scrabbles for purchase on your hoodie. You’re both short of breath, once again, when he pulls away. 
“I really, really think that you’re good for me.” 
It sets your heart racing. It’s not something anyone’s ever said to you. It’s not something you thought was ever really possible, to actually add value to someone’s experience. Not someone worth being with, anyway. 
“I know you’re good for me,” you whisper. 
“Don’t let me fuck this up. I fuck this kinda thing up, usually. Don’t let me. Yell at me, tie me down, call my mother on me, but don’t… just don’t let me fuck this up for myself.”
You kiss the crown of his head. 
“You like being yelled at and tied down, then?”
That gets a real laugh out of him, startled and bubbly, and you squirm under him as he pinches at your sides. 
As the laughter dies down, you watch the wrinkles at the edge of his eyes settle, and even reach up to swipe your thumb across them. 
“You know I wanna show you off, right?”
You nod, an instinct, nothing more. 
“Guapo. I mean it. You’re so… You’re totally out of my league, I wanna brag about it to everyone.” 
“What makes you think I’m out of your league, you crazy, crazy man?” 
Your hand finds his curls again, playfully scraping your knuckles across his scalp. 
“You’re the entire fucking package, you’re sweet and gorgeous, smart, successful, so kind. Everything I’ve always wanted. I want everyone to know I have that. It’s silly, I know, but I feel so… smug about it.” 
You laugh, but it’s broken and breathy. 
“You think you feel smug.” 
“Aw, c’mon. I’m just some guy.” 
“You’re my guy.” 
“Fuck, say that again.”
His hand finds your hip and squeezes, and you bite your lip to hide the satisfaction in your smile. 
“You’re my guy, Frankie.” 
His eyes lose their mischievous glint. They soften, and his bottom lip quivers as he sucks in a deep breath. 
“You mean that? You– You want me… like that?”
Your hand settles at the back of his head to cradle it, and you press a kiss to his heated cheek, then his nose, then his forehead. 
“Sweet boy, of course I do. I want you in every way you’ll let me have you.” 
A little breath hiccups out of him and his face splits into a pearly white grin. 
“Like… as your boyfriend?”
You roll your eyes at him then, but match his smile tooth for tooth. 
“Yes, Pretty Boy. As my boyfriend.”
He lets out a happy sigh, and you feel his fingers fidget with the hem of your hoodie.
“Guapo… What do you want me to call you?” 
You hum, and press your lips to his, so soft and supple and malleable against your own. 
“Partner…” you mumble against him, “better half.”
“That one’s very true,” he jokes into your kiss. 
“Dearest… lover.”
“You’re gonna make me hard again,” he says, low, a warning into your own mouth. 
“Is that such a crime?” 
“You’re gonna send me to an early grave, so, in the long run it is.” 
You laugh, full and deep, lips pressed to his cheek. 
“My dearest,” he says, pressing a kiss to your own cheek, “my partner,” a kiss to your forehead, “my lover,” a kiss against your lips, languid and drawn out, until you’re arching against him and tangling yourself in him. 
“Yours.”
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flxwerydreams · 6 days
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I think I like you (I hope you do too)
Lily Evans x Fem!Reader
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a/n: first fic!!! pls be kind :) the title is from your text by sundial.
c/w: die joke, swearing. (lmk if i missed something)
You stared at the man with undisguised incredulity. “800 pounds? Are you kidding me? I thought we agreed on 500?” Trevor - or perhaps Troy rolled his eyes at you derisively. He probably thought he was being subtle - that stupid prick.
“It's just how it is, Miss. Moving stuff inside the 'ouse? Well, that's gonna cost you a bit extra, innit? Wouldn't want you gettin' in over your 'ead now, would we?" he jeered at you. His twin, Trevor, you identified from his tag, snickered stupidly at that. The universe was really testing your patience today. 
"Seriously? It would've been decent to tell me upfront that moving stuff indoors meant extra charges. This is ridiculous." Trevor turned to you then, all six feet of him tensed and towering over you. "Miss, it ain't on us. You got a problem with it, you take it up with the higher ups. Give us our dosh, we've got other bits to be getting on with." With a sigh you handed over the cash, regretting the choice of passing on your friends’ offers to help you with the move. 
With another sigh, you turned back to the big mess in front of you, your hands resting on your hips, visibly expressing the exhaustion you were already feeling. This had seemed like such an exciting idea at first, having your own space all to yourself. The independence and freedom that you had anticipated was certainly there and you were definitely feeling it now. Having to arrange all this furniture by yourself …… very exciting. 
You let out a third sigh and felt the weariness seep into your bones. This was going to be a very long day. You took a step toward the covered couch - ready to begin settling into this new place, which would hopefully become your home. 
Suddenly, you were ambushed by a lasso which was thrown at your legs with murderous intent. The lasso then purred and you died ….. due to the lasso’s cuteness. “Hello, kitty! Oh, you’re so precious”, you cooed. The cat (not lasso) meowed up at you, rubbing against your shins. “What’s your name, buddy?” you murmured softly, picking it up and settling it in your arms. The only response you received was another meow, and a curious paw on your face. Noticing your open door, you walked towards it, all the while, gently scratching the cat behind its ears. “You seem like such a distinguished member of the society. Oh, is that where you came from?” you wondered to yourself, noticing another open door down the hallway. “And you’re my new neighbour too, it’s so sweet of you to welcome me like that, kitty.” you giggled, shutting your door carefully.  “Let's get you back to your owner, shall we?” You walked up to the threshold of your neighbour’s house and knocked on the open door. 
Just then, ‘Kitty’, as you had begun to call the cat in your head, jumped down from your arms and ran inside — towards the kitchen, you assumed. Standing on your neighbour’s doorstep awkwardly with no apparent reason was definitely not on your agenda for the day but before you could say or do anything, a figure emerged from said kitchen, you assumed again. Following that, your heart skipped around five or at least two beats. 
Standing in front of you was probably the most gorgeous woman you had ever seen. Her red curls were tied up in a top bun and there was a smudge of flour across her left cheek. And she was saying something — to you. “— hall?” She asked, with a curious gaze fixed on you. 
“Huh? Sorry — I didn’t hear that, I was - I was thinking something else, sorry” you felt heat rise to your cheeks.
 At this, a teasing smile spread on her lips. She replied with a playful lilt to her tone "I said, I hope Crookshanks didn't give you any grief, darlin', and I was wonderin' if you're the new neighbour down the hall." 
“Oh yes, I am.’’ you replied hurriedly. “I’m in 403. Which you probably already know, cus' of all the noise.” Then you registered her previous statement. “Oh, wait — his name is Crookshanks? That’s such a cute name! How old is he?” 
“He’s four!” she replied eagerly. “He’s Himalayan. And I’m Lily Evans. What’s your name, love?” she asked, walking up to you. 
It was so hard not to stare at her — she was radiant, and you realised with a start that your palms were sweaty as hell. Quickly wiping them on the back of your thighs, you extended your right hand forward as you told her your name — mostly so that you would have something to do with them, but also because she was just so pretty. Although you didn’t want to be a creep, her hands looked so soft. You realised too late that they also looked dusty. The apologetic smile on her face just made you want to cringe even more. 
"I'm terribly sorry. I was actually just whipping up some cookie dough for your welcome biscuits. Seems I've spoiled the surprise, haven't I? But I do hope you're rather fond of chocolate chip! It's one of my specialties, you know." she winked. 
In your opinion, if you fainted, at that moment, it would be completely valid. The little nicknames, the supposed flirting (you hoped), and that wink? It was a surprise you were still standing straight. It took you a few seconds to find your voice again. “Oh, you didn’t have to, you know? But also thanks a lot. Crookshanks and his owner both definitely know how to give a warm welcome.” That was brave. And also slightly lame, in your opinion. But it seemed to have its desired effect or so you thought, judging by the slight twinkle in Lily’s eyes. Her body language shifted. She leaned in a bit closer and hummed playfully. "Looks like I owe thanks to my mate for leaving the door ajar as he left. Annoying as bloody hell, but it seems to have finally come in handy." 
You quirked a smile at that, hoping her close proximity didn’t mean she could feel the heat emanating off of your face. “Looks like you do, I guess. Anyway, I should get going. I’ve still got a shit ton of stuff to do and not enough time. I’ll see you — and Crookshanks, later though?” Judging by the way her smile seemed to soften around the edges, she definitely caught the hopeful tone at the end of your sentence. “Yes, you will. Fancy joining me for dinner tonight? I'm not exactly a master chef, but I reckon the gas ain't sorted yet at your place, love.” this time, her tone was quieter and she was looking directly into your eyes with a small smile. You shifted your weight to the other leg and looked to the floor, considering it. Was this a date? You desperately wanted it to be, but what if something went wrong? Then you would have to live next to her with that and it would be awkward as hell. Looking back up at her, you saw that she was waiting patiently for you to respond, and you decided to give it a shot. What will happen, will happen, right? 
“Sure.” you replied, hoping your voice didn’t betray the conflict you had felt. “I’d love that.” She smiled brightly and clapped her hands together, leading to a small cloud of flour enveloping the both of you. At that she grinned sheepishly and whispered “Sorry.” Guess you weren’t the only nervous one, after all."I'll see you after you're done with work, love. Just give me a shout, yeah? I’ll be waitin’." 
And with that, you left for your own flat, and the big mess that awaited you. You knew the nerves of the date — was it? — would power you to get through a majority of the work. A giddy smile on your face, you began with the Herculean tasks.
And if the exhaustion of the day seemed like a good excuse to sit a bit too close to each other on Lily’s couch while watching Brooklyn Nine-Nine after eating slightly overcooked pasta, who were you to object to that?
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i hope you enjoyed it! leave a comment :) special thanks to @mxssingmemories for being an absolute angel 💖
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Tw; blood, periods. GN!reader, Eddie x reader in an established background relationship (focus is on Wayne and you; stand in parental figure/you're close with him).
You can ask Uncle Wayne for help with anything.
Anything.
Especially if it's something you're embarrassed to ask for help dealing with.
Like saaaay.... Getting "caught out" by your period because you literally woke up in a pool of your own blood. That's always an... Experience™️.
You're in the bathroom staring down at yourself. There's blood smeared between your thighs aaaaall the way down to your knees, you're sore in places you only feel once a month, your pyjama trousers are wrecked, your sheets are destroyed, and there's so much blood and you've just woken up and you have no idea what to do. You're just staring at yourself, mind somehow racing yet almost still in your panic.
There's a walkie kept in the bathroom for emergencies just like this, but it's embarrassing. Eddie is out, you're alone with Uncle Wayne, what the hell can you do? There's no way you can ask for help. Not for something like this. What did you do last time? Well, last time you had Eddie nearby to help you. This time, you're all alone. Though Uncle Wayne is out there, so maybe you could ask...
Your breath catches and just as you reach for the walkie, desperate for some help, there's a knock at the door, just two light taps with a knuckle. "You okay in there, kid?"
Wayne's voice makes you want to cry and you bite back on it.
"Uhh, yeah I'm okay. Just... In a bit of a situation. Not sure what to do." You trail off, shakily sitting back down on the toilet.
A weighted pause as Wayne considers whether he wants to press for details or not. "A bit?" He'll give you help if you say you want it (either with those words or if you elaborate) or he'll leave you to it if he gets that impression from your tone. Even through the locked and closed bathroom door, Wayne knows you.
"My, uh..." You shake your head, "period came early and there's blood everywhere and I don't know what to do." Tears make your voice thicker than you're comfortable showing in front of Wayne. But you're still partially asleep, your mind is blank, and you just need someone to tell you what to do.
Another pause. "Just on you or, uh... Bedsheets? Saw Eddie's bed's striped. I know that ain't my boy's doin'."
Only the Munsons can make you laugh through tears.
"Both." You swipe a hand across your face, starting to wake up now.
"Tell you what, sweetheart," Wayne's voice through the door is still slightly muffled but it's also practically your lifeline in this moment, "you clean yourself up, get that mess done first, and then you hand me them sheets. I'll take care of 'em."
Now you're the one pausing. "Uhh..." You nod, remember Wayne can't see you, and call out an "okay!" You think you say thank you. You hope you do, but you're too busy running some water to wash yourself down. Wayne wanders away from the door to give you some privacy and comes back when he hears the bathroom door crack and then swing open, revealing your tearstained face and Wayne's world weary yet kind one. "The sheets, I... The - the mess, is - I'll buy you new ones."
You wince, embarrassed about this whole thing, and yet again, Wayne steps up for a loved one. "You think our Eddie cleans his own stained sheets? That's embarrassing, sweetpea," Wayne chuckles lightly and makes a 'gimme' motion for your soiled bedsheets. You hand them over, making sure all the blood is folded inside so Wayne doesn't get anything on him, and that's that. He washes them, puts them in, and later on when he's at work, you dry them and put them back on Eddie's bed. The stains all came out... You had worried for nothing, which was usual for you. You hadn't yet learned that worrying only meant you suffered twice.
Eddie never had to know about it. But you told him anyway, and Wayne waved your gratitude away with a smile. For family, there's nothing he wouldn't do.
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always-andromeda · 7 months
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·˚ ༘₊· ͟͟͞͞꒰➳ 𝐋'𝐀𝐏𝐏𝐄𝐋 𝐃𝐔 𝐕𝐈𝐃𝐄
𝐃𝐀𝐘 𝐓𝐇𝐑𝐄𝐄 𝐨𝐟 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐇𝐀𝐔𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐃 𝐇𝐎𝐄𝐃𝐎𝐖𝐍
𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 ✯ Jeff (Gone Girl) x Fem!Reader
𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 ✯ 3197
𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐦𝐩𝐭 ✯ “Tell me you want me back. Tell me I'm forgiven.” + the toxic exes trope
𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫'𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞 ✯ listen, I know this dirtbag had probably a whopping four minutes of screen time in Gone Girl but it's Boyd and I love a good scruffy Boyd character. I'm weak for greasy men, sue me (please don't I would never financially recover).
𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 ✯ smut (minors, do not interact), vaginal sex, slight overstimulation, mentions of jail, alcohol, and cigarettes, pet names (princess, honey, girl), Jeff is lowkey super manipulative and kind of gaslight-y lmao (please understand that this is fiction and I do not condone that kind of behavior in real life), sliiiight mentions of pregnancy lmao, that's all I can think of! let me know if I need to add more!
(mdni banner template credit goes to @cafekitsune!!)
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Absentmindedly you watched your neighbor Darlene's television. With a thin layer of static warping the picture, you were hardly motivated to follow the plot of the true crime show that played out. So when Darlene spoke from her place on the other side of her couch, it caught your attention quickly.
“You hear Jeff's back in town?” she asked thickly as she took a puff from her cigarette.
Though she was hardly one for pulling your leg, you held your breath and answered wearily, "You're joking, right?"
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Darlene simply laughed snidely before answering, "Folks are already sayin' he got let out on good behavior."
"Bullshit," you spoke through your teeth.
"Amen, sister." Then she added with a nod in your direction, "What the hell are you gonna do when he comes sniffin' around again?"
"He should know better than that by now."
"But he doesn't. He's a fuckin' idiot. You should know that better by now," Darlene shot you a look that was meant to be patronizing.
You rolled your eyes and insisted, "He ain't gettin' any more of my time than he's already gotten. If he knows what's good for him, he'll give it up."
"We're talking about the man who robbed the same liquor store three times? Same motherfucker, right?"
You snorted, "I never said he's the sharpest tool in the shed..."
"That's a fuckin' understatement. Honey, the Lord poured his brains in with a teaspoon and somebody joggled his arm."
Now that made you double over with laughter. But obviously Darlene didn't find her joke nearly as funny as you did. Because once you recovered, getting out the last of your wheezes and catching your breath, she moved her cigarette from one hand to the other and laid the free one over your knee.
Her touch was firm, the seriousness of the situation saturating her tone. She knew better than anyone in the park how Jeff had stomped on your soul over and over again. She'd been there for the sleepless nights when your entire being was wracked with sobs and shakes over him. He wouldn't talk to you. He cheated again. He ran off. Going to jail for petty theft was your last straw. 
You were only a handful of months removed from the day you vowed to Darlene that you weren't calling or sending him letters anymore. And she knew just as well as you that it was for your own good that you didn't underestimate his gravitational pull.
"Don't let him in, honey," she spoke softly. "He's just gonna to break your heart again."
With the smoke from her cigarette wafting above your heads and your eyes already starting to water, you blinked quickly and nodded even faster. Darlene removed her hand and went back to staring at the television screen. You tried your best to shake her words off, to forget that weary look in her eye that said she didn't quite believe your conviction.
So you cleared your throat and fiddled with your fingers before awkwardly declaring, "You should get Travis to straighten out your antennae. Can hardly see that John Walsh through the static." And you zoned out as Darlene grumbled about how she'd asked that husband of hers to fix it ages ago.
You tried not to give a shit about what Darlene thought about you or Jeff. He wasn't good, no. But she didn't know him like you did. Nobody did. Not even Jeff himself.
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It was three days after that when Jeff showed up. And you tried to ignore it, you really did. The second you peeked out your kitchen window and caught a glimpse of his beat up Ford pickup pulling into your driveway you rushed around the trailer drawing the curtains quickly before sitting cross legged on your couch and lowering the volume on your television.
Your hand shook around the remote. He'd pound on the door and you'd chew on the inside of your cheek just hoping he'd take the goddamn hint.
"C'mon, darlin'. I know you're in there. Keith told me you had today off," came his voice calling from the other side of your trailer door. You couldn't ignore that. He would never let you ignore it.
Throwing the remote aside, you stormed towards the door and opened it. As soon as he was presented with an entrance, Jeff was eager to use it, forcing his way in and attaching his lips to your neck.
For a split second you leaned into it and let him get the chance to really sink his teeth in. And fuck, it felt fantastic to have him near you again. It was the painful burn of moonshine and the comforting warmth that flooded your chest afterwards. And you had to quit before he got the chance to destroy you again.
You pushed him away, glad that the first sound he heard from you is one of disgust instead of a moan.
Jeff chuckled lowly, "Well, nice to see you too, princess."
You returned the once over that he gave you. You didn't even know what you were searching for. He'd hardly changed. The smell of cigarette smoke on him was only slightly masked by cheap soap and a bit of his musk. And that damn sleeveless denim button-up exposed a little too much of his chest for your liking. Not only that but it showed off his broad shoulders and toned arms. They're marked with tattoos that you'd once memorized the lines of. The sight of them now made your throat ache with some sort of nostalgia.
"What are you doing here?" you managed to ask.
Jeff stared back at you with a strange expression. "To see you. Why else would I be here?" Then, with open arms he added, "I'm home. Ain't that good enough?"
You shook your head and scoffed, "No, absolutely not. This isn't your home–"
"Since when did you kick me out?"
"Since you got yourself thrown in jail, Jeff. Since I stopped talking to you. Since right now, where I'm telling you that we aren't together anymore."
To your surprise, Jeff merely clicked his tongue and shook his head before looking back up at you with those baby blue eyes that were always primed to get exactly what they wanted out of you. "You know, you've always been good at workin' yourself up over nothin'. Somethin' tells me you're just confused. And once I get you back in that bedroom, I'll straighten you out. How's that sound?"
You wanted to be angry. Hell, you wanted to scream and pound on his chest until he finally got the message that you didn't need him anymore. Darlene's concern surfaced in your mind. But the growing hum between your legs was louder than any sort of rationality that Darlene could've inspired within you. And bigger than that...his words hit harder than you thought they would and he knew it.
He smiles slyly before encroaching your personal space again. "C'mon, princess, tell me you want me back. Tell me I'm forgiven. And I'll take care of you again, just like I always do," his breath is warm against your lips and his grip on your hips steady like an anchor. He keeps you from swaying too much. Because you feel like you could faint at the promise of intimacy with him again.
You missed it. You weren't afraid to admit it to yourself. You missed him.
You missed sharing cigarettes in the bed of his truck as you both stared up at the stars. You missed him stealing kisses (and other, more devious touches) when your manager wasn't looking as you waited tables. You missed waking up in the morning. The momentary panic as you'd feel around for him behind you. Then the flood of relief when you'd feel his solid body; when you'd feel him stir and pull you back into his arms. As much as you hated the sound of it, you missed feeling like you belonged with him. You missed that unwarranted pride that used to swell in your chest knowing that no matter how much trouble he'd get himself into, he'd always come crawling back home to you.
That was the thing that made you fold. The thought that made you kiss him softly and murmur, "I forgive you."
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It didn't stay soft; things rarely did when they involved Jeff. His fingers dug into your thighs greedily but made their way to your backside as you straddled him. It was so easy to fall into the pattern you'd once had with him. Whether it was in his truck, the back alley of a bar, the bathroom at your work, or the bedroom you'd once shared with him, Jeff was always the same. Always equal parts cocky but needy.
He'd keep you firmly in place on your lap and roll his hips, sending a shock wave directly to your core that made you squirm for more friction.
"You gettin' frustrated already, girl? You can't be patient for me?"
Then the next breath he'd take was closer to a gasp as you nipped and licked at his Adam's apple. The taste of his skin was lace with the salt of sweat and the burn of bourbon with none of the sweetness. Maybe that's what you liked most about being with him. He was infuriating, yes. But he was straight forward. He didn't try to hide all of his awfulness from you. And part of you wondered if he only allowed you to see it because you accepted it.
Either way, it was worth it. It was worth the heartbreak to hear the sound of him groaning while you worked him up.
"Says the man who jumped my bones the second he got home," you giggled.
"What can I say? I missed ya'."
"I think you missed something in particular about me more than anything else," you eyed him teasingly.
Adorned with that southern charm, he reproached you, "Oh, princess. I missed all of you. Missed those eyes, that smile..." he trailed off with a suggestive look, " how those pretty lips–"
You smacked his shoulder before he could finish the thought.
Jeff only laughed then continued, "But, yes, if you're really dyin' to hear it. I think I missed that pussy of yours terribly. Missed stretchin' it out and hearin' you scream. Missed makin' it all wet. I think she was prettiest like that. All puffy and beggin' to be filled."
Every word fell from his lips low and slow like honey. And it only served to glue up your insides and make your head heavy with the weight over overwhelming arousal.
"Aww," Jeff pulled back your bottom lip lamely with his thumb before letting it snap back in place; just another sign of how thoroughly you were wrapped around his finger. "Look at how worked up my girl is. So dumb and she hasn't even been fucked yet. You're adorable, princess. How about we get you out of those clothes, hm?"
You nodded quickly. Jeff tapped your ass and you were on your feet, working to shed your too tight jeans and the shirt that was rubbing uncomfortably at your hardened nipples. It wasn't a graceful display, but Jeff wasn't making an effort either as he leaned back slightly and unbuckled his belt before swiftly pulling himself out.
You'd forgotten how enticing his cock was to look at. He wasn't the biggest or the thickest you'd ever seen, but that didn't matter. What made sparks erupt inside of you was that slight curve. You knew just how that groove felt when it was inside of you and nothing excited you more than when you were back on his lap.
Taking a hold of his length, you slowed when Jeff hissed sharply. "Gotta be gentle on me now, alright? Been almost a year since I've had you and I'm not bustin' a load before I can make you come, you hear me?"
Once again, you nodded. And Jeff smirked, pleased at your compliance.
Lining him up and lowering down, you both breathed in deeply once you were slotted together again. Judging by the way he squeezed his eyes shut and gripped your thighs, you knew he was right at home buried inside you again.
With a sob at the edge of his tone and his forehead pressed against yours, he whispered, "Fuck, I missed you so much, honey." It was so soft that you doubted he'd repeat the admission.
And you figured right. Not even seconds after you got the feeling that he was simply enjoying your presence, Jeff was moving your hips, slightly thrusting into you. You matched his pace, bouncing on the balls of your feet and grabbing his shoulders for support on the lumpy mattress.
That mattress had been witness to many fucks. But this one was probably your favorite of them all with the way Jeff was breathing deeply and pressing the occasional messy kiss to your swollen lips. And before too long, Jeff took over almost entirely as he quickened the pace.
"Thought you wanted to go slow?" you whimpered. "I'm not quite there yet, Jeff, I–"
"Then hurry up, I'm gettin' close." Nearly out of breath, he moaned, "Fuuuuck, I need it. I need to come inside you, princess. Need to fill you up. Need you to be mine."
This was a side of him you'd only seen a few times before. The sloppiness of his ruts and his solid hold on your body; he was desperate. And he only ever got like that when he was worried he was losing you. He'd fuck you like it was the last time he'd be able to. Like he was dedicating every last sensation from your smell to your sound to your touch to his mind.
As much as it worried you, you were adamant to reach your own high. You reached down and began to quickly circle your clit with a deft hand. All those nights without him...you'd gotten real good at getting yourself to the edge on your own.
"That's it, baby, touch yourself for me. Make a mess on me," Jeff begged.
At this point, he was thrusting so deep that the curve of his cock was brushing right at the sensitive, spongy bit deep inside of you. The place that made you throw your head back with a strangled cry as the invisible electricity of your climax overpowered your being. Jeff followed soon after, his spend painting your walls as they fluttered weakly. With a few more weak ruts as he was emptying out the last of himself inside, you were whimpering from the overstimulation.
But Jeff had never been merciful. "C'mon, baby, you can take it. I've got ya," he mumbled. When you pressed your face into his shoulder, he held you by the nape of your neck and kept you in place until he was satisfied.
After he finally let you go, you rose on shaky legs to retreat to your bathroom for cleanup. But you lose yourself looking in the mirror. You caught the thin sheen of sweat covering your skin and the goosebumps that were now erupting over it in the cool bathroom. You were a tangled up mess. And all you had to show for it was messy hair, the remnants of your mascara smeared under your eyes, and a dull soreness between your legs. He'd fucked you so well that if he went back to jail the next day, you were sure you'd be satiated until the next time he came back. You tried not to linger on the thought for too long.
You flicked off the bathroom light and padded back into the bedroom where Jeff laid, arms folded behind his head lazily on his pillow. Settling down beside him carefully, Jeff was quick to pull you towards him. For a few seconds there was quiet. Just the sound of crickets and country music playing faintly from a radio from some other trailer.
"You're still mine, right?" he asked out of nowhere.
Your body and your mind spent, you were exhausted. Your eyelids threatened to give up on you any second. And you barely heard what he'd said. But this configuration was familiar enough that you let out a weak hum before nuzzling closer into his side, figuring it was a satisfactory response.
You'd never know if it was though. Because the last piece of Jeff you'd get before falling asleep was the feeling of his lips leaving a chaste kiss on your forehead.
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Nearly two months went by. You hadn't heard from him. Because of course you hadn't. You'd simply woken up the morning after he came back home, felt around the bed behind you for a few seconds only to be met with nothing. The sheets on his side were still warm. Like he'd slipped away just for a second. But for all you knew he was halfway across the country with a different woman of the hour, dreaming up new methods to rob tourists. Frankly, you didn't care.
There were no tears left for you to shed. Just that thunderous guilt that made you feel so stupid for falling for his bullshit all over again. But you couldn't even chastise yourself for the lapse in judgment for too long. There was something far more pressing on your mind.
Your period was late. And it was almost comical. You weren't stupid. You didn't need to waste the money on a pregnancy test. You could put two and two together yourself. Unfortunately, two and two added up to a pregnancy you were already attempting to ignore.
However, it wouldn't let you. Every single night you laid a hand over your stomach as if it were old enough to kick. If you were quiet and still enough, you could convince yourself that you felt it thrumming with life as it floated in amniotic fluid. It had only existed for a few weeks and already it was taking on the dread-inducing nagging of its father. 
It scared the shit out of you; scared you more than Jeff ever had. But it was in the darkness of the night when you felt Jeff's absence most that you heard the call of the void. You envisioned a future with this baby where neither of you had to be afraid of him.
Instead, there were summer barbecues at the trailer park, you and Darlene sipping cold ones while your baby played in the grass. There were trips to the laundromat down the street, you holding your baby up so they could count out the change to put in the machine. There were tearful first days of school and homework scattered on your coffee table. You'd work late some nights and you wouldn't always be able to afford the newest toys and clothes. But you'd do your best. And you'd love them.
You'd love them the way that Jeff could never love anything. You'd do it all on your own if you had to. So, as you stood on the edge of the cliff, you decided you'd take the plunge.
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cha-melodius · 1 month
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Aaaaaaah congrats on 100 fics! I’m so excited that you’re doing this! Can I request Lokius in a western/cowboy setting?
(You were a prophet when you sent this back in August, Old West Lokius is quite the in vogue thing now lol. I hope you enjoy!)
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Ain't No Place for a Better Man
(3k, M; read it below or on AO3)
They’ve had easier jobs, that’s for damned sure.
Protecting an entire train of stagecoaches was always going to be a strain on his crew, especially through this territory. They’re good, but they’re not that good. Mobius should have insisted that the client cough up the money to bring on another couple of folks, but they’d been reluctant and Mobius hadn’t wanted to risk the job going to someone else. And really, against most bandits, they’d probably have been fine.
They weren’t up against most bandits, though.
Mobius flips a blood-streaked silver dollar at the barkeep and collects a bottle of whiskey and four glasses in return without a single word exchanged. His crew is damn-near legendary in these parts; people vacate ‘their’ table when they enter the saloon, tip their hats when they pass on the road, and generally treat them with the kind of wary respect they’ve worked hard to cultivate. Mobius’ crew may be nominally ‘good’ guys, but a hard world makes hard people, especially ones who are hired to protect what passes for civilization out west.
Verity grunts in appreciation when he deposits the glasses on the table and sloshes a generous helping of whiskey in each one. Wincing a little as he leans forward, Mobius pushes two across to the others then settles back into the rickety chair. He tosses his hat on the table and kicks his feet up next to it, crossing them at the ankles and ignoring the dirty looks from the barkeep. The burn of cheap whiskey flows down his throat and spreads out in his chest, dulling the ache of what’s probably a bruised rib. 
“How do you think he found out they were moving the gold?” Casey asks, fidgeting with his glass. Twitchy guy, but surprisingly good with a rifle. He’d been riding with the trailing coach on the job and had caught the butt end of a pistol to the face when they’d been boarded, which is now darkening to a mottled purple across his cheekbone. Hadn’t gotten shot, though, which was a small blessing.
“How does he always? He’s got his ways,” Mobius returns with a shrug. “Weren’t one of us.”
“Obviously,” Verity snorts. “Slippery bastard has his fingers in plenty of pies, and people are easily bought. What I don’t get is how no one has managed to shoot him off his horse yet.”
Mobius snorts. “You’re the marksman, Ver. You tell me.”
“Swear he’s goddamn magic. One of them spirits. No one should be able to dodge all those bullets.”
“I assure you, he’s just a man.”
“And how exactly do you know, Mobius?” Verity counters, a too-shrewd look on her face.
Mobius blinks at her slowly and takes another sip of his drink. “Didya forget how I got this?” he asks, tugging aside the collar of his shirt to reveal an ugly scar twisting just under his collarbone. “He was flesh and blood when he drove that dagger into me.”
She looks chastened, but not completely convinced. “Could be he takes human form sometimes,” she mutters into her drink. 
“I heard of spirits like that,” Casey puts in. “One of the girls at the Mariposa was tellin’ me about this guy who comes in—”
“Enough,” Mobius says. His voice isn’t particularly loud or sharp, but everyone falls silent nonetheless. “You tell these stories, you let him get in your head. He ain’t a spirit, or a witch, or whatever else has been said about ‘im. Bleeds as red as the rest of us. Now,” he says, swinging his legs off the table and throwing back the rest of his whiskey, “I’m beat. And I’m takin’ this with me.” He grabs the bottle of whiskey off the table, ignoring their protests, and tugs his hat back on before he turns and walks away.
His steps are onerous as he climbs the stairs leading to the rooms over the saloon, heavy with a deep weariness he can’t seem to shake off these days. He’s getting too old for this shit, that’s for certain, but there’s something else weighing him down that he’d rather forget about in the bottom of this whiskey bottle tonight. He takes another swig as he kicks open the door to his usual room, only to find it already occupied.
The black-clad figure is little more than a lump, sitting hunched over in a chair next to the a small table with his hat pulled down low so that the broad brim of it hides his face from view. He doesn’t react when Mobius enters—unconscious or dead or just uninterested in the newcomer is difficult to say. Mobius’ hand is on his pistol before he knows he’s moving, even as something familiar twinges in his mind at the shape of the man’s shoulders.
“Think you’re in the wrong room, buddy,” he says evenly. “This one’s spoken for.”
The man looks up, a curtain of dark hair falling back from his face, and his lips twist into a wry smile. “I’m exactly where I intend to be, in fact.”
“Shit,” Mobius swears, his hand falling away from his gun as he takes another long swig from the bottle. Kicking the door shut behind him, he pulls his hat off and tosses it onto one of the bed posts. “You know they’re all downstairs, right? This is the last goddamn place you should be.”
“Didn’t have much choice in the matter.”
“What are you doing here, Loki?” Mobius sighs.
“I can’t want to see you?” Loki asks, trying for flippant and falling short by a mile.
As Mobius draws closer, he can see that Loki’s even paler than usual—which is really saying something—and he’s still hunched over, clutching his shoulder. Mobius reaches out and gently takes hold of Loki’s slender wrist, tugging his hand away and sucking in a breath when it comes away covered in red.
“You took a bullet today.”
“Astute observation,” Loki returns dryly. “I fear that Verity of yours is going to shoot me dead one day.”
Mobius squeezes his eyes shut and takes a deep breath, forcing his hand not to tremble. “She’d like that.”
“And you, Mobius?”
“Don’t you dare ask me that, Loki.”
Loki bows his head again, and Mobius turns away before he accidentally says something powerfully stupid. He steps out into the hallway and flags down a maid for a basin, a rag, and some clean water—well, clean as it gets, anyway—then returns to dig through the saddlebag slung over the foot rail of the bed for the sewing kit within, the one that’s mended more flesh than fabric. He leaves it on the table next to Loki along with the whiskey and goes to fetch the basin and water at the sound of a light knock on the door. The legs of the other chair grate loudly against the rough wooden floor as he pulls it around in front of Loki and settles into it, close enough that their knees are knocking together where they’re interleaved.
The silence stretches out between them, somehow heavy with unspoken words and comfortable all at once, even as Loki flinches when Mobius pushes his jacket off his shoulders, even as Mobius’ fingers find a familiar path in the buttons of his shirt, even as Mobius takes another swig of the whiskey before passing it to Loki. A subtle shine to the fabric of his black shirt is the only visible trace of blood on it, but when Mobius carefully peels it away from the wound, the bright red staining his pale skin tells another story. The disturbance brings a fresh surge of blood oozing to the surface, and Mobius pretends that he doesn’t notice Loki trembling under his hands.
He works with movements far gentler than most people would think him capable of, and the water in the basin steadily darkens as he cleans around the wound. Even though Mobius’ attention is focused on his work, he can tell Loki is watching him raptly the entire time, his eyes fixed on Mobius’ face, until Mobius pulls out the long forceps he keeps in the kit just for this purpose. Only then does his trepidation show on his face, the knowledge of what’s coming only too familiar at this point. Mobius shoves the whiskey bottle at him again, and Loki dutifully drinks before handing it back. The muscle of his jaw jumps when Mobius pours a glug of the alcohol over the wound, but his stoicism is put to the test under the assault of the forceps. Loki inhales sharply and turns his face to the ceiling when Mobius goes digging for the bullet, as if that might hide the tears welling in his eyes.
Fortunately, the bullet comes out easily along with the bit of shirt that it pulled in with it. The unassuming hunk of lead clinks dully when Mobius drops it into the basin, the sound of it a bleak reminder of how close he’d come to losing Loki entirely. Another few inches…
Mobius shoves the thought out of his head. He can’t let his mind travel down those roads, not when he needs his hands steady to finish this hellish task. One thing at a time, one stitch at a time, until the hole in Loki’s shoulder is finally closed and Mobius lets out a breath he hadn’t known he’d been holding. He rinses his own hands, then dampens the rag again and carefully takes Loki’s, gently wiping the now-dried blood from his skin as best as he can manage.
Loki’s head is bowed when he finishes, and Mobius reaches out with both hands to cup the sides of his face. His expression is impassive, but dried tears streak his cheeks, leaving pale tracks through the dirt and grime, and Mobius can’t help but rub his thumb through them in an ineffectual attempt at wiping them away.
“You’re all right, sweetheart,” he says, barely more than a murmur. He lets one corner of his mouth tug upward. “Gonna take more than that to take out the legendary Loki Odinson.”
Something fractures in Loki’s expression. “Mobius—”
“Shhh,” Mobius hushes, pressing a thumb to his lips.
Then he pulls his thumb away, leans closer, and presses their lips together instead.
It’s chaste at first, the barest brush of contact, but a moment later Loki is gasping into it, almost a sob, and his hands come up to curl desperately in Mobius’ shirt. He deepens the kiss hungrily, his teeth tugging at Mobius’ lips and tongue licking into his mouth, until the angle becomes untenable and he’s climbing into Mobius’ lap instead.
“Loki, you can’t—” Mobius protests, but can’t is not a concept that Loki is well-versed in, and he’s swallowing down the rest before Mobius can put voice to it.
He kisses Mobius like a drowning man in the desert slaking his thirst with Mobius’ lips, sinking his good hand into grey locks to pull them ever closer together. Mobius’ hands find the narrow dip of his waist without really meaning to, only that he could never resist that spot, the way Loki’s wiry muscles flex under his grip, the soft smoothness of his skin under hard calloused palms. His own shirt long discarded, Loki sets to work on Mobius’ instead, and despite the way his cock is definitely taking an interest, Mobius stills Loki’s hands with one of his own.
“I just sewed you up,” he scolds, a frown settling into his features.
Loki has the audacity to look annoyed. “And now I’m fine, can we move along—”
“You gotta take care of yourself.”
“Mm, not in my nature,” Loki says bluntly, leaning for another kiss before Mobius can reply. “That’s why I’m here,” he murmurs against Mobius’ lips, “because I know you’ll take care of me.”
“Loki,” Mobius exhales on a shuddery breath, squeezing his eyes closed against the emotions threatening to choke him.
A moment later, Loki’s forehead contacts his, and he brushes their noses together. “Please, Mobius,” he whispers into the narrow space between them. “I could have died today—”
“I know,” Mobius grinds out.
“—so I need you to fuck me until both you and I forget about it.”
Mobius can’t deny it’s an appealing prospect. “But your shoulder—”
“You’ll be careful,” Loki cuts him off. His lips twist wryly. “You’re always careful with me, even when you shouldn’t be.”
For two people who are constantly at odds, Mobius has always been terrible at saying no to him. He doesn’t manage it now, either. “Alright,” he surrenders, his hands already sliding over Loki’s back, lingering in the dip of his spine. “Alright.”
It’s not easy, between Loki’s shoulder and Mobius’ own injuries, but Mobius takes his time. He presses endless kisses to Loki’s skin, perfect in its imperfection, marred by countless scars inflicted over the years. Some by Mobius’ own hand; more by his crew, including the starburst that will form at his shoulder, no matter how neatly Mobius stitches it closed. If Mobius had his way, he’d never gain another one.
In this, Mobius knows he’s destined to be disappointed. Instead, he focuses making sure the pleasure overwhelms the pain, in treasuring every moment like it might be the last. He works Loki open with endless care—well, Loki wasn’t wrong—sinks into the impossible heat of him, rolls their bodies together as Loki urges him on, chasing the moments where they are just this. Not opponents, not adversaries, but two men seeking comfort in each other’s arms, finding what solace they can in a hard world.
In the aftermath, Loki tucks himself against Mobius’ side, pillowing his head on his shoulder, leaving no trace of space between their bodies. He’s unusually quiet, and Mobius doesn’t know if it’s just the trials of the day or something else weighing on him.
Loki’s hand moves idly over his chest, eventually finding the very scar under the collarbone Mobius had showed off earlier that evening. “Do you remember this day?” he asks, trailing a finger over the gnarled flesh.
“Are you asking if I remember the day you stabbed me in the chest?” Mobius returns incredulously.
Loki shrugs. “You’ve had closer calls.”
“Not from someone I love.”
Loki’s hand stills, not unexpectedly. It’s not the first time Mobius has said it, but he doesn’t deploy it often. It tends to make Loki… skittish.
“You didn’t know me back then,” Loki says eventually as he spreads his palm out over Mobius’ heart.
“I know you coulda killed me, but you didn’t.”
“I fear you’ve always made me soft, Mobius,” Loki murmurs, like a confession pressed against his skin.
“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
“It is in this life.”
“Don’t have to be,” Mobius says. “Not all the time, anyway.”
That, apparently, was a step too far. Or maybe this was always going to be the end of their limited time tonight. Loki doesn’t reply for a long moment, letting the statement hang in the air, then his hand curls into a loose fist.
“I should go before anyone finds out I’m here,” he says. He sits up, swinging his legs over the side of the bed, and grips the edge of the mattress tightly. “I’ve already lingered too long.”
“You don’t have to run,” Mobius tries.
Loki laughs, without a single goddamn trace of humor in it, as he stands and grabs his trousers off the floor, tugging them on and doing up the buttons. “It’s not that simple.”
“It could be,” Mobius insists. He sits up, scrubbing a hand through his hair. “I have contacts. People in the marshal’s office, they could get you a deal—”
“And what makes you think I want a deal?” Loki snaps, though a second later his shoulders sag. “I appreciate that you’re willing to stick your neck out for me. I do. But just because you’re on the side of law and order doesn’t mean you’re in the right.” He bends down snag his shirt off the floor, wincing as he tugs the bloodstained garment on. “How do you think your employer got all that gold, hm? It certainly wasn’t by asking nicely.”
This is not the first time they’ve had a similar argument. 
“Don’t know. Don’t care. The law says it’s his,” Mobius answers with a shrug. “You expect me to believe you’re stealin’ out of some kind of highfalutin moral righteousness?”
Loki flashes him a wicked smile as his long fingers fasten his shirt. “Of course not. I’m stealing it because I want it. Which I’m fairly certain is also true of the man who’s paying you.” Once he’s finished with the buttons, he crosses back over to the bed and stands between Mobius’ legs, lifting a hand to the corner of Mobius’ jaw as he stares down at him. “You and I, we’re not all that different, in the end.”
Mobius slides his hands under the loose tails of his shirt until his palms find warm skin again. “In that case, if I asked you, again, to come join me…”
“I’m sorry, darling,” Loki murmurs, bending down to press a lingering kiss to his lips. “I can’t. Not— not yet.”
“I’m never gonna stop asking, you know,” Mobius tells him.
A melancholy smile tips onto Loki’s lips. “You’d break my heart if you did.”
That, right there, is why Mobius will never be strong enough to end this. It’s the hope that kills you, so they say.
“When will I see you again?” he asks instead.
“When’s your next job?” Loki jokes. Or not. It might not be a joke.
“Not funny,” Mobius huffs. 
“I’ll find you,” Loki tells him, then quickly adds, “not during a job, all right? I’ll always find you.”
It shouldn’t be so comforting. Nothing is certain in this life—especially not for men like them—and yet this, he’s come to rely on. “Take care of yourself, sweetheart.”
“All right,” Loki promises. “just for you.”
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puppypopcornpizza · 6 months
Text
Nicholas
Warnings ➳ death, descriptions of violence
Pairing ➳ Daryl Dixon x F!reader
Word Count ➳ 457
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The screams scratched at her brain, replaying a scene she thought only possible in horror movies. Snarling and tearing, the utter fear in his eyes that burned into her. She couldn't imagine how Glenn was feeling. 
"Nicholas!" 
"Stop."
"Don't let go." 
Her limbs ached at movement, legs shaking as she moved to the porch. She felt the panic build in her chest but it never came, crying seemed impossible. 
"Hey." Rick's boot came up next to her, all his weight onto his knee. He looked tired. 
"Deanna can 'exile' me if she wants to, he fucking deserved it."
"Nobody's gettin' exiled, I'm just checking on you." 
She had him at gunpoint, she could have pulled the trigger. Noah wouldn't be back but she would have felt better, Glenn too. They should've left him. 
"We should've left him-" 
"Yeah, but you ain't like that. You or Glenn." 
Rick's features went soft, the kind of look he reserved for Carl or Judith. She didn't need to be coddled, he knew she didn't. 
"He just needed to wait." 
"I know." 
Glenn looked how she felt. Sunken eyes and hair disheveled, blood stained into his clothes. He looked like he'd seen too much. He had. 
"Daryl was looking for you."
"He'll find me." 
The conversation fell into silence, emotions heavy on their shoulders. Her throat burned with words unsaid, weariness sinking into her bones. They both felt it. 
"He's with his dad now, Glenn." 
"He shouldn't have to be, he was gonna do things for this community. Didn't you see the book?" 
"I saw the book," her jaw tensed.
"And fucking Nicholas gets to live while Noah doesn't, how is that fair? " 
"It ain't." 
The archer's arms crossed over his chest, eyes on Glenn. She watched the energy drain from his eyes as he stood and mumbled something about finding Maggie. 
"He's angry." 
"Yeah," Daryl took Glenn's place. "Ain't the only one."
"I should've shot him," he held out the cigarette box. 
"That ain't you." 
She scoffed, smoke in the air. Daryl's gaze wouldn't leave her. 
But what more could she say? Her breathing stopped while she watched her friend die and the person responsible got a nap out of it. 
"He didn't deserve that, Daryl. Glenn didn't deserve to see that."
"And you?" 
"Me?" 
"D'ya think you deserve the weight of carryin' it all? You saw how Sasha got, don' wanna see that happen to you too."
"She got a pretty sweet character arc out of it, though." 
"M'serious." 
His eyes pleaded with the words he couldn't think of, begging behind a dark curtain. She knew what he wanted her to say but the words sat in her throat. 
"It should've been an easy run." 
"That ain't on you, sunshine." 
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theres-a-body-here · 8 months
Text
Male survivors with Macario!Reader
A death-touched woodcutter somehow finds their way into the realm of the Entity.
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Jeff Johansen
Digs your aesthetic
Everything you wear is black
From your Sombrero to your poncho
Even your boots
He's one of the first survivors to help comfort you when you arrive to the realm
You were so convinced you were in hell and that you deserved it
He assured you this wasn't hell
But that doesn't mean it's far off from it
He helps explain the trials to you
Strangely, you don't really seem to get afraid or nervous
You have a calm, yet exhausted look on your face
Almost like you've accepted your fate
Like you're used to suffering
And that kinda breaks his heart a bit
Jeff's voice wavers slightly as he begins to describe the harrowing trials that await within the Entity's realm. He anticipates the usual signs ��� the tremor in your voice, the quiver in your breath, perhaps even tears welling up in your eyes. But as he speaks, his words fall upon a strangely tranquil demeanor that you wear, like a well-worn cloak of acceptance.
He watches as you listen intently, your gaze fixed on some distant point beyond the safety of the fire and into the dark of the surrounding forest. There's a haunting calmness in your demeanor. The corners of your lips curl ever so slightly into a sad, resigned smile as if the trials you now face are nothing more than an expected continuation of your suffering.
"Look, I know this ain't easy to take in," Jeff began cautiously, his voice a mixture of sympathy and concern. "Most folks who end up here... they react differently, you know? It's a lot to handle."
Your gaze met his. "listen, I appreciate your concern," you replied, sounding jaded. "But I've lived through my own hell back there. This... this is just another layer to it."
Jeff's brows furrowed in response, his concern deepening. "Hey, nobody should ever get used to this kind of suffering. It ain't right."
A faint, sad smile played on your lips, the weariness evident in your eyes. "Maybe I've just had my fill of suffering elsewhere. Maybe this... this feels like a twisted sort of homecoming."
Jeff's heart clenched at your words, a pang of sympathy striking him. He had seen his fair share of pain, but the resignation in your demeanor was unlike anything he'd encountered among survivors. "Nobody deserves to feel like this is where they belong," he insisted, his voice gentle yet firm.
Jeff's hand found its way to your shoulder, his touch a reassuring anchor in the midst of the unsettling unknown. His fingers curled gently, conveying a message of solidarity and support.
"Hey," his voice was soft, carrying a subtle urgency, "I get that it might seem like hope's a distant memory, but you gotta keep holding onto it. It's what keeps us going, even in this messed up place."
Your eyes met his, a well of emotions swirling beneath the surface. His words were like a lifeline, tugging at something within you that you'd almost forgotten existed.
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Steve Harrington
He's kinda put off by your gloomy vibes
Doesn't let it bother him
Tries to make you smile, even during trials
You don't get most of his jokes
But you smile to be polite
He helps teach you how to do generators
You take a while to learn but he's patient with you
He tries his damn hardest to always be near you when you're being chased by the killer
He's ready to take a hit or two
He's a bit impressed when he sees your looping skills
He realizes Feng must have taught you
You still have that eerie look of calmness on your face
He also can't help but overhear you as you speak
you're actually talking to the killer as they chase you
He strained to hear your words over the chaos, a mixture of confusion and curiosity washing over him as he tried to keep up with the pursuit.
"Are they using you like a puppet as well, Demonio?" you murmured, your voice carrying an odd blend of empathy and sorrow.
Steve's brow furrowed in bewilderment. Were you addressing the killer? As in, actually speaking to them while trying to evade their deadly grasp?
His eyes darted between you and the pursuing killer as he followed closely behind. As you gracefully danced through the jungle gym, your words seemed to ripple through the tense air. The killer's movements faltered for a split second, their attention momentarily shifted by your unexpected address.
As the tension escalated, Steve seized the moment of hesitation from the pursuing killer. With swift precision, he slammed a pallet down on their head, stunning them and creating an opening for both of you. Without missing a beat, he gracefully slid over the makeshift barrier, reaching for your hand as he did so. His grip was strong and sure as he tugged you along, guiding you toward the distant exit gate.
Your heart raced as Steve's actions seamlessly orchestrated your escape. The rush of adrenaline combined with the firm grasp of his hand sent a surge of electricity through your veins. You spared a fleeting glance back at the killer as they reel in pain, your voice carrying a whisper of pity, "Perdón"
There's a slight pause
"I hope you find what you're looking for here" Your voice carries genuine concern and condolence.
The killer's stunned expression seemed to flicker with a mix of confusion and something else—an emotion you felt before.
Steve, focused on ensuring your escape, pressed forward without looking back. His grip on your hand was steady, and his determination to get you to safety radiated from him. He didn't address the interaction you had with the killer—his priority was ensuring that both of you made it out of the trial in one piece.
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Bill Overbeck
He finds you a bit annoying
He can only deal with somber people for so long
You have a nasty habit of spacing out as you do gens
resulting in blow-ups in your face
Dad mode activated
"Hey Kid, quit spacing out. We have a job to do"
He's stern with you
"Lo lamento"
Immediately teaches you his perks the moment you have free time
He can't have any slackers or deadweight in his trials
"I don't care if you mess up in other trails kid, just don't do it in mine"
That's a lie
He cares about you
In his own "Bill" way
He always gives you orders
You feel compelled to obey
Maybe it's because you've always been inclined to listen to authority figures
And Bill was one hell of an authority figure
You didn't want to earn the ire of the war veteran
Working side by side on a generator, you shared a moment of relative tranquility amidst the chaos. The rhythmic clatter of the machinery seemed to almost lull you to sleep.
Suddenly, the air was pierced by Meg's agonized screams as she was hooked by the merciless killer. The sound sent a shiver down your spine, your muscles tensing involuntarily. Bill, sensing your distress, let out a low, grumbling sigh that carried an undercurrent of empathy. "Easy now, kid," he muttered, his voice steady and calming. "You'll get used to it soon. I promise"
His words were like a steadying hand on your shoulder, coaxing you back from the brink of your own fear. With a determined nod, you took a deep breath and resumed working on the gen.
A plan formed in Bill's weathered features as he turned toward you. "Stay on this generator," he instructed, his tone firm but gentle. "I'm gonna go help Meg."
You nod again, not looking away from the gears and wires as you worked on them.
Just as Bill began to move towards Meg's hook, his parting words caught you off guard. "Good kid, followin' orders." His voice was deep and gravelly.
The words hung in the air, an unexpected sentiment that caught you off guard. Your heart skipped a beat, and for a moment, your concentration wavered. A jolt of surprise almost led to disaster as you nearly triggered a blowout.
"Mierda," you breathed, your cheeks flushing with embarrassment.
That old man was gonna be the death of you
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penname-artist · 8 months
Text
Reymund Valentinas Brainrot
My brain currently fixated on this child again this morning and I want to fact-dump some more while he STILL doesn't have a debut fic, unlike his brother. >:(
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-If you've ever wanted to get a clearer picture of the kind of life and relationships Apollo and Rey had, not just as siblings but in relation to their parents, just look at all of the flashbacks that Tahani has of her sister and herself in The Good Place. Envision that as Apollo. You'll see why he's always at ends with Rey.
-Reymund went through interesting phases through his childhood. Yes, he did have his major emo phase that Apollo checked out of, and that did have a hand in his music taste, but remember that he was also a stupidly affluent kid growing up, and everything he was into had to have a sense of tastefulness to it the likes a good aesthetic should have. What I'm saying is that his emo phase was less about grunge and more about marrying victorian goth to a Renessaince Depression.
-Since his breaking away from home and going full musical career, Rey's done some pretty impressive stuff for what was essentially a kid. Among those things was break out of a lot of previously daunting 'norms' of a successful musical artist, including the themes that reached his songs, which were almost exclusively never directly about romantic love.
-Ironically - and discovered completely by accident - Reymund and Jackson Storm are the same age, both born in the year 1991. Though, Rey is still quite a bit younger, given he was born on December 4th.
-When the name "Reyzor C" became big in the music industry, a lot of people were of course wondering what the C was there to stand for. They could make the connection of Reymund to Reyzor, but his last name was Valentinas; where's the C? Well it comes out of his middle name, Christian. Yup, his name is Reymund Christian Valentinas.
-He has aquired more music-note tattoos over the years in various locations along his body (or paint, depending on the style you use). However, most all of them are tiny, aside from his one main tattoo featured on his left outer thigh (or in the WoC, his left flank)
-You can tell the age of the albums he's created based on the length of his hair; when he started out, he had a very short asymmetrical cut going on. Over the years though, the left side of his hair has continuously been left to grow longer.
-Tell NOBODY that his nosering was inspired by Apollo getting a tongue piercing. He wanted one too and just didn't want to be called out for copying, so he just chose a piercing on a different part of the body and called it a day.
-Although Rey identifies securely as a cis male, his fashion sense is nigh short of Harry Styles levels of gender-fuckery. Heels? 100%. Flowing floral tops? You know it. Jewelry? Absolutely, the more the merrier. So long as it fits that aesthetic they're trying to capture, Reymund has enjoyed wearing a whole myriad of different styles.
-A lot of his more recent anxiety problems have been spiked further not just from the constant pressure to write specific genres of songs, but also because of the recent retirement of his absolute favorite makeup artist who's walked him through the mass majority of his weariness. Saga - who you might remember from here - has been a pillar in his career and personal life, and though she's no longer working now, they've remained in touch. (Funny how that circle comes around, ain't it?)
-Few times have Rey and Apollo actually seen eye-to-eye on matters, but when they do, it's a very heartwarming sibling moment. One of the most notable was Rey's first Pride Parade experience. He was really anxious the majority of the time, so Apollo (who'd gone with him for the sake of nerves) tried to comfort him in what ways he could, and ice cream seemed like a good bet. Vegan, of course, though. He knows his preferences. (side note I added the "I forgot about posting this for Pride until it was long after the month of Pride" comic strip OF this occurance)
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-Ironically, you can almost always tell when they're standing next to each other that Apollo and Rey are siblings. They're the same height, the same hair color and usually same style, they're both thin and lanky, pale-skinned, their eye color is pretty close to one another (Rey's a little more green and Apollo's a little more hazel) and even a lot of their speaking tone and mannerisms are strikingly similar. It's a shame they've clashed so much over their lives, they could make an awesome duo business together.
M'kay that's my brainrot for now, danke for listening in because my God I wanna get this poor child off the ground and into a fic, and it's IN the process of being written, I'm just working on like 40+ WiPs again as per usual. But enjoy nonetheless!
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trestole · 1 month
Note
He's been wandering around aimlessly for some time now, an almost dazed expression frozen on his features. The sound of a familiar voice cursing at the gambling machines finally jerks him out of his stupor, however, and after blinking a few times he tugs at her elbow to draw her away in a different direction for a moment.
"I would like to show you something. Those phones." He points in the direction of the bizarrely shaped figure set against the wall, holding out the receiver invitingly. "Do they - are the dreams they reveal - they cannot be real surely - or suppose they are? But what does it mean? The cat ears - why else would it show such a thing?"
Trailing off, he simply stares in silence for a moment before turning abruptly to look her directly in the eye.
"Do you dream of cats?"
(She must still suffer in one way or another uwu)
" OH YOU GOTTA BE KIDDIN ME ! " yet another pull failed, altho if that alone would be it then it wouldn't be as concerning, however, paired with the fact that the concept of time had pretty much gone to trash for her and was no longer something to concern her mind and that was a cause of concern now. She stayed at those machines for gods knows how long, could've been hours or even entire days since she was at the same place from the moment Malleus left for his stroll to the moment he came back. And judging by his expression, he sure had plenty of time to get into a handful of curious shenanigans on his own.
" Wh-- ! Hey wait ! I WAS GONNA GET THE-- " angry protests fall on deaf ears as her screams entered in one ear and exited on another and all that he did was point to the nearest Dreamkeep phone. While she could sense another angry outburst ready to pour out of her mouth for what she guessed it was a typical curiosity of his that he wanted to quell, of course at the worst time as usual, her face twisted from anger to just a very much confused and weary frown as she just……stared at him. What, what the hell happened to him while she was doing her thing ?? It's not a lot that can manage to stun him to such a degree that it will last for several hours even after yet whatever had transpired while he was out and about, clearly was something so powerful that managed to traumatize even this weirdo.
In the corner of her eye she could see the other wirdo walking around with the same kind of disturbed expression on his face which only made things worse for when he asked his last question with serious intensity in his gaze. Weird expressions, cats, the dreamkeep, she was placing all the little clues together and the conclusion is obvious
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" I'm going back to my machines " she ain't gonna get involved into their weird-ass questionable dreams, and she'll ESPECIALLY not allow them to ruin cats for her with whatever weird shit they did. NOPE NOPE NOPE.
@fireandfae
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rotfics · 7 months
Text
our guardian (1) ROUGH DNR
warning: violence/gore, death, zombie apocalypse, children in zombie apocalypse settings, a LOT of angst.
story desc: a zombie apocalypse. dredge, a sentient zombie, who wanders the streets safely due to being a zombie himself, helps survivors, in said story, he guides a group of human children to a secure place, and does anything he needs to in order to keep them safe and sane.
(still rough but approved by and impressed a poet i know with multiple books published in bookstores)
Dredge sighed to himself and looked up, towards the sky. He shook his body and looked down to his claws, what was once glowing purple was now stained with bloodied, red gore. His demeanor did not falter. He knew that it should have incited a certain emotion in him, but all that he felt was...numb. His shoulders sagged.
He fell to his knees against a pillar, shutting his eyes. He wanted to stop. He wanted to give up. But..
If he did, what would become of the people that needed him..? Dredge let out a weak, weary groan, eyes shutting.
He had scrabbled messages all over. Walls, streets.
“Look for the man with purple claws I will help you”
He winced…and drew a tiny heart. For himself. Kind of. He went on to wander.
Misery weighed him down. He stopped writing another message before collapsing. He HAD to be making a difference. He had to. And he knew he did…and it hurt. It hurt worse than any wounds he endured. It was okay. He sat against a wall and shut off.
Did it matter? Did it matter what he did? He knew, deep down, it mattered, sure. But he felt beaten. He had no capability of becoming sick, but he felt...ill. He made a noise of disapproval at himself and yanked himself out of his pity party. "Grow up," he yelled at himself mentally. He sighed and wandered off to the hardware district.
He knocked the door in with his shoulder and looked around. Squinted. Then sniffed. He smelled..living.
Dredge grunted and stood up firm. "HEY. HELLO?" He coughed a bit. Dust.
"HEY." Dredge hacked again. "Shi- ..Shoot. SORRY." He cleared his throat.
"ANY SURVIVORS IN HERE? I GOT.." Dredge looked to his coat contents.
"I GOT SEVEN THING- idiot- BOTTLES o' WATER, I don't need,"
He mumbled out loud.
"Few cans of Spam, too." He sighed. "I ain't gonna hurt nobody,"
After what felt like years, a hand nudged his arm. He jolted upright and scooted back, ready to defend himself.
It was a kid..a group of kids. He blinked.
"U-um..you...you said you can help us?"
"A-are you sure he's not a monster...?"
Dredge shook his head a bit and wiped his tears away with a claw.
"Y...yes, YES, I can help you," cheerful response. Dredge hacked a bit.
"Oh! He can talk!"
"I told you, I saw him before, he can help us."
Dredge hoisted himself up, smiling behind his mask.
"H-h-he's a zombie, though-"
"He won't eat us."
Dredge tilted his head before tugging his mask down a bit with a claw to expose his..smile. He had no nose, and had fangs that stuck out. They gawked... naturally.
"I..I'm not one of them. I won't hurt you." Tears pricked his eyes. "I-"
Two of the kids rushed him and grabbed onto him, sobbing. Dredge jumped a bit.
"WE'RE SO LOST! We're so lost, we can't- The monsters are- The monsters-"
Dredge winced and knelt down, hugging them. He was crying a bit, still. He swallowed the lump in his throat, coughing. Children should never endure this... This awful place. This awful life. He took a breath.
"I'll keep you safe. I'll get you to the checkpoint." He sniffled a bit and wiped his eyes. He looked down at them with a shaky smile. "I promise. What are your names?"
"Lisa!" "Mary!" "Cory!" "Sebastian!"
"...I'm Dredge. Are.. You're all pretty hungry, probably."
Dredge pulled his collected rations to the kids and shared it all evenly, saving some for later.
"When was the last time you kids ate??"
Sebastian looked up. "Four weeks."
Dredge felt his heart sink. His jaw grit.
"Stay here." He stood up.
"Where are you going..??"
"Just stay here. I promise I will be back in five minutes. Don't move."
"B-but-"
"Shhh.."
Dredge climbed out the top of the building. No noise happened. No moans. No nothing. The kids huddled together. Mary sniffled.
"Stop, stop, he.. he'll be back."
Mary couldn't speak. She was in tears.
"H...he's coming back. He's coming b-" Sebastian got cut short by a scream seeing a feral break in, only to see a familiar form tackle it and take it out, screeching ringing out.
"DREDGE PLEASE SAY THAT'S YOU."
Dredge shook the body off and looked up at them. "Why wouldn't it be me- WHAT HAPPENED?"
Seb cried a bit and hugged his undead guardian. "I don't want to die, I don't want to die."
"...You won't die. Okay? You won't die."
Dredge calmed him down and opened his coat, bringing out a giant (but cold) entire McDonalds feast for the whole lot of them. He laughed a bit and made jokes, handing them little things of ketchup. It was the most food they had in weeks.
The McDonalds he raided was a safe place to be... Secure. Remote. And they had him as a guard dog. He ripped up the sitting areas for soft materials for them to use. Makeshift pillows were easy to make.
Lisa needed a story before bed...luckily, Dredge remembered "Where The Wild Things Are". He covered them with his huge duster after telling them their story. Cory woke up a few times but saw Dredge was still there, so fell back aleep...slowly. Dredge refused to sleep. He did not have to, physically, and refused rest around these kids.
He made them a crude breakfast: Granola bar, raisins, dry cereal and apple juice. He looked ashamed, but the kids all assured him he was okay, they all knew he was trying his best to keep them okay. Dredge wiped his eyes and smiled. In a short time, they all came around to love the zombie man who loved them in return. (edit)
After a bit, they began their journey to the checkpoint for humans. There had been threats, dangers, yes, but Dredge was vigilant and kept all of the children following him safe. He set up a camp at one point, and let them sleep. He didn't need sleep. He cooked them dinner and tucked them into sleeping bags. His throat ached.
It hurt his heart seeing children in such a horrid world.
He shook it off when they woke up, but they could tell he had been crying. He knew they did, too.
"Dredge? Dredge!"
He snapped out of his thoughts, and turned around. "What is it? Are you okay?!"
Lisa, a kid he had been leading, sniffled a bit and held her hand up.
"I-I...I got a spli-splinter,"
Dredge knelt to her height and took her hand. He smiled.
"I'll get it. Don't worry." He huffed a bit and squinted, his claws easily tugging it out. "See? You're okay."
Lisa sniffed. "Y-yeah..."
"DREDGE!"
Dredge whipped around to see a feral undead approaching Cory.. it had foamed blood around its mouth. Dredge was furious- He slammed the thing down with his shoulder immediately, pinning it down. He glanced back.
"Don't look, kids. Please." He gripped harder when he saw them look away, eventually snapping the ferals neck...and removing the head. He steeled himself. He had to be strong. For the kids.
With a huff he got back up and went over to the children.
"You...didn't see that, right? You're okay?"
They all responded positively, kinda tackle-hugging their new guardian a bit. He OOFED a little but shook it off, shaking but smiling as he hugged them all close.
He swallowed the lump in his throat, again.
"We're almost to the checkpoint. Do you need to rest? Are you hungry?"
A collective agreement.
Dredge smiled a little. He grunted as he looked around, huffing as he found a safe, dry place inside a bus stop. He gently led the kids in and set up some soft places for them to sleep. He wiped a tear away while they looked away. He reached into his duster, pulling out some fruit cups and little bottles of water, handing them to the children.
The sounds of delight were enough to warm his heart as he watched them eat and drink. "Y'all tired now?"
They all gave a mumbled answer. That meant yes.
"G-" He swallowed. "Go ahead and sleep here, I made beds for you." He gestured to the makeshift bedrolls he made a while ago from miscellaneous pillows.
The kids gathered into the pile of cushions, making Dredge well up again...Kids here always make him cry. A tiny voice piped up.
"Don't...don't you need sleep?"
Dredge looked over and smiled. "No, no..I don't need sleep. Even if I did, I wouldn't sleep now." He smiled a sad smile and kissed the kids foreheads, sighing to keep watch.
"Dredge..."
"Hmm?"
"..Will you stay with us?"
Dredge grit his jaw, fighting off tears. He knew when he took them to the checkpoint, he would have to say goodbye. He shook it off.
"I will stay with you."
"Promise?"
Dredges eyes welled up. This has happened before. Every single time he let himself get attached. Every single time it hurt. But it was worth it to see them get to safety.
There was heartbreak for him, and the ones he saved. They understood, though. He had to save others, too. Just like them. The last thing he could give them was a tight, warm hug; Reluctantly but happily letting them go. His heart might as well have been in pieces, how long he's been doing this.
"I will." it was hard for him to speak, his throat aching from trying not to cry. A small pair of hands gripped one of his claws and nuzzled against it. That tiny little action broke him, silently.
He smiled, but tears ran down his face, his teeth grit tight. He took a breath, mumbling.
"...You're saving them. You're saving them. Y-you're saving them."
His lip trembled. It never got easier. He prayed that he would not have to deal with one of them getting bitten. He screamed that hope in his head. Please. Please. Please just let me get them safely.
Please.
...Please.
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lmelodie · 6 months
Text
Bad Ending AU pt.2 (Finding Peace)
Part One / Part Two / Part Three (Epilogue)
Oops! Its nearly twice as long as part one!
This part is to frankly answer my own questions of: "Hey where the FUCK is Killian's actual best friend in this terrible terrible universe? She would never allow this kind of self-destructive behavior!"
And it's true, she wouldn't. So where is Chimera? Simply put: Not in the picture anymore.
And here is why:
And just like that, in the blink of an eye, it's all over. 
Lucy raced down the cold and empty hallway in a mad dash to find the council. Jack no doubt keeping them somewhere hidden away where no one would look for them.
But she didn't have to search for long before the sound of a loud bang rang out from a corridor she just passed. She turned on her heels to see none other than Mother Nature storming out of the hallway, frost sticking to her shoulders, on the war path of the century in pursuit of Jack. The rest of the council follows closely on her heels, leaving the broken remains of two heavy and no-longer-locked wooden doors broken off of their hinges. Seven relics of a bygone era brought back from the icy grave.
Lucy leads them to where the struggle had ended. Killian still sitting on the floor next to an unconscious Jack.
Everyone was quick to jump into action starting damage control, as Killian himself was immediately placed under arrest for the role he played in all of this. He and Lucy filled in the council on what they missed for the past 715 years, as he was led away in cuffs. 
And it was Lucy’s own testament in the end that actually got him a far lighter sentence than what he was going to receive. Most definitely far less than what he deserved. At his trial Lucy was to act as a key witness to Killian’s actions with dismantling Jack’s powergrid so to speak. She spoke freely and highly of all of his efforts in the three years that she’s known him. He helped her learn how to use magic and helped to provide a safe place for her and her family to hide from Jack’s prying eyes. She attested to the fact that he was the only reason why any of the council were standing unfrozen to have this trial today. The only reason why Jack is no longer going to be any more of an issue. 
And with such a compelling argument, he was sentenced to twenty years jail time, with an indefinite amount of time of parole afterwards. He was also put on a number of security threat lists for most of, if not all, the realms, had many of his shadowmancing licenses revoked, and had his fair share of judicial rights confiscated because of his actions in staging a legendary coop. 
But he got off easy. Some disliked this ruling, others despised it. But whatever the case, Killian himself was just happy that this was finally over and done with. He took his sentence in stride, as a little vacation more than anything else. Time to clear his head. Set himself straight again.
And it's not like he didn't get plenty of visitors from family and friends alike. Lucy being one of the more frequent visitors. 
............................................................................
“If I didn't know better I’d say you seemed disappointed,” he said through the glass pane.
Lucy sat on the opposite side of the surface, twenty years old but carried an air of being far older. Weathered and world weary at such a ripe age.
“I am,” she said. “I want you to be out here.”
“You know that was never going to happen. I thought I taught you to be realistic, Scarecrow.”
“Need I remind you of the power of hope, Boogeyman? Way more powerful than people think. I like a good bout of wishful thinking.”
“Twenty years ain't so bad ya know,” he explains. “Leaps and bounds better than what they were planning on giving me. A thousand years at least.”
Lucy's eyes found a spot on the floor, dejectedly unable to look at him  “It's not a long time for you, but it is for me. For people like me…who dont live very long lives.”
Killian physically deflates when he understands what she’s getting at.
“Twenty years is a long time,” she continues. “And I want you to be out here, seeing what we're gonna be doing. How were gonna undo 700 years worth of damage. Seeing the world heal. I want you to see that.”
“I will,” he quietly said. “I will when I get out. After that I'll have all the time in the world to see what you’ve done with the place. Great things I'm sure.”
“I want you to be there.”
“I can't be. I aided a criminal.”
“You defeated a tyrant.”
“Dont go giving a dead man so much credit.”
“But that's what he was! That's what he was to so many people,” she declared. “I'm being ‘realistic’.”
“So am I,” he shot back, “There was no way I was going to get out of something like this and I'm fine with that! I am going to be perfectly fine here. Sky’s above knows I could use the time to try and start unpacking… a lot of things. Everything, more like. I have a feeling doing my time isn't gonna be a waste.”
Lucy looked at him almost in pity. She doesn't have any retort knowing that he’s ultimately right. A break would be good for him. But for her it’ll be more than a break, a good chunk of her life with him behind a piece of glass in a maximum security prison. The thought, no matter how right it is, just doesn't sit well with her. 
“Don't go doing any of that,” Killian snapped at the soured expression on her face. “Neither of us are gonna miss a thing when you're required to visit at least once a week. Twenty years will go by so fast you won't even notice.”
Her smile was sad and small, but a genuine smile nonetheless, “Of course,” she sighed, “Twenty years? Bring it on.”
............................................................................
But while Killians trial was speedy and somewhat unanimous, it was Jack, like always, that was giving Mother Nature trouble. As soon as they found him, Jack’s body was temporarily moved to a secure healing facility in The Citadel as a means of keeping an eye on his vitals before deciding how he should be further handled. 
The council members, and even Lucy herself all had their own ideas about how to “store” Jack away since he should be unconscious for the rest of the foreseeable future. Father Time insisted that Mother Nature be the one to make the final call on what to do with him, and pushed her to handle it as soon as possible. 
But she quietly refused. Kept him in the healing bay while she found something else of great importance to worry about. 
Jack was the only holder of winter magic on earth. She noticed right away that if he’s to remain asleep then there will be no one to bring about the season of winter. 
So instead of unpacking the implications of her estranged son freezing her solid, taking her job and nearly destroying magical society, she switched gears. Burry all of that deep under the frozen ground for now while she tries to fix the most important problems at hand. Much to Father Time’s and Lucy’s chagrin.
She ordered the inspection of Jacks’ main home and other properties to find and retrieve any magical items of his own making. Crystals packed with ice blasts, snow blanketing enchantments, anything and everything that would give them access to a small portion of his power. Even the public was called upon to give up any products of his they might have purchased, under the guarantee that they will be reimbursed for the item tenfold if they did so.
Once these items were assembled, the council had put together a team of the finest magical/mechanical engineers in all the realms. Put in charge of creating something that will spit out the appropriate levels of winter magic, to see to it that the season comes and goes in Jack’s stead. It took most of the year, and almost cut it a bit close near the end of autumn, but it was eventually made.
A tall column with a large base in the very center of a decked out summoning circle was erected in Jack’s realm; In a clearing in the evergreen forest. The column and the spell circle on the floor had what seemed to be a million and one sigils carved into them in regular intervals, glowing a phosphorus blue. The flared base of the column expertly hid the myriad of wires connecting all of the winter centric items together.
Hovering in the air above the tip of the column was a huge diamond shaped crystal that shone in the same color. Occasionally admitting a few blasts of blue bolts to satisfy the natural order.
One history altering feat of engineering later, and winter was now fully automated.
Which now leaves the bit Mother Nature didn't want to think about; What to finally do with Jack? They can't try him at all, he can't carry out any sentence he isn't already serving. There's only so many options for the comatose body of a former dictator. 
She didn't have the time, but mostly the courage to face the thing that he’s become. The thing she didn't even get to witness herself. She tried her damndest to put any kind of grief on the back burner, she reasoned that he was already too far gone when this happened. He was the only one she had, but he hasn't been her son in a very long time.
Which is why her typhoon of grief confused her so much. Why should she feel bad for him? She doesnt know this man, not any son of hers, nothing of her own blood and magic. She shouldn't feel anything for him. And yet this terrible cloud that keeps knocking at her door only seems to get bigger and darker. Rain falls from it and floods her floorboards. Why does she still ache for someone who doesnt exist anymore? Nostalgia? Longing for a memory of a memory?
She doesn't know. Not yet at any rate, and she doesn't want to either. There are still things to do, institutions that need her attention. 
Ultimately she decided that he’ll be laid to rest in his own home. In his own bed that he’s made for himself. 
His room was turned into a pseudo hospital suite. She was assured that the endless nightmare would keep his body in a state of limbo, but measures were still taken to keep an eye on his vitals as he slept. 
Just to make sure. 
And once everything was hooked up to him, preparations were all made, Mother Nature cleared the room to have a last moment with him.
She stood at the far edge of the bed and was almost afraid to move any closer. Afraid that he would suddenly come to, jump at her with the viciousness that she was only told about second hand. Afraid to come face to face with the monster she doesn't want to believe actually exists.
But when he doesn't move, and the air stays cold and still, she plucks up her courage to approach his bedside. She summons a small object in her hand and bends down to send him off with it. To store away this memory of him. 
She gently, so gently, takes his hands and places a small chunk of ice in them, folding them over the ice and placing it on his chest. The piece of ice holds a tiny bioluminescent light inside. Small yet brightly glowing as a token of the past. When he was still new to the world, and still needed her. 
She clasped her hands around his, and tightly shut her eyes, willing her feelings to be buried with him. 
She eventually, silently leaves. Never to return.
The gate to his realm was promptly locked and sealed with Jack put to bed inside. Only medical attendants and very select authorized individuals were able to have access to him, if need be. Securely tucked away where he wouldn't hurt anyone again.
............................................................................
Then came the next hardest step, slowly rebuilding what was lost. 
The council made detailed step by step plans to reinstate the major holidays that were long gone. The members who had these holidays made fast work of starting up production again; making new routing paths and sourcing all the needed material. All projected holidays were set to be fully back up and operational within the next year or two.
Any trace of Frostmas was quickly burned from existence, the general population very happy to be rid of it from their homes and minds. It was only 715 years, a somewhat small drop in the bucket for magical beings that could feasibly live to 10,000. But everyone was more tripped up by this violent intrusion than they thought. And the healing process of society would be a long and arduous path yet to come. 
But already Jack’s temporary economic solutions were finally being addressed and dealt with. Either gotten rid of all together or built upon to be more sustainable. The people didn't have to fend for themselves anymore. 
But this wasn't enough for Mother Nature. She was determined to keep herself busy with anything and everything she could find. Running towards fire after fire to try and put them out. It wasn't a hard task to look for things to do, but it wasn't solely out of responsibility and obligation to restoring the natural order. 
She only kept running because she couldn't find the strength to stop.
To think about the loss of her only remaining family. Think about where it all went so wrong, where she went wrong. Think about how maybe all of this was just some big mistake. A cruel joke played on her by some kind of higher power that she didn't even believe in. She knows that her grief for all that she’s given and lost would surely be too much to bear.
So she fixates on continuing to mend more of Jack’s mess. Lasered in on saving those who still can be.
Father Time is first and foremost to pick up on this, but it was actually Lucy who eventually coaxed her out of such a state some odd years later to finally face her feelings.
She was oftentimes considered the only saving grace of not only the realms but the abysmal recuperation period in the decades to follow. Having gotten her powers at 17 and overthrew Jack at 20, she lost a critical state of her youth to freak circumstances. And yet still looked around at the state of the realms and saw that there was still more work to be done. She was a beacon of hope in the aftermath of it all, and grew into her power as naturally as any other spirit.
This is where she found her love in humanitarian work, determined to reinstate the much needed stability for those in need. Those who were hit the hardest in the wake of Jack’s reign. She utilized her powers well in bringing back a sense of balance and harmony to the realms; a much needed reprieve to everyone.
Which is why Mother Nature’s inner discord bothered her so much. It took years after the fact for Lucy to wear her down enough to finally talk about her state of mind.
They were actually in the far outskirts of the Easter Burrow when it happened, surrounded by flower fields and crisp air and open blue skies. Lucy worked her magic (figuratively and literally), and assured Mother Nature that nothing bad was going to happen if she let herself feel her feelings.
“It feels so much easier to just swim down with something like this. When something so bad happens. Something out of our control, hurt by people we love. None of it is ever easy. But the further down you swim, the more you’ll get crushed by the pressure. That's thousands of pounds of water, and you need to breathe.
Just breathe.”
And eventually, against her own better judgment, she did.
The Easter Burrow that afternoon was suddenly drenched in a horrendous and inexplicable downpour. Heavy and hard were the drops of rain, yet the wind held no malice. The air cried with its master, spewing a feeling of hollow pain down from the heavens onto the surface of the earth. Screaming about how unfair this all was. She wept so hard and so fiercely that everything was threatened to be washed away.
But then the heavy rain turned into a drizzle. Which turned into a sprinkle, then a mist. The sky eventually opened up for the sunlight to come through. 
As it always does.
............................................................................
Splintered through the regular visits from Lucy, Duna and Vic, Killian found himself in a bit of a state as well. 
Whether it was a conscious choice or not, he didn't do a lot of thinking while imprisoned. Did not deliberate too closely on his choices and if there was more he could have done or anything like that. The stark dullness and repetition of jail time was actually a welcomed reprieve from the overstimulation he’s been accustomed to for the past couple thousand years.
He thinks about things like that while he's here. How he spent close to two thirds of his current immortal lifespan with him. Getting dragged around and pushed from edge to edge and letting it all happen to boot. Letting himself get sucked into all of his problems so willingly because he couldn't seem to let him go. Even still he doesn't know if it was actually love or manipulation or trauma bonding or something like that. And how maybe he will never know.
But he also thinks about how different it is here. How much of a relief it is to not have the boat being constantly rocked, at the mercy of the ever changing tides. The waters here are calm for a change, so he takes this time to rest. To get reacquainted with himself amidst the quiet.
Some days are better than others. 
Some days he finds it too quiet, the air missing the running faucet of nonsense that Jack's voice usually takes up. Feeling as though he himself is missing something instrict to his being. Feeling that the quiet is oppressive rather than freeing. 
Some days it's too cold in jail to think straight. It only makes him think of him more. Like feeling his ghost lurk around every chilly corner. He turns expecting to see him, but he’s never there. He’s decided that he hates the cold, thinks about maybe moving somewhere much warmer to escape it once he’s free. 
Every thought all at once and yet a numbingly empty mind. A strange and psychologically eventful twenty years will creep up on you when you least expect it. Because suddenly the day came when his sentence was finished, and his parole began. 
............................................................................
He was given back his normal clothes and any small innocuous possessions that were taken from him at the beginning. He was led through a set of enchanted gateways, placing him firmly outside the confines of the prison. Somehow a free man.
Three figures stood at the foot of the path of the prison, waiting to walk him home. And when he reached them they all practically dog piled him into a group hug that could bend steel. His mother and nephew looked much the same. But Lucy was now a grown woman, hardly the same kid he led a revolution with all those years ago. 
Her hair is longer somehow, and she has the beginnings of smile lines creasing her face. But she looks happier. He just wished he could’ve had a better look at how her face changed instead of through the glass. But he was never going to admit to her that she was right. Not even now.
Lucy held onto him in a bone crushing hug and spoke softly, as if not to scare him away, “Please don't go anywhere again.”
Killian hugged back, “I won't. Wouldn't dream of it.”
No one in the group said anything for a long while, not until the hug finally broke off and dissipated. 
“How old are you now, exactly? Fourty or something?” Killian asks. “It looks good on you. Even though your youth has slipped right through your fingers where you’ll never get it back.”
She smacks her hand on his shoulder, “Oh please! You're a whole fifty year old! You're not that much older than me. And I'll probably look even better than you when I'm your age.”
“Fah! I'm older than all three of you together. Wait until seven thousand, fetita (little girl). Then you’ll know age like I do,” Duna piped up. 
Everyone has a good laugh at this remark. Vic rediscovers the routine of climbing up Killian’s leg and perching on his shoulder.
“Come on,” Lucy says, leading the way to the bypass, “I have a lot of work you need to see.”
Killian smiled, “Cant wait.”
............................................................................
It's just as he remembered it. The same world he thought he lost over 700 years ago. The whole of the realms seemed to be taking sigh of relief. A rare stable breath that need no longer be held in an anxious wait for something horrible to happen. Everyone knows that this is just the beginning in getting things back to how they were, finding new strides in a new age. But nobody seems to fear this change. 
Killian nearly drowned in the sea of distant relatives that welcomed him when he returned home. A vicious attack the likes of which Lucy has never seen before. 
His home also remained largely unchanged. Dustier, staler air but all of his things are right where he remembered leaving them. Along with a few additional items that he forgot he still had. 
Lucy was there to help him sort through them, the things that Jack left behind that he was now saddled to deal with. Tiny, boring, things that were gathered and packed into a small box or bag, set aside to be tossed into a bottomless pit or set aflame to burn them to ashes. 
And in the middle of this miniature purge, Killian stopped when something in the corner of his space caught his eye. Reminding him of one of the greater tasks still at hand. A bigger bridge to rebuild.
Sitting next to the fireplace was a potted Belladonna plant. Long since shriveled and browned in its place, it gives him a staring problem from afar. It somehow makes itself largely known and obvious in its pathetically deceased state.
Chimera’s gift to him lifetimes ago.
The recognition of something being amiss was instantaneous, second nature to her at this point. Lucy looks over to him when she notices he stopped moving.
“Kills?”
He keeps his gaze firmly on the plant, remorse trying to seep into his pours, “...Yeah?”
“Are you okay?” She gently sets down the box she was holding onto the floor, saddling up behind him.
He doesn't say anything at first, his micro expressions going a mile a minute trying to find the right words to use. A feather soft hand on his shoulder eventually pulls it together and out of him.
“I really need to talk to her.”
And she knows exactly what he’s talking about. Mostly, anyway. The two of these very unlikely friends have had many deep expanding conversations while in visitation. Of course, since Lucy took up a bit of psychology in between helping the realms, she worked her other, more human form of magic by trying to give Killian some kind of mental help while imprisoned. 
And the subject of his once friend Chimera did come up and was somewhat explored. The nitty gritty was never explained to her in full, but she didn't need it to be. Jack taking the realms by force, with Killian’s help no less, was a struggle for everyone to come to terms with. A nasty falling out happened between him and Chimera in the immediate aftermath of the shift of power. 
Contact was severely limited and then cut out all together, something she attributed to Killian’s descent into eventual codependency later on. A connection he never intended to sever.
“I think you should,” she nudged.
“She’s not gonna wanna see me.”
“I think she will.”
He hesitates, “You think so?”
“I do. You know I've been talking to her.”
“Is she still doing okay?”
“Perfectly fine,” she smiled, “talked to her a week and a half ago. Finally convinced her to update the flatscreen. Nice and sleek!”
“Hm,” was all he could manage before growing mute once again.
Lucy lets out a long sigh, “Maybe she won't wanna see you, maybe she won't forgive you. But she deserves to at least receive your apology anyway. You owe that to her at the very least, for her own sake.”
Her other hand comes up to hold onto his limp arm, his eyes growing sadder. Swimming with more thoughts than he was expecting, more than he was capable of handling at the moment. Lucy swings herself around to the front of him.
“Tomorrow,” she says, “having that talk is a tomorrow problem. Right now, all we gotta focus on is taking out the trash. And you keeping your promise about lunch.”
A ghost of a smile threatened to crest his face at the comment, “It's a hole in the wall…”
“Those are my favorite kinds of places!” She took both of his wrists and led him back to the box on the floor, facing away from the dead plant. “Obscurity and mystery is the best ambiance for food.”
“You're not gonna like it. Might not even be anything there you can ingest. That's the gimmick, all of it is still alive when it gets to your plate.”
She grimaces through a smile, “Lovely! Can't…wait.”
Killian snickers, “You dont look like someone that can hunt down their own food. Never thought one of the first things I do on the outside is dinner and a show.”
............................................................................
The following day was harder to digest than a living beast scuttling around on a restaurant table top.
Both Killian and Lucy had made the journey to Lycia in anticipatory silence, and now they stood at Chimera’s front door step. Well, many steps leading up a hill on the side of a cliff face, stone architecture details carved into the mountain. 
He would never say anything of the sort to anyone, not even Lucy here in this moment, but he was nervous. Scared. A friendship that sadly fizzled out what seemed like a lifetime ago and here he is trying to reverse time. Truly an impossible task. 
But Lucy silently and gently nudges him onward, keeping by his side as he very slowly trudges onward and upward to his fate. 
As they get closer they can hear the faint sounds of Chimera conversing with someone, the smell of sulfur and methane grows stronger and they can see all her normal bright colored lights illuminating the home. 
Once they get to the top, the both of them creep further into the entryway, and from afar they can see Chimera through the rest of the house. She stands in the middle of her work table, in front of a very fresh pot of boiling acid. Wooden spoon in hand, she absentmindedly stirs the glowing green liquid and makes light conversation with someone on the other end of the crystal ball on the table next to her. 
“She said she didn't want to take the pole shift because it's too ‘difficult’ with three other people on there. And I said, girl! You're all gnomes! What do you mean there's no room on the pole? Yall arent even 5 feet combined.”
And just like many other things he’s reacclimating to, everything about her is somehow still just as he remembers. 
Lucy gives him another pat on the shoulder and a reassuring glance before strutting further into the home as if she owned the place. Leaving Killian lingering behind, ready to leave at a moment's notice.
“Hey Mera. Don't mind me, just popping in for a sec. Brought a friend if that's alright,” She walks up behind Chimera and steals her attention away. Her feline-esque face lights up upon recognition.
“Hey girl! Haven't seen you in a minute,” she abruptly and rudely ends the call on the crystal ball with a swipe of her hand. “Hello fresh meat back there! Just give me a second.”
His gaze is locked on straight ahead of him, but he can feel his throat get dryer as she unknowingly starts talking to him for the first time again.
When she finally turns around she freezes. The two beings look. And stare. And linger in their spots for what felt like hours. Hours of just seeing who stood before them and trying to compartmentalize the fact that they're both here. 
After another long silent moment, Chimera casts a glance to Lucy; twisted into annoyance as if to say: “Of course you would try to pull off some kinda bullshit like this.”
Lucy merely gave her a look back, wherein her smile was nervous but her eyes were confident. She’s been mending all kinds of bridges for the past twenty years, it's her job, and job she’s become real damn good at. She takes a couple steps away from the both of them, giving the conversation room to breathe.
Chimera doesn’t  look back to Killian and instead snaps her head away in a huff, “...Killian.”
“Chimera,” was all he could manage to respond with before another awkward lull took hold.
“Why are you here?” she spat over her shoulder, crossing her arms.
“Uh...a lot of reasons.”
She continues to turn her nose up at him, her tone sharp and bitter, “Hm. So…the past twenty years been kind to you? Kinder than I've been?” 
“They've been as okay as they can be,” he treads lightly, “I've actually enjoyed prison time more than I thought I would.”
“Tch. Of course you would. Never could stay away from a cold, inhospitable place, could you?”
Her phrasing cuts right where it needs to, right as intended. It slaps him out the idea of dawdling any longer. It's like a bandaid, and now's the time where he has to rip it off.
“You were right,” every word is molasses as he speaks. “You were right about the whole thing…”
“I was, wasn't I?” she swivels her head back around to face him. “Who knew that I can actually know what the hell I'm talking about sometimes.”
“Mera—”
“Don't you Mera me! It's my turn to talk and you didn't listen to me then but you're sure as hell gonna listen to me now!” Her voice plunges from its irritated high into a more remorseful softness, “Do you have…any idea how much that hurt me? 
I was only trying to help you. I knew things were gonna go south and they did, and you didn't wanna listen to me.”
Everyone's mind drifts off to the part that she’s referring to. The point of time in question wherein Killian was faced with a choice and a challenge that there was no winning.
Chimera and Jack got into a heated argument soon after the news aired on the crystal ball's public access. A date was set in place when the passover of the torch would be held, where the Council of Legendary Figures would be disbanded and be replaced with only Jack at the helm.
Killians part to play in this scenario remained untold as they violently yelled at each other. Chimera claiming that Jack was unfit to take over and was the least qualified person available to do so. And Jack retaliates with his own claims of legitimacy and solidification, there being nothing anyone can do about it. 
It all boiled over quicker than either expected, and Chimera delivered the first crisp slap to the face. It only devolved from there. 
Ice and acid do not make a great elemental combination. The entire space they were occupying became wet and slick with water and liquid poisons. Holes burned into random surfaces and walls, half melted icicles everywhere you looked. 
And it was this actual war zone that Killian ended up walking in on. 
He is forced to separate them, trying to keep the physical damage of both his best friend and his partner as minimal as possible. 
And while being held back from the fight, Jack revealed Killians involvement with all this. In an effort for her to point her finger at not just him in this situation. Afterall he’s equally to blame for it just as much as me.
And Killian will never forget the look she gave him in that moment. The utter disbelief, the betrayal in her eyes that he simply wasn't prepared for. A haunting look that would continue to plague him hundreds of years. 
And even though the question itself was never asked, they both looked to Killian in that moment, hoping he would choose them to side with. 
Which relationship was more important here?
“And what did you do? Nothing! You didn't choose at all, which means you didn't choose me!” Chimera rattled off. “I thought I was more important than that.”
“You were. Of course you were but I chose wrong anyway,” Killians defense was only as loud as it needed to be. Quiet enough with remorse but loud enough to make a point for her to hear.
“I don't…have a valid excuse for ignoring your advice. I—I just wanted it to work so bad. I wanted that more than anything else. For hundreds of years I wanted to keep thinking it was gonna work out eventually. 
But low and behold, I put all my eggs in one basket and this is what happened. And I shouldn't have done that to you…I should've listened to you when I had the chance. I know hindsight makes it seem really easy to say but it's still true. 
I'm sorry, Mera. I was wrong about everything.”
The last bit of his plight slipped into a deeper regret, smoothed with sincerity that Chimera could not only feel but see on his face.
She hadn't noticed until now but he somehow looks older. Immortal beings like them don't get older, and yet he’s done it. Maybe it's all the new gray in his hair, maybe it was the dark circles under his eyes. Whatever it was, the most undeniable thing about him was that the past 2,000 years attached to the hip of one Jack Frost did not do him any favors. 
She imagines that this is what the embodiment of what a walking talking regret looks like. 
The self reproach was undoubtedly genuine. 
“Ya know…I was kinda hoping it would've worked out too,” she lets out a weighted sigh, her eyes finding some boring stone on the floor to fixate on. “Even after we had that big fight, we didn't talk. I would see you around with him occasionally and I thought, ‘God I hope it was worth it’. Even in a spiteful sense, I still kinda wanted you to be happy.
I was thinking that it would've even been okay if I was in the wrong. That maybe I didn't know what I was talking about, and that you would've been happy together anyway.”
He seems taken aback by this comment, and it takes him another moment to say anything, “I wouldn't have been. It was a lost cause from the very start. And I shouldn't have chosen him at your expense. He shouldn't have been that important. And he wasn't. But I didn't want to see reason at the time.”
Suddenly he shakes his head a few times, as if to snap him out of the sentimentality he slipped into. 
“In any case, I just came here to apologize. For everything that I did and didn't do. For how I treated you,” he takes a few cautionary steps backwards towards the front door. “And you don't have to accept it and you don't have to talk to me again after this. It's just been uh, long overdue.”
Chimera’s expression doesn't change from a rugged hardness as she finally approaches him. He takes another step back in response, but has no choice but to stare down the barrel of the gun as she looms over him. 
They both stare at the other and remain resolute, until Chimera bends forward and hugs him. A hug that isnt bear-like, but constricting and cagy. 
And Killinan, still not used to receiving hugs of any kind, freezes up and dares not to move. For all he knows she could be slipping some kind of lethal toxin onto or into him when she’s this close. 
But he glances at Lucy out of the corner of his eye and sees that she is all smiles. Making the hand motions for “go on”, prodding him to hug back. 
He can hear his heart beating louder in his chest when he decides to do so, slowly bridging his arms up to her shoulders to reciprocate.
“This doesn't mean I fully forgive you by the way,” she mumbles close to his ear, “that's gonna be a whole other thing. 
But I want to…I wanna try.”
He almost didn't want to believe it. He felt as though maybe it would've been an easier pill to swallow if she had simply ripped him a new one and threw him back out of her life again. He couldn't argue with that, but he couldn't argue with this either. This was the choice she was making, and he had no say in the matter whether or not he was going to be truly forgiven. 
But he didnt question it further. He instead hugged her back with more strength and conviction. Savoring a small sliver of warmth he has thus far denied himself.
“Thank you.”
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yanderelovlies · 1 year
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I'm late at asking this but this was a response to the two pics of Joseph one with him holding flowers the other with MC holding his face and him nuzzling into their hand. You asked if one of us to ask you to make a scenario based one of them, So me and my extra self attempted to do so buuut I wanted to make a up a backstory of how the wholesome happened in the first. So I wrote all this because I have no self control lol
Forgive me once I start I can't stop lmao 🙏 Anyway, here's what i came up with:
Aight I got you fam.
So the 1st pic Joe is usually the kinda guy that minds his own businessss, does his own thing tryst to avoid attention ya know? He isn't an unfriendly dude it's just sometimes a fella finds himself in the wrong place and the wrong time often.TOO often for poor Ole Joe unfortunately. Naturally rumors ran rampant, and with Joe being the big scary buff loner kid and all, who can blame anyone feeling weary over him? A couple of jerks try to mess with him and try starting fighting with the poor guy. With all this said though, the rumors at times weren't entirely unjustified either. Like I said, he's not a bad guy by any means; it's just you got to do what you got to do to survive. If that means a guy gotta do some stuff that ain't exactly legal, then so be it. No one is gonna miss a couple bags of chips or a shirt or two anyways right? Another one was skipping class, it's too much at times and keeps getting worse and worse by the day it seems. So because of his appearance, rumors, and his bad habits people tended to avoid him... That is until MC came along! They were the first and only person to treat Joe with respect and kindness, never minding the here says from others and at least try to understand him and his less than glamorous habits. They even convinced to pursue that acting a dream mind one that NO One knew about, not even his parents...Their Support really meant a whole lot to Joe, so of course MC grew to mean a whole lot to him. So much so that he couldn't stop thinking about them! How much fun they were, how much calmer things were with them around. How sweet and caring they are...How attractive they were...Before he knew it, Joe fell hard for MC. He knew exactly when he realized too, after a REALLY shitty day....
(Now imma stop myself here because this is long enough already lol I'll let ya finish this here if you like! Love your writing!!! Take care ^^)
Ah my love! I love this start come bbbaaacckk and we can compare stories
Please 🥺👉👈❤️💛💙
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nine-blessed-hero · 2 years
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8 (witch)
Spiritus Alco Custodiat
Universe: TESIV: Oblivion, Modern AU CW: Swearing, alcohol mention, injury mention, "satanic"-esque ritual mention Words: 450 Tagging (ask for +/-): @mishkakagehishka @strosmkai-rum @arcane-elder-scrolls​ @bread-of-death Available on AO3
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"You know, before Reman Cyrodiil bought this pile, it belonged to a witch," Jena says as she enters the kitchen. Aderyn, who is learning to clean the rifle she won at Kvatch, looks up and laughs. "Fuck off. No, it didn't." Ferrum rolls his eyes. "Do you mind?" "Not at all." Jena gives him a wicked smile, flicks the kettle on and leans back on the counter. Outside, the October wind is dancing around the chimney stacks and wailing through the cloud-ridden sky. The late evening sun is nowhere to be found, only a diffuse and generic greyness stands outside the windows. Somewhere in the Manor, a door bangs closed.
"It really did," Jena says, her attention back on Aderyn. "Why do you think there're so many secret passageways?" Aderyn pulls a face. "That ain't a sign it was owned by a witch. 'Sides, Gramps says Cyrodiil built this place." Jena grins. "Nah. Director has it backwards. Witch built it, Cyrodiil bought it." "It's all tosh," Ferrum says. He taps the table. "Rookie, continue with your task." "Wait, hang on-" Ferrum throws up his hands, giving up on his hope that Aderyn will ever learn to clean her rifle correctly. "-What kind of witch lives in a manor house? I can buy a witch living in the arse-end of fuck-all-ville, but ain't witches supposed to live in little run-down shacks?"
Jena opens her mouth to retort, then closes it again. Ferrum snorts at the frown she aims at Aderyn. "Rookie," Ferrum tries again. "A dirty gun can seize in the field, when it's needed most. What is your plan for when you've not learnt to clean your weapon and it can no longer fire?" Aderyn shrugs. "Use it as a club?" Ferrum squints in incredulity, then heaves a weary sigh. "It was a coven," Jena pipes up. "Performed terrible sacraments in the cellar. Cyrodiil had to get the place consecrated by the local priest." "Yeah? Human sacrifice, blood drinking?" Aderyn sounds bored. Her shoulder twitches, the side scored by the blade of a Mythic Dawn cultist, where Baragon says the new skin is healing nicely. "Anything worse than that?"
The kettle clicks off in the silence.
Aderyn turns back to cleaning the rifle.
A few minutes later, three mugs of tea and a bottle of cheap whisky land on the table. Jena pulls out a chair, eyebrows raised at Ferrum. He inclines his head and puts a hand on the rifle. Aderyn stops and looks up. "Got a new task for you, Rook," Ferrum says.
Outside, the October wind rattles the greenhouse window panes and the sun slinks behind the mountains. Somewhere in the manor, demons are chased by spirits.
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Text
I'm thinking of coming home to the Munson trailer and seeing that Uncle Wayne is already there. There's a lump in your throat, and you approach the sofa easily, taking your place on the seat next to Uncle Wayne. He glances at you over his shoulder, reads you with a long glance down your body and then back up again (you've seen it on Eddie many a time and it warms your heart to see where he got it from), and leans back in his seat. His arm comes up, an invitation, and you take your place without even thinking about it, nuzzling the side of your head against that red and blue flannel you cherish so very much. Neither of you have spoken yet, and before you know it, you're crying. Long and hard, the weight of the world sliding off your shoulders and falling into Uncle Wayne's lap. He shuffles it around, until he can hold his own weight, and Eddie's, and yours, and he does it seamlessly. He's a natural guardian, a protector, a caretaker.
Uncle Wayne takes care of what's his.
"You just get it out, Y/N, just like you are. Ain't good to keep that shit inside. I've seen you fight some demons in my time, and believe you me this is just another of 'em. But you got me and you got my son, so you ain't alone, you hear me?"
You plan to sit there 'til you're not crying anymore but Uncle Wayne doesn't let you go. His hands are warm, his fingers tough and calloused but gentle, his demeanour gruff but well-intentioned, his heart kind but full of anger; he uses that and channels it until it becomes love for his family.
You and Eddie.
Eventually, you're hugging him, and he's cradling you into his side, keeping you tucked up against him. A strong wall for you to lean on, and you do, putting your head above where you can feel his heart, slow and steady. Through the chaos of your life, Uncle Wayne holds firm, and you realise the Munson Doctrine rings true:
Don't panic unless Uncle Wayne does.
If he's not panicking, it'll be okay.💖
You close your eyes with a world-weary sigh and Uncle Wayne huffs. "Me too, kid. Me too." He squeezes you into a hug, and you slip into a light sleep, held by one of your two favourite people in the world.
eddie & wayne @hellfirebabe @eddiemunsonshoney @potatos-library @bakerstreethound @gemstone-roses @sweetpeapod @authorlovers @jslittlebirdie @heydreamchild @comfortcharactercraze @mywinterivy @corrodedcoffeen @ourstaturestouchtheskies @m00nlight101 @3ddi3-daydreamer @pleasantlycrazyworld @samlealea @manyfandomsfanvergent @indouloureux  @niceboyeds @becca-alexa @singularattitudeofasafetypin @knifeskiss @loving-and-dreaming @hiscrimsonangel @worlds-turned-upsidedown
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