#hollow bough | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

miasmaghoul · 7 months

Note

anything little dick mountain.... PLEEEEASE

anything you say?

okay.

how about little dick mountain and nonbinary intersex mist getting stoned and fuckin around in the woods?

thats something.

"This is nice," Mountain murmurs, twirling a lock of fine silver hair between two fingers.

"Always is," Mist lilts in reply, plucking the half-burned joint from Mountain's other hand. They offer him a slow wink, and Mountain grins.

They've been here for a while now, naked and sprawled out beside Mist's favorite stream deep in the woods. It's a tranquil place, serene and nearly silent. The babble of the water soothes something deep in Mountain's core, as does the late spring sun filtering through the boughs above. The warm light dapples Mist's pale skin, washes them in an ethereal glow, and stoned as he is Mountain can't help but touch.

Mist hums on an inhale as a large hand caresses their shoulder, rough fingers tracing the intricate lines of the tattoo there - a sea serpent with fangs sharp enough that even the ink threatens to cut. Mountain could study it for hours, could spend an age gliding his fingertips along every curve. From the tip of the tongue that sits just above the barely-there swell of Mist's chest to the tail that ends at the small of their back.

Mist's slight hand rests on Mountain's chest, delicate fingers fiddling with his chest hair, and he takes a moment to admire them.

They look exquisite; silver-blue eyes reddened and heavy, hollow cheeks crested with pink, gills rippling as heady smoke flows from them in entracing waves. Mountain lowers his head to drink it down, his hand sliding around to rest between Mist's shoulders while he noses at their throat.

"Greedy," they tease, voice light. Mountain chuffs, dragging the tip of his tongue along their jaw. Mist sighs, tilting their head and taking another deep pull, burning the joint to its end. Mountain feels their lungs fill under his touch, and something about it makes him throb.

"Can you blame me when you taste so good?" Another lick, and Mist trills, amused.

"Not even a little."

Another plume escapes Mist's gills and Mountain sucks it down, holds it in. He pulls away with a curl to his lips and finds Mist peering up at him expectantly, the tip of their tongue poking out between needle-sharp fangs. Mountain threads long fingers into soft hair, grips gently, and when their lips join it's in a cloud of sweet smoke.

It's slow. Languid. A relaxed meeting of tongues, an exchange of breath and saliva alike. Mountain's hand glides down the length of their spine, a brief journey that ends with his palm on Mist's sharp hip, fingers dimpling the subtle curve of their ass. They shift a bit, hook a leg over his thigh, and Mountain chuckles at the almost imperceptible weight of it. He smiles against their lips.

"I always forget how small you are," he murmurs, and Mist rewards him with a sharp tug to his chest hair. He gives them a hiss, one that fades into a pleased hum when cool, bony fingers drift down over his stomach.

"No you don't," they say, clearly amused. Mountain pulls back just enough to catch the sparkle in their eyes, a glint of brilliant sapphire in those pale irises.

They're right, of course. It's impossible to forget how tiny Mist is in comparison to him, how seemingly frail. Elegant limbs, bony joints, slender from head to toe. He has a solid two feet on them, and who knows how much weight, but on the rare occasion Mist hunts him down for these trysts it's never them that seems to feel small.

That wandering hand vanishes between their bodies, and Mountain lets his own hand travel down the creamy thigh over his hip, squeezing along the way. Mist licks their lips, gives him a sharp smile.

"But I could say the same about you, big guy."

They punctuate that statement by wrapping deft fingers around his cock, and Mountain groans as he feels them engulf him completely. The one place where he is decidedly not big.

"Oh, someone's excited," Mist sing-songs, giving his little stiffy a nice squeeze. He shivers with it, hips rolling already.

Mountain can't deny it - truth be told he's been chubby since Mist caught him on his way back to the abbey, arms full of freshly snipped roses that Primo had requested for his chambers. He'd pawned that task off on a nearby sibling, content to follow his dick and the stunning ghoul before him instead. Mist thumbs over his sticky head and Mountain huffs out a tight sigh.

"Sensitive as ever," Mist taunts, loosening their grip and giving him a couple of soft little pumps that have Mountain's eyes rolling back. "Planning to blame the weed?"

He always does, but they both know better.

"I can if you want," he rumbles, hitching Mist's leg higher on his hip. "But it's easier to blame you."

Mist laughs, loud and bright in the surrounding silence. They shift closer, close enough that Mountain can feel the brush of their pebbled nipples against his chest, their piercings pressing chilly into his overwarm skin. Mountain drags blunt nails up their thigh, relishing the goosebumps that appear in his wake. He slips his own hand between their bodies, and Mist smiles. They wrap a spindly arm around his neck, arch their back, and with a loose rock of their hips Mountain feels the firm length of their dick press into his thigh

"Looking to return the favor, sycamore?"

Mountain doesn't try to hide his whine, there's no point. He always gets noisy when they do this, and all the high does is make him more willing to let it out. He wraps an eager hand around Mist's already slick length, and they reward him with a tighter grip on his own. Mountain groans deep in his chest, leaning down to knock their horns together.

"You're really hard," he murmurs, the hand in Mist's hair drifting down to settle at the back of their neck, angling their lovely, handsome face towards his own. "Gonna blame that on the weed?"

Mist doesn't deign to answer, getting a nice handful of his hair and licking a wide stripe over his stubbled cheek instead. Mountain feels himself throb in their hand, feels Mist leak over his knuckles, and as they catch him in a decidedly more hungry kiss Mountain lets himself be overwhelmed.

It's easy to do. The smooth swipe of their tongue along his own and behind his fangs drags him further and further down. The slowly tightening channel of Mist's hand pulls pearl after pearl of pre from his firm little cock, the slick sound of both of their hands filling his head with static. Mist's nails rake over his scalp, just sharp enough to provide the hint of a sting, and Mountain doesn't even try to hold back his moan.

It's nice like this. No rushing, no frantic urgency, no pleading for more. No need for it. They both know Mist controls the pace of these stolen moments, and Mountain has absolutely no problem with it. He lets himself enjoy the kiss, the taste of Mist filling his mouth. Fresh and clean with a specific sort of bitterness Mountain has come to crave, all of it accentuated by the herbal flavor of their shared smokable. It's intoxicating, and before Mountain knows it he's panting into their mouth, starved for more.

He pauses on a downstroke, wraps a finger and thumb around the base of Mist's twitching length and slips two fingers back between their legs. He moans out a curse at the slick heat he finds there, swiping his digits through their folds. He dips just one inside, and the tightness he finds there has his stomach swooping.

Mist purrs into the kiss when he swirls it inside, abandoning their grip on his short length in favor of grabbing his wrist. Mountain doesn't fight when they pull his slippery hand from their body, maneuvering it instead to hold the both of them together.

Mountain has to pull back then, chest heaving and eyes glassy as Mist guides him to stroke. The feel of it is exquisite - his large palm is rough, callused, but Mist leaks so much that it eases the glide in moments. The sensation wrings a pained gurgle from him, and Mountain can't keep himself from rocking his hips. From letting his tip kiss the underside of Mist's, every drag of their cocks against one another sending his head spinning and forcing heat to swirl through his belly.

"Fuck," he breathes, long and low. "Mist, fuck -"

"Feeling good, aren't you?" Mist sounds entirely too calm, as they always do, but the way they pulse in his hand betrays them. "Think the little guy's ready for me yet?"

They rock their hips just as Mountain does, ruts their cocks together, and Mountain makes the most embarrassing sound. He gives a quick nod, sucking his lower lip between his fangs, and before he can do anything more Mist is rolling him onto his back. Straddling his hips. Moving him like he isn't at least twice their size everywhere except where it counts.

"That's better," Mist says on a sigh. They settle on their knees, palms flat on his chest, and Mountain gazes up at them with what can only be called unabashed adoration. Mist smiles down at him, tossing the silver curtain of their hair over their shoulder. Mountain rests his hands on their waist, loving the way his thumbs overlap just below their navel. "Don't you think?"

Mountain offers up a dumb little sound of confirmation, too busy visually feasting on the little ghoul above him. Soaking in every angle and curve, every ridge of their gills, the sparkle of their nipple rings and the shimmering black scales decorating their collarbones and the vee of their hips. His gaze halts there, caught completely on the way their shiny pink cock sticks straight out between their skinny thighs.

Mist doesn't miss it, their lips curling into a positively cheshire smile while they scoot forward. While they settle themselves over his own aching length where it lays on his stomach, leaking pre into the smattering of hair there. Mountain chokes on a moan when they shift just enough to drag their dripping cunt over his little cock, and it's a miracle he doesn't cum right then and there.

Not that Mist would allow that, of course. He knows better.

"So warm," they murmur, moving their hips in gentle circles that have Mountain's thighs quivering. "How badly does he want it, hmm?"

"Bad," Mountain rasps, doing his absolute best not to hump up against Mist's inviting body. "He wants in so bad."

Mist trills, a deeply pleased sound. They raise up just enough for Mountain to see the thick trail of slick that connects their bodies, and his cock kicks so hard he grunts.

"Looks like it," Mist chuckles, gripping him again and giving a slow stroke. A blurt of pre leaks over their fingers, and Mountain's balls ache. "Little thing's drooling all over."

Mist is one to talk, their own dick dribbling a nearly constant stream of sticky fluid that pools in Mountain's belly button. He can't get his breath under control as they raise up, pointing his needy little cock up into the air while they line up.

Mountain isn't sure which of them moans louder when Mist sinks down onto him, impossibly tight and so, so slick. He grips them tight, fingertips digging firm into their back, their stomach. He watches the flat plane of it tense when they bottom out, taking his few inches with an ease that leaves his toes curling.

"There we go," Mist coos, narrow chest flushed pink as their leaking tip. They pluck at their nipples, rolling the stiff buds between their fingers and sighing. "You always fill me just right, don't you?" Mountain nods furtively, not trusting his voice when Mist clenches around him. "A perfect little cuntful."

Mountain lets his head thud back against the warm earth, swallows hard, and when Mist starts riding in an achingly slow rhythm he swears the world tilts.

"Be a good boy and make me cum," they say, low and sultry, peeling one of his hands from their waist and moving it to their swaying cock. "If you do well enough I'll even let you eat your load out of me."

Mountain whimpers, starts to stroke, and silently adores the way Mist laughs at him when he drools.

#miasma's work #the band ghost ficlets #mountain ghoul #mist ghoulette #mountain/mist #mountain x mist #what a weird pairing lmao #what do we call them? misty mountain? that feels derivative.#will think on it later

168 notes · View notes

unvexes · 4 months

Text

there, on the pendant boughs her coronet weeds

headless: a sleepy hollow story (2022) / ophelia, sir john everett millais

#me seeing flowers in kats death scene: wow. how can i make this about ophelia.#headless #headless: a sleepy hollow story #shipwrecked comedy #kat van tassel #katrina van tassel #mary kate wiles #web weave #headless spoilers #ophelia #mine

101 notes · View notes

the-fiction-witch · 3 months

Text

Little Squirrel

Media The Artful Dodger

Character Jack Dawkins

Couple Jack X Reader

Rating Cute AF

Warning for panic attacks + Abuse

Y/n (me) has a baby (named Lillian) (previous relationship; the father was mentally and physically abusive). Y/n’s baby gets sick (not deadly, just a cold or something) but Jack looks her over and instantly falls in love with Y/n. Y/n likes him too but is scared to get into another relationship. Y/n has panic attacks a lot. Jack helps her and takes care of Lillian as well. Becomes a father figure to Lillian as she grows up. Y/n and Jack fall in love and have another child. POV can be either Y/n or Jack. It can have time skips so that it’s not so long, but I would love to read a lot of Jack helping Y/n with the panic attacks and Y/n during the pregnancy of the second child. There can be parts that are NSFW, but that doesn’t need to be the focus.

"Rock a bye baby on the tree top...When the wind blows the cradle will rock... When the bough breaks the cradle will fall... And down will come baby... cradle and all." I sang as my feet danced gently across the wooden floor, my bare feet gracefully moved across the wood as I held sweet little Lillian in my arms, her head on my chest I kept my hand on her head feeling the heat of her fever. She had been feeling sick the last day or two slowly getting worse, But I just wanted to get her to bed for the night, "Hush-a-by baby on the tree top... When the wind blows the cradle will rock... When the bough breaks the cradle will fall... Down tumbles baby... cradle and all." I sang to her giving her a little kiss before I laid her down in her crib, and tucked the blanket over her and her sweet little teddy bear in her arms, "Sleep well little one," I cooed before I sat on my bed.

I made sure to watch Lillian as I got changed, unable to stop my fear for her.

I left the room and moved to the bathroom standing by the sink to brush my teeth and looking at my pale reflection, my hair still in the braid I did a week ago, my Y/E/C eyes seemed hollow to it all. As I glanced at my reflection my whole body jumped as for a moment I saw HIM in the mirror stood behind me. I jumped and washed my face knowing in my better judgment that he wasn't there, but as I looked up and met my reflection again he stood beside me his hand grabbed my neck and I screamed, But again. Nothing there.

I gasped my heart racing, my anxiety overwhelming, the sound of the tap running, my own gasping, ringing in my ears and Lillian crying in the bedroom.

I forced my own emotions away and ran to the bedroom to pick her up in my arms and soothe her cries, until finally, she fell back asleep so I returned her to her crib and laid down on my own bed for a few moments just staring into space trying to feel calm.

As much as I didn't like it I knew I didn't have a choice, I walked into the Port Victory Royal Hospital with Lillian on my hip in her little cream dress her hair in a ponytail. Poor little thing had been coughing all night and her fever had gotten no better, I walked in and up to the small window where a man sat typing on a typewriter. He didn't even look up at me.

"Yes?"

"Hello, I uhh I need to see a doctor for my daughter."

The man looked up at me and glared before he looked back down, "Room three Doctor Dawkins will see you."

I nodded and went to the small room he told me to, I sat on the bed and I gave Lillian the soothe as best I could trying to make sure she felt okay even if she coughed away.

After a while the door opened to a strapping man in brown lace-up shoes, some tight brown trousers, and a white shirt with some very large sleeves so long that his cuffs that should have been tight around his wrists were loose halfway down his hands and soaked with bloodstains, a textured blue waistcoat that didn't fit him correctly as his suspender clips poked out the bottom, a green tie around his pushed up collar even if one side was flattered down, he had a sweet face, freshly shaven, and a head of blonde and brown hair that seemed to bounce as he swaggered confidently into the room.

His brown eyes met me and for a moment he stopped short looking me up and down as his smile grew, he moved his hands behind his back and a wide smile moved across his lips, "Morning,"

"Morning, Doctor Dawkins?"

"The Very same," He nodded, "You are Mrs?"

"Miss actually, just uhh just Y/n is fine."

"Y/n." He smiled, "A very beautiful name and a ravishing young lady, You are welcome to call me Jack,"

"Ohh that's alright-"

"No no, I insist." he smiled as he cleaned his hands, "Now how can I help such a... gorgeous young lady."

I blushed instantly not being used to hearing such compliments even if part of me tried to put up a wall knowing the sort of things that follow compliments. "Oh, Thank you. But not myself doctor this little one," I said bouncing Lillian on my knee,

"Ohh I see, The even prettier littler lady," He smiled, "May I?"

"Just uhh be gentle with her."

"Of course, I'm a doctor I'm always gentle." he winked before he picked Lillian up and cradled her in his arms she quickly saw his face and began to giggle at him, "Awww aren't you a sweetheart, what's your name then little one?"

"Lillian," I answered, "she.. uhh doesn't speak yet."

"Humm unusual for girls her age, still we all go at our own pace." He said, "You have a very charming name Miss Lillian, and a very beautiful big sister." He smiled at me,

"Ohh she's my daughter."

"Daughter? Really? You're far too enchanting to be a mother already." He chuckled sitting on the bed with me as he checked over Lillian, I did put a little space between us but I still wanted to be close to her. "Hang on... Miss? and Lillians your daughter?"

"Yes, doc- Jack."

"Alright, I don't wish to impose but her father is he-"

"six feet. I'd rather not talk about him."

"Okay. I'll do my best not to." He nodded, "How long has she had a fever?"

"A few days now, but the cough only started last night."

"I see, I don't imagine she's sleeping?"

"Not much No," I nodded, "I- I worried it could be whooping cough or tuberculosis, perhaps cholera or typhoid," I explained each word filled me with more panic my heart racing, my mind flooded with fear as I couldn't hold my panic anymore,

"Whoa. whoa. it's alright. It's alright." He cooed as he took my hand, "Shhhh shhh shhh, I'm here. I'm right here. Everything's okay." he said as he soothed me down from the edge of my panic, "It's alright, it's all alright. Lillian will be fine. it's just a cold." He reassured, "I can give her some medicine and she'll be right as rain giggling away in no time."

"Thank you, Jack,"

"You're very welcome, my best advice is to give her the meds before bed and get some sleep yourself." He said his hand resting on my shoulder but I flinched away, "sorry... forgive me I-"

"It's alright, sorry I uhh... I think we best be going,"

"Of course," he nodded handing Lillian back to me, "if you need anything I'm always here alright,"

"Thank you," I nodded,

He got us the medicine and told me how to give it to her and he gave her one more cuddle before we left, "You get better now you hear me, don't want you causing your mummy any more trouble hey you little jumpy squirrel," he told her which made her giggle, "And keep well yourself Y/n,"

"I will, thank you, Jack." I nodded, "How much do I?"

"You're welcome," He smiled, "No charge don't worry about it Y/n I know things can't be easy for a lady alone so don't worry over it."

"Thank you," I smiled, I left the room trying to hide my joy, such a sweet man but I did my best to force these ideas away.

I sat rather nervously but still, I needed to get it all looked at, as usual, we were sent to the same room and soon enough Jack arrived with a wide smile,

"Awww why hello, if it isn't my two favourite young ladies, she got another cough or some tummy troubles?" He asked as she cleaned his hands and came over,

"No uhh, it's not Lillian today,"

"No? Oh... Everything alright Y/n." He said sitting beside me,

"It's my head, these headaches last for days and they just don't seem to want to pass."

"Ohh you poor thing, alright let me have a look." He said moving to sit behind me on the bed, "May I?"

"You may," I nodded even if I was nervous the mere touch of his fingers was enough to make me jolt,

"It's alright, just me." he reassured me in an almost pillow-talk tone, he stroked his callus fingers across my temple, then through my hair, and he moved his hands to massage my scalp which admittedly made me lay my head back and almost moan it felt so nice and relaxing, "Ohh christ... you are tense." he muttered, "When you put Lillian to bed how long till you go yourself?"

"Immediately but I'm up a lot with her."

"I see" he said his hands moving down but the moment I felt his hand on my neck my skin boiled, my blood ran cold, my breath became sharp, my heart raced and I moved away as quickly as I could as tears began to flood my face, "whoa. it's alright. I wasn't going to hurt you. I'm sorry... I'm sorry Y/n I should have said something. Forgive me please."

"It's okay... you didn't mean to."

"It's alright, I should have asked first please forgive me."

"It's alright Jack."

"Okay," He nodded as he held my hands and helped me to calm down again, "I think I know what your headaches are,"

"Oh?"

"Tell me even without Lillian waking you do you sleep through the night?"

"No, very rarely,"

"I thought as much, You need to get some rest you're exhausted."

"Well I have -"

"I know you're a very busy lady, but if you stay here you can get a good few hours of sleep."

"Here?"

"Of course, they're not the comfiest but you can get a good sleep here."

"But Lillian."

"I'll take her,"

"Yo-you'd really do that,"

"Of course," He nodded happily taking her and cuddling her in his arms, "You need to rest Y/n, you need some good sleep, I am perfectly happy to look after her till you get some rest."

"You don't have to do that,"

"No but I want to," he smiled, "You get some rest, she'll be perfectly fine and safe with me I promise,"

"Thank you, Jack,"

"You're welcome," He smiled kissing my hand, "sweet dreams Y/n," He said as he got up carrying Lillian on his hip, "Now you my little squirrel are going to come have fun with me while your mummy gets a little nap. Yeah? that sound nice. a little fun afternoon with Doctor Jack?" He cooed, "Come on then you can be my little mascot," He told her as they headed out,

I laughed but washed my face and hands getting into the bed and doing my best to avoid nightmares as I lay down and tried to get some sleep.

I did get some decent sleep, and when I woke up my headache was all but gone, and as I sat up I saw a sweet sight Jack stood leaning against the table holding Lillian in his arms playing with her, I giggled to see them together.

"Awww Hi Y/n," he cooed,

"Hi, was she okay?"

"She was an angel, absolutely perfect, such a sweet little squirrel," he cooed, giving Lillian's head some kisses, "she was my little mascot today round the ward everyone said how cute and well-behaved she was, and she was even my little mascot for surgery weren't you?"

"she was?"

"Yeah she came and sat on my hip like I did the amputation she was good as gold, kept the guy really calm actually said he didn't want to yell cause he didn't want to upset her, I think more doctors should start carrying around babies,"

"That... doesn't seem sanitary." I laughed,

"Good point, but we washed her little hands, didn't we? Between every patient we stopped and we washed out little hands," he smiled rubbing his hands in front of her and she quickly moved her hands to his like they were washing them, "Yeah there we go, wash wash little squirrel,"

"Aww that's sweet," I smiled "But babies like putting things in their mouth Jack,"

"Yeah, I noticed that she seems to really like sucking on my scalpel handle,

"she might be hungry,"

"Ahh yes. Good point. I'll feed her if you're still tired."

"Thank you Jack but I'll get her home,"

"Of course, I'm glad you are feeling better. You know I'm more than happy to take her days you need a little rest, maybe even get one of the nurses to look after her and you and I could go out and have some more grown-up fun."

I blushed hard at such an idea, I did want to but my fears were far too intense, "Thank you but uhh I think I should stay with her,"

"Of course forgive me. Have a nice afternoon you two."

"Thank you, you have a nice day too Jack," I smiled,

Once again I was back here and arrived at the hospital to see our usual doctor sitting on the bed as he wondered in,

"Ahhh there's my favourite patient." He smiled as he saw Lillian happily taking her in his arms, "How is my little squirrel? I have heard you had a little bonk?" he cooed,

"She fell out her crib,"

"Ohh? Well, what do we expect? Little squirrel must have been trying to climb out and go on an adventure." He cooed, "Let's have a little look." He said looking over her, "Let's get you some bruise lotion," He smiled handing her back to me, "And I'm sure a kiss from your mummy will help too,"

"Aww I'm sure it would," I smiled,

"...Do you think... the doctor could get a kiss too?"

I blushed hard but I couldn't help to give his cheek a little kiss,

"Awww! See don't you want that Lillian, it certainly made me feel better." He winked,

"I think she's just upset she doesn't like getting bruises," I said kissing her little head,

"I know I don't either, but she'll be fine once she gets some bruise lotion on it, and as she's been such a frowny little squirrel, how about a caramel?"

"She doesn't like caramel,"

"Aww, me either. Alright, but I'm only doing this becuase you my little squirrel," He told her going into his pocket, "How about a little lemon sherbert Hu?" Immediately she went to reach for it, so he unwrapped it and snapped it smaller giving her the little pieces, "But don't think you're going to get this all the time, these are my privet little sweets."

"That's very sweet of you Jack,"

"Well, she's too sweet to say no. You both are Y/n," he smiled kissing my head,

I stood in the alley doing my best to ground myself my body shaking and Tears streamed down my face, as I cried hysterically, my breath short and shaky, my throat choking and tight with every breath, my mouth dry and sickly, my heart raced to jump in and out my chest, my fingers and toes numb, my head dizzy almost to faint, my every limb shook and sweated, my stomach churned and turned like a hurricane, I couldn't even think, or even begin to know where to start to fix myself.

"Ohh it's my little squirrel and- Y/n?" Jack approached as he came down the alley himself of course her first spotted Lillian in her pram and then me, "Y/n what's the matter?" He asked as he came over, "It's okay, it's okay, You're not having chest pains are you?"

I shook my head and he held my hands in his, he kept me close to him and walked me through my breaths wiping my tears and keeping me in a grip that made me feel so safe but not smothered, he gave me time and space and made sure everything was alright until my panic attack began to melt away to nothing but memory,

"Are you alright?"

"Yes... Sorry Jack forgive me I-"

"It's alright. You frightened me. I'm just happy you're okay. You get these a lot?"

"I do... a lot of... bad memories sometimes come back."

"What sort ofg bad memroies?"

".. Lillian's father. Forgive me-"

"No, no I'm here if you need me you know that. You and Lillian. You don't have to tell me anything you don't want to." He said wrapping my arms around me to pull me into his chest, for a moment the metallic twang of blood hit my nose mixed with his sweet mahogany scent but I found it somewhat comforting, "I'm right here, I'm not going anywhere, I won't do anything to hurt you, or Lillian. you know that. I wouldn't dream of ever hurting my little squirrel and her lovely mummy,"

"You mean it?"

"Of course I do," He said kissing my head, "Come on I'll take you both home."

"You don't need-"

"AH. I said I would. Doctors orders I'm taking you both home" He said as he pulled back and took her handle of Lillian's pram, "Hello you, you alright? Happy little squirrel now mummies feeling better? Good come on then Doctor Jack will read you a story," he told her,

I nodded and led him back to my little apartment where I put Lillian down to bed, "Uhh have a seat, I guess," I said sitting on my bed,

"Is this really it?"

"Yep."

"You and Lillian? just in this little room."

"yes, we uhh her father use to live with us but of course he uhh..."

"Y/n... I don't want to push, you don't have to tell me but... where is Y/n's father?"

"...Dead."

"How'd be die?"

"He fell down drunk, down the stairwell and broke his neck."

"Ohh... Y/n, I'm so sorry."

"It's alright,"

"Did he drink a lot?"

"He did."

"Did he... No. Y/n... Did he... hurt you?"

I nodded frozen at the idea I was telling anyone,

"Did he hurt Lillian too?"

I nodded,

"...Is that why she wouldn't talk?"

"I think so. whenever she cried He would slap her. She learnt not to open her mouth. She cries again now but that's all."

"It happens in children, they learnt early on not to talk I'm so sorry Y/n, If I knew I'd-"

"It's alright, over now."

"Is it? or is he still lingering in your mind?"

"he still does I'm sorry Jack I-"

"Hey, Y/n listen to me." he said taking me in his arms, "I swear to you. I would never ever dream of hurting you. Or Lillian, I'm a doctor. All I want is for you both to be happy and healthy. I care about you, both of you."

"I know you do,"

"Will you let me take care of you? both of you?"

"Just care for us?"

"I think you know I want more than just caring for you both." He smiled, "If you'd let me."

"...I'd like to let you,"

He smiled and rubbed his nose against mine as she stoked my cheek, "May I?"

"You may," I nodded,

He smiled and closed the gap letting our lips meet.

I smiled sitting in the little hospital room with Lillian on my lap, as the door opened,

"Awww it's my lovely gorgeous stunning ravishing lady," Jack smiled as he saw me coming to kiss me, "And my little squirrel too? I'm getting spoilt today." He smiled kissing Lillian's little head as he took her and gave her a bounce, "Not that I don't love to see you but why are you here? you were both alright when I left this morning, this couldn't wait till I get home,"

"No, I was coming into the hospital anyway,"

"Not to see me!" He pouted,

"No to see, someone else."

"Who? What for? you're alright aren't you both?"

"She's fine."

"And you?"

"... I have some news, Jack."

"Wha- what is it?"

"We're gonna have a baby,"

"A- A baby! Y/n, you mean it!"

"I do midwife told me today, we're having a baby,"

He set Lillian on the floor to play and immediately took me in his arms giving me a million kisses, "Ummm I love you. I love you. I love you so so much. You are so beautiful, so perfect, you're gonna grow our sweet little baby!" He smiled

"I love you too," I smiled,

"We're gonna have a baby..."

"we are."

"I couldn't be happier my darling," He smiled before he kissed me and went picking up Lillian, "You're gonna get a little brother, you excited little squirrel,"

"I'm sure she is." I smiled,

"Now, you are going on a baby-friendly diet, you are going to relax, have nice hot baths, and I will be here to give you as many back rubs as you need." he smiled "No arguments."

"Yes Jack," I giggled,

"Perfect," He smiled, "And I'll look after Lillian so you're not overwhelmed, and even if you get so much as a whiff of a panic attack I will drip everything to take care of you, Y/n. I promise,"

"Thank you, Jack,"

I smiled as I headed to the hospital courtyard where I spotted Jack waiting for us,

"Aww, there's my lovely ladies," He cooed,

"Ahh little one has something to show you," I smiled,

"Oh?"

"Go on then sweetie," I smiled putting her little feet on the grass,

"You're kidding?" He smiled excitedly as he watched her wonder over to him even if she almost fell a few times, but he scooped her up and soaked her with kisses, "Look at you! such a big girl! you're doing so good! My beautiful little squirrel," He cooed, "You are becoming just as beautiful as your mummy," He smiled, "Now you are walking there is nothing my little squirrel can't achieve! she'll be head surgeon by Sunday."

"I think she has a way to go with that yet Jack," I laughed,

"I guess, but look at your mummy isn't she glowing? absolutely ravishing," He smiled giving me a little kiss I smiled and gave him a sweet kiss, "She's beautiful isn't she Lillian?"

"I think she'd agree I am a boat." I laughed stroking my bump,

"Awww you're a very beautiful boat. a boat I shall happily steal and live my life on if I must." He smiled, "How is our littlest one?" He asked stroking my bump,

"Kicking away as usual."

"Alright, come on up to the office I'll give you a back rub, put Squirrel down for a little nap and give littlest one a cuddle and a kiss," He cooed, "Come on let's head upstairs,"

I smiled as I sat in the little bed tired but happy, as I held our little boy in my arms his little eyes were barely even open, Jack beside me playing with little Peter's fingers, Jack had just cleaned off his hands from helping me with the birth. "He's beautiful,"

"He is, he's so perfect."

"Are you okay Y/n?"

"I'm alright Jack," I smiled leaning on his shoulder,

"Good, I was worried for a while there but you did amazing. My strong beautiful wife."

"Thank you, You were strong too I don't imagine it was fun for you."

"Terrifying. Watching my own son come out of my wife. knowing if I do anything wrong I might seriously hurt both of you. Yeah not exactly a fun time for me." he laughs, "but it's all worth it, for this little guy,"

"It truly was," I smiled, "Shall we?"

"Shall we? I think we shall." He cooed giving my lips a kiss and little boy's head a kiss before he got up and went out for a moment so I gave our little boy some kisses until Jack returned with Lillian in his arms he brought her over in her little blue dress sitting her on his lap as he sat on the bed, "Lillian? Sweetie, My sweet little Squirrel, this is your little brother."

"You're little brother, Peter, he's very excited to meet you," I smiled letting her see him a little better,

She came closer looking at him playing with his fingers curiously, "P-peter."

Immediately I got choked up to hear her sweet little voice, the first thing she'd ever said to us,

"yes, that's your little brother little Peter." Jack smiled,

"Peter." she nodded before she gave Jack, I and Peter a little hug, "Love."

"Aww, we love you too Lillian,"

"We love you very much little squirrel, you, and your little brother we both do." Jack told her, "And I love mummy very much too," He smiled at me,

"I love Daddy very much too," I smiled giving Jack a sweet kiss,

#thomas sangster #tbs smut #tbs imagines #thomas sangster imagine #tbs imagine #thomas brodie sangster imagine #thomasbrodiesangster #thomas brodie sangster #thomas brodie sangster smut #tbs #doctor jack dawkins #jackdawkins #jack dawkins #jack #theartfuldodgerjack #theartfuldogger #thearttfuldodger #the artful dodger

65 notes · View notes

definitelynotshouting · 7 months

Text

so a while ago i had planned to rewrite my fic everything i loved and feared for stylistic purposes, but ended up deciding to leave it as is and never went through with that beyond the first scene. Since i dont plan on doing anything else with this, here is the scene i did rewrite!! Hope you guys like it :]

CWs: graphic violence, graphic injury, suicide, temporary major character death

Love, Scar finds, is the exact shade of blood in the water.

A thin line of it beads from his shoulder down to his wrist, clouding as it sluices past the surface tension of the pond he stands in. Inky ribbons trail from each drop; they ripple outward to form a slinking barrier between him and the honed edge of Grian's sword, coiling thin and wispy around their ankles. Love is what saturates the smears of that diamond blade, the tattered edges of Grian's sweater, the final life pulsing bright and sacred in Scar's chest; love is the heady fog billowing through his veins as he kneels, one bare knee sinking into the silt, and bows his head to the oncoming storm.

But Grian's scarlet eyes, scorching and incensed, eclipse it all.

They pulse with the brazen fire of a solar prominence; the color has molded to his irises, slotting into place with such clean precision that it hemorrhages over Scar's memories, staining the echo-impression of Grian's gaze. Gorgeous is too pale a word to raise against the righteous, trembling fury he vibrates with now. The urge to reach past that diamond line, reel Grian in by the collar, and kiss him until nothing remains of them except one tangled corpse is a siren's song that howls inside Scar's chest.

Here, lying in the fractures of his calculated betrayal, the die is cast, and Scar comes out smiling.

"You can kill me," he says. The syllables tangle in his throat, too disjointed with the rolling, frothing tension boiling inside him. "Grian. You can kill me.”

Above him, an avenging angel falters. Grian's sword, still streaked with the proof of Scar's adoration, lowers by a single fraction. "What? No—"

“For everything you did to me,” Scar continues past him, lungs shivering with the cost of this victory, “to keep me alive this long— you may slay me, and take the enchanter.”

Gold flakes splay across the surface of the pond, scintillating outward as Scar bends at the waist; water brushes his forehead in cool benediction, in cruel, unrelenting curse. This baptism is Scar's holy scourge: Grian will win. It is both the most and least Scar can do for him.

When Grian speaks, his voice is small. “No— no, I can’t. I literally can’t. Scar—”

"Do it," Scar urges into the water. Between scattered refractions his own face peers back at him, a wavering mirror to manic triumph— all the love in the world has led to this crescendoing melody in his gut: the braying war horns, the bark of crashing cymbals, the bellow of ancient pipes. Strung at the seams within this orchestra, he teeters with bated breath on the edge of one final encore.

Instead, all that reigns around them is miserable silence.

A sharp inhale, cracking through the clearing with firework-precision. "I'm not—" Grian starts, and chokes on it, the words stumbling to an abrupt halt in his throat. Scar's neck snaps up; Grian's sword-grip has loosened, fingers lax around the hilt as his free hand flinches to one temple. It hovers there, pale and trembling, his eyes trained on the middle-distance.

A beat. Clarity is a stark, cold glow unspooling in Grian's pupils. “The spectators want a fight,” he says. His voice rings hollow.

Scar gentles his in turn, snaking it around Grian's shoulders with careful, insistent pressure. “It’s okay, G," he breathes. "You can kill me. You can be the winner.”

Grian's expression is a severed nerve, flayed open to the rising sun. Around them, liquid honey dribbles between boughs, landing dizzy and sincere at their feet. They brush the tips of Grian's hair, set fire to the thin, damp strands curling around his ears. Checkmate is the process of capturing your opponent's king with no hope of escape; shadowed in Grian's glowing silhouette, Scar bows, and offers his defeat with both hands self-shackled.

Check, and mate.

Slow— so slow he can track each individual movement— Grian shakes his head. A muscle jumps in his jaw. “Scar, they want blood." New waves bloom out from his shaking stance; adrenaline has retracted its claws, leaving nothing but the thin garrote between passion, violence, and mourning.

Scar is shaking as well. Even in this, they are together.

Grian's lips twist in an abrupt, fragile smile. "Scar," he says, sword once again rising in its clean, prismatic arc. Scar tracks the way light sparkles off it, throwing pale blue echoes against the trunks of nearby trees. "No matter what happens, we can claim this as a double victory. Right?”

The words are a cool balm against fevered skin. Scar sinks into them, eyes drifting shut; even now, through the mounting, cacophonic thrum in his veins, past the shivering gooseflesh of soaked skin, to look Grian in the eyes when he kills him would be blasphemy. "Yeah," he breathes, bracing for the blow, the diamond cut against his carotid. "We're good."

Air whistles with the surge of a starving blade—

— and the sharp, heavy schlck of pierced flesh not his own reverberates through the clearing instead. Grian's choked-off cry ends in an ugly, gurgling yelp; Scar's eyes fly open just in time for Grian's knees to meet the water, scattering a thousand, dazzling droplets in every direction.

Between Grian's hands is the glittering diamond of his own sword, buried inches at an upward angle into the soft meat above his belly. Rivulets of blood bubble from cuts in his palms where they clench halfway up that razor edge; even as dark stains spread to saturate his sweater, Grian's lips peel back in a feral snarl, and he shoves the wobbling blade in deeper.

"You—" Grian's gasps are ragged, hands slipping along the edges as the sword sinks another wet, squelching inch— "win, Scar. You win."

And with the same, ponderous sway of a toppling tower, Grian collapses into the bloody water.

Hazy exultation cleaves itself from Scar's mind in one savage swoop, submerging his entire body in ice. If he screams, the sound fails to breach his ears– one moment he's kneeling, dumb and shell-shocked, and the next he's scrabbling forward on hands and knees through the shallows between them, catching Grian by the arm before his head can plunge below water.

Scar hauls him sideways into his arms. A strangled noise punches out of Grian in response— the high, staticked whine of a wounded animal, shivering through Scar's chest. The blade buried in his gut jars with the motion, carving another, ragged line into the pallid flesh beneath. Fresh copper blooms in a cloud around them, swelling in Scar's nose.

“Grian— Grian, no." Scar's hand stretches of its own volition, hovering over the keen edges of Grian's sword. Halts just shy of ripping it back out— that will only kill him faster. "Wait, wait, wait— no. No, no, no, no, no. Grian.”

This isn't right— the bright, earnest rays of the sun have missed their mark, slipping past Scar's death to gild Grian in stunning, flagrant gold. “What are you doing?” he chokes, heart a helpless stutter in the back of his throat.

Grian was meant to win. Not this.

Never this.

“They never said what kind of blood,” Grian rasps, lips wobbling. Each breath is a bubbling wheeze as he struggles for air. “I can’t— I couldn’t, Scar. I couldn’t kill you.” When he coughs, his stomach convulses; Grian's voice cuts off into a breathless scream before falling back into muted pants. Eyes squeezed shut, Grian grits out: "Sorry."

Scar's fingers catch in the soaked strands of Grian's hair, petting it down with clumsy, panicked motions. “No you’re not,” he whispers. Beneath his chest an abscessed, answering wound unravels, howling in tune to Grian's shallow gasps. “You did that on purpose. Grian, you were supposed to win.”

Every card had been folded for this. Each die weighed in the well of his palm, every trick tugged out from beneath his sleeve; a barren world with no one in it isn't a world Scar can survive, and he'd pieced that together between sheets and shared pulses, windswept sky and sunburnt sand. Maybe it had been selfish… but Scar is selfish— with the last, grasping selfishness of a man devoted, his loyalty a warm, gushing sacrifice caught between grit teeth.

“You weren’t supposed to die,” Scar wails, shifting until his spine bows, forehead brushing Grian's. Stocky fingers spasm under his own; Grian's short breaths puff against the chapped skin of his lips, fanning over his cheeks. “Grian— how could you?”

Beneath him, Grian's lips twist in a wry grin. This close, Scar can make out the faded remnants of freckles marching across his face; counting them had always been a fantasy. Now he'll never have the chance. “Guess I’m just not cut out to be a winner,” Grian murmurs, winces, and drags one bloodied hand up to rest against Scar's jaw.

He doesn't bother saying I love you. Instead, he guides Scar to close the gap between them, fingers fumbling at the nape of Scar's neck. Grian's lips are bitten raw, trembling as he capture Scar's own, and for a moment they are two jagged breaths; the slide of salt on Scar's tongue; copper-stained fingers falling limp–

Scar bolts upright, choking on his own anguished scream.

#scarian #goodtimeswithscar #grian #3rd life #trafficshipping #traffic series #mcyt #shouting speaks #WEEEE ALL 1.5K OF IT #gods. fun fact grian was aiming for his inferior vena cava here and missed #fuckin. christ <- has medical adjacent work background #hope u guys enjoy this. i should write more death scenes i think it would fix me (make me worse)#txt

80 notes · View notes

azems-familiar · 19 days

Note

"Can you just- for a minute, can you pretend that I mean something to you?'

this. uhhhhhh. got a LOT longer than i intended it to, and also had a lot less angst, though if you consider the other pov there is definitely so much more. and also with literally all the context. anyway. have 5.6k words of emetraha, because i have brainrot and the prompt worked so well for them i had to choose between multiple options.

The Exarch being away is the last thing Emet-Selch expects when he arrives at the Crystarium for their usual discussion and debate over tea. The man is bound to the Tower; while he can leave, it weakens him, and thus in all the time Emet-Selch has known him he has only left Lakeland’s borders on the rare occasion, usually to treat with Eulmore (prior to Vauthry’s birth, of course) or in the event of some emergency. According to the Captain of the Guard, however (who had seemed faintly amused when he asked as to the Exarch’s whereabouts), he left the Crystarium three days ago to make the trek to Rak’tika to meet with the Night’s Blessed. The matter of this meeting, she informs Emet-Selch, is something the Exarch himself can decide whether or not to disclose to a non-citizen, and he is not expected to return for another four days, but she can offer Emet-Selch the approximate location of his destination, should he so desire to bother their leader directly.

He does, in fact, so desire. The endless waiting is the most intolerable part of any Rejoining, and while the millennia have gotten him quite accustomed to patience, he is terribly bored, and there is only so much he can do. Should he push the shard too quickly, the Light could consume it entirely before the Source is prepared, leaving a hollow void as useless as the Thirteenth - and Emet-Selch has no intention of repeating Igeyorhm’s mistakes. Thus the necessity of filling his time with activity unrelated to his plotting - and the draw of his weekly meetings with the Exarch. It has been some time since he sparred with someone near his equal in intellect, after all.

Of all places near a Warden, Rak’tika is less burdensome than others; beneath the boughs the shadows are deep enough to provide some measure of relief from the omnipresent Light and its burn. Thus Emet-Selch does not particularly mind teleporting to a location just outside the Night’s Blessed’s fort and asking after the Exarch once again from their sentries. What he does mind is being informed that the Exarch is late and has yet to arrive, and that they’re considering sending scouts out to search for him if he does not arrive within another few hours.

Emet-Selch sighs. Their scouts are near-guaranteed to be ineffective fools, and he is admittedly curious as to what could delay the Exarch, which means the solution, while distasteful, is an obvious one. “No need,” he informs the sentry, a slight bite to the words. “I will find him myself.”

Truly, how frustrating. And all because he desired a cup of tea and a stimulating conversation.

With the star as shattered as it is, his sight is without equal, and though the presence of the Light somewhat hinders him it takes very little effort all the same to find a shadow to hide in and look into the aether, with a range that far outstrips his usual vision. There’s a glaring brilliance in the sky that reflects off the currents in the ground and air, fragmenting his sight and making it difficult to pick out specifics, but after a moment of squinting against it he catches a hint of the Exarch’s familiar aether, far away and fluctuating with some kind of stress. It could simply be the knowledge that he is late for his meeting, Emet-Selch allows, but there is something…a greater concentration of Light around him. Sin eaters, perhaps? It would be unfortunate indeed were the great Crystal Exarch to be so waylaid.

…Emet-Selch has yet to have an opportunity to see the man in combat. His skills as a mage are whispered about in the Crystarium, but much of what he has accomplished can easily be attributed to his command over the Tower - which, Emet-Selch has to admit, does make him a mage of some high caliber. The Exarch is capable of directing the Tower to perform feats Emet-Selch had not expected from a Sundered soul, and his attempts at turning Allag’s voidgate technology into a summoning spell speak to his grasp on the theoretical. Combat magic, however, is an entirely different beast, and Emet-Selch is curious. And perhaps any observations he might make could unlock some of those secrets the Exarch so furiously guards.

Thus decided, he spirits himself away through the shadows, off in the Exarch’s direction. It takes four attempts for him to actually reach the man; when he finally does, he steps out of the rift into the scene of a small massacre. An overturned wagon lays sprawled across the major path through the Greatwood, crates of supplies and possessions scattered about, some torn open. Several bodies, viis all, have been flung about, deep wounds across multiple of them, marked by claws and swords, no life left in them whatsoever, and scorch marks litter the ground, patches of grass smoldering still. Smoke is heavy in the air, smoke and the spark of fading Light aether and the metallic tang of blood, a rather unsavory pall, and without any wind there is nothing to disperse it.

Emet-Selch arrives just in time to watch the Exarch, standing in the middle of the carnage, gesture with his staff and send a bolt of flame through the last remaining sin eater.

For all that he makes a heroic figure, robes bright and staff gleaming, his body language is anything but. His shoulders are tense and hunched, his fingers too-tight around his staff, his skin pale where it is visible, his legs trembling slightly. And curled against his side, held there by his flesh-and-blood arm, is a tiny viis child with wavy grey hair and small ears pressed flat against the sides of her head, her fists clinging to the Exarch’s robe, an expression on her face that is the kind of fear that has passed through the event horizon of utter terror and morphed into stillness again. Blood streaks her cheek and one arm - a gash in her forehead, another on her bicep. From her size she cannot be any older than three or four years.

“Well, well,” Emet-Selch murmurs, sweeping his eyes over the bodies - yes, that one, with the similarly-pale hair, bears enough resemblance it could be her mother. “So it was sin eaters that delayed you. I wonder, did you involve yourself before or after you knew the child yet lived?”

He takes a few steps out from behind the tree he’d teleported up against, carefully skirting the edges of the Light dappling the ground, bringing him within two or three yalms of the Exarch, though he has to pick his way around the detritus of this family’s existence as he does. The girl’s eyes snap to him as he does, but she doesn’t move except to lean her cheek against the Exarch’s shoulder. There is a rather worrying glassiness in her gaze, if he were to concern himself with such things.

The Exarch’s breaths are coming in short, shallow pants, he notices absently. Pain? “...before,” and the man’s voice is tight, raspy. Emet-Selch knows him well enough by now to know when it is in fact pain that burdens him, and this- despite his lack of visible injury, he must have put himself in harm’s way. “I would not chance passing by if someone yet lived and abandon them to such a fate.” He breathes out, shakily, and returns his staff to his back, brushing his crystal hand gently over the girl’s hair. “...you’re safe for now, little one.”

The child does not respond.

“I believe she may have a head injury,” Emet-Selch informs the Exarch, though he has no particular reason to do so. Why should he care if a single Sundered child lives or dies? And yet…it would be too easy to recall the terrified children on the streets of Amaurot, fleeing the beasts they could not contain. “You may wish to tend to it, should you desire her survival. Considering your boundless compassion for these poor creatures you consider mankind, I assume you do.”

He paces a few more steps away and crouches down to absently rifle through one of the crates - dried fruits and meats, a sack of nuts, a small store of root vegetables, nothing particularly interesting. Behind him he can hear the Exarch murmuring a quiet thank you before the aether ripples with the telltale shimmer of a healing spell; Emet-Selch does not watch, just moves on to investigate the rest of the supplies, half out of curiosity and half because it gives him something to do while he waits. Perhaps the Exarch will be more inclined to conversation once the child has been seen to and calmed.

Perhaps, Emet-Selch considers, he ought to offer the Exarch healing for whatever injuries he bears - but he has never been much of a healer, and there is a difference between providing some oblique aid to his enemy that they may continue their game and directly intervening in affairs that could hinder the Rejoining. The Exarch may be the most intriguing and capable enemy he has had the chance to face in quite some time, but he still stands solidly against the Ardor, and he has never entertained the delusion that the Exarch would set aside their enmity to join with him, no matter that he would make such an excellent addition to their cause. No matter that Emet-Selch has of late found himself wondering more and more what the Exarch would be like, were he Unsundered, soul as bright as it should be. As clever as he is now, Emet-Selch can only imagine what sort of mind he would have were the star whole - enough intelligence to rival Azem and their greatest researchers, he would think.

…it is a futile thought, he knows. But he does not intend to forget the soft rose color of the Exarch’s soul, and should he chance to see it again, when he and his brethren have succeeded- well.

For a few moments, the only sounds are Emet-Selch’s footsteps and quiet rummaging and the Exarch’s breathing, still too harsh and short. With little left to investigate, he eventually stands and stretches absently, turning back to the Exarch - as he watches the man finishes casting another healing spell and the last of the wounds across the girl’s skin close and fade. Not something one with no healing training whatsoever could accomplish, and Emet-Selch raises an eyebrow, musing. His power comes from the Tower, of course, but the knowledge of how to use it - perhaps it was found in the archives. The Exarch does seem to have few hobbies beyond studying and assisting his people.

Before he can question the Exarch, however, there’s a rustling of brush, the sound of wings on the air, and four middling-sized eaters wander out onto the path, drawn straight towards the Exarch and his living aether - and perhaps that would mean little at all, but one of the large winged eaters, bearing sword and shield and the ability to force a transformation, Light pulsing through its white-marble body in waves, descends from the sky, sword held in front of it and gilt wings spread to their fullest extent. The Exarch spits a curse, drawing his staff once again, and sets his feet, and the little girl whimpers and closes her eyes.

Emet-Selch leans against the overturned wagon and watches, untouched by the eaters. Their Light is antithetical to his Darkness, indeed, the brush of it burns like hot oil, but so too is his Darkness more than enough to quench their Light, and they have the intelligence to know his aether would not sate their hunger. He is of no danger as long as he does not come face-to-face with a Lightwarden.

The Exarch does not have that same assurance, and the tension in the corners of his mouth, his pursed lips, speak to his own knowledge of such. But Emet-Selch wishes to observe, and he would truly be a fool were he to intervene now, when this will give him an excellent view of how his enemy handles being pressed and when actively fighting back against the Light, within the Light, would exhaust him far more than he is willing to extend himself for a Sundered soul who would oppose the Ardor.

The Exarch takes three steps back, dodging clawed swipes from two of the lesser eaters, and casts a spell - ice that freezes one of the eaters in place, something far less intensive than the fire he had been calling moments ago. The trembling in his muscles is more pronounced now, as is the sweat beading on his plaster-pale skin, and Emet-Selch takes a step of his own forward despite himself, unease stirring low in his gut. The Exarch is meant to be his opponent in the long game, not to get himself killed by sin eaters over a mere child unlikely to survive to adulthood before the shard is lost-

The greater eater swings its sword in a wide, sweeping motion, and the Exarch grits his teeth and raises his staff, summoning a shimmering barrier into existence around him, a spell clearly adapted from the Allagan defense technology he uses to defend the Crystarium. An impressive display of skill - and though the lesser eaters throw themselves at it, it continues to hold, even as the Exarch shifts and begins to mutter a teleportation incantation under his breath, gathering his aether to spirit himself and the child away. A wise decision, in the face of this threat, Emet-Selch thinks, though it leaves the eaters free to advance on the nearby village. The Exarch’s vaunted compassion, it seems, does not extend to risking his own life.

The greater eater floats back a couple of fulms, raises its sword again, and with little fanfare slices the blade through the air again - and this time, a bright bolt of Light sears forward off it, sharp enough Emet-Selch is momentarily dazed, his sight vaguely scorched by the intensity. The Exarch’s barrier distorts, twists, and collapses in on itself in a rush of aether, the distraction enough to break his teleportation spell before he can execute it, and though the lesser eaters hiss in something that approximates joy, they do not move. Instead they leave it to their seeming commander to lunge forward with a blinding rush, sword held at the ready.

The girl screams, terror so all-consuming Emet-Selch can nearly feel it. Something cracks-

A sound claws itself free from the Exarch’s throat that sounds nearly inhuman. Emet-Selch blinks, then blinks again, and - the Exarch has thrown his crystal arm, claimed by the Tower, between the eater’s sword and the girl he carries, and the tip of the blade is embedded in the sapphire crystal, leaving fissures spreading up the arm from the point of impact and a deep gouge in the flat of his arm just above his wrist. Emet-Selch sucks in a breath despite himself, because the Exarch may be tied to the Tower but that does not mean he cannot feel pain, and the force it would take to shatter the parts of him he has given over-

“Emet-Selch.” The Exarch’s voice is hoarse to the point of near-unrecognizability, taut with pain and desperation, stumbling along the edge of begging. He has never, ever spoken such in Emet-Selch’s presence. “Can you just- for just one moment, will you please pretend that I mean something to you?”

For- for some reason, Emet-Selch feels the words like an impact hard enough to steal the air from his lungs, like a constriction around his throat, like the knife of his loneliness he has lived with for so long has not only driven between his ribs but twisted. The eater draws its sword back once again, raising it for the kill - or to attempt to turn both man and child, more like. He thinks of- afternoons spent deep in debate over the minutiae of the Tower’s function and the technology the Crystarium survives on, Allag’s history and the actions of Emet-Selch’s own order. Of the lounge they typically take their tea in and how it has been Umbrally-aligned for decades, despite the extra drain that would put on the Tower’s resources in this climate. Of how eager the Exarch is to present Emet-Selch with new volumes of theater, whenever one of his people manages to find or pen one. Of the indisputable fact that this enmity between them, this game they play, has caught and held his attention in a way nothing has since his son died and he once again gave up on the Sundered entirely.

…he is here, in this Light-suffused forest, is he not?

Pretend that I mean something to you.

That is truly not so difficult, in the grand scheme of things. The Exarch yet has secrets Emet-Selch has not divined, after all, and it would be a shame to strike him from the game board before they are revealed.

In the breath between heartbeats, Emet-Selch steps through the rift and puts himself neatly between the eaters and the Exarch. A simple twist of his will brings up an unwavering shield of translucent violet - the greater eater’s sword bounces harmlessly off it, the lesser eaters’ claws are a barely-noticeable scratching, and he could maintain this indefinitely, as long as no great amount of Light was brought to bear against it or him, but considering the sound of the Exarch’s ragged breathing and the quiet, poorly-stifled noises of pain, he doubts the man has the focus to teleport at the moment, and- well. Perhaps he finds himself annoyed, and the loss of five eaters will hardly matter as long as the Wardens remain. To truly fight back will drain him, yes, but it is difficult to care.

He musters his aether against the heavy, suffocating Light, lifts his hand, and snaps his fingers.

It’s an easy visualization. Large, dagger-shaped blades of shadow leap forth from him and slam into the eaters, then burst in a rush of Dark aether that instantly vaporizes the lesser eaters and sends their commander crumpling to the ground, sword and shield both falling from its hands and fading into the aether. Emet-Selch takes a step forward, extends his hand, and summons a bolt of Darkness to send directly at its chest, and that last pulse of aether is enough to dissipate it as well - for which he is grateful, because the moment he drops his hand and lets go of the shield he can feel the drain, can feel the Light on the back of his neck, as hot as the desert sun, burning his bones.

Heavens. The things he does for-

Emet-Selch shakes his head, rubs at his temples, and breathes through the discomfort. Brushes invisible dust from his palms. Turns back to the Exarch and crosses the space between them to take the man’s crystal arm in his hands, shifting his vision to that second sight to peer at the aether currents within. They’re pale and distorted, entirely broken wherever the cracks have spread, and he grimaces at the sight, absently running one finger carefully over the edge of the gouge where the blade impacted.

“This will be difficult to mend, Exarch,” he murmurs, low. “You have done a great deal of damage to your aether.” He sighs, shaking his head. “Give me the child.”

The girl is crying, tiny little hiccups muffled by the Exarch’s robe, but she doesn’t fight back when he hands her over, and Emet-Selch takes her carefully in his arms and settles her against his hip, the motion familiar. Relieved thusly of his burden, the Exarch seems to- shrink, almost, resignation and exhaustion and pain weighing him down until he is but a fraction of the man Emet-Selch knows. “...if you decide our enmity ends here-” he starts, his voice rough with emotion and agony, “at the least take her to the Crystarium, so she can live what life she has left.”

For a moment, Emet-Selch ignores him entirely. “Shh,” he murmurs to the girl instead, drawing on old memories of the mortal children he’s raised - both those he loved and those he did not - of children from long-ago Amaurot which he had on occasion been made to entertain. He had not minded, in truth; they had been discussing having children of their own, once. He lifts his free hand to gently stroke through her hair and over her ears, swaying her back and forth and humming snatches of an ancient lullaby until she quiets, the sniffles fading into shaky breaths. Only then does he carefully cast the lightest of sleep spells over her small frame - she seems unharmed, between the Exarch’s healing and protection, but distress will only keep her compliant for so long, and better to deliver her into the hands of her people docile than clinging to an injured man - or worse, him.

He does not- care about one lone child. He does not. The Exarch merely asked him to pretend, and thus he shall.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he finally says, directed at the Exarch, and heaves a sigh, turning to look at the other man again. “Come, then. There is little I can do for your physical injuries - I leave the frailties of your mortal flesh in the hands of your fellow mortals - but I believe I can do something to mend your arm, if only in part. But make no mistake; you will owe me for this.”

The Exarch laughs, pained and cracked, wincing and curling forward over his ribs as he does, the breath wheezing out of him. “...I shall have to break out my stash of emergency plays from Voeburt, then,” he manages after a moment, and Emet-Selch raises his eyebrows.

“You have plays from Voeburt?” he asks, torn between impressed and irritated that the man has never mentioned this before - and then he shakes himself. This is hardly the time. “Never mind that, I am not so easily distracted by theater as you believe me to be. A favor, Exarch, though I will allow you this: as I did not endanger mine own people in this intervention, neither will I ask you to risk yours. Now come with me before you collapse. I have no desire to be the target of your head chirurgeon’s ire when your heroic, self-sacrificial bent is certainly no fault of mine.”

“...then it must be before the endgame, I would think…” the Exarch rasps out, leaning heavily against his staff and taking a few shaking steps. “I look forward to seeing what you will demand of me. And to watching the chirurgeons yell at you shortly.”

Emet-Selch rolls his eyes and bites the inside of his cheek to keep from retorting, though he would dearly like to. Instead he shifts the girl in his arms to free one hand, reaches out, and wraps his hand around the Exarch’s upper arm - his flesh-and-blood one - and unceremoniously yanks all three of them through a rather rough teleport, which he would feel slightly bad about were he not annoyed. The moment they appear in the Crystarium’s infirmary, the Exarch is staggering sideways into his chest, and it is a sign of his exhaustion more than anything else that he simply stays there, trembling and wan, leaning heavily with his face tucked against Emet-Selch’s shoulder.

Emet-Selch lets him, and does not think about why.

The head chirurgeon, as it turns out, does not yell at him, though only because of the sleeping child in his arms. Instead she scolds both of them in a furious but low voice before guiding them to one of the few private rooms and immediately fussing over the Exarch; another one of the infirmary’s staff comes to relieve Emet-Selch of the child, whose name, according to the Exarch, is Lyna. Emet-Selch accompanies them to put her to bed in another room where they can examine her, and he suggests with an idleness he doesn’t quite feel that they leave her in the care of the Exarch, once he is fit for it. She is a terrified child, after all, and she will want the familiar. Beyond that, she is likely to consider the man who saved her life as safe, a courtesy he doubts she will be so willing to give strangers.

The chirurgeons seem surprised, but they do not disagree, and he is quite satisfied with that. The girl thus dealt with, he returns to find the Exarch with some faint color returned to his cheeks, enduring a lecture from his healer about what sorts of movements and magical exertions he’s allowed while his ribs and aether reserves recover. It is not a lecture Emet-Selch has been on the receiving side of in quite some time, and for that he is quite grateful. Eventually, however, the Exarch is free, and Emet-Selch convinces him to return straight to the Tower rather than checking in on Lyna mostly by not giving him a choice in the matter, a quite useful and effective strategy. The Exarch is too exhausted, it seems, to truly argue back.

It is not until they are ensconced in the Umbrally-aligned lounge - which finally eases the strain of holding his essence together under the Light’s endless onslaught, given the energy he’d expended - and the Exarch is seated on the couch that Emet-Selch sighs. “Well, very well then, let us get this supremely unpleasant business over with. I do not ask you to trust me, merely that you do not intervene; if this does not work as I intend I will be the one most suited to undoing it, and should you distract me in the moment of casting I cannot predict what might occur. It takes only a passing thought to disrupt this magic.”

“...might I know what it is you’re doing?” the Exarch asks as he drops down to sit next to him on the couch. Even with the cowl hiding most of his face, he is clearly exhausted beyond belief and still in no small amount of pain. His voice is thin and strained, wavering.

Emet-Selch takes his crystal arm into his lap, running his fingers over its surface, carefully tracing the bumps and textured surface, bringing to mind the complex web of aether currents the Exarch has over many years bored into the crystal. He thinks of patterns and fractals and facets, the structure of crystals, the wholeness of the arm itself, and he draws ever-so-slightly on the Lifestream itself, unwilling to pour his own Dark-aspected aether into this. “Weaving the fabric of reality,” he murmurs, only half-paying attention to the words, eyes falling closed. Creation without a set concept is a risk, especially without an encyclopedic knowledge of that which one wishes to create, but beyond the cool weight of the crystal in his lap right now there are things Emet-Selch knows that will make up for the lack.

He knows the way the Exarch moves - the way he writes, the way he gestures, the way his fingers curl around a mug of tea or a pen or an Allagan relic. He knows the gentleness this arm is capable of, as evidenced by how tenderly he’d healed Lyna; he knows, too, the strength in it, as unyielding as the stone it is made of. Near seven decades he has watched this Exarch, has seen the transformation progress as the Tower takes its due for the magicks he wields, and beyond all academic knowledge he knows the essence of the man in front of him. They are but two sides of the same coin, after all, bound by duty to be in opposition and yet terribly alike, he and the Crystal Exarch.

The power of the Lifestream is a bright, raging thing, a river even he, with his rare gift of control over its eddies, only skims the surface of unless he has no other choice. He lets the pulse of life itself swirl around him, pool beneath his hands, and he holds the fullness of his understanding of this broken limb in his mind and snaps his fingers.

When he opens his eyes, exhaling slowly to let the energies of the Lifestream fade away, the Exarch’s arm is whole and unbroken once more, only a faint cluster of hairline cracks remaining where the worst of the breakage had been. For a moment he pays them no mind - he had not expected the magic to entirely mend the arm, after all, considering he was treading the line between working from a concept and working from belief - instead focusing to once again study the aether. The Exarch’s exhaustion means the flow of aether through his arm is sluggish at best, not ideal for confirming the recreation worked correctly, and- well. Emet-Selch has done this once before, has he not?

He pours a small fraction of his own aether into the man’s arm, watching as it bolsters the flow - there are a few minor hiccups but with some time those will, he hopes, smooth out - and the Exarch lets out a heavy sigh of relief and slumps sideways, tension leaving his body in a rush as he drops his head to rest against Emet-Selch’s shoulder. Foolish of him, Emet-Selch thinks, to let his guard down so around an enemy, whether they have been playing this game for decades or no. He sweeps one thumb absently back and forth across the now-smooth crystal, shifting slightly to let the Exarch’s warm weight settle more comfortably against his side, and shakes his head, reaching one hand up to carefully adjust the Exarch’s cowl before it can slide too far back from his face.

Perhaps it is the state he is in, pushing him to think so little of being vulnerable. It would be unsporting to take advantage of it.

For a few moments there is silence. Emet-Selch lets his aether settle and taper when the Exarch finally stirs again - which is good, he had begun to worry if the man was falling asleep - and sighs once more. He does not straighten, but he does extend his arm and twist it carefully back and forth, testing. Most of the motion is smooth, but his wrist hitches when he rotates it, and Emet-Selch frowns.

Ah, of course. The remaining cracks will need to be filled in if they are to be kept from causing problems. He looks more closely at them, admittedly curious - it is strange, as much as he had not expected the magic to fully succeed, for it to work as cleanly as it had only to leave such a small blemish behind - only for a cold weight to settle low in his stomach as he does.

Because he recognizes the pattern. The lines of it are thin and simplistic, barely visible against the veining, but there all the same - a constellation cut into crystal with such perfect precision it cannot be anything but a mark.

A constellation. His constellation, the sign of his seat.

Perhaps his mind had wandered during the creation after all.

He exhales heavily through his nose, swallows, and does not say a word, and the Exarch must be too tired to notice, because he simply rubs his flesh hand over the constellation and stays tilted into Emet-Selch’s side. “...thank you for this kindness, Emet-Selch,” he says very softly, his voice still somewhat raw but much of the pained tension from earlier missing.

“It was not a kindness,” Emet-Selch reminds him pointedly. They are enemies; it would not do for the Exarch to forget such, not when they yet have all the endgame to play, and he remains deeply curious how the Exarch intends to thwart his plans. “I will expect you to repay the favor when I ask for it, Exarch. You have ever kept your promises. ‘Twould be a shame indeed for that to change now.”

“I do not intend to let my debts go unpaid, or any kindnesses go unanswered, Emet-Selch,” the Exarch answers in a similarly deliberate tone. “Regardless of which they were meant as. But this was a kindness even if you did not intend it to be such - I would have been in pain for the rest of my life without your intervention.” This, Emet-Selch knows to be true - there would have been no other way of healing or regenerating the crystal without creation magicks, and thus the wound would simply have remained, and while it would not have killed the Exarch it would have always been a hindrance. “So- thank you.”

…if the Exarch wishes to think of it as a kindness, then Emet-Selch supposes there is little harm in allowing him to. Perhaps he can leverage it for some kind of knowledge or further concession later on. When playing such a tense game against such a clever and focused foe, with the eighth Rejoining as the stakes, he would be a fool to discard any potential advantage.

(Even if he is only doing what the Exarch asked of him. Pretend that I mean something to you. How could he act any other way, in the face of such a plea? It does not mean anything - not for them, not for his purpose here, not for his duty.

Perhaps, if he reminds himself enough times, he will not risk forgetting that truth.)

His people, his city, and his star hang in the balance, after all.

But for the moment, he can allow the Exarch to remain leaning against his side, a warmth that eases the ever-present ache of grief and loneliness in his chest, and perhaps the Exarch is not the only one who would like to pretend.

#ffxiv #emetraha #exselch #emet selch #g'raha tia #shadowbringers #ffxiv fic #my fic #i'll post this one on ao3 Later because. um. it got long. but yknow. here you are! unpolished and unedited and whatever #asked and answered

26 notes · View notes