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parvulous-writings · 27 days

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Untimely Reunion // Astarion x Elf! Reader

Summary: A reunion at a very unsavoury time.

Warnings: Mild mentions of grief/mourning

Words: 2.5K

Notes: Before anyone says anything. Yes. There will be a part 2.... At some point! Did kind of run out of muse for this partway through, but I pushed through!! Hope you all enjoy <3 My requests are currently open! My pinned post (found here) contains both a list of characters I write for, and a masterlist! Original character list - please request for these too! If you’d like to support me more, consider donating to my kofi! I’d appreciate it loads!!

Things were different, when you were younger - vastly different, from the situation you found yourself in now. You had grown up in Baldur's Gate - a city bustling with life, noise, and so much more besides. Your childhood was a rather happy one - a loving family, a good few friends, and all a child could ever want. Naturally, you had a tiny rebellious streak - but what child doesn't? Your rebellious streak had led down a much more appeasing path than one might have thought, though. You made a friend through it. Another elf, like yourself, by the name of Astarion. The two of you became fast friends - you thoroughly enjoyed his company and various quips he'd come up with. He enjoyed the more quiet, light hearted jokes you'd make. A slightly unlikely pair, the two of you, but an inseparable one nonetheless.

You spent the nearly the entirety of your youth together. Astarion went into Law studies, eventually becoming a Magistrate - and a damn good one, at that. He may not have been the most liked Magistrate in the city, but he was fair, for the most part. You, in turn, went into politics, becoming equally renowned for your prowess of speech. You were well respected, to say the least, to the point that there was a very large crowd who would follow you almost blindly when you made a suggestion for the city. The friendship between you and Astarion was very much a benefit, for both of you; Astarion could help you from time to time with the Legalese of your political rivals, and you kept him up to date with every single law that was freshly passed, typically on the day it was passed; a privilege that very few magistrates had, as most were brought into the loop within the next day or so. Word could travel slow within the world of law, at times.

You had this somewhat unspoken agreement between you for several years. The pair of you liked it that way - although you had your fair share of naysayers, saying how it was 'unfair' or 'too below board', the pair of you ignored it for the most part. It wasn't like the two of you were taking bribes from outer sources to change things, or to let things slide. Or, at least, you thought so.

One morning, you had expected a letter from the Elven Magistrate - a reply to a question (or, rather, several) you had sent him about some scripture a few days prior. But it never arrived, no matter how many times you checked, or pestered the one carrying the post. It didn't come the next day, either. Or the next. Or even the next. You tried not to worry about it, there were some points where Astarion was just too swamped with various cases to reply to your missives; as important as you were, he did put his job before most else. So you decided to wait.

After a week had passed, you had become truly concerned - this was more than just unusual, this was downright worrying. Astarion had never gone that long without contacting you - not even when the pair of you had had disagreements in the past. Though he was certainly a fickle creature, he had never been this bad. So, you took it upon yourself to give his household a personal visit. The journey there was much quicker for you than most would have assumed; being someone of such importance and high standing in Baldur's Gate made people very eager to be out of your way, rather than obstructing it. But when you arrived, there was no cordial greeting from the elf, nor even a flicker of a drape. For all intents and purposes, it looked almost as if there were no one home - besides, of course, the obvious care that the few servants he had employed had paid to the small estate and it's accompanying garden. As you briskly approach the door, and raise your hand to knock, a rather nervous looking gardener cleared his throat to get your attention.

"Apol.. Apologies, Laird.." He stumbled over his words as he addressed you, and clearly couldn't bring himself to meet your eye. "His worship isn't here at the present time..." "That much is obvious." You replied, sharply. "I'm sure his Steward would be happy to let him know that I paid a visit, would he not?" "... Stefan is also, not here right now... He's.. He's with the constabulary..." Your blood ran cold at this. The constabulary? Why in the hells would the steward be there? This could only mean trouble. Your glare, focused on the gardener, urges him to continue. "H-he's been there since this morning - his worship is, um.." He trails off, his voice audibly wobbling as he does. "His worship is what?" You ask through gritted teeth, taking a slow, but meaningful step towards him. "Missing- ... His worship is missing, your grace..." The gardener was trying to hide his nerves and failing spectacularly. Some things start to click into place inside your mind. "For how long?" You ask, your volume dropping. "Just over a week, your grace..." That's why he hadn't responded to your letters.

You lapsed into silence, as the gardener hurriedly explained to you all that he could recall about the situation; the morning that he had disappeared was like every other morning. He got up for breakfast, and made some idle chatter about what he was expecting for that day. The gardener scrambled to list a few of the things that his employer had mentioned - there were three cases of petty thievery, mostly concerning Gur and others that lived outside of the main city walls, that had been blown out of proportion, a property dispute, and a few cases of various assaults that had made it to court. To your knowledge, there was nothing out of the ordinary at all. Not to mention, the gardener didn't mention any unusual behaviour from the elf. Not that he would notice it anyway, to be fair to him, but at least he was trying to be helpful. A curt farewell to the fellow followed, and you were quick to leave - even quicker were you to call for an investigation into Astarion's disappearance following the Steward's report to the Flaming Fist. The search went on for near four months - you refused to let the Fist simply file this as a cold case. It was a perk, you seem to recall being told by another friend of yours, of being in the public eye so much, and being in such good standing. The Flaming Fist simply couldn't afford to displease you on this matter, lest you speak out and entirely tarnish their reputation as a law-force. But, eventually, both you and them had to admit that there was nothing more you could do - Astarion was gone, and there was absolutely no sign of him.

Naturally, you began to mourn. Your childhood friend, just... Gone. Of course, you didn't know if he was dead, but he might as well have been. It felt strange in your day to day life, catching yourself thinking about the next time the two of you would have afternoon tea, or exchange letters, only to have to remind yourself that those pass-times would be no more. As your grief deepened over the next few months, you started to accept the fact that maybe he was dead. Astarion - as wonderful a magistrate as he was - wasn't always the best at staying on people's good sides. But he was so young, for our kind. You'd think to yourself. The more thought you gave it, the more it tragic it became to you. Your childhood best friend, your closest confidant, gone before even his 50th birthday. But, time moved forward, and eventually you did too - never entirely forgetting the man, but beginning to think about him less and less. What was the use in dwelling on things that couldn't be changed? You thought about him from time to time, but came to accept that whatever had happened to him, he wasn't coming back to the city, if he was even still alive.

That was, until you found yourself amidst a mindflayer invasion. You had heard whispers, of course - who hadn't? But to see one of your fellow politicians warp, mutate, and change before your eyes... It was horrid. Nauseating. Thankfully, some deep-rooted need for survival took hold of you, and you broke into a run, trying to flee the creature before it could get it's newly-formed tentacles wrapped around your head. Scampering out into the street, you saw that you were not the only one who had been ambushed by someone suddenly undergoing ceremorphosis. The streets were in chaos - you could hardy even dwell on what had become of the city before you were on the run again, sprinting down various alleyways in an attempt to flee the hundreds of mindflayers amongst the populous. When your legs grow sore, and your lungs short of breath, you wearily come to a stop. Your hands rest on your thighs as you try in vain to recover from your sprint. You were so wrapped up in trying to figure out what in the hells was going on, that you don't hear the wet, smacking sound of a mindflayer trailing up behind you.

"Look out, you fool!" Was all you heard before being pushed to the ground - out of the way of the horrid purple creature that had nearly caught you by surprise. You didn't really get a good look at your saviour to begin with; his face was obscured by the sun. All you could make out was the tips of his pointed ears, and how some of his curls had nestled around them. You paused, watching as the figure made sure the illithid was dead with a flurry of blows from his dagger. "Gods, are all of you city dwellers this blind?" He scoffed, with a 'holier-than-thou' tone. It was one you felt was... Oddly familiar. No, more... You knew that voice. Your brows furrow, as you slowly push yourself to your feet to come eye-to-eye with the man who saved you. Red eyes glare back at you - piercing and, in a way... Keen. "Well?" The man says, impatiently. There's a rather... Upper City edge to his accent, making it all the more familiar. "... No. We're not." You reply, almost deadpan. "But... Thank you." You reply, trying to show at least some decorum. Your saviour pauses, something in his eyes... Shifting. He seemed almost shocked, but he was quick to recover. "Well, make sure it doesn't happen again." He seems quite smarmy - a small smirk gracing his features, making his eyes crinkle. "I can't go around saving everyone, you know..."

And then it clicks. You know where you've seen that face before.

"Astarion?" Your voice is quiet, unsure. Part of you can hardly believe - or maybe, doesn't want to believe - that Astarion is standing in front of you. He looks different, now. His hair is white, even paler than what it used to be, but it still curls around his ears just the same. His eyes are a deep red, and as he starts to practically sneer at you, you can just about make out the fangs that now reside in his mouth. "Is.. Is that really you?" You mumble, just barely managing to stop yourself from reaching out to him. Astarion stares at you for a few moments longer, before the sneer that had put itself upon his lips melted away, replaced with something much, much softer - something almost mourning. Something in your chest begins to ache, and you realise you had begun to cry as you feel wet tears trail down your cheeks. The elf just seems stunned. "Gods, it's been centuries-" You take a step towards him as you speak, and he takes an instinctive step backwards. "It... Has.." He says, slowly. He seems quite unsure of himself - caught off guard, even, by your presence. "You... Look well." He tells you. This isn't quite the Astarion you remember, he's much more reserved now. Or perhaps he's just nervous. "You look... Different." You echo back to him, and you see him visibly swallow. That must be a sore spot for him. He opens his mouth to speak, then sighs. "It's... A long story." He tried to avoid your gaze, and you could remember him well enough to know not to pry- especially now that you were pressed for time. He glances over his shoulder as something booms off in the distance. He curses under his breath, before turning back to you. "... How about this? We can be all sappy after this world-ending crisis is stopped... If we both survive." He says to you, and you slowly nod in agreement. Standing here for too long could get the both of you killed. "When this is over.." He continues, "I will meet with you... Say... One of our old haunts - the tavern, near where you used to live... And I will tell as much as I can..." He offered you a smile as he spoke, and you could see those sharpened teeth of his more clearly. Something wasn't just different about him, something was wrong - but, for the most part, he still seemed to act like the Astarion you used to know. You consider it for a moment - what could go wrong, should you both survive? - Before nodding softly. "It's a deal... I shall wait for you." You tell him, pushing down the myriad of growing questions that you had for him. How was he still alive? Where had he been? Why did he look so... Different? He gives a slight chuckle - you hadn't changed much at all, in his eyes. You were still that same sly, snarky politician he had known in those centuries past. He gave a rather playful bow to you, falling back into his old ways. "I shall try not to keep you waiting for too long.." You could hear the smirk on his lips as he spoke, before he rose to his full height again, his expression falling. "Now, go - find somewhere safe... And do try not to let anymore Mindflayers sneak up on you, I won't be able to help with those ones..." He murmurs. "I am, unfortunately, needed elsewhere..." He tells you, starting to march forward, dagger still in hand. You start to call out to him, but you're hardly through the first word of your sentence when Astarion calls over his shoulder to you. "Just go!" You have few other options but to do as he says, ducking into another alley and taking refuge in a partially destroyed home. You hoped to remain at least somewhat safe, here... You'd have your thoughts and theories on the other Elf to keep you company, at least. You clasped your hands together as you sunk to the floor to remain out of sight to anyone who may peer inside the building, quietly praying, to any God that may listen to one measly mortal, that the pair of you may live through this.

At least, until you saw him again.

#requests open #x reader requests #x reader oneshot #baldurs gate 3 #baldur's gate 3 #bg3 fanfiction #bg3 x reader #baldurs gate x reader #romance #astarion x reader #astarion baldurs gate #bg3 astarion #astarion bg3 #astarion

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blingblong55 · 1 year

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Take me to church- 141(missing Gaz in prt 1)

This is based on a request/personal need tbh:

NSFW, 18+, MDNI ಠ_ಠ, F!Reader, monster au, incubus au, p-in-v, CNC(ghost part),

Part 2 (König, Gaz, Graves,)

It was a known fact that there were demon like creatures roaming the Earth. Shifting into their human form and living normal lives and their true identities would be revealed, if wanted, at night. You would never expect that the task force you worked with was infested with them. You were always fascinated by them though, always researched on them. You had grown fond of one kind of creature, Incubus. You had seen the stories, the art other people did for them. And secretly you wanted incubus to find its way to you, to make you his for the night. To leave his marks on you, to please you.

One fortunate night, you roamed base. It was past the curfew your commanding officers had set. You couldn't sleep, so you tired yourself by taking a few laps around base. You, by accident had seen their true forms (individually ofc) you noticed their horns, the way their eyes would glow, how they had an evil sinister smirk on their lips. Your eyes wandered around his body. His muscles being showcased as the moon shone on them, a small piece of cloth only covering his underparts. You didn't know why, but just the sight of him turned you on. His eyes scanned the base, he must've felt someone was observing him, then his eyes met yours. You quickly turned away, hiding behind some building. You closed your eyes for a brief second, hoping he hadn't seen you. But as you opened them, he was right in front of you, he was reaching down to you, touching your chin, caressing it with his hand.

Ghost:

"oh doll...what have you done to yourself?" he smiled to himself, licking his lips as he thought of himself in you.

"Ghost?" his face slightly covered by a different kind of mask. You didn't move from his touch. You had to admit, you kinda liked it.

His mind wondering into the possibilities. He knew he could have you at any given moment.

His eyes never left yours, they appeared to be searching for...something...it was as if his own nature desired your body, soul and mind.

I must have her, he thought.

"what are you doing all alone doll..its past curfew..." he softly says, his thumb brushing over your lower lip, he leans forward, his lips close to your ear, "you know I can punish you for this." his voice so seductive, so needy.

"will you though sir?" although this is what you had wanted for years, it was still..scary. You tried to look confident under his gaze.

Fuck, did he want to devour your sweet sweet cunt.

He had been with a few women, but he always desired you, yeah..just you.

The one that made his thoughts go from dirty to unholy.

He stopped himself from exploring even more into his own desires. As you looked up at him, with those sweet innocent eyes of yours, he sent you back to your room. But before you were far, he heard you say "will I expect you tonight?". He had to admit it, tonight out of all nights he dreamed of fucking you..he would be victorious. "perhaps." and with that you went back to your room. All the walking you had done eventually grew you tired. You laid in your bed, the moonlight peaking through your blinds.

Ghost walks in, he locks the door behind him. As he approaches you, the piece of cloth he was wearing fell to the floor. His body started to crave you. He loved how you only slept in a long baggy shirt. It was the most you showed leg. Tonight he let his true nature rise, unlike other nights when he had contemplated whether or not to make you his, but eventually just walking away. He was sure he wanted to enjoy every piece of you. Although asleep, he started kisses you. His hands roaming through your body. He eventually rested his hands at your breasts. Fuck did they make him think of the many things he would do to you. His hands lifted your shirt, he looked down, they were so big, so tender. His mouth soon started to kiss them, caress them with his tongue.

By this point you were in trance, your eyes opened, your body enjoying his touch, yet you couldn't say a word. No, not under his power as an incubus. "Fuck lovie, look at how you have me?" he said under his breath, his hands cuffing your breast. "tits so good" he commented. His hands wanted more, he wanted more. As he started to move down your body, he would occasionally look up at you. His deep chuckle filling the room, as he watched how your expressions would differ based on his touches.

"like it?" but you of course didn't respond. He loved how you stayed somewhat silent under his trance. His tongue starts to lick closer to your area. Your body grew impatient. His hands pushed you into the mattress. He wanted his meal to be slow, to be memorable, not impatient or needy. His tongue eventually reached the opening of your pussy. His tongue roaming, welcoming himself in you. You were wet, leaking as he deepened himself in you. He moaned as he started to taste your juices. His eyes roll back in pleasure.

"Taste to sweet doll." He whispers. His fingers soon wanted some of the action. He kneeled in front of you as your legs were spread open for him. One finger, then two. They thrusted in you, making you squirt in the process. It drove him wild knowing he had this control over your body. Your eyes were fixed on his. You looked so fucking hot in this light and in this position. A smile drew on his lips.

When he eventually knew you were ready to take him, he fixed his composure. "ready doll? you'll be a good girl for me won't you?" his eyebrows furrowed, his voice soft, but his eyes spilled the demise he would plant on your cunt. "open wide for me doll." his hands holding onto his member. You let out a small gasp as he made way in you. He was so big and so thick. His veiny member rubbing against your walls.

He started to thrust in you.

At first it was slow and steady, he allowed your body to adjust to his size and rhythm. But fuck, the way your insides wrapped around him drove him feral. His slow thrusts turning more vile in you. Your expressions feeding into his own thoughts, god the way you looked at him as he fucked you, as he went more faster and deeper in you, it did things to him. Unholy things. He wanted to chain you up and make you his personal doll, he wanted to teach you his ways, abuse your pussy until you begged him to stop.

Your body soon reached its orgasmic moment, your back arched. His hands trailed to your back, keeping you in that position for him. He leaned in, biting and kissing your tits. "fuck doll." he said thrusting in you. He wasn't done, he was far from it. One of his hands reached back to your aching pussy, fingering you as your tears of pleasure leaked from you eyes. He looked down at it, it was dripping your own doing. He looked back at you and grinned. His hand reaching to his mouth, he leaked his fingers and then he opened your mouth, he quickly gathered some of your juices and he spit on his hand. Making a cocktail of the bodily juices. He places his hand on your mouth before spreading the dripping cocktail around your face. Slapping you as he did this.

"fuck" he groaned as his own wave of pleasure would soon arrive. His thrusts becoming sloppy, your and his liquids mixing as he pounded into you. "Fuck..fuck.." he loudly whispers. He threw his head back as he came in you. He stayed in you, leaning forward, his lips touching yours. "you have no idea the nights I have planned ahead for us doll." he crashed his lips into yours once more. "you did so great for me, like the good girl you are." he said, kissing your jaw and neck, choking you as he did this. He gave you a few more thrusts before pulling out and backing away, enjoying this view. He smiled proudly as you leaked both of your juices out. "look at that" he kneels, his mouth now back at your cunt. He starts licking, drinking some as he does this, savouring you. He reaches back to your mouth and spits in it. "swallow us both doll..I know you want to." his eyes piercing yours.

He later started to clean you up with a cloth. He left the room to grab some water for you both. You soon woke up from the trance. You looked around. Your body glistening with sweat. You smiled to yourself. He walks back into the room, smiling as he meet your eyes. "You did well doll." he praises you. He hands you the bottle of water, and watches as you drink from it. "next time I won't be so gentle." he says, you nods. "dont want you to be ghost." his lips crashing back with yours. And after a long makeup session, you two cuddle one another. His hands gently touching your skin.

Price:

wanted to do things to you. Your body drove him crazy. The way you moved, the way you talked, smiled.

he was just so close to letting his own sadistic thoughts win.

as he spotted you, he knew that maybe he had an opportunity, finally.

"r/n?" he said as he walked up to you. Hands behind his back, smiling as he got closer. "sir, I know its late...but I," his finger on your lips, "shhh,"

"I'm sorry sir."

oh the things he wanted to do to you, show you it was him who was in fact sorry, sorry that he'd leave you dripping his juices.

"if you are sorry, then I'll meet you in your room. Go on now," he said, letting you walk away.

The way your ass, curves, and mouth would all look on him after he was fucking you, now that was a sight to see.

He waited and waited. Making himself horny in the process.

He walked inside your room, you were just sitting there, reading some book. He closed the door behind him, walking up to you, licking his lips. "well hello." he didnt waist any other second. His lips on yours, he lingered inside your mouth. "taste so good love."

"oh god." you moaned out, as his hand trailed down your stomach. "god isn't pleasing you love" his hands now in you. His fingers pleasuring you, making you taste heaven each time he was rough. "I won't be kind to you tonight." he crashed his lips to you once more. It was pure then passionate. The cloth that covered him falling off in the process. He kneels down, eating you out. He moans as he tastes you. His own little piece of paradise. "oh fuck!" you gripped onto the sheets.

"thats it love, you like that?" his voice husky. He smiled as his tongue fucks you. "yes, yes yes!" you start to grow more desperate, squirming under his own tongue. Without any warning, he places your legs on his side, for support. His now throbbing member in you. He was violent with it. just like he had warned. No kinds to you. Your body had to provide its purpose, to please his every need. It burned a little as he stretched you, but fuck did it feel good.

With each thrusts he sent waves of pleasure through your body. "oh fuck fuck fuck..." you moaned and whimpered. He fingered you as he thrusted in you, making your own juices, his lube. He reached down, kissing you as your pussy ached with pleasure. You kept moaning, he spit in your mouth. "oh fuck!" his head back, his chest gleaming with sweat and you. His beard leaked you. He then looked back down, reached his hand down and grabbed onto your breasts. Holding on as he fucked himself too deep in you.

He was drunk on your body, not thinking straight anymore. He came. He unloaded himself in you. Letting you have all of him. But he wasn't done. He flipped you over. Your legs weak, and he held your back to his chest. His hand traveling down. His mouth at the back of your neck. kissing it slowly. He cupped one of your boobs, barely fitting it in his hand. He bit your shoulder.

"a true goddess to let me have you like this."

His hand flew to your mouth, covering it so you can be quiet for once. He fucked you this way. For nearly ten minutes he thrusted in you, making you cry in pleasure and pain. You're ass hitting his thighs each time. "oh yes love...just like that." he cums once more. He tossed you into a pillow, his hand pushing you into it. "don't you dare move." he slapped your ass as he fucked you. You moaned and screamed his name. His hands marking your back. The symbol of an incubus. Blood dripping from the wound. "it looks good on you, my little slut." he spits out, cumming on your back. He moans in pleasure. He kisses you, and soon he walked away, cloth in hand.

Soap:

This man fucks! Doesn't give a shit if as in incubus he must fuck women that are asleep..he'll just fuck

But oh the minute he spotted you. God it was the first time he was nervous.

Approached with caution, "I take you cant sleep"

"no." "so can I help..you know I can" he was trying so damn hard to look confident...inside he was a mess

He checked you out from head to toe. Wanting to see what your uniform hid.

you were a wreck, his eyes seduced you into trance.

You led him to your room, moving to your bed as you removed your clothes. He walks to you, cloth on the floor. He kissed your neck. Leaving wet kisses as he trailed down to your shoulder. He bit a few times, wanting to leave marks all over you. Just so other demons can see it was him you belonged to.

He couldn't wait any longer. He pushed you to the bed. "stay like that bonnie" your ass up as your head rested on your pillow. He spit on his hand, and then rubbed it on your clit. Oh the looked he had on his face. Such a whore for him. A smug look on him. "oh bonnie, the things you are." he said and with no warning or any foreplay, he was in you. Fucking your tight little cunt. You moaned loudly. Just the way he likes them.

"You like that bonnie?" he thrusted in you. Your moans and cunt almost making him cum. But he wanted more time with you. So he kneeled down and ate you out. Moaning as he licked your insides. Loving the effect he had on you.

"oh..fuck fuck soap!" you said gripping onto the sheets. With one sudden move, he turned you around. And then you noticed his nipple piercings. You're smirked. "oh bonnie, you just had to do that huh." he spit on you, lightly slapping your tits before he reached down and bite them. Licking your nipple. His eyes not leaving yours. "such big tits huh?" he said as he sucks on them. You nod. "I need words baby" he stopped. "...y-yes" you replied. He smiles and continues with his bites. His hands perked your boobs. He now had his member between them. And slowly he moved your hands to them.

So you can hold them for him. And he fucked them. Moaning and whimpering as your tits brought him great pleasure. "oh fuck bonnie" he let out, almost as a whimper. He looked back down at you, giving you light slaps and with his other hand he opened your mouth, forcing it wide open. His moved his member to your mouth. "suck it" he demanded. Your doe eyes on him, doing as he says. You placed him inside your mouth. His head rolled back in pleasure. The room filled with wet noises and him.

"oh r/n, the....things you do"

He came inside your mouth and then all over your face. He closed your mouth, "swallow" he demanded. Your innocent eyes looking at him, "swallow my cum bonnie, please" You nod, and then he kisses you. It was so sticky, the taste of him. His cum so thick and good. He tasted himself in your mouth. He moved back, getting off the bed and watched you.

"play with yourself" he said. You just nod and spit on your own fingers. His hand on his member. You fingers yourself, it was slow at first, then deep and fast. "oh fuck" you moaned. He jerked off at this view. And when he couldn't take it any longer, he moved to you, removing your hand and placing himself inside.

He thrusted in you, deep and slow. Like he enjoyed to watch you squirm and plead for mercy. And then it was fast and deeper. On your stomach, he could see himself, thrusting in you. Oh that view fucked with him and soon he filled you with him.

"oh yes pretty girl" he moaned loudly. Holding your hips as he came to his orgasm. His fingers on your aching pussy. Fingering you, enjoying how you squirted. And he kept thrusting. You soon felt a knot on your stomach. "come for me bonnie." he said, hand's on your hips, leaning his imprints on them. You soon came, hips running wild as this wave of pleasure rushed in your body.

"soap!" your hands flew to his arms, leaving your nail marks on them. Oh did he love the pain this brought. He came once more because of this. And when he stepped back as you leaked him, you kept moaning his name. "oh soap, fuck, fuck" he walked to you, your pretty face flushed and with red marks from his slaps. "oh you liked that bonnie?" he asked. Your brows furrowed, nodding a yes. "I need words bonnie, " he cupped your face and softly said, "come on pretty girl"

"I loved it," your voice shaky, feeding his ego.

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

A/n: okay so I feel the need to make two parts mainly because I got too overwhelmed working on this one alone..besides..I want Gaz's to be extra long and I don't want to strain your eyes.

Anon, I hope this is enough to feed ya until the next part

REQUESTS ARE OPEN

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definitelynotafurinasimp · 1 year

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Can I get Candice, Yae Miko, and Eula with an Adventurer S/O! that fights with 3 swords. kinda like zoro from one piece

Them reacting to their s/o fighting with 3 swords

Characters: Candace/Yae Miko/Eula x gn!reader

Warnings: none

a/n: I don’t know, can you?

Also, sorry if I got some thing about the character's personalities wrong, I may be a bit rusty.

PS: god damnit, I oversaw the adventurer part, I hope what I wrote is also ok for you if not, just say so and I'll try again...

Anyway, hope you enjoy!

Candace

While seeing you be able to wield three weapons at once was certainly impressive, Candace seemed almost oblivious to it, putting much more importance on keeping sure you didn’t accidentally get hurt in the midst of the fight, be it by the enemy or one of your own blades.

“Don’t worry, I’m sure I’d be the first one to figure out if I had any injuries”, you assured Candace with an amused grin, otherwise silently observing her look for any wounds, the fallen creatures’ blood making it a bit more difficult for her to spot any.

“That could be your adrenaline talking. I know first-hand that that’s not always the case”, she answered sternly before finally relaxing once she was done, her face clearly betraying her relief as she put on a small smile.

No matter how many times you or someone else remembered her that you yourself were a veteran of many fights and duels, your continued existence on this world being a somewhat reliable indicator that you had not perished in any of them, Candace’s tendency to worry about you after fights would never vanish.

“Seems like you really are unscathed”, she stated before pausing for a second, “But if you ever get hurt-”

“-I’ll tell you immediately”, you cut her off with a small giggle, seeing her nod in affirmance not long afterwards.

While some might have grown somewhat irritated by Candace’s persistence in getting overly worried for you, you couldn’t help yourself from finding it adorable.

And with that, you stretched yourself for a bit before clapping your hands together in satisfaction. “Well, that should be it, let’s head back to Aaru village.”

Yae Miko

Yae Miko was always on the look-out for ideas for the next big hit, sure, there were also many concepts her writers would hand in, but in recent time, most of them turned out to be rather lacking. Fortunately for Miko and her publishing house, watching you battle multiple foes with not one, nor two, but rather three swords, turned out to be a surprising source of inspiration.

“Are you okay Miko? You have been staring into the void for some time now”, you asked her, somewhat worried by the strange silence she’d usually fill with a comment or two.

“I’m far more than just fine, my dear”, she responded, her use of a pet name somehow putting you slightly on edge, only for you to let out a silent sigh of relief when she continued, making it clear that it wasn’t part of one of her strategies to tease you. “Say, how would you incorporate someone wielding three blades at once into a story?”, she asked you.

“I don’t know, maybe… having a pirate fight with three swords?”, you suggested, somehow managing to catch her off-guard. Miko had thought of many options, but a pirate?

“Why exactly a pirate?”, she couldn’t help herself but ask a bit further, suddenly finding herself very interested, only to be met with a slight shrug.

“Stories about outlaws seem to be pretty popular right now, and with the horrible storms around Inazuma finally ending people seem to get more interested in sea related things”, you explained your reasoning, Miko listening closely.

“…and I think it would be pretty cool”, you added in what was barely a whisper, causing the Guuji to let out a small laugh before grinning at you.

“Good answer, you deserve a treat for that”, she chuckled.

Sure, pirates. How didn’t she think of that?

Eula

Seeing someone swing around a sword was nothing new to Eula, it basically happened whenever she entered the Knight’s training grounds. Every once in a while, she’d get to spot someone wielding two blades at once, something even she had to admit was impressive. That being said, when she first noticed you carrying around three swords, she thought at least one of them to be a spare one, only to find herself surprised when it turned out not to be.

“Why three?”, Eula asked simply after watching you obliterate a group of Hilichurls, causing you to instantly turn around before putting away your swords, staring at her with a confused look. “Wouldn’t one sword be enough to defeat most enemies?”

You nodded.

“Then why use three?”, she questioned, causing you to give her a big smile before answering in a manner most typical of you.

“So, I can show off”, you proudly stated, making her let out a sigh in turn. If she didn’t know better, she’d continue to think you were nothing more than some kind of show off idiot, not that you weren’t one, but the rest of your personality did a good enough job at making her chose to let it slide.

“Anyway, let’s get going. There’s a special meal being sold at Good Hunter right now that I’m sure you’re going to love”, you mentioned after seemingly having just remembered it before excitedly grabbing her hand and starting to pull her back into the cities direction, leaving Eula to silently resign herself to her fate, knowing all too well that her complaints wouldn’t do much to stop you.

//Thanks for reading, please consider reblogging it if you enjoyed my writing

#candace x reader #candace x you #candace x y/n #candace #yae miko #yae miko x reader #yae miko x you #yae miko x y/n #eula #eula x reader #eula x you #eula x y/n

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actual-bill-potts · 1 year

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I’ll second that Finrod’s hunting trip with Maedhros and Maglor ficlet ask, if that one resonated at all with you (if it didn’t, please just disregard this haha). I’d be really curious to see what you did with that!

Many thanks to you and @melestasflight for the wonderful prompt! This fic fought me every step of the way, but I'm at least reasonably happy with it, so I'm just going to go ahead and post it. I hope you enjoy!!

By the time he reached Himring, Finrod was weary to his bones.

He had set out from Nargothrond to visit Doriath; since being allowed back beyond the threshold of the fenced realm, he had made the journey as often as he could spare the time. He yet had hope that Thingol and his Queen could be softened towards the rest of the Noldor, and in any case his sister and her betrothed dwelt there, and he missed her company and wisdom dearly.

Often Finrod found nothing but peace and joy in the court of Doriath, for despite his grudge against the Noldor Thingol was kind and wise in the ways of the forest, Melian was generous with counsel and teaching, and their daughter Lúthien - now nearly full-grown - loved to hear about Nargothrond, and told him in return many merry stories of her latest escapades.

But this visit had brought dark tidings, and with it concern for his cousins in the North. It seemed that strange creatures had been sighted north and east of Doriath, and that some had managed to make it nearly past the Girdle by some yet-unknown sorcery. None knew what type of beast they were, exactly, only that several of the outermost marchwardens had been found with their throats torn out, and survivors with little memory of the events besides shining green eyes and a sense of dread.

"I recalled all of my guards immediately further within the Girdle, of course," Thingol had said, "for my lady wife assured me that nothing has passed fully through, and that they cannot match her power."

Finrod had made a bow towards Melian, but then said, "my King, would it not be worthwhile to take a company out beyond the Girdle, and hunt down these things? I myself would be more than happy to assist or even to lead the effort, if it would be of use - those beyond your borders may not yet be aware of the threat -"

Thingol’s face had darkened. "You will not lead any of the Sindar into danger!" he had snapped, before softening his tone. "You are valiant, nephew, and I do not fault your softness of heart - but beyond our realm are those who slaughtered my kin and burned the works of their hands. I will not spend the lives of my people in defense of such, when without loss we may remain in safety here. I advise you to do the same, until the danger is passed," he had added; but Finrod had refused as politely as he could, and left that day to ride to Himlad.

He was sick at heart, for if the knowledge of such danger to the Noldor who dwelt by his borders would not move Thingol, what would? He was reminded forcibly of the tensions of his childhood: Vanya in face, Noldo in body, followed by whispers no matter where he went; expected to laugh at Noldor gaudiness in Alqualondë and Telerin flightiness in Tirion. This was the same, but deadly serious, and he did not know how to resolve it; he had not been able to gracefully walk that line even in Aman, and now so many lives rode on his ability to do so here. Even Galadriel was no help, for she had thoroughly repudiated her Fëanorian cousins and advised him to do the same. She had been born late, long after everyone but the twins, and so did not have many memories to set against the terrible sight of blood on sand and distant flame. She had not grown up with Maglor as a merry third in her games; she had not gone running to Maedhros for advice or comfort; she had never seen the expression of mingled joy and desolation upon Finwë’s face when he looked at Celegorm, the child who in face and body was Míriel come to life.

Pursued by such dark thoughts, Finrod had made his way quickly to Himlad, where he found Celegorm and Curufin away at Amon Ereb. He had warned their seneschal of the tidings from Doriath, and without stopping had gone on to Himring. After all, if anyone would have an idea as to the identity of Morgoth’s new creatures, it would be Maedhros.

Now Finrod sat in the great keep of Himring with Maedhros and Maglor - who was, apparently, visiting; so social, the Fëanorians! - weary and heartsick.

"These are ill tidings, Cousin," Maglor said at last, "and we will arrange a hunt for these beasts as soon as we may. The power to nearly breach the Girdle: that is alarming indeed. For now, though, you should rest and eat. I’m sure Maedhros has a room prepared for you already; we sighted you several hours ago - Maedhros?"

Maedhros’ face was set, and his eyes were flaming. "Eyes of emerald, and terrible teeth…I know these beasts of yours, Cousin. They are nauror: gaurhothrim, it would be in Sindarin." He turned to Finrod, and Finrod nearly shrank back, so terrible was his expression. "He - Sauron - took fëar and forced them into the bodies of great starving wolves, with green eyes that screamed without sound. They had the power of untethered spirits, though they were bound to such terrible forms, and they could do - things -" he broke off, breathing heavily.

Maglor’s face was pale, but he asked, "Why then have we not encountered them long since?"

Maedhros laughed. It was not a happy sound. "They died, over and over. Fëar cannot escape Angband; but they revolted against their forms so wholly that the wolf-shapes were rent asunder, and the spirit left in tatters. Hardly useful. Sauron used to -" he pressed his lips together and did not continue.

"Then - these creatures are Eldar," Finrod said faintly.

"Aye. But slaying them will be no evil, if I am right," Maedhros said. "Death is the kindest gift in our power to offer."

He stood. "But my brother was right, earlier," he said, and it seemed that the great flame in his eyes was banked as he turned again to Finrod. The granite lines of his face softened near-imperceptibly. "You are weary, and I have had a room prepared. Go rest. You are welcome to join us in the great hall for dinner, or to send for a meal to your room, whichever seems best to you. I will leave at first light with my brother and a company of warriors. I advise you to delay your departure until our return, but if you must go, tell me and I will arrange for an escort."

"No - I wish to come with you!" Finrod protested. "I would not have my cousins ride into danger without me."

"Thingol’s reaction, should the King of Nargothrond fall in our company, does not bear thinking about," Maedhros said wryly. "It would not be wise."

Finrod set his jaw. "I can help," he said, and found he meant it. The thought of a spirit tethered so cruelly smote his heart. "I have learned much of songcraft from Melian the Maia: songs that can counter the necromancy of Sauron. Perhaps I can - at least ease the passing of these creatures."

"I sing, also," Maglor observed with a trace of humor, "and have faced the fruits of Sauron’s labors before, if in lesser bodies."

"Two voices will be better than one, surely," Finrod countered. He looked at Maedhros. "Please, allow me to accompany you."

Maedhros looked at him for a long moment. "Very well, Cousin," he said at last, "if only because I suspect it would be difficult to prevent you from following. You have the kindest heart of us all, I deem; and perhaps you will be able to do these nauror some mercy. I do not have it in me. We leave at dawn; be ready."

"If you find yourself too weary, do not come!" Maglor added. His sharp face was full of concern. "None will hold it against you."

"Thank you," Finrod said. He smiled at his cousins. "I will not let you down."

The next morning, refreshed in body if troubled in mind, Finrod rose before dawn and was ready in the courtyard when Maedhros and Maglor emerged. They were in light armor and leathers, as he was; and they were followed by a dozen grim-faced Elves.

Maedhros nodded at him; Maglor said, "Good morning!" and even offered a smile.

Finrod smiled back.

"I have procured a horse for you," Maglor said, gesturing to a beautiful roan he held beside the one he rode. "Your own horse needed more than a night of rest."

"Aye," Finrod agreed. "I thank you." He approached and stroked the mare’s nose. She whickered a greeting in return, and nosed his hair. "What is her name?"

"She is called Hirfindë," Maglor replied, laughing a little, "for as a filly she had a terrible habit of chewing on one’s tresses, no matter how tightly plaited."

Finrod looked down in some alarm; but Hirfindë was only sniffing, not chewing. "You have grown out of that habit, I trust?" he said aloud to her in amusement.

She whuffed, as if to say, of course.

There was a general rush of mounting and a flurry of orders from Maedhros; then the company passed through the great gate of Himring, going south and west towards Doriath.

The first day passed without event; Finrod strained all of his senses, but could not detect even a trace of the wrongness that signaled creations of their Enemy. By their expressions of frustration, Maedhros and Maglor did not have better luck. They did not stop that night, picking their way softly by the light of the stars; and by late afternoon of the second day they picked up a trail. The horses became nervous, shying at nothing; and sharp-eyed Maglor spotted the faint outline of a paw in the grass. But even without those signs, Finrod would have known that the creature was near. Despair was in the air. It was so thick he could nearly taste it, and had to set his will to prevent dark dreams from flashing before his waking eyes. I am sorry, he thought sadly to the creature, we will release you, if we can.

But despite the miasma that could be sensed by everyone in the party, the nauro - or nauror, Finrod supposed - proved elusive. The second day and night passed without success. Maedhros rode stone-faced at the head of their party, responding to Maglor’s tentative conversational sallies in monosyllables at best; Finrod tried to engage the rest of their party in conversation, but the other Elves were quiet and withdrawn, and in truth he himself found that talking sapped his energy more than he was accustomed to. The air felt heavy and filthy in his lungs.

But on the third day, they ran the creature to ground.

Maedhros was the first to spot it, of course: as the horizon faded from gold to blue at the start of the day, he sat forward suddenly and said: "There."

Finrod followed his gaze and caught the barest flash of grey bristle between trees.

"It will flee from us, I expect," Maedhros said, signaling for speed, "Its self-preservation instincts will be strong. We must run it to ground."

As he leaned forward to keep pace with his cousins, Finrod wondered for a moment why the creature was not stalking them in turn; then he remembered what Maedhros had said of the nauror in Himring, and felt abruptly sick. Doubtless any spirit successfully tethered in such a way would have had to be - warped, or changed, such that survival of the body became paramount over all other considerations. And indeed it continued to flee from them, until in the early afternoon they ran it to ground.

The first sign of such was Maedhros’ abrupt, "It is nearing the end of its strength; be wary." A short minute after, Finrod could sense it for himself: a thickening of the poison in the air, a sudden sense of weariness that dragged at his limbs. There was a stench, too, so close. Old sweat, rotting meat, traces of filth: the scent of a creature that did not wash itself, and cared for nothing but its own ravenous hunger.

Mingled pity and revulsion welled up in Finrod’s breast; he felt nauseous. By their expressions, Maedhros and Maglor’s chosen hunters were not doing much better. Maedhros and Maglor themselves were twin walls of impassivity, though if Finrod looked closely he could see faint lines of worry about Maglor’s mouth.

Following the smell, the sound of the nauro could be heard: it was crashing through underbrush, growling low in its throat.

As one, the hunters drew their bows. Maglor in the lead dropped back to Finrod, for their role would be as Singers only. Finrod tensed, every nerve alight with anticipation as he scanned the brush for the source of the heaving breathless growl - there! A flash of green in the shadows! - a hail of arrows whistled through the air and the terrible eyes winked out for a moment - then suddenly the Wolf with three arrows in its throat leaped upon Maedhros with a terrible gurgling roar. Elf and nauro rolled together from Maedhros’ horse, landing heavily upon the ground. Maedhros had his dagger out and was slashing grimly at the Wolf’s head with his left arm; his stump was driven into the nauro’s neck, forcing its jaws backwards. The creature was tearing up great clods of earth with its claws in its frenzy to get to Maedhros; the hunters had swords in hand and were approaching with faces set.

"Hold!" Maglor cried suddenly from behind, a clarion that filled Finrod’s ears and slowed everyone for a moment, even the Wolf, "I will Sing! Hold!"

He began a Song of sleep, which dragged Finrod’s eyelids down despite the warning. With an effort he shook himself and saw the archers about him doing the same. Only Maedhros seemed unaffected, grimly holding the Wolf off. Its struggles slowed slightly as Maglor sang, and Maedhros flipped it onto its back and plunged his dagger into its head.

Still it would not die, though it was bleeding from half-a-dozen arrow wounds and should have been killed instantly at Maedhros’ last blow. It whined once, short and sharp, and flung itself again onto Maedhros.

Watching it, Finrod felt sorrow well up in his throat. He thought of the Quendi who had loved their freedom under the stars, and found as their reward servitude without end to a cruel master. A song came unbidden to his lips: a song of traps broken, chains wrenched apart, the empty shackle upon Thangorodrim. After a moment he heard Maglor’s voice join with his own, deeper and more resonant.

The Wolf stood stock-still, panting terribly, its blood dripping to the ground; then as Finrod kept singing with Maglor, it wavered visibly and finally lowered to the ground. It was breathing heavily now, the sounds of an animal wounded to the death. For a moment it seemed to Finrod as if the nauro had two sets of eyes, one green and one silver; the green wolf-eyes were confused and terribly hungry, the silver eyes heavy with sadness and a relief so profound it was almost a pain of its own.

As they dimmed, both terrible eyes met his, and suddenly it seemed to Finrod that the Wolf spoke with a voice of spirit: well-met, master of illusions. Your teeth are sharp and your nails long. I thank you, freedom-bringer; and I am sorry.

Finrod blinked - master of illusions? - and suddenly in the time between one blink and the next he Saw -

eyes that were weary as the Eldar were never weary, looking into his own with love that seemed rooted in the very earth -

laughing beside a fire, with the owner of those selfsame eyes, the giggles and shrieks of children at play in the background: so many children! He had never seen so many even in Aman -

nut-brown locks and a bitter mouth, spitting wisdom angrily -

The same bitter mouth, now framed by white hair, hurling insults with fondness behind them -

Mud in his hair and his ears, caking his clothes, deep spreading pain in his shoulder and wetness following, creeping dread chased away by the low sound of horns that were familiar yet strange -

Dark stone, and chains, and green eyes that glittered feverishly in the dark, and his head resting on wasted legs as the breath whistled strangely from his chest -

Finrod came back to himself with a ragged gasp. He felt a shift in the air, a barrier melting away, and there was only a dead animal on the ground.

He had to go East. He felt it, the call of the vision. It could not be gainsaid, terrible as it was - and the love in those old-young eyes - and so many children -

Maedhros picked himself up off the ground and approached. "My thanks, Cousin!" he said, almost smiling. "Your skill with Song has grown greatly since last I heard you."

Finrod inclined his head and smiled in return. "Thank you for allowing me to accompany you," he said warmly. "But I fear I must depart."

"So soon!" Maglor exclaimed. "Why? There may be more of those creatures roaming about, and you must let us treat you to a full supper back at Himring -"

"Maglor makes very free with my hospitality," Maedhros interjected, "but he is quite right about the danger, and about the dinner too. What is the matter?"

"You needn’t worry," Finrod said almost gaily, "But no gaurhoth shall touch me yet. It is not my fate. I must go East," he added more soberly. "I have Seen it."

His cousins continued to protest; but he held firm, and at the last they yielded and sent him on his way with his borrowed mare, all the provisions they could spare, and kind words aplenty. He directed Hirfindë due East, and gave her her head.

Out in the open, wind against his face, cousins receding rapidly into the background, he was not sure whether to laugh or cry. Such a fate - such a fate! The joy - the love - the children! Not his own, but they loved him, and he them: he had felt it.

But no light at the last! It was terrible. Could anything be worth the creeping hopelessness he had felt, in the last seconds of the vision? He could turn around, go back to his cousins, leave Fate alone in the East. Perhaps she would not call a second time, and he could go forth in hope to an unknown ending.

But those eyes! He had never seen anything like those eyes! And the children!

"I will go, Hirfindë," he said aloud. "I cannot do otherwise."

As he rode towards Ossiriand, he thought he heard snatches of song on the wind: too deep to be Elvish, too fair to be Orcish, in a tongue he did not know. Who was singing? Such joy, in the bitter East!

He raised his own voice in answer.

#finrod #balan (in spirit)#maedhros #maglor #thingol #my writing #silm fic #the silmarillion #ok so I am aware this is like. comically different from the typical interpretation of their hunt #but like #personally I can’t see Maedhros the hypervigilant and paranoid going on a chill outing with his cousin #no matter how many years of peace they’d had #also me writing any fic abt finrod: how can I make this secretly abt bëor

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olderthannetfic · 1 year

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Completely putting aside the queer rep thing, I'm curious: Do people who are not book fans generally like the Good Omens TV show? In the book fandom we've been hoping for a live adaptation for decades but myself and a lot of other book fandom olds were very disappointed by the show. I was hopeful and optimistic about it until the trailer with the wall-slamming scene came out, which was the first clue that the characters were going to have a different dynamic in the show. (Book! Azi and Crowley would never. No, I mean it.) And then as soon as I got to the dove scene - which the show messed up completely - I had a really bad feeling that they weren't taking the book's themes very seriously.

(In the book, Aziraphale suffocates the dove through negligence and immediately forgets about it because he's too busy fretting about the Apocalypse and the hellhound not showing up; Crowley notices it and takes the time to resurrect the dove. The seeming role reversal there of the angel carelessly killing an innocent creature and the demon taking the time to care about the sanctity of life even while scared out of his mind that the Apocalypse is coming (which would mean all humans and doves everywhere were going to die) is a wonderful little early symbolism of the characters being more than their official Evil/Good labels, of their flaws and virtues, and of the overarching theme of the book. But in the show, Aziraphale kills the dove and is then the one to revive it, which makes the point of the scene ?????)

There's a lot of little things like that where I wonder if the creators missed the point of those scenes or just didn't care, and the end result is that the characters become a little flatter, a little less like the stereotype subversions they're supposed to be. (I've long been irritated with the show fandom because it felt like many of them just projected their longstanding bad boy/puttering intellectual favorite ship dynamic onto the two and didn't look too closely.) In addition, the angel and demon are very nearly B-list cast in the book. They're scene-stealers but in terms of plot they actually achieve very little, their arcs are about how they accept that they've grown as people, not about how they contribute to the Apocalypse. Because that's the point. The whole point of the book is that humans don't need angels and demons to be good or evil. Humans stop the Apocalypse and arguably start it. When the show puts human characters in the background and both elevates Azi and Crowley and spends additional screentime on new characters like Gabriel, the overall message is retained but makes for far weaker tea.

So like... it is very hard for me to like the show as an adaptation (some manage to enjoy both book and show as separate things, and I'm happy for them). At the same time it feels silly saying that it's a bad adaptation, because things like Eragon and Artemis Fowl and basically most book-to-screen things are out there. But I can't help but look at Neil Gaiman's background and the things he usually writes about and feel like TV GO has been made too much into his work, rather than his and Pterry's, and is ultimately weaker for it.

So for me it's really hard to judge its actual technical value as a standalone thing, but I'm curious what other people think of it. If the above elements of "huh, that scene seemed kinda random, why was it even here?" and general diluted sense of theme was something people picked up on.

I tried to read the book a few times in the 90s because it was ubiquitous. I loathed it and never finished.

I thought the show was well acted and had delightful chemistry between the leads. The cinematography and editing were nice. The costume design was excellent.

It isn't a particularly deep show or all that memorable to me, but it looks pretty, and Michael Sheen is hot.

Honestly, I'm not really the audience for the original themes. They've been done a million times by now (and even by the 90s), and they just remind me how much people think I should care about a Christian world view and how much I profoundly don't. It's like when people want me to care about Watchmen because something something deconstruction of 80s comics I didn't read.

The biggest change between the 90s and now is probably that this particular flavor of Cold War spies who are buddies when their bosses aren't watching has faded into obscurity instead of being absolutely everywhere.

Oh, and Queen is cool again.

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xmalereader · 2 years

Text

Lord Morpheus X Male Reader

|| Masterlist ||

Authors Note: It’s not as sad as I thought it would be but at least I got it done, but anyways. Hope you enjoy!

Summary: Reader is a writer struggling to gain inspiration again, his roommates try ways to find him that feeling of inspiration again but the only person who can give him that feeling is no longer apart of his life, perhaps they could try to work things out again and give themselves a second try?

Warnings: Angst, past regrets, insecurities, reader blaming themselves, reader is a writer, Morpheus is soft, some inspiration from EP11, a writers struggle, fluff moments, post break up, past memories, mentions of Matthew, alcohol, language.

Word count: 5.5k

—

Saudade

(n.) a nostalgic longing to be near again to something or someone that is distant, or that has been loved and then lost: "the love that remains"

It was a cloudy morning, signs of rain and stormy weather showing on the news cast as the town prepares for their day. The storm has been raging on for days that it’s become a usual thing for many residences that lived near the area, knowing that they are to dress up warm and to wear the proper clothes if they wish to stay dry for majority of the day. While everyone got ready for their day a certain man stayed indoors, doing his own work and focusing on his writing. He was a well known author who wrote many stories in the past but recently his inspiration had worn off, his mind drifting to other places and not being able to focus. He’s tried many things or ways to get ideas again but nothing ever came.

He used to write many stories, his mind filled with adventure and curiosity. He always explored new places, read new books or listened to peoples lives and used them for his own stories, molding it into something new for everyone to read. But as the years went he lost that feeling of excitement, the feeling of writing again all because of his own mistake. He stopped writing four years ago and tried to make changes in his life, moving out of his flat and finding a new place. He began to live with two other roommates who knew little about him but treated him with kindness and respect. They’ve convinced him many times to confound writing again, pushing him into picking up a pen and sitting him down in front of a blank page.

He spent days sitting in front of a blank page, nothing coming to mind as he focused more on the outside world, staring out the window as the rain poured down, the cold fogging up the window as he watched the trees sway in the wind. They reminded him so much of Fiddlers green, the meadow that brought him peace and happiness. He frowns to himself, shaking the thoughts away, it’s been four years since he’s visited the garden and he couldn’t go back. No matter how much he wanted too, he can’t.

With a sigh to himself, rubbing his face with his hands he closed the blank notebook in front of him, placing the ink pen on top. Another day with nothing, his roommates would be disappointed. He knows he was suppose to have something done by the end of the week, promising his roommates that he would give them a story but his promise was broken. He had nothing today and neither would he tomorrow. He instead focused on other things, making himself some breakfast and enjoying his time alone.

Well—not entirely alone, his roommates cat, Hansel, was keeping him company. The Siberian feline had grown attached to him, following him everywhere and rubbing up against his legs, nearly tripping him up a few times. Y/n didn’t mind the creature, he adored it but, there were times where Hansel got on his nerves and the cat was always pushing his buttons when he wasn’t in the mood. When he first moved in his roommate, Max, told him about the cat and asking if he was allergic or perhaps comfortable around animals.

Y/n smiled that day with a nod and letting max know that he was alright with being around Hansel, not feeling bothered at all. The creature sometimes reminded him of a specific someone who had the ability to take any shape or form, reminding him that dreams could be anything. The first day he spent around the cat he was anxious, his mind playing tricks on him as the creatures followed him everywhere. It took him some time to tell himself that the creature was nothing like ‘him’ and that he wouldn’t be coming back, guess animals easily attach to him.

He’s the one who serves Hansel their food in the mornings since he works from home. He didn’t mind the little extra chore he had to for his good friend. He sets his glass of water to the side and walks over to Hansels eating spot, bending down to pick up her dish and walking back to the kitchen as the cat followed him in silence, well behaved and sitting next to his feet as she patiently waits. Y/n makes sure to add the correct amount of food before placing the bowl back in spot and allowing the creature to eat. Before he could head back to his room he hears the door unlock, startling him as he raised a brow to see his other roommate, Missy, entering the flat.

“Fucking cold—“ she cursed, shaking her wet hair and slipping off her jacket. She’s drenched from head to toe. “What happened? I thought you went to work.” Y/n steps up to help her with the wet clothes, taking her wet jackets and shoes. “Yeah well,” Missy struggled with her socks. “The station is flooded and my stop never came, they closed the station due to the flood and I had to call in to work and let them know that I wouldn’t make it in time. I tried another route but the streets just got worse and—ugh—I just gave up and decided to come back home instead.” She explains, slumping against the door as Y/n brings her a towel.

“Good thing you did, your drenched and it’s best to have warm shower before you get sick.” He instructs. “I’ll put your clothes in the dryer while you go do that.” He didn’t expect the weather conditions to worsen, everyone hopes that it gets better by tomorrow.

“Thanks, Y/n.” She heads to the bathroom where she takes her warm shower while Y/n focused on making her something to eat in case she didn’t have time this morning. It felt nice helping around, he didn’t feel too lonely when he first moved out of his old place. He couldn’t stay there for too long. It was full of memories of ‘him’ and he’s trying to move on from things. The first few months were tough as he forced himself to stay awake and not sleep, he couldn’t end up back in the Dreaming not after everything. He wasn’t banished and still had free access to entering the realm but Y/n maintained his distance. So, at night if he were to ever dream he’d make sure that it’s not about the dreaming or anything related to it.

As a matter of fact it was a lot harder than he thought.

“You haven’t written anything?”

He’s startled by Missy’s voice, looking over his shoulder to see her wearing sweats and flipping through his notebook. He sighs to himself and turns off the stove. “I know I promised you and Max but I—“ He shakes his head. “I can’t write anymore, nothing comes to mind.”

Missy frowns, setting the notebook aside as she walks towards the kitchen, sitting on top of the counter and crossed her arms over her chest, watching him move around the kitchen and serving her a plate of food. “You told us that writing was your life—your gift.” She mumbled out. “So tell me, in all honest—what inspired you to write?”

Y/n is caught off guard by her question, the dish almost slipping from his hands before she caught it and held it away, her eye brows raised as she asks again. “What inspired you to write, y/n?”

Many things inspired him; his reading, the people he was with, Max’s cat, the weather or location, perhaps the dreaming too. But, he couldn’t tell her that, she wouldn’t believe him if he ever told her about the Dreaming and how Dream of the endless and him were sort of an item before he messed things up.

“Nothing, Missy. Nothing brought me inspiration.”

“Bullshit.”

“Missy—“

“Ever writer has a reason to write.”

Y/n shakes his head. “I stopped writing four years ago because things got complicated. I had so many ideas and thoughts—that I could write forever but their all gone. People change, Missy and maybe, writing isn’t something I can do anymore that I have to look for an alternate.” He exclaimed.

Missy’s shoulders sag, lowering the plate down in defeat. “Then what is your alternate.” She was desperate to know and wanted to help him. Y/n shrugs his shoulder in response. “I was thinking Art? Or maybe do some medical research, having Hansel around has gotten me interested in other animal that I could maybe study their anatomy or work as a vet.” He rambled out. Animals were another interest of his and could research about them all day. He wouldn’t mind getting his hands a little dirty or interacting with other creatures.

“A vet? Sweetie, I love you but a vet isn’t your thing. I’ve read your stories and writing is you, it describes who you are!” She hops off the counter, standing next to him as he focused on cleaning up the dishes. “Max and I both know that you have a story inside that little head of yours—“ she taps on his temple, causing him to smile a little. “I guess you aren’t ready to share it yet.” She sighs to herself, wrapping her arms around him and hugging him while he awkwardly washed the dishes. He’s grown used to her affection and touch and it was her way of showing others that she cared for them.

“Thank you, Missy. But, I just need time.”

Missy gives him a nod and lets him go, patting his shoulder before smiling. “Max texted and told me that he would be coming back early today too. Why don’t the three of us try and go out tonight? Maybe, get a drink.”

“In this weather?” Y/n questions with a raised brow, drying his hands on a towel as he turns around to face Missy, leaning back on the counter as she rolls her eyes. “Okay, maybe not today but we can make coffee here and just sit down and relax and watch a movie or we can gossip about my workers? I heard that the new girl was sleeping with my manager.” She whispers the last part.

Y/n laughs at her statement. “Alright, I’ll make coffee once Max gets back home and we can talk shit about your workers all day and watch movies too.” Missy cheers, throwing her hands up as she ran out of the kitchen and into the living room, he excitement freighting Hansel as she scurried away from the energetic women.

“Don’t forget your breakfast!” He calls out to her, reminding her to eat as the two wait for Max’s return from work. He shifts his gaze towards the window, the rain has calmed down but it was still windy and cold outside that even be, wouldn’t go outside without rushing back inside to keep himself warm. He can still hear the thunder clap in the skies, muffled by the walls that surround them and keep them safe.

Both he and Missy sat in the living room, watching a movie together as they waited. Missy would talk every once an awhile and point out stuff in the movie, groaning in displeasure when one of the characters did something she didn’t quiet like, the sound of her voice and the movie lure him into sleep. It was reaching noon but a small nap wouldn’t hurt. His eyes slowly close, letting sleep take over him as he drifts off. He didn’t expect himself to open his eyes and to be inside a familiar library.

He shouldn’t be here but yet, somehow he found his way here. After four years of not returning to the Dreaming he didn’t think he’d come back or accidentally return. He slowly comes to a stand, his hand placed against the bookshelf as he looks around. He doesn’t see or hear anyone and takes his chance to try and leave this place before he is caught. His fingers graze the shelves as he walks forward, keeping his steps quiet as he continued on.

The place felt like a maze, losing himself amongst various books as he tries to find a way out. It’s been years since he’s been here and changed have been made that he doesn’t quiet remember where to go. Before he can make another turn he hears a familiar voice.

“Lucienne.”

His blood runs cold, frozen in spot as he hears that familiar deep voice that he fell in love with. That same voice that would read him stories or poetry when he couldn’t sleep. He shakes the thoughts away, breathing heavily and in panic as he turns around frantically.

“Lucienne, are you here?”

He sounded near and he couldn’t be here. He tries to control his breathing. “Come on, wake up, wake up.” He whispers to himself, trying to find a way to wake up and to disappear from this place. His moving around quickly that he doesn’t notice a pile of books sitting on the floor that he trips over them, yelping in surprise as he stumbled down, knocking more books off the shelf’s. “Shit!” He sits up and moves the books off of him, coming to sit on his bottom as he removed more books.

“Lucienne—“

His looks up with a gasp, blue eyes locking with his as he stares with wide eyes. He doesn’t know what he’s thinking or doing but the panic jolts him awake. He’s jumping from the couch in panic, looking around frantically to see Missy and Max sitting at the dining table with surprised look on their faces. “You alright?” Max asks.

Y/n is breathing heavily and nods. “Yeah, just a nightmare.” He chuckled nervously, reaching up to push his hair back only to see a book in his hand. His breath hitched, taking notice that he’s accidentally taken a book from Luciennes library. He still couldn’t explain how he could do it but back then he was able to take any book from the dreaming back to the waking world with him. He didn’t mean for this to happen he was in shock and didn’t notice that he’d taken one of the books.

Sooner or later ‘he’ll’ come after him in order to get the book back. Y/n couldn’t deal with that right now, no he couldn’t. So, he rushed back into his room and opened his desk drawer, shoving the book inside and slamming it closed where he stands still, staring at the closed drawer before letting out a deep breath. If Morpheus were to come and get it then it’s best to deal with it later. Right now, he had other things to do. He returned back to the dinning room where Max stared at him with worry in his eyes. “You sure your alright? You woke up like someone was trying to kill you.” He chuckled out.

“Yeah, it’s just a nightmare.” Y/n chuckles back, rubbing his face and running his fingers through his messy hair. “I haven’t had one in years so, I guess I got a little scared.” He admits, afraid of seeing the King of Dreams again after promising that he wouldn’t.

“Well—anyways!” Missy claps her hands together. “It’s stopped raining, so why don’t we go get those drinks?”

Y/n groans. “Missy it’s cold outside, do you really want to go outside right now?”

“Yes and you can’t stop me.” Missy smirks, walking to her own room to get something warm on. “You know she always wins.” Max reminds him, slipping his own coat on as Y/n groans to himself. “Yeah she does.”

—

The three were able to make it across town without any trouble, finding an open bar that they enter and spend their time sitting in a booth as Missy gossiped about her work, saying how one caused a bit mess that she had to fix while another embarrassed her in front of her higher uppers. Both he and Max would sit back and listen, drink in hand as his index finger circled around the ring, nodding along to Missy’s stories.

“Anyways, He caught her cheating in the ladies room with some other guy and all hell broke loose. Their was yelling and fighting that we had to kick them out.” She giggled, half drunk as she sips her drink. “What about you, Y/n?”

“What about me?”

“Any rumors or stories that you’ve heard of lately? Perhaps some love in your life?” She grins to herself as Y/n shifts uncomfortably in his seat, clearing his throat. “No.” He focused on his drink and takes a sip, his body language giving him away as Missy gasped, slamming her hand down. “You do!”

“Missy, calm down.” Max tries to keep her down but she swats his hands. “Hush, tell me!” She points at Y/n who sets his drink down, nervously tapping his finger against the glass. “It’s not important.”

“If not then why are you nervous?” He was like an open book to her that she could easily read. Missy was a scary women to mess with and she knew everything and will get what she wants one way or another. He knows that he can’t win this argument no matter how hard he tried.

“I had someone four years ago before we ended things. It was technically my fault, I let my insecurities get to me and ruined what we had.” He breaths out.

“Why did you end things?” Max asked, intrigued to know too.

“He—“ How exactly was he suppose to tell them that he dated an Endless while he was just a normal human or mortal. “He was an important person, someone that many people knew. His family and siblings are the same they all have their duties and roles to fulfill. It didn’t bother me at first how I was just a simple writer trying to find my way through life—he showed me many things and helped me. I guess you could say that he was my inspiration.” His eyes glance up to Missy who stares back with sadness in her eyes.

“We were briefly engaged and I was happy, excited actually but,” he frowns. “I started to think about his past lovers, they too, were important and better than me. They’ve done so much for him that I couldn’t do and I just felt like I wouldn’t reach that level and allowed my thoughts and doubts to take over. So, I ended things with him and our engagement ended.” His finger tapped the table, avoiding their gazes as he down his drink.

When he sets his cup down, Missy bursts out into tears. “Why would you think that?” She sobs out. Max awkwardly handing her napkins as she takes them. “Your obviously the best and he wouldn’t have asked you to marry him for something so stupid!”

Y/n blinks, opening and closing his mouth. “Missy—“

“No!” She slams her hands down, startling the two. “You will go find him and make up!”

“Missy that was four years ago, he’s probably moved on.” Y/n tells her.

“How did he react when you broke it off?” Her voice is firm as she raised a brow, tears wiped away as she glared at him. “You could say he was a little upset.” He shrugs his shoulders. Morpheus didn’t really say anything when he broke it off, all he did was give him the ring while the King of dreams stared down at it with no words.

Missy continued to cry at the tragedy, both Y/n and Max knew that Missy would get emotional when drinking. The two already knew how to handle it but today was a bit difficult since the focus was on him and not on something else. “I think that’s enough for today.” Max takes Missy’s drink, sliding it to the side as he helps her stand. “Come on.”

“No!” Missy shakes her head. “I won’t go until Y/n makes up with his fiancé.” The writer rolls his eyes, helping her stand and taking her bag with him. “Let’s get you to bed.” He mumbled, ignoring her words as the two drag her outside into the cold weather, she shivers and clings onto Max.

“I don’t think will make it back home with her like this, maybe we can stay at a hotel for tonight?” Y/n suggest while Max agrees. “I’ll get a cab and take her to a hotel, you can head home.”

“Wait, are you sure?” Y/n felt guilty leaving Max alone with Missy. The two get along well but Missy wasn’t so great when she’s drunk. ��Please, Y/n I’ve dealt with her like this for years I think I can handle it.” He chuckled at him as he holds her upright. “You go ahead will call in the morning.”

Y/n hesitates and gives Max a nod as he calls a cab, he gives his friends one last look and reminds max to call in the morning before getting inside the cab and riding back home. He sighs deeply, leaning his head against the window as the driver takes him home, arriving after a few minutes and paying the man as he steps out of the vehicle. When heading inside his apartment he doesn’t take notice of the raven perched on his balcony, watching him closely as he enters the building.

Once he’s inside he closes the door behind him, removing his coat and hanging it up. He also kicks his shoes off and makes his way towards his bedroom where he tossed his phone on the bed. A familiar meow gets his attention as he looks over to see Hansel sitting by his doorway. “Right.” He walks back out of his room to feed the cat his last meal of the day.

“Sorry bud.” He whispers, serving the cat more water and food. “Max won’t be coming home tonight, he got stuck with Missy.” He strokes the cats head, earning a purr in return as he smiles to himself, coming back to a stand from his crouched position as he turns around to head back to his room. When he enters he turns to close the door until a tap is heard against his window, causing him to look over.

He steps forward to see a black raven standing outside his window, beak tapping the window again. He stopped in his steps, staring at the raven that he remembers very well. The same raven that’ll follow him everywhere and talk about some nonsense or try to keep a decent conversation. Before he could do anything he feels a familiar presence, one that he knew too well.

His back faced him, eyes closed as he exhaled nervously. He opened his eyes again and turns around to see Morpheus standing in his bedroom, his hands in his coat pockets as he stares him down. His expression is blank and can’t tell what the man is thinking.

“Hello, Morpheus.” He says softly, avoiding his piercing blue eyes as he focused his attention in anything else but him.

“Y/n.” His voice is still the same as he remembers, deep and soft but also soothing and comfortable. “You have something that belongs to me.” The Dream lord goes straight to the point and Y/n knows that he’s not here for a social meeting.

“Right.” Y/n mumbled to himself, walking to his desk and pulling the first drawer open where the book is stored away. He pulls it out and closed the drawer behind him, swallowing nervously as he turns around to hold the book out to Morpheus. The dream lord himself takes the book in his own hand, their fingers touching. Y/‘n is the first to pull away, taking a step back.

“I didn’t mean to take your book from the dreaming since I am no longer welcomed.”

“Your always welcomed into the dreaming.” Morpheus interrupts, hand gripping the book as he stares at the writer.

Y/n shakes his head. “I know I am but decide not to.” The tension between them is strong, making it hard for either of them to speak.

“You should make up!”

Missy’s words repeat in his head, he knows that making up won’t fix anything and neither would an apology but he had no choice but to speak up about how he felt. He wanted Morpheus to know how sorry he was for breaking the Endless heart or maybe the dream lord himself had already forgotten their love and moved on.

“Im sorry for everything and I know my apology won’t do much. I just wanted to let you know that what I did isn’t your fault.” He could feel Morpheus stare. “What I did was terrible and I blame myself, I let my doubt and thoughts get to me and did a terrible thing to you and I understand if you hate me—“

“I don’t hate you.”

Y/n looks into his eyes a hint of shame and sadness at his own words. Y/n gives him a sad smile. “You should.”

Morpheus takes a step forward. “My hatred is something I will not give towards you.”

“I broke us apart, because of me we couldn’t get married. I just couldn’t stop thinking about us and asking myself why. Why did you fall in love with someone like me? A human, a mortal who couldn’t be by your side. Why choose me when you could have anyone that could give you what I can’t?” He’s looking at Morpheus, letting him know how he really felt during their time together. Yes, he was happy to be with someone and happy to know that he could have a future but his doubts started to flood his mind, fearing taking over him and asking himself, why? Why him out of everyone. Morpheus could be with a goddess or perhaps someone with the same equal as him. But instead he choose him, a mere human.

Y/n was too distracted in his own thought that he doesn’t notice Morpheus stepping closer, setting the book aside as they stood toe to toe. His breath warm as he speaks. “I choose you because you showed me a feeling that I never thought I’d ever feel again.”

“And what feeling was that?” Y/n whispers.

Morpheus leans forward, pressing their foreheads together as he breaths him in. “Love.”

Y/n wants to break down, wants to take everything back and start over. But, he doesn’t know if Morpheus would want to do the same thing, for all he knew the Endless could have moved on already after four years. He feels his warm hand cup the nap of his neck, holding him in place, touching him again after years of being apart.

“You were what filled my blank pages.” Y/n whimpers, closing his eyes as he holds back tears as Morpheus continued. “I loved you from the day I heard your stories, stories that brought many dreamers together. I admit that I loved others before you but what we had is something far more extraordinary than ever.”

Y/n didn’t know what to say, afraid of saying something that’ll ruin this moment. Afraid of saying something that’ll push Morpheus away. “I don’t—“ He feels the dream lord shake his head, whispering more words to him. “Come back to the dreaming.” His words pull a gasp from Y/n, pulling away to look at him properly. “Morpheus I don’t—“ He bites the inside of his cheek, nervous again. “What if I mess up again?”

“You won’t.” Morpheus reassured him, suddenly remembering Luciennes words about change and second chances. He gave gault another chance to becoming a dream and not a nightmare, he’s willing to give Y/n another chance to make things right.

“Someone once told me that second chances is something that everyone needs and I’m willing to do that.” The Dream lord takes hold of Y/n’s hand into his own. “We can both give each other a second chance.”

Y/n sniffles, his thumb stroking the top of Morpheus palm. He inhaled sharply. “Are you sure?” He asks, as much as he wanted to give this another chance he still wanted Morpheus’ thoughts about their relationship. Everything was so unexpected but now that they’ve talked things through and allowed their feelings to spill he can’t help but feel a weight get lift off his shoulders. Hd felt lighter now that he let Morpheus know about his doubts and fears, fears that Morpheus understood.

Morpheus takes another step forward, their chests brushing up against each other as the King of dreams and nightmares pulls him close, placing a soft kiss on the top of his head as he mumbled out. “I want you by my side in the dreaming and as my consort.” His voice is a small whisper as Y/n hears his words, giving a small nod. “Then I shall stay by your side.”

—

Y/n was sitting in front of the window, notebook in hand as he the wrote across the pages. The stories he had filled the empty spaces, hand cramping but not stopping until he’s gotten the last few details in. He’s distracted by his writing that he doesn’t feel Missy standing over him until she speaks up. “You’re writing.”

He’s startled by her voice, slamming the notebook shut. “Shit, you scared me.”

“You’re writing.” She points out again.

“Yes and?” He raised a brow.

“Let me read.”

“What—no!”

“Let me read!” Missy launched after the notebook, he’s quick to pull it out of her reach, stumbling away from the window as Missy jumps on his back, legs wrapped around his torso as she reached up for the notebook. “Get off!” Y/n struggles to shove her off, walking around the living room. It wasn’t until Max comes back home, groaning to himself. “Can’t I come home without you two trying to kill each other?”

“Max! Get the fucking notebook! He’s writing again!” Missy shouts, yelling as she’s thrown off and onto the couch. “Wait he’s writing again?” Max is quick to get involved, rushing over to snatch the notebook. “Not you too!” The notebook is taken from his hands, caught off guard when Max takes it and flips through the pages.

“Read it out loud!” Missy shouts, attaching herself to Y/n’s back, holding him back from taking the notebook. “What—don’t, it’s not finished!” He groans out.

Max steps back, grinning widely as his eyes skin through the pages, reading the words. He doesn’t read out loud, instead he reads to himself as his mischievous grin softens into a smile. “I said out loud!” Missy screams out again.

Instead, Max closes the notebook and smiles at him. “I think it’s a wonderful story.” He holds it back out for Y/n to take, after he throws Missy off his shoulders he takes the notebook back and holds it to his chest. “No one can read it until it’s finished.” He states out.

“That’s bullshit! Max got a little sneak peek, why can’t I?!”

Max chuckles. “It’s best to read it after he’s done, it’s good so far and I’m very interested to know more about this character if you’re.” He air quotes, causing y/n to blush. “Anyways, like Max said you both can read it when it’s finished now, if you’ll excuse me I have to go to bed.” He rushed to his room, slamming the door behind him and locking it. He sighs to himself and sets the notebook on his desk.

“Your friends seem eager to know what you are writing.”

Y/n looks over his shoulder to see Morpheus standing near his bed a knowing smile on his face. It’s been six months since they’ve given their relationship a second try, taking things at their own pace again before he accepts Morpheus’ proposal again. “You would know, Dream of the endless. It’s possible that you got an exclusive look into my story since it’s not published yet.”

Luciennes library contained many books that have or haven’t been written yet. The dreaming library contained it all and wouldn’t be surprised if Morpheus had read it already. The dream lord chuckles, coming to sit on his bed. “I actually haven’t read it yet.” He admits.

“I was hoping that you would read it to me, like old times.” Y/n smiles in return, walking to sit next to him as he hums. “How about the first chapter—I’m making you wait too.” It wouldn’t be fair that Morpheus would have the first listen into his new book and not his friends.

“Very well, my love.” Morpheus leans close. “I’ll allow the first chapter.”

Y/n smiles, leaning against Dreams shoulder and staring out the window where Matthew stood.

“A tourist in the waking world, who was never quite awake, no gentle word could wake then up from their slumber until they realized it was you who held them under…”

#male reader #lord Morpheus #dream of the endless #the sandman #lord Morpheus x male reader #the sandman x male reader #dream x male reader #reader #one shot #post break up #tom sturridge #Tom sturridge x male reader #tom sturridge x reader #dc imagines #dc x male reader

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spinningwebsandtales · 1 year

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Imagine Being A Time Traveler And Meeting Nicholas

Nicholas D Wolfwood X FemReader

Rating: T

Warnings: Mentions of near death and weapons

Word Count: 843

Requested by @ceylon-morphe286

(A/N:) Sorry it took me a little while to get this finished. I wanted to sit down and write several times last week but alas life once again got in my way. Thank you for your patience and I am so pleased with finally getting this posted for you! Thank you so much again for your request I had a lot of fun writing this, it was something that made me think and try my best with! I hope you enjoy it! Until next time happy reading! ~Countess

As a traveler of time and universes, you had visited many places and many different times and you could honestly say you enjoyed every single one. But now this place that you found yourself called Noman’s Land was the worst place you decided. As it was most likely going to be your doom as the sun beat down upon your exhausted form. You had no water nor food and it was taking it’s toll on your body. The desert seemed to trail on forever and you just knew that you were not going to make it much further at all. You were beginning to give up, resolved to just rest and become worm food when you saw a shadow on the horizon. You chalked it up to a desert formed illusion. The shape of a man with a large cross in tow just had to be a cruel trick of your near impending death.

Nicholas D. Wolfwood couldn’t understand what brought him this way. He had been heading to the next town over when he had gotten turned around. It made him frustrated as it wasn’t like him to get turned around unless he meant to be. When he spotted a figure sprawled out in the sand, he couldn’t help to think that it was fate that brought him this way. You could barely speak once he got to your side but when he shared some of his water and gave you a little food, you perked up a little bit. He seemed to be skeptical as you explained how you got there and your powers. Until he started to think about how he was virtually unkillable and lugging around a machine gun no ordinary man should even be able to drag, so he just shrugged and continued to listen. Once you finished he helped you up.

“It’s a little hard to believe,” he said. “But who I am I to judge? You’re not going to make it on your own until your powers return.”

“If,” you interrupted. “I really don’t want to be stuck here but I can’t help but realistic either.”

“Guess it’s up to me to teach you the ropes. C’mon we need to get you somewhere safe before your worm chow.”

“Worms,” you shivered at the thought.

Nicholas grunted in acknowledgement, grinning wickedly as he knew he was going to have fun teasing you as well.

It didn’t take you long to realize after you met Nicholas D. Wolfwood that he was a man you didn’t cross and he was also a snot. He teased you constantly as you floundered, trying to find your place in this unknown world and how little you understood about survival. All you could was glare as you didn’t want him leaving you alone. Though it pained you to admit, you’d be dead ten times over if he hadn’t stepped in and rescued you. If it wasn’t creatures, it was people. If it wasn’t people, it was plants. You honestly felt like you couldn’t win for losing. You missed home greatly and Nicholas always listened closely as you told him of your home. He seemed amazed at first, but you could tell that even he had grown skeptical at whether you were telling the truth. But if he didn’t want to believe that’s okay. If he had been in your shoes in your timeline, you most likely wouldn’t believe him either as this whole place was just utter chaos with a side of insanity. You questioned your sanity a little bit, though you were glad that you met this weirdo of a Punisher. He had become your saving grace many times over, you just hoped that he thought the same of you. He was a great teacher as he showed you the ropes and taught you to defend yourself.

You found that the weeks you had been here had passed by quickly and you were growing wiser in the ways of treading across Noman’s Land. You found your own food, your sense of direction and finding places improved, and bandits found themselves at your mercy now. Nicholas could sit back and watch in pride as his new creation flourished in the harsh environment. When he thought about you leaving, he did grow sad. He enjoyed your company and it made his travels a little less lonely, and he begrudgingly admitted, safer. You grinned up at your mentor now friend, grinning widely as your skills grew better and better. Part of you hoped that you never returned home, though you couldn’t deny the homesickness deep inside. But if you could remain here with Nicholas, it didn’t seem so bad as you had grown attached. You hoped that maybe he had grown a little attached to you to. The little voice in your head finally spoke up and you knew that he did. It made you feel giddy that he cared enough to protect you, but it meant more that he taught you and made you a part of his world. Maybe Noman’s Land wasn’t so bad after all.

#Nicholas D Wolfwood X Reader #Nicholas D Wolfwood / Reader #Nicholas D Wolfwood #Trigun #Trigun Stampede #Nicholas D Wolfwood Imagine #Trigun Imagine #Trigun Stampede Imagine #Imagine #Not My Gif #My Writing #Request

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i-did-not-mean-to · 5 months

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Animal Companion

Every so often, it so happens that I'll write a Gen Fic. Here is one...

Not (as would be expected Huan, but another good boy)...Enjoy! (feat. Navëquen, my beloved)

Characters:Námo & Irmo & Gorgumoth

Words: 1 800

Warnings: /

“Here boy,” Námo called softly and smiled upon hearing the discreet footfalls, announcing the arrival of his most loyal companion.

“How are the souls?” he asked, patting Gorgumoth’s massive head tenderly while he gobbled up the treats his master was holding out to him in an invitingly extended palm. “Have you kept them in line?”

In a completely unexpected show of innocence and delight, the thus questioned being flopped onto its back and presented its soft, furry belly to the long, spindly fingers of the Lord of Mandos to welcome the congratulatory rubs and scratches that were undoubtedly deserved.

Both the Lord of the Halls of Waiting and his pet were a mystery to many—few were those who could glimpse even a fraction of their thoughts and motivations, and even fewer knew the true story behind the frightening creature at Námo’s ghostly heels.

The first thing that might have surprised those who knew little about the Fëanturi was that Gorgumoth was very much real. He was neither shadow nor dream—he was as substantial as Navëquen and just as vicious if need be.

The second was how much honest love and devotion there was between master and beast, and how much they relied on each other in their daily lives.

“How do you feel about visiting my brother?” Námo suddenly asked in a serious tone, trusting that the huge, dark canine would communicate his opinions unequivocally. “It has been a while.”

They were both easily absorbed by their work, and thus it made sense for them to also share some much-deserved time-off in another, less dismal environment with cheerier company than the ever-moaning dead.

Gorgumoth wagged his heavy tail twice, his ears perking up, and it seemed to Námo that his watchful gaze instantly grew brighter with enthusiasm.

This was to be expected, after all, it had been Irmo who had first brought the pup into the Halls of Mandos, swearing that Gorgumoth was a perfectly well-behaved being that would never gnaw on Vairë’s thread or tear Námo’s slippers to shreds.

Irmo, as was his wont when he saw fit, had blatantly lied.

“You need a friend—for companionship and succour—and I, as your loving sibling, have brought you this fluffy fellow for that exact purpose,” the Lord of Dreams had chirped, and—suspecting his sister’s, as well as his sister-in-law’s involvement—Námo had been patently unable to refuse.

Of course, Irmo had remembered how tender and loving his older brother had been to him during his own youth, and so it made sense for him to suspect that Námo was secretly yearning for someone to care for, who had not yet been traumatised by the ordeal of their demise.

At that time, Gorgumoth had been but a tiny ball of fur with huge, luminous eyes, and—even though he would never have admitted it—Námo had been devoted to him from that very first meeting on.

“His name is Gorgumoth,” Irmo had explained, “and he’s a chipper pup. He won’t mind the gloomy atmosphere and your sour mood—he just wants to be fed and loved. I know you can do that, but I feel as if you’re slowly forgetting about these strengths of yours—and I cannot let that happen.”

Thus, it had all begun, and from that moment onward, Námo was rarely seen without the ever-growing beast, following him around with the loyal admiration only dogs were ever capable of.

Bestial Maiar were always a risk, that was a universally known and brazenly disregarded truth amongst the Valar, and—after some reflection—the Lord of the Dead had judged himself just as capable and deserving of adopting and managing one of these potential catastrophes as any of his colleagues.

There was no actual time in Mandos, but Gorgumoth had grown bigger and stronger continually. To his master’s astonishment, nobody seemed to object to the muddy paw prints and the dusting of hair that consistently ruined the ephemeral, ethereal aesthetic of ever-shifting minimalism Námo usually favoured.

From that lack of protestation, Námo had soon deduced that more than just his brother had deemed him overly morose and lonely. At first, it had certainly stung his pride to realise that his friends and family had concocted the absurdly clumsy creature to palliate his isolation, but—in time—the undeniable solace the pup gave him far outweighed his petty misgivings.

“You are such a good friend,” he now said and bent down to breathe an insinuated kiss onto the dog’s brow. “Irmo really is much wiser than I give him credit for.”

Gorgumoth looked up at his Lord with twinkling eyes that seemed to say, “Of course, haven’t you raised us both?”

“No,” Námo laughed. “No, my friend, you’ve been much more obedient and eager to learn than that flighty fool has ever been.”

Indeed, Gorgumoth had—from the very start—been dutiful to a fault. Even in his earliest youth, when his paws had been too big and round to manoeuvre successfully across the polished floors of flickering grey, he had endeavoured to please and delight Námo at every opportunity he got.

He was a diligent guard dog and a skilled shepherd, making sure that all the souls in their keeping were accounted for and that none wandered off by mistake or by rebellious intent.

His undeniable, relentless competence had soon gained the respect if not the affection of the other Maiar under Námo’s care, and Gorgumoth knew exactly who to seek out for an extra treat or a good cuddle.

Even those who were not inordinately fond of his shaggy fur and wordless communication eventually came to tolerate him as a colleague of sorts—as a matter of fact, the fur-covered guardian of the Halls quite enjoyed Navëquen’s taciturn company, for example, whenever his shift had been extraordinarily wearying.

He was happy in the Halls of Waiting, he was comfortable in Vairë’s workshop, and he loved visiting Námo’s siblings, because Irmo was much more playful than his own master and occasionally threw him a stick or a ball, and Nienna gave the indisputably best cuddles.

In a word, Gorgumoth deemed himself the happiest creature in all of Eru’s creation, which did not prevent him from nudging his master’s long, shapely legs encouragingly now—he had been promised an outing, and he was eager to set out.

Obedient to a fault, Gorgumoth sat down prettily and made the evanescent ground beneath him tremble by drumming his tail against it rhythmically.

“Yes, I miss him too,” Námo admitted and shrugged. “Let’s go visit Irmo then—I am very much looking forward to his newest stroke of genius when it comes to gently manipulating everyone into doing things only he’ll find amusing.”

Gorgumoth would never have disobeyed or deserted his master, so there was no need for leashes or collars as they walked silently towards the gardens of Estë.

“Námo,” she cried as soon as she saw her brother-in-law appear like a threatening but profoundly welcome raincloud on a bright day. “And if that is not my good boy!”

Instantly, a juicy treat materialised in her hand, and she threw it high into the air to see Gorgumoth leap after it.

Her laughter felt like a soothing caress against Námo’s raw, overtaxed nerves, and—without noticing or consciously deciding to do so—he smiled as well.

“Oh, you two are good for one another,” Estë declared, evidently congratulating herself on the stroke of genius she seemed to consider herself to have been a part of. “My husband should be around here somewhere—he will be so happy to see both of you.”

Nodding patiently, the Lord of Despair and Desolation could not help but be cheered by her boundless joy; Estë was a healer to the very depths of her core, and nothing gladdened her heart more than seeing alleviating and mending measures in action, especially if those blessings were then shared and passed on.

It took a moment before he realised that Gorgumoth had not returned, and he was about to whistle when he descried his very own sister, walking beside the huge dog and talking to it softly.

Námo was not sure which of the two seemed more consoled by the other’s presence, but he decided not to interrupt their intimate conclave.

There were things he did neither know nor understand about either of these wonderful, mysterious, merciful beings, and he accepted this as a rare shortcoming of his own with all the noble humility of one who was usually right.

“Brother!” Irmo’s form coalesced out of a quickly approaching cloud of iridescent pollen dust and paper-thin mothwings. “How have you been? What an immense pleasure to see my two favourite sharp-fanged jailors here. I trust you are not in need of healing yourself?”

“In a way,” Námo replied and melted into his youngest sibling’s expected and hoped-for embrace with stoic passivity. “It was time.”

“Are you checking on me, or did you merely miss the endless treats and sweetmeats my wife and sister will conjure up for their guests of honour?” Irmo teased without letting go of the tall, lithe frame he was holding as tightly as he could.

“Nienna visits me often,” Námo grumbled. “I am thankful for her company, and I would never stoop so low as to demand or expect any kind of present.”

“Evidently, your dog does not share your high-minded sense of haughty independence,” Irmo laughed and pointed at Gorgumoth who was in the process of being thoroughly spoiled by the afore-mentioned Valiër. “You should take his example—I seem to recall that only this morning, my wife has brought fresh fruits, given by Yavanna’s grace, which she has not dried into a poultice or turned into a tea. Could nothing seduce you off your path of righteousness? Not even a pie made by my dear spouse and infused with my best wishes?”

Mellowing at Irmo’s charming coaxing more than the actual allure of the pastries, Námo gave an exaggerated sigh. “In the name of collegiality and loyalty—for he is ever faithful to me—I shall not cut short Gorgumoth’s well-deserved enjoyment. You may lead me to those liberally commended baked goods, and I shall follow meekly.”

Irmo shook his head indulgently, threw his arm around his brother’s shoulder, and pulled him towards the small table in the shade of an old Weeping Willow resolutely—he had known and loved Námo for too long to believe even for a single second that the stuffy, old curmudgeon objected to any part of this situation in the least.

Seeing his master move away, Gorgumoth gave a short huff of alarm and then bounded after the swirling clouds of darkness and dreams with joyful anticipation, leaving the Ladies chuckle indulgently at his shenanigans.

Thank you so much for reading <3

-> Masterlist for November (by @cilil)

#og post #IDNMT writes #fanfiction #writing #tolkien writing #jrrt #November #Nanowrimo2023 #Námo #Gorgumoth #Irmo #Navë #Animal Companion #gen fic #Best Boy

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blossom-hwa · 1 year

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the things we lost along the way | k.th

remember when I was crying over rewriting lavender mist for my writing workshop? this is the rewrite that nearly killed me. hope y’all enjoy this as much (read: cried as much) as I did writing it

Pairing: Taehyun x Beomgyu (can be read as romantic or platonic, it’s up to your interpretation really)

Genre: angst, apocalypse!au

Warnings: cursing, character death, mentions of blood and guns, zombies

Word Count: 5.9k

As the world around him falls, Taehyun keeps moving on.

Lavender Mist | TXT Masterlist

The end of the world isn’t as barren as Taehyun thought it would be.

Every apocalyptic movie he remembers—and to be fair, his memory has gone a bit fuzzy after years of trudging along cracked sidewalks and empty streets, not a single movie to be seen—painted the world as something gray, dusty, bleak, as though with the collapse of humanity, the earth would collapse too. Taehyun would watch, heart in his throat as survivors did everything they could to continue living even though the warm embrace of Mother Earth had long turned cold as marble. With the loss of her favorite children, the human race, it seemed she had lost the will to live as well.

Taehyun thinks about this some nights, staring up at the glittering expanse of stars in the dark sky. In the absence of artificial light spilling through the abandoned cities, they sparkle playfully, cheerfully, a milky expanse of jewels against the blanket of night, oblivious to the destruction that haunted humanity just several years prior.

And that’s how Taehyun knows the Earth doesn’t care.

Which makes sense. The Earth survived perfectly well on its own for millions of years before humanity decided to encroach on its territory. One glance around at the overgrown grass and flowers and trees, greenery shooting up from sidewalk cracks and tangling around abandoned cars and homes, tells all. As soon as humanity was ruined, Mother Earth took her territory back with a vengeance.

She never needed humans. Probably never wanted them either.

The few stragglers left in the disasters’ wake bow to her will and turn their attention to survival—slogging through the vines that choke the streets, hiding from the predators who have grown bold at the sight of their mother’s beckoning hand, fending off the creatures of their own creation, cannibalistic flesh-eating monsters with no way to satiate their hunger. They forge on, trying to survive and perhaps trying to live, but the two are not equivalent and the Earth has certainly tried to make the latter more difficult than the first, so more often than not the first comes without the second and the remnants of humanity become zombies of another kind—jaded, weary, husks of what they once were.

And yet day by day, night by night, when Taehyun wakes from his slumber under a blanket of diamond stars, he only rubs the aches out of his neck, slings his bag over his shoulder, and continues trying to live.

. . . . .

There was a time when he wasn’t alone. When he was not one but one of a group of what felt like many, those who’d survived the initial outbreak and banded together in the beginning. It was a long time ago but Taehyun remembers it anyway, a time when he could still pretend things might be okay.

But as the weeks passed, their numbers grew fewer and fewer. People set out to search for food and disappeared. Sometimes they returned as the undead. Others left of their own accord while even more became sick, and without the aid of hospitals and medicine they wasted away. Slowly, the group dwindled, until Taehyun remembers being one of three—him, and two boys he’d known in the time before. Beomgyu, a boy he saw at school. Kai, his best friend since they were four.

It’s Kai who leaves first.

Taehyun remembers him clearly—for his bright, wide smile that never failed to cheer Taehyun up, for his dolphin laugh that had helped him through many a bad day in class. For the way Kai’s fingers could waltz across piano keys in the most enchanting dances, serenity painted in every feature of his face.

For their close friendship even before the apocalypse took everything from them, and for the bullet hole Taehyun shot into his forehead when he finally died.

It happens like this. Kai grows close with two boys in the days when they number more than three, Yeonjun and Soobin. Taehyun likes them. So does Beomgyu. Together, when they’re five, it sometimes feels like things won’t always be this bad.

But Soobin falls ill one day, racked with fever and chills they can do nothing to get rid of. Yeonjun sets out to find something, anything to help—some water in a ruined supermarket, a can of soup from someone’s pantry, a yet unexpired bottle of ibuprofen—and promises he’ll be back in a day.

He never returns.

Soobin goes soon after, his forehead burning in the last moments before he turns cold under the unforgiving night sky. And for a while, it feels like—betrayal, almost. Soobin’s terrible fever, easily treatable in a hospital but deadly in the then-wasteland of an earth. Yeonjun’s broken promise, spoken with so much certainty but disavowed anyway. It’s bullshit, obviously. There was no betrayal there. Soobin and Yeonjun would have stayed if they could. They just…couldn’t.

But then Kai leaves, and that’s real anger. Real betrayal.

I’m sorry. But everyone’s leaving, and I can’t take it anymore, so I have to leave first. Don’t look for me.

That’s it. That’s all he leaves behind, familiarly messy handwriting scribbled in pencil on a scrap of dirty paper. Taehyun doesn’t have the note anymore, having crumpled it up and thrown it as far as he could once he could process the words, but he couldn’t forget those three sentences if he tried.

Taehyun wonders, sometimes, if things would have happened the same way if he’d been more observant. Less consumed in his own grief. Able to see Kai, really see him in the days after Yeonjun and Soobin left, if the emptiness of Kai’s silences had been able to permeate the dull gray of his thoughts. Would Kai have come to him? Would he have been convinced to stay?

Would Taehyun still have had to kill his best friend, been the one to hold the smoking gun as a bullet bore a hole in Kai’s brain?

It had been a month or so since Kai left. They looked for him in spite of his plea not to, combed the neighborhood for days as the undead roamed and the sun burned fiercely overhead. But then Beomgyu had a close call—too close—with a zombie, and Taehyun forced himself to clear his sight. Kai chose his path. He wouldn’t be coming back. So they moved on—as five minus two minus one.

And then, on a day as hot as an inferno, a shadow moves in the corner of Taehyun’s eye.

For a moment, he almost marks it off as a hallucination, as a mirage in the heat shimmers rising from the ground. Not real, not worth his attention. But then Beomgyu gasps.

“Kai.”

Taehyun whips his head around, and there’s his old friend in the shadows, staring back at them with shattered eyes.

Everything in Taehyun screams for him to sprint forward, to grab Kai and shake him and hug him and maybe punch him a few times. Say a garbled mix of something like fuck you for leaving and how did you find us and I’m so glad you’re back and what happened to you—

But from the black veins creeping up his neck, Taehyun knows exactly what happened to his friend.

“Taehyun.” Kai’s voice cracks on the syllables of Taehyun’s name, but his shattered eyes are clear, so clear. He doesn’t step forward, but Taehyun has to fight the urge to step back. “Please.”

Please. His head spins. Please. Please what—

Kai’s eyes drop to the gun at his side, and Taehyun understands.

“No.” He shakes his head wildly, finally taking the step back. “No, no—Kai—I can’t—”

“Please.”

The word pierces Taehyun’s skull.

“For me.”

Beomgyu puts a hand on Taehyun’s shoulder. He barely feels it, but he does hear when Beomgyu’s whisper flutters past his ear. “You don’t have to.”

In a way, Beomgyu’s right. Taehyun doesn’t have to—in the strictest definition of the word. He doesn’t have to raise the gun, put Kai out of his misery the way Kai wants him to. The world will move on if he doesn’t. He could turn around and walk away and nothing would be any different. Besides, Kai was the one who left first.

But—he does, though, in a sick, twisted sort of way. Because Kai’s been bitten and if he doesn’t die, he’ll live forever in the worst way possible. Because if Taehyun does turn away, he’ll be condemning Kai to a fate they’ve both agreed is worse than death. Because Kai is still his best friend, no matter what, and who is Taehyun to resist a dying boy’s last wish anyway?

Taehyun’s hands are cold. He doesn’t shrug off Beomgyu’s grip, the only true warmth on this blisteringly hot day, but he does manage to shake his head. “No,” he replies, numb fingers wrapping around the barrel of the gun. “No, I do.”

Kai stares up at Taehyun as he readies the weapon, shattered eyes almost whole as a little smile glimmers on his face. “Thanks,” he whispers, and for a moment, Taehyun can’t do it. Won’t do it. This Kai looks too much like the old one, the one with a bright smile and a dolphin screech laugh and dark eyes that glittered with mischief—

Dark eyes marred, now, by blackened veins crawling across his pale, burned skin.

Almost on reflex, Taehyun pulls the trigger. Bang.

What remains of Kai slumps over, blood and brains pooling in a deep red puddle on the dusty ground.

Taehyun stands there for a while. A second, a minute, an hour—he’s not sure, even now. All he remembers is feeling cold, so cold despite the sun burning his skin, unable to tear his gaze away from the remnants of his best friend.

“Taehyun.”

When he finally reacts to his name, Beomgyu has definitely said it more than once. His grip has tightened on Taehyun’s shoulder but when Taehyun twitches, the warm hand slides down to his wrist. “Come on,” Beomgyu says quietly, tugging slightly. “We need to go.”

Blood and brains, still open eyes. Taehyun doesn’t move.

“Taehyun.” The grip tightens. “Let’s go.”

Go.

Let’s go.

“Taehyun.”

Taehyun forces his eyes away from the bloody hole blown into Kai’s head. Vaguely, he feels the gun being peeled out of his hand, hears the safety clicking back on. Beomgyu tugs at his arm again and with a final whisper of his name Taehyun follows, numbly, Kai’s bloody face all he can see.

. . . . .

How do you remember the dead?

Even now, Taehyun isn’t sure of the answer. The internet is gone along with electricity—pictures on devices are inaccessible, phones useless without their chargers and cameras useless without a battery. Photos are easily crumpled and ruined, soaked by rain or marred with dust and grime, and the time it takes to properly sketch and color a scene to remember is a luxury no one can afford anymore. It’s not as if Taehyun ever had the skill for it anyway.

Memory, then. But the brain is a fickle thing, impermanent and messy compared to the printed photos he once held in his pocket, the pictures he had saved on his phone. It remembers what he wishes it wouldn’t, and it lets go of what he holds most dear. The voices of his family, his friends. Their smiles, their laughs. Ghosts, all of them—so faint, so pale compared to the horrors that haunt him now. These are the things that leave.

Kai’s bloody face is one of the things that stays.

It haunts him in the days after, the vision of blood and gore. The gun barrel between his hands. The broken look in Kai’s eyes. The trigger beneath his finger, the shot exploding through the air, Kai’s body falling in an almost graceful arc before it thudded to the ground. Beomgyu’s shaking fingers wrapped around his wrist as he pulled Taehyun away. It’s so vivid in the way Kai’s last smiles aren’t. It isn’t right. It isn’t fair.

Which is why—why, when Taehyun’s ears finally stop ringing, when he finally starts breathing, when he stops seeing Kai’s bloody face in every one of his dreams—why he can’t take it when Beomgyu finally tells him how.

Beomgyu. It’s hard to believe he’d barely known the boy before everything fell to pieces—just another kid he’d seen hanging around at school, loud and playful and endlessly kind in an almost careless way as though he didn’t realize he was as thoughtful as he was. He’d scared Taehyun a little, so brash and cheerful all at once, sweet chaos personified in his lightning sharp smile and laugh. Never did Taehyun think they could become close—he was quiet, reserved, a little cynical, nothing like Beomgyu’s joyous raucousness and optimism. At least not until Kai died, and there was no one left.

It had been five days. Five days after the gunshot, five days during which Beomgyu kept their one gun wide out of Taehyun’s reach despite the fact that he was probably a better shot than Beomgyu would ever be. It didn’t matter. He barely remembers those five days, but he does know he wasn’t thinking much. Just seeing. Feeling. Reliving. A faint smile, a whispered thanks, the trigger beneath his finger…

He’s lucid. He had to have been or he wouldn’t have heard Beomgyu’s words, the words he’d probably been saying for several days to unhearing ears. But he hears this time. Hears it when Beomgyu says—

“They’re still with us.”

Anger. Or something. Taehyun remembers that much. Anger isn’t the right word, but whatever it was it took hold of him and wrenched the grief from his chest and he remembers thinking how dare you, how fucking dare you try to say that now when there’s nothing left to substantiate your stupid hope—

“How do you know?” He had Beomgyu’s dirty shirt collar in his grip, the older boy looking up at him with eyes wide in confusion, surprise, burgeoning anger of his own. “How do you fucking know? How could you say that to me, how could you try and say that after I killed him with my own damn hands?”

And then he was crying, and his grip on Beomgyu’s shirt was gone, and every single tear he hadn’t been able to shed over the death of his best friend apparently decided it was the perfect fucking time to release itself, and he was crying, and crying, and crying—

Beomgyu’s face swam in his vision. It’s one of Taehyun’s clearest memories now, that blurry view of Beomgyu’s face drawn tight with a pinched expression Taehyun recognized from his own few encounters with a mirror since it all started. Because that was when he remembered that Beomgyu was grieving, too. That he wasn’t the only one in pain.

Yet despite that grief, Beomgyu’s eyes had turned soft. No longer angry. And Taehyun didn’t understand. Because he’d killed someone, killed someone they both knew and loved, so why was Beomgyu still here and trying to comfort him of all things when he was still in pain?

“He’s dead,” he’d sobbed. “He’s dead, and I killed him.”

“He asked you to,” Beomgyu had said quietly.

It’s true. Kai’s eyes had been so clear, so lucid when he asked, despite the blackened veins. Nothing like the glazed grief when Yeonjun and Soobin went. Nothing like the empty silence he’d held the night before he left. But even then…

“It wasn’t fair of him to,” Beomgyu continued, just as quiet. “But he did.”

Not fair. Not fair—not fair not fair not fair not fair—

“None of this,” Taehyun had gritted out, “is fucking fair.”

“It isn’t,” Beomgyu agreed. “And they know that.”

Clear as day, unsaid words had hung in the air.

None of this is your fault.

Then Beomgyu’s words, quiet, carrying like a gunshot through the silence.

“That’s why I think they’re still with us. And that’s why I dare to say it.”

. . . . .

So maybe it isn’t remembering, then. Just…a sort of knowing. Knowing that they were there. Knowing that they lived. Knowing that he loved them, and knew them, and that they loved and knew him too. Because he was touched by them when they lived, and so long as he lives too, a part of them will still be alive.

That’s what Beomgyu says, anyway, when Taehyun asks. It’s a dark night and they’re lying in another abandoned house, desperately trying to ignore the picture frames of a happy family haunting the walls. Some of them have fallen to the floor, probably knocked over by some ransacking survivor too worried about food to care about a few smashed picture frames and panes of glass.

Or maybe the photos just unsettled them as much as they unsettle Taehyun, and they actually gave in to the urge to throw them on the ground.

“How can you think that?” Taehyun asks, and there’s no venom this time. He wants to know. Because he still sees Kai’s face whenever he closes his eyes, blood and a smile and stifling smoke rising from a gun in his hand, and he needs it to stop. He’d like to think that way. He just needs to believe in it.

“I don’t know,” is Beomgyu’s first response, voice almost snappish and uncharacteristically sharp. He softens, though, as he looks back at Taehyun. “I just…” He swallows. “I don’t think I’d be able to live if I didn’t believe in it.”

They sit in silence for a bit as Taehyun mulls over Beomgyu’s words. I don’t think I’d be able to live if I didn’t believe in it. He relates. It feels like if he doesn’t believe in something, the grief will drown him alive.

But for some reason, he still isn’t convinced.

“I feel like I’m dying,” Taehyun says quietly. “Every moment, even when I’m not.” Drowning in what was, what is, what could have been.

“So do I,” Beomgyu replies. “But believing it makes things easier.”

“How?” Taehyun asks again, because for all he tries he can’t seem to understand. “I just—”

Beomgyu nudges his shoulder, cutting him off. “Look at the stars.”

Taehyun looks out the window. The black night glitters with little diamond stars, so bright and so beautiful that his breath catches for a moment. How had he never noticed them before?

“Sometimes, when it’s my turn to watch, I look at them. And I pretend.” Taehyun follows the line of Beomgyu’s finger as he points to the sky. His eyes glitter in the starlight, soft and shining, all-knowing, so full of a lovely foreign hope. “Like, maybe that’s my mom. And my dad, and my brother in that little cluster over there. And maybe Yeonjun and Soobin and Kai right…there.” His finger shifts slightly before it lowers. “That’s how, Taehyun.”

Taehyun keeps staring out the window, at the glittering expanse of starlight streaking across the night. He stares, and stares, and tries to summon the hope that sparkles so beautifully in Beomgyu’s eyes.

Instead, all he can think is that the stars shouldn’t shine so bright when everyone he loves is dead.

. . . . .

It’s not the only fancy of Beomgyu’s that Taehyun doesn’t understand. Beomgyu sees so many stars in the sky, finds hope in weird little things—a tiny flower by the side of the road, a single whole lollipop in a dusty convenience store, wind breezing past his face at night as it sweeps through his long, unkempt hair. It’s fascinating to Taehyun, really—that Beomgyu can go through so much, can see Kai’s bloody face in his memories every day, and still find something in nothing and believe it matters. Patient, relentless optimism, even as the world grows harsher and more unforgiving with every day that passes.

(“We still have good in this world,” he says one night under the moon and stars. “We’ve survived this long, Taehyun. I have to believe that someday, things will come back.”)

There are so many strange things Taehyun remembers about Beomgyu, so many of those twinkling stars in the night sky. Humming melodies of old songs to empty air. Breathing in the scent of flowers so deeply he choked. Making bracelets of five colors of string braided together one night as Taehyun slept, then looping one around his wrist when he woke.

“I found the stuff in a random room and remembered making these when I was a kid,” he says by way of explanation when Taehyun asks, shrugging almost carelessly as he ties off the braid. “Got bored when you were sleeping.”

It feels strange, the soft, thin braid tickling Taehyun’s wrist, shifting against his skin as he turns it this way and that. Five threads messily twisted and turned together. Five colors, five boys, five friends…

He looks at Beomgyu, raising an eyebrow to hide the lump welling in his throat. “You sure this is a braid?” he asks, and neither of them says anything about the way his voice catches on the last word.

Beomgyu sticks out his tongue and Taehyun has to hide a smile at how ridiculous the older boy looks, eyes narrowed and glinting with mock hurt and mischief. “You don’t need to wear it if you don’t want to, jerk.”

Even as Beomgyu says the words, though, Taehyun knows that nothing could induce him ever to take it off on his own. Because for all he doesn’t understand Beomgyu’s stars in a dark, dark night, there’s still something about the stars in Beomgyu’s own eyes that makes Taehyun want to listen to everything the loud-mouthed boy has to say. A candle lit in the dark, a rope thrown to the drowning.

A single star in Taehyun’s black night, the only one he could ever say was truly beautiful.

Which is why, perhaps, when the bracelet falls apart several months later, Taehyun feels like something in his chest has been ripped open and torn out. It was bound to happen, he knows—the strings were already thin and faded before Beomgyu found them, and the dirt and dust and grime of every day under the hot sun couldn’t have helped in any sort of way. But still, when the broken braid falls from his arm to the dust on the ground, he tries to pick it up, to tie it back where it belonged against his skin, dirty and faded as it is.

It's Beomgyu who stops him, a hand on his wrist. “Leave it,” he says quietly, his fingers wrapping gently around Taehyun’s arm. “It’s done what it can.”

Taehyun cries that night, tears running hot and silent down his cheeks as Beomgyu breathes softly in his sleep next to him. And when Beomgyu wakes up to his quiet sobs, he doesn’t stop the older boy from wrapping his arms around him, bringing Taehyun’s head down to his shoulder, and letting the tears soak into his shirt.

Because for all it seemed Taehyun never understood Beomgyu, it had always felt like Beomgyu understood him.

. . . . .

Material things don’t last. It’s one of the first things Taehyun learned in the days since his world fell to pieces—when the photos he carried of his family fell apart, victims of dust and rain and his sweaty pockets, when the mementos of home he tried to take became more burdens than memories and he had to leave them behind. When Beomgyu’s bracelet broke, leaving his wrist too naked, too bare, as if he’d lost a layer of protection against the weapons of the earth.

Beomgyu knew this. Taehyun was there when Beomgyu’s own photos became too crumpled and torn to salvage, when the braid he made for himself disappeared beneath the dust and dirt of the earth just days after Taehyun lost his. For all his sentimental nature, Beomgyu knows the world around him, knows that despite the hot sun, it is cold and unforgiving to those who have wronged it. There’s no space in their bags for luxuries, not anymore.

So when Taehyun finds the empty can of lavender Febreze in Beomgyu’s bag, he feels like he should be surprised. The last of the scent has long since been dispersed into the air, memories of the smell relegated to the back of his mind, so when it comes out in his hand he blinks a little and for a moment there is some surprise—he’d thought Beomgyu tossed it when it emptied. But then he blinks again, and Taehyun has to wonder how he ever could’ve thought Beomgyu would even think of throwing it away.

It had been a rare cool day when Beomgyu plucked the can off a barren supermarket shelf and shoved it in his bag, despite Taehyun’s raised eyebrows and obvious concern for the state of his remaining sanity. Taehyun hadn’t asked questions then, but when they found shelter for the evening, he’d raised a pointed eyebrow as Beomgyu produced the can from his bag.

“Don’t interrogate me!” Beomgyu had yelped, hands raised in mock indignation as Taehyun fought to hide a smile at his antics. “I’m innocent!”

“I wasn’t going to interrogate you,” he’d replied, giving up on hiding the smile. There was no point anyway, not when Beomgyu looked so carefree, so happy, so unchanged despite the cruelty of the world around him. “I just want to know.”

The hands came down, but Beomgyu’s smile stayed. “I don’t know,” he’d said, shrugging. “It was just there, so I took it.” Taehyun had snorted at that (the most Beomgyu reply ever), but he wasn’t done. “I guess I just…didn’t want to leave with nothing at all.”

Despite the previous levity, Taehyun remembers a tightness in his chest, a pricking behind his eyes as he stared at the almost garishly purple can in Beomgyu’s dirty hand. That was something he could understand.

“Do you even know how it smells?” he’d asked, ignoring the stupid lump in his throat. He’d never quite given up on that habit, not even long after Beomgyu proved he could read Taehyun no matter how he tried to keep his tears quiet.

But Beomgyu didn’t say anything, just looked at the can with a guiltily mischievous expression on his face. His finger rested on the valve as he looked back up at Taehyun, ready to shrug again as he grinned. “Look, it has to be better than everything we smell outside.”

It was better, but mostly because it’s hard not to be better than the stench of rotting corpses mixed with the tang of dried blood and coupled with the scent of blooming flowers in the hot wind that somehow makes it all worse. Strong, too—clearly a year of sitting unused on a shelf hadn’t done much to dampen the can’s scent. When Beomgyu sprayed it, more on accident than anything else, they had to stifle coughs and sneezes for too many minutes as the mist tickled their noses.

And yet they kept it.

Which is weird, because most useless things that Taehyun and Beomgyu, despite his inner child, would put in the same category as questionable year-old Febreze get left behind. It’s a luxury, and there’s no space for luxuries in their bags—not phones, not photos, not dingy string bracelets braided with threads of five different colors. Things like Febreze weren’t supposed to have held a place in their lives.

But as the days pass, Beomgyu carves a place for its too-strong flowery sweet scent. A tiny puff in the air nearby when they’re finally safe from a zombie attack, a small spray to freshen up their latest shelter after sweeping one too many piles of dirt out the door. And as they keep struggling through their barren world, emptying the can on their way, Taehyun begins to wonder—when humanity has completely fallen and another race takes up the earth, what will they be remembered by? Will it be the broken braided bracelets threaded in five different colors fallen by the side of the road? Will it be photos of the dead left in abandoned frames in abandoned homes, or stuffed in dirty bags and soiled by dust and rain?

Will it be an empty can of lavender mist at the bottom of a survivor’s bag, the strong, sweet scent of home still a wisp in the air?

Because for all the tickle of lavender mist grates on Taehyun’s nose at the start, slowly, subtly, it does begin to smell of home. Of rest. Of respite. Of Beomgyu’s comfort on the days when Taehyun can’t hold the gun for fear of seeing Kai’s bloody face in front of him, when Taehyun can only see death and disaster in every street they pass, when he can’t stand without the world crashing down on his shoulders. On these days, there’s always the weight of Beomgyu’s hand in his, the press of his body against Taehyun’s during sleepless nights, the brief dusting of lavender mist into the air…

And one day, the scent isn’t too strong. It isn’t too sweet. It’s a break, a respite, a piece of the old world that miraculously wasn’t lost even in the wake of disaster.

When Taehyun looks at Beomgyu then—really looks at Beomgyu—as he spritzes small bursts of mist into the air of their new makeshift shelter, it only takes him a minute to realize that Beomgyu feels this way, too. That he’s probably felt it for a long time.

So when Taehyun finds the empty can in Beomgyu’s bag, after the momentary surprise, he blinks once, and twice, and remembers the scent. Remembers the sentiment. Remembers this reminder, however, small, of home.

How could Beomgyu have thrown this away?

He tries the valve, even though he knows it’s empty. Nothing comes out.

It’s been three days since Beomgyu went. Three days since he showed Taehyun the bite festering black and red, three days since he drew the gun at his belt and weighed it in his hand, three days since he smiled at Taehyun, lips trembling, and raised the muzzle to his temple.

(“I won’t ask you to do it. I can give you that much.”)

Only then, with the empty metal can in his hand, does Taehyun finally cry.

For his parents, who were at work when the outbreak got to them and never managed to get out alive.

For his friends who passed first, three of the five strings that frayed over the years until the knotted bracelet fell off his wrist, one ill, one disappeared, one shot.

For Beomgyu, the fourth string and his only family left, his last thread of hope in this heartless world.

For him, Taehyun, the fifth string and the last one alive, so far from home and never to return.

Taehyun cries for the hope Beomgyu carried that was destroyed three days ago with a bullet Beomgyu shot with his very own hands. A bullet that took the last of everything he had, leaving him with—

Nothing.

(What will the world remember him by when he goes?)

When Taehyun wakes the next day, eyes red and cheeks sticky with tears, something in him begs to stay still. What use is there in forging on, in living when everything else has been lost, when there’s nothing and no one left to survive for?

(A crumpled family photo dissolved in the rain?)

Is there even a point?

(A broken braid of five frayed strings, buried under the dust by the road?)

Taehyun stares at the gun by his side. Loaded. Always within arm’s reach. So easy to lift, so easy to position, so easy to use. It would be so simple to mimic Beomgyu’s actions from three days ago. Lift. Point. Pull. Bang.

(Or the trail of bodies left in his wake, one ill, one disappeared, two shot with the very gun by his side?)

But he only rolls over. Stands. Places the empty can back in Beomgyu’s bag, picks it up along with his. Slings them over his back.

And starts walking.

(Perhaps a can of lavender mist at the bottom of a beaten-up bag, the remnants of a scent that came from home.)

In a world lost to monsters and the extremes of the earth, following the base human instinct to survive is all that is possible, sometimes. The dead litter the earth—bodies in the streets, memories in the air. To think of it all is madness. To try and comprehend it might be suicide.

But to forget, completely and entirely…

Many do. Many try. It is easier to shut off the part of the mind that loves and cherishes and remembers, to wither into a dry husk of what once was. But Taehyun remembers, bits and pieces. His mother’s gentle voice. His father’s booming laugh. Yeonjun’s reassuring grip, Soobin’s soft smile, Kai’s musicality woven into everything he ever did.

Beomgyu’s hand in his own under a night sky full of stars, fingers loosely intertwined with a promise of hope he will never understand.

So as others forget, Taehyun remembers, fiercely. Because while there is nothing left for him, there is still something left for those who have gone. A hope. A dream. A wish. A prayer whispered on lavender scented air, too sweet and too strong and smelling so much of home—a prayer that things will be okay.

And if they are, even if it only becomes true in the last moments of Taehyun’s life, he has to see it. For them.

It isn’t easy. It isn’t fair. Some days, his chest constricts so he cannot breathe. Some days, he can’t lift himself from the ground, so he tries to give up. But every day, when the sun sets and the moon rises and the stars come out to play, Taehyun remembers a hand held in his, starlight dancing in a pair of dark eyes. He remembers a cackling laugh beautiful even when it was hushed, the easy weight of a body pressed against his, the warmth of a smile that meant safety. He remembers an empty can of lavender mist at the bottom of his bag, its faint scent still perfuming the air.

He remembers a boy whose smiles never made sense, who found things beautiful Taehyun could never dream of comprehending, but whose hope was perhaps the most beautiful thing of all.

So when morning comes, Taehyun stands. Breathes.

And continues on.

The sun beats harsh on his brow. Branches catch on his clothes. The snarl of animals and the undead alike whisper faint in his ears. But day by day, Taehyun fights his way through the strangling embrace of Mother Nature, slogging through overgrown grass with sweat in his hair, cuts on his skin, tears in his eyes…

And the scent of lavender mist in his nose, no matter where he goes.

If you enjoyed, please don’t forget to reblog and leave a comment to tell me what you thought! Thank you for reading and have a lovely day <3

(1 reblog = 1 huge hug for Taehyun, and also a hug for me because writing this actually made me fucking cry several times)

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contaminatedlamb · 11 months

Text

Paint ペイント -[tmnt2012] Leonardo x Fem!Reader

summary: To your limited knowledge, something is going on in the midst of New York City. From the Bronx, all the way down to Brooklyn, creatures are emerging from the woodworks to ease their claws into the lives of every inhabitant. From a sous chef who dreams of refining her artistic skills, an androgynous woman with a dark past and a violent soul, to a once lively mutant teenager who's grief has morphed him into a shell of his former self. Together, with the help of their friends, family members, and wary allies— the truth will be revealed. No matter what the cost. Who knew that it would all start with a bit of paint?

notes: posting my first ever fanfiction on tumblr! I hope you enjoy, this is a passion project of mine that I have been working on since 2019. Show some love if you can, and let me know what you think of it! This book is also cross posted on Ao3 and Wattpad. Currently being rewritten as we speak.

warnings: gore and blood.

(Accidentally added a poll and can’t remove it from my draft so here we are lol)

Chapter One - Nothing to see here, folks! Everything is Fine.

You woke up that morning dreading to take out the trash.

It was Friday, that dreaded day of the week. While many celebrated it as the last day before the relief of a weekend, it happened to be only miserable for you. It was the busiest day in Murakami's Japanese restaurant, with all the drunk college men stumbling into the little hole in the wall to harass the three employees, and its blind owner/head chef. They made a mess, per usual, figuring out how to break down the token driven vending machine, demolish the bathrooms, leave their tables in chaotic disarray; all while somehow leaving drunker than before... If that was even possible. You were convinced that it had to do with those 'water bottles' they carried, which you were sure were just filled to the brim with vodka. There were times, when you were busy moping up a spilt drink, dizzy from their boisterous noise and the fumes, that you hoped they choked on their 'water'.

Unfortunately, that wasn't the only reason that you dreaded going to work. Every Friday was also the day where the garbage had reached unfathomable levels of toxicity and needed to be tossed into the dumpster for the workers to take it away the next morning. How was it that the small portion of the human race that came to the restaurant seemed to make the biggest, most disgusting mess possible? New York. Disgusting down to its very own garbage.

Black trash bags would pile up by the pounds against the back door, so much so that it may have become a safety concern and an entire health violation if you thought about it for too long. You were certain that some sort of mutant would sprout from the bags and squeak a pleasant hello~ towards your horrified face. And yet, that wouldn't even be the strangest thing you had seen happen during your almost two years living in Manhattan. You wished you were joking when you told the story about how you had once seen a grown man with a glorious beard dressed as a nun take on a costumed Elmo, who looked as if he discovered cocaine with those tech bros that cluttered the streets of the city. Only in Times Square at eleven at night did something like that happen— and it hadn't even been Halloween! The absurdity of it all meant that you couldn't help but begrudgingly be amused by the chaotic energy of New York City.

Now though, as you stood slouched over, your lower back pressed against the beige wall lined with awards and old pictures of simpler times, you glared with a burning ferocity at the trash bags. The trash bags which always seemed to come up with new scents and would send you to the bathroom to heave up the few crackers you had eaten for dinner. Those black plastic trash voids which oozed and dripped with weird discolored sludge that made the bags stick to the ground when you dragged them through the back door, leaving behind horrible slime trails in their path. Only once before in your life had you accomplished a feat of strength, and that was when you had jumped up from your chair to do one 'pull up' in P.E. at seven years old. You had been extremely proud of that loophole, and it was one of your most cherished memories, depressingly enough. That made this attempt of physical strength all the more difficult, in the end.

At this moment, glaring at the trash as if it had insulted your entire family, you were finally snapped out of the inner roasting that you had directed to the garbage— by being unceremoniously slapped in the face with a pair of neon latex gloves. You sighed loudly, closing your eyes to collect yourself before you, to put it in modern terms, cut a hoe. You bent over and snatched up the pair of yellow gloves with more rage than expected. Straightening, you met the grin of your friend, none other than Sukiyaki Ashika; the source of your constant suffering.

The young adult of Japanese and Pakistani descent leaned in the doorway which led to the kitchen, dark arms crossed over her flat chest, that same cheeky grin that she used against those teenage delivery boys plastered across her Asian based features. It was a weapon, paired with her psychedelic slanted red brown eyes, the sort you saw on vampire men in those terrible low budget movies. These weren't any different. They were real, and they were lovely. It felt at times that she would hypnotize you with her stare, so powerful were they. There were times where you couldn't hold her gaze, having to lose the staring contest by dropping your gaze to the ground.

"Make sure you put on them gloves, by the way." The teenager reminded you, tossing her Wolf cut bangs to the side, the back of her straight black hair cropped short. The bangs were wispy, perfect, flowing in the wind as if she were in a shampoo commercial. It was comical, and you wanted to stab it.

"Yeah— I remember what happened when you didn't wear them that one time." You snorted with a lopsided smile as you slid them both on, the latex snapping loudly against your skin as you raised your eyebrows. "How's your hands by the way?" You questioned, a grin growing across your face.

Yaki made a noise of annoyance as she looked over at the hallway between the kitchen and the main restaurant area, sniffing in distaste. "Its not my fault that the stuff in there stained my hands yellow." She grumbled, looking down at her hands with their splotches of light neon yellow blemished along her pecan brown palms.

"It's literally toxic." You noted, as you wrapped your hands around the tied knots of the black garbage bags, inhaling deeply as you attempted to lift them up. All that was obtained from that movement was a sore back and almost dislocating your wrists. You let out a groan through your clenched teeth, your shoulders shakily sagging.

Sukiyaki guffawed loudly, a grin growing on her lips as she curled a finger around a strand of her coarse hair to play with it. "Awe, babaaa." Cooed the woman, tilting her head to press against the doorway.

"Don't 'awe baba' me." You huffed back like the annoyed teenager you were, glaring at the bags filled with garbage that resembled you, kicking at the receptacle. "You're enjoying this." You huffed, dropping the bags, placing your gloved hands on your hips as you shot the bags another dirty look.

Yaki gave a half shrug coupled with her signature smile as she continued to watch in amusement at the train wreck starting before her. "Put 'cha back into it!" She called as you began to slowly roll each large trash bag across the linoleum floor and through the backdoor. You managed to shoot her a scowl over your shoulder as you began your process of piling all the bags outside the door. Finishing up, you pulled back one of the bags holding the backdoor open, allowing the heavy wooden door to fall shut against its doorway.

You listened for a moment as Yaki faintly sang All Star to herself through the closed door, as you began the long process of figuring out how exactly you were going to drag each humongous bag into the six feet tall dumpster bin. Your arms already shook with the effort, your tendons stretched out against your skin, as you tried your best not to fall over. You would've loved Sukiyaki to help you, or take over even, but you knew it was your turn. If you ended up asking, you knew what would follow. The teasing, the pokes in your sides, ruffling up your hair before she would finally submit and get the job done. Effortlessly tossing in the bags as if she were playing basketball, not a bead of sweat to be found, her hair perfect as always. It was annoying how perfect she was, and this time, you decided that you would put the garbage in its place without submitting yourself to the mortifying experience of asking Suki to help. At least you could try to hold onto a silver of dignity left in your body.

After loud fits of swearing, prayers to God, squealing as the bulging bag teetered back from the edge of the metal container and almost crushed you (if you hadn't ran off before it crashed to the floor) and, embarrassingly enough, a bit of frustrated tears being shed, you managed to shove a bag into the dumpster. Placing each on the edge and shoving them all inside with a loud grunt, you found yourself finding a rhythm. It did little to cheer you up as you felt the muscles in your arms beginning to complain. You were definitely going to blackmail Yaki into buying you some ice cream after your shift was finished— after all, it was the most your roommate could do to soften your pain.

"This is supposed to be your job." You grumbled to no one in particular, feeling the bead of sweat tickle the side of your temple as it slid. You dragged the last trash bag towards the dumpster bin, loudly (and explicitly) directing your frustration towards an imaginary Yaki. Fuming, cursing, you planned in your head, allowing your mouth to run wild. You could mess up her perfectly styled hair (though she would attack your hair then too, and it looked bad enough as it did after a long hot day of work), you could hide her earbuds in her locker (but then she would talk your ear off in the subway home), or, you could smack her with your broom. The broom smacking seemed the easiest, the most surprising, and frankly, the funnie—

Something squeaked back in response.

Your head swiveled around, your fingers gripping the trash bag as it teetered on the edge of the dumpster (dangerously so, as you dug your heels into the ground), your eyes wide, shoulders aching and nostrils flaring. The rats in New York City were as large as an alley cat, and you were not prepared to catch the bubonic plague from one of those buggers. You were pretty sure you had been vaccinated against rabies as a child, but a quick trip to the hospital to confirm that was not something you looked forward to. Either way, the thought of a rat sinking its dagger like teeth into your ankle did not sound fun.

Your eyes scanned the dark narrow alleyway, listening closely to hundreds of flashing cars zooming by on nearby streets, their horns blaring in the distance. Your pupils dilated and adjusted to the shadows cast by the towering buildings surrounding the alleyway, making sense of the shapes along the walls. Garbage bins, loose trash, scattered needles, rotting garbage bags from the business in the next building, cardboard boxes. Nothing. Nothing suspicious at all. Your knuckles turned a shade paler as you held onto the trash bag for dear life, turning towards the giant receptacle, finally releasing as it hit against the bottom of the bin with a loud thud.

Another squeak echoed in the alley as you brought your hands abruptly to your chest, ("protecting your innocent little heart now, baba?" You heard sukiyaki's voice tease you in your mind), your eyes falling towards a pile of trash bags against the opposite wall. Your heart thudded angrily against your chest. It felt as if it wanted to crawl up your throat and escape, running. You wanted to run, but your feet were glued to the asphalt. You cautiously reached for the rickety broom that was propped against the wall, right next to the garbage bin. Isidore must've been here recently, brushing the loose vegetables out into the street to be run over or stolen by the rats. Your fingers curled around the cool blue plastic, your sweaty palms squelching against the material. You were ready to slap any demon rat that came anywhere near you.

You gripped the plastic broom tightly with both hands, watching closely as one of the trash bags began to vibrate. Yes, vibrate; as if it were a ringing phone laid against a glass tabletop. You gulped, shuddering violently, as you began to take delicate steps toward towards the bag.

I'd rather it be a mutant than a freaking rat,— you hoped in your mind. At least mutants didn't try to bite... Right?

A gasp ripped from your mouth as a circular white face popped out with a rat-like squeak from a chewed up hole through the material of the plastic trash bag. There was the sound that you had been hearing all along. It belonged to a 2-D face with two white skinny stick arms stabbing into the bag as it wiggled out its beanpole of a body from the hole inside the trash bag. A drawn stick figure, about the size of your hand. It looked like it had been cut out of paper by a child, the edges showing pencil marks where the shape had been carefully drawn. It leapt out of the bag to perch itself onto the black bulging trash bag, sticking its face forward. Staring. Staring at you.

You didn't realize your mouth was hanging open until a fly smacked against your upper lip and ricocheted away. You spluttered, wiping the back of your hand across your mouth as you took a step backwards. Big mistake. The abrupt noise and sudden movement startled the stick figure. It arched its back, on all four nubby sticks (like a cat, you thought numbly in amusement), hissing at you even though it had no visible mouth. The noise that it emitted was enough to make the hairs on the back of your neck stand straight.

You stared at it. This was... unreal. A stick figure, (or a cut out figure?) coming to life, hissing at you like an angry pigeon. Did pigeons even hiss? You couldn't recall, you were just frozen. In utter shock.

...Were you high? Okay, yeah, sure, it was probably those delivery boys, their fault at is, smoking weed freely whenever they dropped off their shipments of vegetables, frozen fish and meat, including the occasional ice cream. At least you hoped; it would certainly make more sense than the stickie in front of you. Obviously, you had inhaled some second-hand-devils-lettuce smoke and now you were high as a kite, imagining a two year old's drawing cut out of a stick figure aggressively arching its back in and out at you as if it were performing some sort of mating dance.

The stick figure hissed once more and you finally noticed a hole appearing on his face, (because of course you assumed it was a male), and tiny paper like sharpened teeth baring at you.

Yeah, no.

You swiftly swung the head of the broom, bristles and all, at the sentient stick figure, slapping the surprisingly light thing in the torso and sending it flying. A loud squeal escaped its empty mouth as it sailed across the alley wall (you stared, mesmerized, wondering how paper could hold such weight), and tumbled onto the sidewalk. It scrambled to its feet, sickly yellow light from the street lamps throwing shadows against its flat white skin. It stared. And stared. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, it hissed once more at you and scurried off. The sound of its flat feet scratching lightly against the ground quickly faded away.

You stood there, sucking and exhaling rapid breaths. You stared at the place where, just moments before, a living drawing had stood.

After a few minutes, you had successfully convinced yourself that none of it had been real, or had even occurred. It was the toxic fumes from the garbage bags, mingling with remnants of the evil weed as your mother called it. It had come together to corrupt your brain and had made you hallucinate for a few minutes— that was all. It was something psychological that you were sure could be explained through a quick google search. You really had to make sure you wore a gas mask next time you took out the trash. That was a joke, but it barely amused you. Maybe it would make Sukiyaki laugh, if she didn't start cackling at your story of weed, poisonous fumes, and stick figures coming out to attack you.

You spent a few spare moments gingerly poking the hole riddled trash bag with the end of your broom, (letting out a gasp when something inside it fell over, causing you to jump), before shaking off that nagging feeling scratching the back of your mind. Everything was a-okay, perfect, absolutely fine... everything was fine.

You cleared your throat, turning swiftly on the soles of your stained beat up, formerly white sneakers, twirling the broom lazily in your free hand. Around and around, you twirled, as if you were trying to mimic the actions of a Jedi. Your heart had calmed down from the mini heart attack it just had, as you wiped your free shaking sweaty palm on your stained light blue jeans. You walked back towards the backdoor, a trembling hum resonating in your throat, dragging your shoes against the dirty concrete floor of the alleyway. Everything was just fine.

You felt the ground tremble before you heard it. The sound of feet hitting the ground behind you, slapping against the ground clumsily, a small grunt following it. Softly, albeit messily, but gently enough that you wouldn't had even noticed. If it hadn't been for the hand that grabbed your shoulder.

A shrill shriek escaped your lips as you swung around the broom (really, this had become second nature after what you had just gone through) spinning around to beat the person who had grabbed you. Grabbed you! This was New York City after all, it was late, and hadn't there been reports of mutants, gangs, and weird looking alien robots in this area as well? You were not the type of person to willingly go if you were kidnapped or, god forbid, harassed. If it came to it, the good Lord had given you two dirty hands for wielding whatever was available. Which happened to be a cheap, held-together-by-prayers-and-duct-tape-broom. Put together, you were the shining representative of all pathetic, weak, easily scared girls worldwide.

Unfortunately, before your weapon of choice could loudly thwack against the face of your adversary, the broom was gripped tightly in a shaking bandaged three fingered hand.

You were face to face with a creature.

You were both breathing heavily in sync. This thing, this animal, was injured and heaving in rhythm with you. How rude!

In the dim yellow light emitted from the streets that dragged into the alleyway, he was red— no, he was green, covered in red. You narrowed your eyes at him, trying to hide the fact that you were beginning to hyperventilate at the pure shock of this mes— wait; was that a panic attack you felt coming on? You hadn't had one in weeks!

He was taller than you, that much you could tell as you stared into his eyes. You were caught in his piercing gaze, your eyes only being able to flicker around before being dragged back into this stare. He appeared to be brawny in his physique, though you on the contrary seemed as breakable as a twig. A huge gash ran across his green face as you, for the first time, noticed a blue mask around his neck that was soaked with... blood. Torn up bandages swayed limply from his elbows, shoulders and hands, with a few knee pads barely holding on. His left shoulder leaked blood through a large open gash that didn't seem to relent with its flow. His right eye was reddened and beginning to swell shut, the other a piercing blue that seemed wrong belonging to a thing like him. Your eyes trailed to his back, oh hello there shell, where large multi colored gashes peeked at her, contrasting against the brown. The streaks seemed as if they were made out of… paint.

Your attention was pulled away as remembered the broom you were gripping with both of your hands, his three fingered hand holding the other side, his own grip in between your hands. You let go, stumbling backwards, your arms outstretched into a t-pose as you stared wide eyed in silence. Whattt was happening? What was this? Why was this? Why? Why?!

A noise that sounded like a pigeon choking on a piece of hot dog meat escaped your parted lips as you pointed at his face. The thing. The turtle. The mutant. With eyes you had only seen before in cliché anime gif's that you would usually spam to your former nanny to confuse her.

He stood there, looking embarrassed and uncomfortable, mimicking the exact expressions that you were experiencing too. He clutched the broom in one hand, his arm falling limply to the side. His grip on the pole was tight, so tight that his knuckles turned white. His hand began to shake. His grip loosened. The broom clattered to the ground. The shaking in his hands didn't stop there. It only spread, up his arms, down to his knees; his entire body seemed to be having a shaking fit. You realized, late as it was, that it was probably the buckets of blood covering him, (hey-o! blood loss!).

You took a small step forward.

"Um..." You cleared your throat, embarrassingly loud as it echoed throughout the alley, trying to draw his attention. He was staring straight ahead, his gaze empty and in some far off place other then the present. "My, my guy." You said, unsure of yourself as you scrunched up your nose at the stupid words spilling out of your mouth. You held out one hand tentatively, eyebrows knitted in concern as you licked your very dry, very salty lips. "Are you... good?"

The mutant hesitantly shrugged, his one working eye squinting and shining in the sickly yellow light. "No." His hoarse voice squeezed out, barely a whisper as it echoed along the dense towering concrete walls of the alleyway. With that one word, he collapsed in on himself, like a soda can being crushed between two hands.

You stared at the pile of blue, green, brown, beige, yellow, purple, and red before you and inhaled deeply. You gazed upon your familiar surroundings, calm as ever, and clasped your gloved hands together. "God..." You declared quite loudly, as if you were confessing to the Lord himself. "I'm high." And with those cheerful words, still trying to convince yourself that this was all a hallucination you turned on the heels of your white sneakers, opened the door, and walked inside. Humming a loud tune, the door shut closed behind you, ringing throughout the alley, out into the empty street.

A squeak rang out from a familiar hole riddled trash bag.

Everything was fine.

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crestfallercanyon · 8 months

Note

Can you pretty please give me your thoughts on witch!Newt????? Pretty pleaseeeeeeeeeeee?

You want to know what I think about witch!newt?

I'D BE HAPPY TO TELL YOU!

Witch!Newt takes many forms in my mind so none of these thoughts invalidate anyone else's -- he can be whatever, just like how fanfiction is, and everything else.

Anyways, here we go --

In my mind, Newt as a witch wears a lot of jewelry. Some of them are for protection, some of them are just style. He's got many stacked rings, he's got one long earring (like the rope earrings? with suns and stars and planets draping down) and then a series of studs on the other side. In a fic idea I had, he has one ring in particular that helps him restore energy because he has a tendency to drain magic faster than other witches. he has a pendant as well, but the meaning of it stays with him.

His tattoos, more often than not, are runes of some sort. Some of them are protection, some of them are to balance magic use, some of them tie him to his friends.

I imagine him dressing somewhat like Howl in Howl's moving castle, except his hair is tied in an enchanted hairband and the ponytail itself is messy, with a lot of pieces of hair falling out of it, and it's high up on his head.

Most people think he's a plant witch, but that actually wasn't his original calling and not what his "natural talent" was. (If we're going like "elemental" witches, in my mind his actual natural talent was fire). He cultivated it because when he was younger he hated his natural talent, but as he's grown older he's learned to accept his talents -- but now he has a fondness for the plants he's grown. He enjoys making potions as well (though he's not that great at it, and would recommend a different witch if someone wants to purchase one from him).

He's got a fondness for spirits, and is friends with most otherworldly things. (In my fic, Cursed, he's friends with the Gods as well). Whereas some witches have a superiority complex, he thinks that's stupid. He's been invited to advise on certain ailments and conditions happening in other creature's and spiritual realms because he's a very modest but very intelligent witch whose gained a reputation for being a very good person to have on your side.

He does not love humans in general and has had bad experiences with them in the past. On an individual basis he's fine, as with all things, and he knows about his prejudices, but his experiences with them in the past has made him overall distrusting of their agenda.

Being good at protection spells and runes and talismans and other symbolic forms of magic would mean that if he ever did feel the inclination to cast a curse on someone, it'd probably be extremely effective. He, however, does not believe in cursing anything, and so he has never actually tried it.

He mentors Chuck, who is a newcomer witch, and who was going to get himself killed because he kept doing stupid -- though incredible -- tricks and things for his own enjoyment but that was definitely going to expose him as a witch to the wrong people (things like making water bubbles float so that fish can swim in the air, kind of thing).

I love the idea of him being a very powerful witch, and that actually scares him. A lot of what he teaches and practices is all about balancing magic and energy. When he unleashes, he can burn shit to the ground.

I've toyed around with other ideas for his witchery as well, but those are less solidified in my mind. But yeah, that's my idea of witch!newt. Hope you enjoyed <3

#the maze runner #tmr #newt #witch!newt #newt tmr #tmr newt

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seldomscilence16 · 9 months

Text

Voltron in "The Little Mermaid" part one!

Hello all! A little late but heres a short part of a short piece For Julance and Lances Birthday (cause I take forever to do anything and it wasnt ready in May :/). I really loved the Live action, by far the best out of them all, so heavy inspiration pulled from that one- as well as some spoilers with song references and scenes ect so warned- but I also pulled from the cartoon and musical a bit and just mashed a lot of randomness together!

Now I'd like to thank @paracosm299 for reading this and helping out in the brainstorming process! They were a huge help, and as always a humungus support! Love you!

I'd also like to thank @autisticlancemcclain @awhoreintheory and @mothmanavenue ! The first two for answering my asks and moth for beautiful art making me fall in love with a ship used in this fic. And for just being overall amazing, keeping my love for Voltron alive and giving so many people reasons to smile!

Anyway, enjoy part one of this little fic! I will try to get the other parts out soon (im planning for 3 to give me easy goals 🤞).

~~~

The ocean was abuzz with commotion and far too many visitors, all oozing with the need to please the Emperor. Lance had far better things to be doing, though his father would attest, and he found himself swimming farther and farther from the noise. Which wasnt odd of course, Lance could be found on the outskirts of Alteaica more often than not.

"I could've sworn it was around here somewhere..." Coran, an older creature and Lances Best friend, indulged Lances curiosity the most.

He didnt know much of the man, despite how often his rambles and odds and ends left Lances head spinning, but the mystery of him intrigued the merman. He was a bit of an outcast, kept out of the public eye as much as possible like he knew something Lance didnt. And he did, know a lot that is, places and history and things from a time before Lance came to be and further. Allura chided Coran for being a bad influence, but her heart never seemed in it, Lance had seen her far off stare as she listened to a ramble far too much to believe she didnt too know more than she said.

"Oh!" They pass farther than typically allowed, and Lance sees the reason why.

Below lays a wrecked ship, one Lance has yet to explore.

"Come on Coran!"

"You know this reminds me of..."

Lance listens idly to Corans tale, scanning the area carefully as they decend to where the boat rests on the sea floor. He thinks of the storm that would have caused this, thinks of the lives of the humans on board, wonders how many of them made it home. The Emperor would scoff at him, berate him for sharing a caring thought towards the very beings were endanger their waters. But as they drift into the wreck, and his eyes catch on every little detail, he cant help but think they are so much more.

"...And then Alfor sneezes and the whole colony popped, completely vanished, I still wonder what happened to those little quiznakers, they stole my snacks..." For an Octopus, Lance can help but think his face shows perfect contempt for whatever those creatures were.

Its not the first time Coran has spoken of this Alfor, nor of creatures Lance has never heard of, using words he long since has grown accustomed to figure out with the context given. He hears every story, and watches the expressions his friends take, and hurts to know that they too hold pain in their hearts, for something Lance is not allowed to grasp for whatever reason. So instead he distracts, with human curiousities and questions and weaved tales of his own. Coran loves his inquisitive nature, Romelle finds humor where she can and has something that shines in her eyes when he puts something together- he'd put anything together, fix anything, if only to see them all happy- and Allura acts aloof at times, but she loves learning and new things and arguing with Romelle until they both laugh so hard it hurts.

So even for a moment, these human things, bring them together. Things that may or may not be true, that raise so many questions that he hopes and prays to one day find the answers to. He'll collect it all, in the hopes of a future where he can be free to do something with the whirlpool of thoughts inside him. To go, to learn, to enjoy, to explore, to know.

He sticks another object in his bag, Coran dangling from it with one arm as most of the others search the floor,

"I do wonder why the sharks like these ships, never had a clear conversation with one you see, even the evolved ones, their heads seem to be in the foam sometimes, never know what theyre thinking." Coran picks up a piece of ship, examines it, then throws it already looking for something new, his query seemingly random but somehow something Lance too wondered about.

"Well, if I was like my father, I'd say they're trying to figure out how these ships work so they can better take them down." Lance rolls his eyes at this, fingers skimming over a depiction of a human. "But maybe they just like how it looks, its pretty interesting after all."

Lance had met a couple sharks in his day, he found them pretty interesting actually, but he understood how hard it was for them to find food now-a-days. And when youre always moving, they must be starving, so he respected them, gave them a good distance.

Much like with his interest in humans, Lance understood that he couldnt interact with them. For all Sendaks hate, Lance was not stupid enough to believe that he wouldnt be attacked if he did something wrong. With sharks, you could find a few that didnt want to kill you. Humans too, Lance was almost positive there had to be some that wouldn't find him a monster... there had to be.

He startles when he catches movement out of his peripheral, turning to find a large mirror. His expression is tight, and he's quick to smooth it out, he needed to be more careful with what he let his face show.

"Oh, and whats that?" He follows Corans gaze to see, what looked to Lance, a mini trident.

He uses a delicate hand to pick up the object, inspecting it with wide eyes,

"I dont know, but its wonderful. I bet Romelle has an idea." Lance smiles at Coran, glancing around once more for a last sweep, when the mirror catches his attention once again.

This time however, it is not his own reflection he sees.

Rows of teeth, pale skin, and small but focused eyes. The shark is through the side of the boat before Lance can get out any sound of warning. Hes pulling Coran out of the way, the shark dead set on them, destroying the things in its way to try and keep up.

Lance should have knows this wreck would be called for. Should have searched better, before entering what could be- and obviously was- the territory of a predator.

Every turn they take, every time Lance is sure they've lost him, sharp teeth and splintered ship come from behind or the side or in front and they have to make another hard turn, and he trying to hold on to his bag- where Coran has secured himself tightly so as not to effect Lances mobility- but as they finally exit the interior of the wreck, the shark is bursting out behind them and Lance swears he has a grip but then its gone.

He swims backwards, eyes frantically scanning to locate the Octopus, but the Shark has found him first, heading towards the sea floor. Hes comoflauged against the bag, but a trail of blood follows it, giving away his position.

"Coran!" A quick decision, a half formed plan, has him shoving a container of some sort, watching it hit the Shark who thankfully turns his attention to the larger prey. Lance darts into the ship once more, watching the shark come for him, jaw opened wide, closer..

Closer...

Closer!

The mirror shatters, and the shark becomes stuck in the outer frame.

Heart in his throat from where hes pressed against the inner walls across from said mirror, Lance waits only a moment to ensure hes stuck before darting towards the sea floor. The trail of blood has dispersed- and gods Lance hoped it wasnt serious- but his bag has an extra divet in the sand beside it.

"Coran! Are you alright?"

The orange and blues of his friend slowly return, one arm crossed over his body below his eyes as usual, and his seven others still intact. A small scratch on his head has already stopped bleeding, and Lance breathes a sigh of relief, quickly scooping up his friend, absently grabbing his bag, and swimming away from the wreck. It'd be best to be gone before the Shark made his way free.

...

Sendak casts a steady look around the crowded room, today's meeting was an important one, gathering the leaders of the seven seas to discuss important matters once a year. That brat should be here, this was one of their most important times, he should be drifting about the room like a ditz and gathering info for him. One job and the useless boy couldnt even do that. He taps his trident once and waits, eye never stopping its steady search.

"You summoned, your Majesty?" Her voice comes from above, the ghost crab gliding down to land on the rock of his throne.

"Where," he pauses to level her with the full strength of his glare, "is the boy?"

To her credit, she appears unfazed by his glare,

"I reminded him of the meeting this morning-"

"I did not ask of this morning." Sendak cuts in, voice low as he once again eyes the room, "find him."

Shes quiet for a moment, "yes, your majesty."

It wasnt hard to find Lance really, Allura practically had a sixth sense for it. Though all she really had to do was go where you werent supposed to, and you'd happen upon the boy. So of course she finds him talking with Romelle, past the territories border, and far closer to the surface than allowed. Still, with Coran's many tentacles latched around Lances arm and Romelle chattering away about whatever it is shes holding, Alluras heart swells with a fondness she cant- or rather doesnt want to- fight.

"Lonce!" She makes her way up to the rock Romelle stands on, eying the human curiousities for only a moment- things change up there so quickly- before leveling the three with a look. "Do you recall what day it is? That thing I told you this morning?"

The way Lances eyes widen- with fear, so much, too much- has her heart hurting.

"The night of the coral moon! Oh gods! Im late! Sorry Romelle! I gotta go!"

Coran has Lances bag and a grip on the rock in the next moment, just in time to brace for Lance's departure. The three watch him go, faces as glum as their animal selfs can accomplish.

"Hows the plan coming?" Allura asks after the (waves by his departure currents what are they called?) calm.

"They are simply waiting for the right moment, and for Haggar to make her move." Coran responds, one of his many arms laying across his face so another can stroke it awkwardly.

"Lets hope we dont have to wait long." Alluras tone is grave, eyes trained on the trail of a young merman, who has no idea what path was laid before him.

...

Lance was screwed this time for sure.

The Coral Moon gathering was one of the most important tasks Lance had. With so many mers in one place, it was his job to gather any and every bit of information he could, anything that may get his father ahead. It had been the only thing talked about over the past few movements, and the main reason Lance had decided to take a break this morning before the big event... until he lost track of time.

He had succesfully snuck into his room to drape himself in fancy shiny- unnecassary and gaudy, not even tasteful- decorations and such. Anything to make him look like a dumb accessory to the Emporer and be underestimated- though Lance was underestimated even by the man who knew he was more than decor. Sneaking into the event would be a problem though, Lance figured it'd be better to simply act as if he arrived late on purpose, to swim in like a ditz and lazily make his way about the room- anything to delay addressing his Father- and hopefully hear something worth while along the way.

Though worthwhile was relative, and Lance was less of a snitch than his Father trained him to be, but also very good at pretending to be one. The Emperor claimed to see through Lance, and for some things he could- though Lance thinks he simply assumes and who is he to deny the accusations really? But for things like this, Lance had been told by a few that he was an excellent story weaver, and really, thats all gossip was anyway. So long as it pleased Sendak- father, Emperor- it didn't matter.

So long as he could save the lives of a few at the expense of his own safety, it was worth it.

His entrance is met with varying emotions.

By those who follow the Emperor and hang on to his every word, he is greeted with sneers at best, and lascivious leers at worst.

By those who fear him or are simply biding their time, looks of pity or spite. Lance expertly appears non-chalant, like his head is in the sand rather than processing everything fast enough to make his head ache. Most of it was minor gossip, a few idle threats, comments on the food, current events and the likes, but Lance could make that all work.

As he glides closer to the end of the gathering space, he feels a hard stare that he had to stop himself from tensing at. He cant help but drift slower, to delay the inevitable, but he can only stall for so long. He bows to his father and takes his place beside him, swallowing thickly he waits with baited breath.

"Why are you late." The question is barely that, with how much force he puts into the quiet utterance.

"I-"

"Shipwrecks are off limits for a reason."

Lance doesnt know HOW he knows, if it was a guess or if he had more spies than Lance originally thought. For all Lance knew, the shark from this morning could have been in on it. Given, then he'd also know about Coran, and since he never mentions the man, Lance figures its probably a guess. According to Allura, hes pretty predictable like that.

"I was just scouting it out, trying to learn something." Half truths.

"On the most important day of the year, you decide to indulge your human obsession? Are you trying to make me angry?" Lance could tell the crowded room wouldnt keep his father from yelling if they kept this up.

"No Father, I was only-"

"We will talk about this later."

Lance is dismissed as quick as he was addressed to begin with, and the minute the Emperors back is turned to meet with the 'generals' of the other seas, Lance is swimming for his grotto as quick as his tail will take him. If hes in for a punishment anyway, he may as well enjoy his freedom for even a moment.

next>>

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alicentdeservesbetter · 1 year

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PASSION & ANGER

Part 1/2

“Do you ever think of anything but yourself!?” Alicent’s voice echoed around the royal chambers of a past Queen whose shadow still loomed heavy. With herself and Rhaenyra alike; the Queen knew this but her heart was too closed for such rationality. “You are a woman grown.” The words continued to move from her lips. Her eyes nearly widened at the similar words she had shouted at her son only days prior. The Gods were cruel it seemed. The anger inside her only spiralled even more at the silence coming from the Princess. It seemed Rhaenyra was more like her father than they both would like to admit. “You have not changed.” Alicent snarled like the dragon she had married and ones she had birthed. The very creature that she feared it seemed she had become.

“You have.” Rhaenyra whispered out. The silence that followed tightened around the both of them as their eyes locked. Alicent’s big, doe eyes couldn't look away as a soft gulp came over her. “This is not about me!” Rhaenyra only raised an eyebrow as she clasped her hands in front of her. The light blue that reminded her of better days clung to her body. Alicent couldn’t stop her eyes from trailing down. Her mind flashing to the council meeting only moments ago. Unknowingly, the Queen began to chew on her soft, bottom lip. The Princess hardly concealed her desire; she never could. It was an unfortunate side effect of being in Alicent’s presence. It seemed as ever, Alicent could move behind that mask she had perfected over time.

“I want you to leave.” Alicent lied so prettily as she had done for the many years since the farce of her wedding. Gracefully, the Queen stepped closer. The height difference always placed her at a disadvantage. If Alicent looked closer; she would have noticed the smirk tugging on Rhaenyra’s lips as she looked down. “Is that truly what you want?” Rhaenyra hummed, stepping an inch closer to a raging Alicent. “Yes.” The words easily fell from Alicent’s lips. The lies always came so easily to her now. If she lingered on such thoughts; her heart would break.

“I don’t believe you.” Rhaenyra hummed. The entitlement dripping from her tone was too much for Alicent to bare. The Queen could only scoff; in such an un-ladely like manner that Rhaenyra couldn’t help but enjoy. It was as if she was staring at her friend again but Rhaenyra would not be so naive once again to believe such a thing.

“Go, I won’t ask again.” Alicent whispered out now; ducking down for a short moment as she fought to collect herself. Her mask as ever slipping; something that seemingly always happened in Rhaenyra’s presence. “Oh, I did not realise my Queen was asking?” Rhaenyra’s smooth, taunting tone washed over her. The fire she had tried to dim rose inside Alicent once more. “Oh, and you would listen if I was not asking?” She couldn’t help but snap back. Those big eyes of hers locked onto Rhaenyra once more. It was only then that the Queen realised how close they had become. “Go back to your husband Rhaenyra…if you can find him.” A smirk tugged on Alicent’s lips as she took delight in the situation of the Princess.

Rhaenyra did not rise to the bait. Not when the familiar, mouth watering scent of her old friend came over her. Alicent’s lips were still moving but the Princess’ mind was abuzz and fuzzy. “Are you even listening to me!?” The Queen shouted out and the instincts in Rhaenyra that she had long tried to fight snapped. Her hand not so gently cupped the back of Alicent’s neck and soon their lips were meeting.

A soft gasp escaped Alicent as she delicately placed her hand on Rhaenyra’s chest; half to push her away but the act never came. The Queen seemingly melted at the first soft touch coming her way. For a moment Rhaenyra wondered if Alicent reacted to her father this way. Those thoughts were pushed from her mind when the Queen’s whimpering continued. Her soft, sweet tasting lips parted and Rhaenyra couldn’t help but dive in.

Her fingers brushed through the thick locks of the Queen and kept her impossibly close. Their bodies brushed against each other for a moment. Alicent could hear her heart pounding in her ears as she clutched at the woman in front of her. The woman she thought she hated with every fibre of her being. As ever, it seemed Alicent did not know herself.

As always; Rhaenyra knew the both of them. The hold on her neck began to soften; if only for a moment. “No..” Alicent whispered and for the first time in the Queen’s experience; the act stopped. Those big eyes of hers widened even more as Rhaenyra leaned away. Rhaenyra’s hand slowly moved down Alicent’s side as she shivered.

“No?” Rhaenyra lifted an elegant eyebrow. Alicent could hardly catch her breath as she tried to reach for the anger. It was usually so easy for the Queen to draw from as she locked eyes with the Princess before her once again. Seemingly, only passion for the Princess was all Alicent could feel in that moment as she looked up.

If she was more honest with herself; Alicent would realise it was not that surprising. Those thoughts distracted her for a moment and Rhaenyra took that advantage. It was only when a soft hand brushed down the Queen’s side that she looked up. The closeness between the two of them nearly took her breath away.

“I have missed you.” The words fell from Rhaenyra with ease that had never come naturally to Alicent. The Princess watched the blush flood over the Queen’s cheeks. “Have you missed me?” A purr came over the Princess’ tone. It seemed words were lost on Alicent as she could only stare; those big eyes as ever were so wet and sad.

It seemed sadness had forever wrapped around her old friend and Rhaenyra nearly couldn’t remember what Alicent had been like before. The queen knew the truth; she knew the Princess was the only one who truly knew her. “I’m sorry you have been lonely.” Rhaenyra whispered; her hand gently cupping Alicent’s face.

“I have not –” Alicent began to defend herself; she was always on edge but the words were lost to her when Rhaenyra’s thumb brushed over her bottom lip. A soft gasp escaped around the room as she lost herself in Rhaenyra’s eyes. “I’ve got you.” Rhaenyra gently whispered as she allowed herself to have this weakness. One of many she had indulged in but this was different. It was always so different with Alicent.

She could accept that now. A part of her wondered if Alicent could accept that but she knew the answer to that. If only for a moment; she could be like this with her Queen; Rhaenyra would take it. It seemed Alicent was thinking the same as she began to lean forward. For a moment; their noses brushed together before their lips met.

A soft smile tugged on Alicent’s lips for a moment before they met. Rhaenyra’s fingers found their home in those locks as she pulled her against her body. “Hmm, you smell the same.” Alicent whispered before their lips connected once more. Their tongues began to dance as the Queen clutched at the dress of Rhaenyra.

The passion was driving them both as Rhaenyra gently began to guide Alicent backwards; the back of her legs hitting the bed. Alicent softly gasped and those eyes flashed open and it was only then that she realised they had fallen shut. She hated the blush easily coming over her cheeks at the sight of Rhaenyra’s smirk.

“Follow me.” She whispered before softly mouthing down Alicent’s neck. The Queen’s head fell back as a tingling sensation began to rise. Her thighs began to rub together on their own accord as she whimpered some more. “So beautiful.” Rhaenyra continued whispering sweet nothings as Alicent’s eyes only rolled as the kisses continued.

Her arms wrapped around Rhaenyra when they both fell to the bed. The Princess still roamed Alcient’s body; pressing soft kisses as the skirts of their dresses began to bunch up with their movements. Not that they noticed in that moment as they stared into each other's eyes like they had not been able to do in so long.

Their soft, sweet breasts began to brush against each other as they only leaned closer. Now, there was no space between them. Alicent wanted this moment to last forever as she gently reached and placed a lock of those bright locks behind her ear. The act had Rhaenyra leaning into it before she pressed a soft kiss to Alicent’s palm.

“Do you trust me?” Rhaenyra whispered out; their eyes locking once more as she leaned into Alicent’s hand. “You are the only one I trust.” Alicent whispered as she rested her head back on the silk pillows. Those thick locks of hers cascading around her like a dark halo and Rhaenyra had never seen anything as pretty.

#rhaenyra targaryen x alicent hightower #alicent hightower x rhaenyra targaryen #alicent hightower #hotd fanfic

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