#i can feel it in my bones i can feel it in my heart
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“A little bird told me that today is a certain someone's birthday.”
You feel the distinct prickle of two fangs halt halfway through the curve of your throat, a breath stuttering against the now marred skin. The tassels of Aventurine's earning tickles your nape, before his lips replace its unsought touches, soothing over the bite.
“I don't quite recall this,” he drawls upon your neck, gloved fingers slide up from the plush of your thighs and slant against your waist ; a clear message. “Being the resting place of wanton birds.”
You heart kicks against your ribcage as the implications of his words soak into your brain. Your eyes connect with enigmatic swirls when you swivel with a gasp, “It's just one little bird, Aventurine.”
He hums, a ghost of a smile tugs at the corners of his lips, reaching out and failing to grasp his eyes. You feel his other arm wrap around your abdomen and tugging you closer closer closer— until not even whimsical air can intervene in your moment. For a time insignificant compared to the expanding cosmos, he leers and he waits — for you to stumble and forfeit your fortune to him. You've observed this game unfold many times, which is why, you don't so much as blink in the face of his scrutiny.
Aventurine tilts his head, the golden strands that frame his face shift in stride, “It's ‘one little bird’ for now, my jewel. Soon, it'll fly to-and-fro and invite its companions. One bird will become two birds, then three, four, five — until this flower of mine will be torn to shreds.”
Your skin erupts in pins and needles where the blonde's hand rests, the teases of pain make you lean your head against his chest in reflex, but they don't coax pained breaths to escape your lips. Your eyes gloss over upon capturing the dimming orbs heralding the colors of a bygone lineage. You feel as though you were lost in a dark landscape, with a shadowed fox breathing down your neck, claws already sunk midway — but you don't feel like the struggling rabbit, like a prey.
Your palm cradles Aventurine's face, “That's why we keep guns below our pillows, isn't that correct?”
The phantom finally reaches his eyes, his grin spreads across his face and the sun casts aside the darkness from the forest. Aventurine answers your query by tackling you with a flurry of kisses, you feel him at every corner of your body, grasping at every crevice of your soul — but it's not enough, neither for him nor for you.
When the intensity of his advance wanes momentarily, you sneak your hand past his grip to rest atop his chest, “Tell me your wish,” this time his heart revolts against the confines of bone, yearning to be freed and caged into your palm. “What gift do you want for your birthday?”
Aventurine chuckles, though it sounds quite strained this time. His fingers encircle your wrist and press your hand further on his chest for a moment (his shirt does little to mute the rapid marching of his soul) before he drags it to his face, his lips ghost over your pulse point.
“You don't think me to be that greedy, do you?” the humorous lilt of his voice prompts a smile to bloom on your face, too. He sighs as though he breathes in the gardens of heaven, lips firmly pressed to the beat of your existence.
“How can I ever wish for anything more when I have the whole world in my hands?” his eyes twinkle, hugged by a smile. They remind you of autumn sunsets blending into an awestruck ocean, before disappearing behind nightfall.
And just like them, you embrace and merge into one another, as well.
Happy birthday to the luckiest, prettiest, Aventurine <3
#aventurine#aventurine x reader#aventurine x you#hsr x reader#honkai star rail x reader#yandere aventurine#yandere aventurine x reader#yandere hsr#yandere hsr x reader#yandere honkai star rail#yandere honkai star rail x reader#honkai star rail#yandere imagines#yandere#hsr#aventurine fluff#hsr fluff#honkai star rail fluff
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“help me hold onto you” // “pulled him in tighter each time he was drifting away”
“i’m still trying everything to get you laughing at me” // “stop trying to make him laugh stopped trying to drill the safe”
“how long could we be a sad song til we were too far gone to bring back to life?” // thinking “how much sad did you think i had, did you think i had in me? oh the tragedy”
“you know i love a london boy” // “so long, london”
“you’ll find the real thing instead” // “you’ll find someone”
“don’t put me in the basement when i want the penthouse of your heart” // “i’ll get your longing glances and she’ll get your ring” // “i didn’t opt in to be your odd man out”
“i can’t find a pulse my heart won’t stop anymore” // “i stopped cpr after all its no use. the spirit was gone we would never come to”
“give you my wild, give you a child + our coming of age has come and gone” // “and i’m pissed off you let me give you all that youth for free”
“is this the end of all the endings? my broken bones are mending” // “stitches undone”
“you had to kill me but it killed you just the same” // “two graves one gun”
“i’m gonna find someone someday who might actually treat me well” // “i’ll find someone”
“i’m like the water when your ship rolled in that night” // “and when i was shipwrecked i thought of you” // “and so the battle ships will sink beneath the waves” // “and you say i abondoned the ship but i was going down with it”
“is it really your anxiety that stops you from giving me everything or do you just not want to?” // “holding tight to your quiet resentment” + “every breath feels like rarest air when you’re not sure if he wants to be there”
“wondering which version of you i might get on the phone tonight?” // “my friends said it isn’t right to be scared everyday of a love affair”
“and i wouldn’t marry me either” // “you swore that you loved me but where were the clues? i died on the altar waiting for the proof”
“don’t want no other shade of blue but you, no other sadness in the world would do” // “is it insensitive for me to say ‘get your shit together so i can love you’?” // “you sacrificed us to the gods of your bluest days”
“my face was grey” // “i’m just getting color back into my face”
“i’d never walk cornelia street again” // “i’m just mad as hell cause i loved this place for so long”
“i once believe love would be black and white. but it’s golden.” // “a moment of warm sun but i’m not the one”
#this one is so long and there are so many more#ttpdminutes#ttpd parallels#ttpd lyric parallels#taylorswift#taylor swift#lyric parallels#ttpd
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Ochre
Summary: You have never been more content with nothingness, your life finally settled like silt back down into the spongy earth. You have been left with plenty of downtime to indulge in your hobbies. Halsin chooses to indulge with you.
Warnings: Halsin x fem!reader, I haven't played bg3 I'm just horny for this man, inappropriate use of paint, sub!Halsin if you squint, fingering, p in v smut
My work is 18+ Minors DNI
Word Count: 1.6k
Author's Note: Hi if you're one of my mutuals, you don't see me. Again, I would like to reiterate, I did not play bg3 I just like this man. I'm doing this for fun and I haven't written smut in a second. I wrote this in a blind fury doing writing warm-ups for a personal project.
You had never been more content with nothingness.
The only noises surrounding you now were the hum of the cicadas in the waning coolness of spring. They were deafening now, but a welcome comfort to the silence you were still getting to know. You could hear your thoughts a little less, memories repressing themselves for longer and less frequently. They seemed more distant.
You hadn’t been particularly fond of the way the grass brushed against your ankles, leaving a deep, residual itch that you felt in your bones. This time, you had remembered to tote a blanket with you, dragging it alongside your paint pots and cold-pressed paper.
“A gift to nature,” he had called them, “you capture her beautifully.”
You didn’t think they were anything special, of course, you didn’t. But he, in all of his kindness, thought they had been a gift– though you had been a gift. Little smatterings of paint, green amongst brown these days. Today you watched the ducks, circling against the rifts of the current, capsizing like little boats to only overturn themselves righted again.
Halsin was much quieter than he appeared, a rustling of dry thatches of grass masked as a boundless breeze. He was all silent breaths and light footfall. You hardly had time to register his looming presence behind you this time– not before broad hands settled against your back and smoothed themselves over the skin of your waist in a fluid movement. Had it not been so delicate, it might have startled you more. He dropped his heavy frame next to yours, encasing your body in his radial heat.
“What are we painting today, my heart?” He had asked, his large head coming down to rest on your shoulder to match your eye level. You could feel the way his pointed ear came to rest against your rounded one.
He can feel the smile pull at your cheek against his lips as he awaits your response, “Just what I see.” You whisper to him, nodding outwards towards the direction of the clearing.
He is amazed by you nonetheless. Where you see mismatched colors and blurred edges– things that are inherently too stylistic or devoid of too much detail, he sees the place he loves, enraptured by the hands of the one he holds closest.
“Beautiful.” He whispers, though, by the heavy kisses he plants across your jaw and neck, you cannot tell if he is talking about the painting, or of you.
Your tunic rides upwards as his hands travel further. He makes quick work of your trousers as well. You grow needy for him, pawing at the firm, taught skin of his stomach beneath his shirt. He releases a breathy chuckle, it wades across your skin and draws a shudder from you.
“So needy, darling,” He chides, nipping softly at silken skin, “I will give you what you need.” He leans back from your body, and you whine at the loss of contact. He cannot help the grin that crawls across his face at your sudden need for him.
Halsin is not clumsy by nature, though, he grows sloppy in his movements when otherwise preoccupied. He uses the momentum of his weight to settle you into the linen beneath you. His hands are frantic and hungry as they reach towards you waist once more, his body settling between your legs. As he reaches, thick fingers tip a pot of paint, splattering cobalt across the the linen. It’s temperature as well as the suddenness of the action draws a shocked breath from you.
You whine again when you feel it against you, “My paint.”
“Do not worry, my heart,” He whispers against your skin, his trail never faltering in its journey to your collarbone, “I will find you more,” He nips at the skin there, soothing the dull sting with his tongue. His path continues downwards, over the supple hills of your breasts where he lavishes in the softness there. He presses a kiss to the valley between them before taking a pert nipple into his mouth, “I will grind the pigment myself if I must.”, he whispers against the bud there.
His hand is covered in paint, and he recklessly grips your waist once more. It sits tacky on your skin and leaves a smear of blue in its wake. He looks down at the way your hands grip at the paint-laden cloth beneath you, and he grabs your wrist– using it as his own vessel for art as he guides it to his chest and smears it downwards. The relishes in the feeling of it. He sits back on his haunches, head tilted back as a sigh escapes his lips. Your fingers trail blue across his chest and down to the sensitive skin below.
You are on your knees again, facing him. Instead of moving towards him, you reach towards your paint pots. Dipping your fingers deep into the slick, ruby paint, you meet his eyes– watching intently towards your fingers before flitting back up towards yours. He does not need to ask.
Instead, you reach towards him intently, smearing a slick glob of paint thick in the center of his chest. It coats the hair there and drips downwards. He whines at the feeling, and, suddenly, it is blazing. You are near ravenous as you lunge towards him, your own chest pressing stickily into the paint on him. It smears between your bodies as you slide against each other, arms wrapped tight over his shoulders and around his neck, his own hands scrambling to remove what little clothes are left between you.
Quickly, his hands slides down your front, finding fast purchase on that delicious bundle of nerves at the apex of you. You shudder as his thick fingers brush it, whine as they find their rhythm.
“My love,” He groans as he lays you back down, “I do not believe you are aware of the affect you have on me.” He is near-frantic now, a thick middle finger sliding through your center before delving in slowly. You are aware of this affect, a prominent hardness dragging along your thigh as he prepares you for him. As he slides a ring finger in, pumping slowly, before setting a rhythm, you feel a delicious fullness and a creeping warmth as he stretches you on his fingers. His pace is perfect, and the curl of his fingers hits that perfect place that sends you in a crescendo over the edge.
“There it is, my love,” He says, through the haze of your orgasm, massaging your sides softly, “You did so good.”
He is the picture of beauty like this, blue and red smeared into a lilac across his chest and stomach, kind eyes and upturned lips that stretch across golden skin. He was a sight to behold, your beautiful creature. You needed to bask in him, to watch him fall apart beneath your hands.
“On your back, please,” you whisper to him. He does not question this, only leans into the plush of the grass beneath him. You follow him in a swell motion, straddling over him. You grip him in your hands, relieving him with slow, languid strokes that draw choked, beautiful moans from his mouth. You watch the skin of his neck strain, the way his brow furrows. He will undoubtedly be beautiful as you take him this way. You guide him to your core before sinking down on him. No matter how many times you take him, there will always be a decadent stretch, followed by a fullness unlike any other you’ve felt.
As you adjust to the size of him, you take the pot of yellow in your hands. Tipping it to the side, you watch the stream of it, vibrant like the flowers that surround this meadow, drip on to him, It pools in the dips and crevices of his stomach, and he shudders and whines as it cascades over him. His back arches off of the spongy floor, and you soothe his writhing with steady hands– a promise for movement. Your hands find purchase in these pools as you begin to rock.
The paint seeps from beneath your fingers as he gasps, his sudden jerking sending your hands sliding forward to his chest. It leaves broad yellow strokes in its wake. He rucks his hips upwards sporadically to meet yours, searching for fiction.
You whine as he pistons up into you, relentlessly, though, always careful– always thoughtful. He chokes on his moans as his eyes cinch shut, tears squeezing from the corners and down his pretty face in a beautiful jubilance. You bounce with him in synchrony, blanketing his body with yours as he takes over. Your bodies are slick with paint, colors mixing into a muddy mess between your bodies. The sounds are pureply pornnographic, the soft squelzhing of paint, the sticking and unsticking of tacky skin, his beautiful cries into the now-stagnant air.
His thumb rubbing fast-paced circles over your clit is the catalyst that sends you over the edge with a cry. With a few more thrusts, he falls over the edge with a groan of his own– near animalistic in nature. His eyes glow gold as he peers down at you, your slack body rising and falling with the movement of his breaths.
“Beatiful, darling,” He whispers against your temple, letting you settle your body in the crevice of his side– your head leaning against his bicep. The paint has begun to dry in its thinnest concentrations, flaking and drifting off of him in a few places.
“You are my favorite artist.”
#halsin#baldurs gate 3#bg3 halsin#halsin silverbough#halsin x tav#halsin x reader#halsin fluff#halsin smut#halsin fanfic#halsin x reader fluff#halsin x reader smut#if you see me#no you don't#I'm going through something#Spotify
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† THE WOLF IN THE SHADOWS — T.FUSHIGURO
i honestly have nothing to say for myself, i just felt like writing this. thanks to my lovely boyfriend for motivating me to finish this in more than one way (ifykyk) and i hope you enjoy reading it <3
PAIRING. toji fushiguro x fem!reader
WARNINGS. porn without plot, mentions of blood and violence, fingering, degradation, praise, slight dumbification, spanking, restraint, hair pulling, overstimulation
Just thinking about Toji who comes home late at night, still high on adrenaline and in desperate need to let out the pent-up frustration that's pulsing through his veins with every steady beat of his heart. It's nearly unbearable, this hunger he feels in the depths of his bones, an animalistic urge to sink his teeth into the soft skin of your neck and take you on the nearest surface that only seems to grow at the scent of your sweet perfume lingering in the air of your shared apartment.
A devious smirk pulls at the corners of his mouth when he finds you in the kitchen, humming a soft tune as you pour yourself a cup of tea and lean against the counter with a tired sigh. Your hair falls around your shoulders in soft waves, the dim lighting of your kitchen illuminates your pretty face in a warm hue, just enough for him to notice the slight frown that curls your lips as your eyes wander to your phone to check the time.
How cute — you're waiting for him to return home.
Toji bites back a sinister grin and relishes in the sight in front of him for just a moment longer — his beautiful wife, so innocently unaware of the wolf watching her from the shadows. The nightgown you wear leaves little to his imagination, the thin fabric barely covering the curve of your ass and he feels how every restraint he had coming in is utterly blown to pieces.
In a matter of seconds, he slips in front of you and cages your body with ease, a dark chuckle reverberating through his chest at the startled sound tumbling from your lips.
"Toji! When did you—"
He doesn't give you enough time to finish your question. His right hand comes up to grasp your chin roughly, forcefully tilting your head so he can crash his mouth against yours — the kiss is hot and heavy, downright sinful in the way he sinks his teeth into your bottom lip. A shiver runs down your spine as his tongue slips past your teeth, muffling a pathetic whine that threatens to escape your at the sensation of his calloused fingers sneaking between your trembling legs, squeezing at the plush flesh of your thighs before he grazes his thumb over your clothed pussy.
"F-fuck! You're barely home and you're already... What's gotten into you?" You whimper, breath fluttering and he grits his teeth, swallows a growl that builds somewhere in his throat because you already look so gorgeously ruined it drives him insane — the fabric of your nightgown clinging to every curve of your body, the inside of your thighs slick with your arousal and your pretty tits heaving with every sharp exhale you take, nearly spilling out of your flimsy dress. There's a thin sheen of sweat glistening on your skin and he battles with the overwhelming urge to lick over your collarbone and savour the taste on the tip of his tongue.
"Are you seriously complaining, sweetheart?" He asks, voice barely above a whisper. There's a dangerous glint in his eyes and a part of you knows, you sealed your fate for the night. "I thought a dirty little slut like you would no better than that... don't worry, I'll make sure you won't be able to make a fuckin' sound after I'm done with you."
Before you can reply, your wrist is trapped in an iron grip. The next second, you're hauled around by one strong hand, and you gasp when you're shoved forward against the counter, bent over at the waist so that your cheeked is pressed against the cold surface and you're balanced on the tips of your toes. Your arm is twisted behind you, trapped in a tight grasp, and you can't muffle a wince as it digs into the small of your back when your husband pins you down. His other hand comes down to connect with your ass — a harsh slap that makes you squeal.
Blood-stained fingers fumble with the hem of your dress, greedily pushing the pink satin over your butt and bunching it around your waist before his hand curls around your hips to pull you flush against his crotch.
"God, I fuckin' missed ya," he drawls through gritted teeth, impatience seeping out of his bloodied hands that press into your hips to hold you steady as he ruts his bulge against your ass to emphasize his words — you can feel how hard he is, the thin fabric of his pants the only thing separating his throbbing cock from your wet heat. His fingers tug on your panties and the waistband cuts into your skin, causing you to let out a whimper of pain before the seams suddenly rip and cool air hits your exposed cunt. "Did you miss me too, princess?"
Instantly, you shake your head. Maybe, it's your own spite that gives you the courage to deny him or perhaps you simply confuse stubbornness with stupidity because only a split second later, he coaxes a scream out of your throat. His hand comes down on your ass — one, two, three, four — each slap harder than the one before until your skin feels hot and you're sure you'd find a reddened imprint in the shape of his fingers if you could take a look in the mirror right now.
"C'mon, sweetheart. There's no need to play coy now, I can feel how fuckin' soaked this pretty pussy is," he chuckles behind you. His fingers dip through your folds, a ghost of a touch that has you trembling before he draws leisure circles around your swollen clit. He's teasing you, breaking you apart piece by piece until you're begging him to fuck you and you know, he's enjoying every second of it. "Tell daddy how much you missed him."
His movements are relentless. Lightning jolts through your entire body, so pliant for him despite your efforts, and every lazy motion of his thumb on your puffy clit just feels so fuckin' good that you can't fight it any longer and—
"P-Please, fuck, please make me cum! Missed you so much, daddy," you keen, eyes rolling in the back of your head as he slides two fingers into your pussy, slowly stretching you out until your mind turns empty and all you can do is claw at the kitchen counter to find some sort of support.
"Good fuckin' girl... You like this, huh?" He murmurs, a satisfied grin pulling on the corners of his scarred mouth — he knows exactly how mean it is for him to ask you this question although you're barely able to form a coherent sentence, so condescending that you mindlessly nod your head along to his words. The pace he sets is unforgiving - each violent thrust of his fingers pushes you against the edge of the countertop, but you couldn't care less — if anything, the dull pain only sends you further to the edge. "Hah, of course you do, princess. Obedient little sluts like you are only good for one thing... isn't that right?"
Toji doesn't expect an answer from you, only asks these questions to relish in the way you pathetically try to stutter out a response only to be interrupted by your own moans. The sob you let out when he curls his fingers against your sweet spot sounds so broken that it makes him groan, cock leaking wet spots on the seam of his pants, but he's enjoying breaking you like this too much to care about his own pleasure.
His thumb flicks mercilessly over your swollen clit and heat surges through your core — every motion of his fingers sends another bolt of lighting through your sopping cunt and your body turns boneless against the hard surface your pinned against.
"Aww, look at you," he laughs, a sinister sound that resembles an animalistic growl. "Are you gonna cum on daddy's fingers? I'm not even fucking you properly and you're already falling apart around my fingers... what a filthy fuckin' slut."
"N-No, fuck—"
"No?" He repeats mockingly. "Well, that's too bad. You're going to cum on daddy's fingers like the good fuckin' slut you are whether you like it or not."
His words are meant to be cruel, but the whimper that tumbles from your lips, coated in your own spit and bitten raw from your teeth sinking into the soft flesh to keep yourself quiet, betrays how much you love his humiliating tone. Your pussy flutters around his fingers, clenching around each thick knuckle until the wet squelching sound fills your entire apartment.
Your orgasm hits you when he slips a third finger into your pussy and his thumb begins to circle your sensitive clit in brutal motions, turning you into a drooling, blabbering mess under his control. Every thought you could possibly fathom is turned to nothing but static as you squirm in his harsh grip, desperately trying to get away as he fucks you through your crashing high. It’s mind-shattering, hits you with unexpected force, and coaxes a sharp scream out of your throat that grows into incoherent whimpers until your voice finally gives out.
"That's my good girl," he murmurs, lazily pumping his fingers into your abused pussy as you twitch against the counter. His other hand has let go of your wrist, now gently caressing the reddened skin of your ass that still aches after his slaps but the warmth of his palm soothes some of the burning sting and you let yourself smile despite the exhaustion settling in your limbs.
Then, Toji chuckles darkly and runs a hand over your back, diligently following the curve of your spine until he can weave through your hair and fist it, tugging on it with a harsh yank that makes you whimper.
"Don't get too comfortable, princess. I'm not done with you, yet."
#toji fushiguro smut#toji fushiguro x reader smut#toji fushiguro x reader#toji fushiguro x you#toji fushigro x reader#toji fushiguro#jjk x you#jjk imagines#jjk x reader#jjk smut#jujutsu kaisen smut#jujutsu kaisen x reader#jujutsu kaisen x you
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Hello friend!! I have been thinking about undiagnosed sorcerer Gale a lot lately, so I am making it your problem too.
You only gradually become aware of it, and once you are you wonder how you hadn't noticed. Maybe it's the passage of time, each day one step away from the nautiloid and the Netherbrain and all of it--each day that much more distance from Gale's last audience with Mystra. The burden of the Orb hadn't been yours, but it had been heavy enough that you felt lighter when you saw his face as he stepped out that portal. Maybe, like the wounds you both bring back with you to Waterdeep, your mind needed the chance to heal before it could process even more.
More in this case is living with Gale. It had been one thing being on the road, chased from danger to danger; all you'd been able to think those nights you'd collapsed into his tent with him was we made it, with a fervent hope he'd be next to you when you woke and still next to you the night following. Now, you lie down with him night after night and wake up to him morning after morning, and as you let yourself accept that this is how things will be, you start to notice.
The tower is suffused with magic.
It's not only the spells and wards that Gale has woven into the very heart of it, or the numerous enchantments he's created to make life easier, or the artifacts and books you've brought home with you. It's Gale himself.
Surrounded by magic and slow to shed the exhaustion that's clung to you since Baldur's Gate, you need some time to sense the difference, but once you do it's there, a touch on your sleeve or a whisper to catch your attention. When you search for it you can't see it, there's no breeze to stir the curtains or the profusion of flowers Gale brings home day after day. You don't smell that dreaded rosewater or taste cloying honey-sweetness on your tongue. It's a sense that goes beyond sense, speaking to the parts of you that lie under your bones and between your nerves--it's something that escapes your words just as you think you've found the ones to describe it. The sense of him wraps around you like a comforting memory, smoothing its unfelt fingers across your unquiet spirit; the happiness you feel, the life that suffuses you, doesn't compel you but invites you just to be.
It's different when you're in bed together, like tonight, when Gale is salting your skin with kisses. Tonight he's all around you, flowing into and filling every part of you like water, Gale himself spilling over at the edges. He's not glowing but you feel alight with him, woven into him, his threads twisting around yours to draw you close. You're not in one of his illusions--the world around you is very real, if hazy and distant, and Gale's body is hungry, solid flesh and bone against yours. The sensation doesn't vanish even when Gale pauses to ask you what's wrong and you realize you're staring at him.
"I can feel you," you say awkwardly.
"I'd hope so," Gale says laughingly, though he notices your uncertainty and sits up, bracing himself back on his haunches. "What is it?"
You explain as best you can, though every word out of your mouth sounds more foolish and inaccurate than the last. You find yourself tangled in a thicket of your own making and are just about to panic your way out of it when Gale says, faintly embarrassed, "Oh. That--that hasn't happened in quite some time. Years."
I'm so sorry, friend, that it's taken me so long to reply to your once again beautiful piece. I feel like my writing is pretty awful at the moment so I do apologise. I just wanted to get it out though (despite being in a weird creative space and putting off writing a little bit!)
Thank you so much, as always, for your exquisite work <3
---
You do not need to ask. There is an intuition that exists between you, so that you often know his intentions before he speaks, and he senses your desire before you tell him. You know that part of this comes from the joining of your souls, sealed by your love. But you suspect the other part comes from something altogether different, that sensation that you cannot yet name.
“Admittedly, it wasn’t as innocuous as what you’ve described, back then.”
He pulls you closer, as if he needs your skin on his, even though you feel his being like a flame inside you.
“By all accounts, there was more force to it. It was more of an explosion, if you would.”
You arch an eyebrow. He flashes you that languid half smirk that drives you wild. You wonder if he feels your arousal as his own, like two rivers flowing into each other. He watches you with dancing eyes, savouring your reaction.
“Not that kind of explosion.”
You laugh a little. His lips are smooth and warm as they graze the tips of your fingers. For a while, you fumble for words to explain, ever grateful for his patience.
“It feels like a spell,” you manage eventually. “Even when you’re not casting. Like I’m floating in the Weave, except that you’re the Weave. You’re all around me, inside me, everywhere.”
He gazes at you, fingering this chin absently. And then he nods. There is a kind of solemnity in the gesture, the slight gathering of Gale’s brow. You wonder how long Gale has hidden this part of his nature, or shied away from examining it too closely.
“When I was a child, I learned to control it. But with you…”
He buries his head into the crook of your neck, the heat of his sigh blazing like your pulse. There is a force to it, then, an ache to his longing. You feel it like a flood.
“I want all of you,” he rasps. “And I want to give you all of me. Perhaps that’s why.”
Your open mouth finds his, wet and desperate. His breaths are ragged, swirling into yours like a clouds swallowing clouds. He is a warm bath, lapping at every inch of you. You are about to drown yourself in him when he draws back, so abruptly you feel bereft.
“Does it disturb you?”
The wavering in his eyes almost makes you wince. Traces of his uncertainty, the measure against which he still judges himself. You shake your head sharply, immediately.
“No.” You press yourself against him, swelling with tenderness and desire. “The more I find out about you, the more I love you. Nothing could make me love you less.”
He hesitates for a moment. You feel, as well as see, the last of his doubt fading. His smile is a ripple of light through you, a pleasure almost as intense as pain.
“That’s a relief,” he whispers, as his fingers flutter downwards, and his taste becomes your own.
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Thinking about after Buck and Tommy have been dating a while, and they're like having Maddie and Chim around for dinner or something, and it's getting late and Tommy and Buck are cleaning up and have settled into easy domesticity and Maddie and Chimney are having their own little conversation still at the table, but Maddie is watching because that's her brother and she's curious. Buck is talking about whatever his latest research subject is and he realises he's been talking for like ten-minutes straight and that Tommy hasn't been able to get a word in (not that he wants to because he likes listening to Buck) and Buck kind of bashfully apologises for rambling and Tommy just jokingly goes "that's okay, I love you anyway." And Buck doesn't clock it, and him and Tommy continue on, but Maddie does. Because she remembers her brother when he was hurt and yelling at their parents. She remembers younger Evan with his broken bones and desperate eyes, and she's looking at Evan now and he's calm and happy and knows without a doubt that he is loved.
Sorry, my replies tend to be three times the length they probably should be. I just like to babble about how much I love these characters. Sorry for any typos or grammar errors I don't know how to shut up sometimes.
My heart. Nonnie you're making me feel things. Maddie would be so happy for Evan. She's a little hesitant about Tommy at first, he's Buck's first boyfriend. It's all new waters, she's his sister, it's in her blood to be nervous for him. But she trusts her brother's judgment and Tommy seemed like a good guy at the wedding. Plus Chimney vouched for him, he's probably not the worst guy her brother could fall for. (More under cut)
Her sweet, precious, little brother who just wanted to be loved found someone. He found someone who loves him anyway. Evan found someone who she can see loves him so, so much. She didn't have to look too closely to see it. It's not a fake, surface-level puppy dog love either. What surprises her the most is that this is Evan, not Buck, in her kitchen with this person who's opened the world to him. It's Evan who's smiling and rambling and gentle and kind. It's been so long since she's seen him be Evan, and not live with the weight of Buck on his shoulders.
She knows in her Big Sister Bones that Tommy's someone who will keep her little brother's heart safe. Maddie will never be able to explain to Tommy what that means to her in words. But she watches them. (maybe not as subtle as she hoped). She watches her brother interact with him, watches Evan be all happy and relaxed and content. Unafraid to love and unafraid to be loved back.
She listens to how Tommy speaks to her brother. In a low, deep timbre that settles into Evan's bones. Tommy speaks like Evan was made to be cherished, holding his cheek as if Evan was his entire world, standing in her kitchen as they put dinner away. Tommy looks content too, enamored from the sheer energy radiating off of Evan as the night continues. As if being able to have Evan is enough, as if Tommy knows her brother doesn't have to be anything but himself to be worthy of love.
She sees the look in Tommy's eyes and is suddenly reminded of Chimney, reminded of the love she shares with her husband. She thinks Tommy already knows how special it is for Evan to choose you, to be important in Evan's life. She wonders if Evan has realized how gone for the Pilot is for him, probably not. She loves her brother but he can be a bit stupid unless someone spells it out for him. Still though, can tell Tommy's planning on sticking around for a long time, and she hopes he does. Evan and Tommy are good together, good for each other. She relaxes into Chimney's chest, leaning back as they watch Buck and Tommy try to set up a game of Pictionary. "So what do you think?" Chimney whispers, setting Maddie's wine glass aside for her. She looks up and kisses him on the chin.
"I like him," she says, smiling when Tommy somehow gets stuck in the legs of the whiteboard stand trying to set it up. Buck helps him get out of it, then plants a kiss on his lips, all rosy-cheeked and sappy. Yeah, Maddie thinks, Tommy's worthy of her little brother's heart.
I love supportive big sister Maddie with my whole chest.
If anyone's interested I might make this a fic. Maddie's POV ofc.
#evan buckley#tommy kinard#911 show#bucktommy#911 abc#Maddie buckley#chimney han#otp: im ready for something#firepilot#kinley
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love, am i home?
✱ bestfriend!bc × gn!reader
— how can you tell it's not simply an infatuation?
w.count → 0.6k
genre → angst, one-sided love
warnings → minor cussing, mention of alcohol but no described consumption
a.n → honestly i don't even know what i wrote i am feeling feelings soooo yeah! also, there's a few mentions of bambam as the home owner lol
“do you reckon i’ll fall in love someday?’
chan’s odd, unprovoked question nearly made you choke on the strawberry-lychee juice you were trying so hard to savor. worse, your heart also took a hit from it—which, frankly, you should have been preparing yourself for from the day you realized that your hiking heart bpm whenever chan was sitting a little too close was not exactly a normal reaction between friends.
“yeah,” you barely managed to quip a reply, setting your half-empty paper cup on the coffee table across the tan leather couch before chan could send another unwarranted hit on your poor heart. “i mean, didn’t you have a few relationships before?”
well fuck—now he’s going to elaborate, isn’t he. good job, dumbass.
sometimes you wonder why you’re trying so hard to be a good friend when you do realize it will only further tighten the chains wrapped around your chest. does bambam have some alcohol in the fridge? also, where the fuck is he?
“fair point,” a long sigh escaped his lungs as chan fully leaned onto bambam’s ridiculously large sofa, eyes tracing whatever interesting shape he could find on the ceiling of their still-missing friend’s apartment, “but i wonder if those feelings were actually… love, you know? not merely infatuation?”
“i don’t, actually,” you playfully snickered, hoping the faint smile on your lips would help in numbing the dull ache spreading on your chest. “i mean, as far as my experience goes, i think it has always been love for me.”
“and how does that feel?”
“how?” the faint urgency in his voice pulled your line of gaze towards chan—unexpectedly meeting his pair of curious brown eyes, and you sighed. are you really going to say it?
you were preparing a joke, really. deflecting, avoiding his question, all that thing.
you really were.
and you know, with every part of your bones, you’re probably going to regret this.
“uh, well, it feels like…”
the butterflies when i see your name lit up my phone screen.
the odd twist in the pit of my stomach when i hear you talk about that new friend you made and how you thought they were beautiful.
the way my lips followed yours into a smile when you excitedly told me about a new song idea and how spring flooded my chest when you said it’s our little secret.
the sudden void when you told me you asked that new friend of yours to go out for dinner, and how my heart went numb when you brightly exclaimed that it would technically count as a first date.
an excruciatingly long roller coaster of emotions,
an endless hike under the scorching summer sun,
a long night staring at where the waves breaks,
and yet…
“it was home.”
“…home?”
“yeah,” you shrugged, fingers hiding inside the sleeves of your hoodie while you pull your knees closer to your chest, “home.”
“it’s everything that is good, everything that’s not quite there, and yet you can’t help but find yourself longing for every piece of it. you accept that it’s not going to be perfect and never will be, and yet you’re still willing to continuously nurture that feeling because, well, you love them, and even if it eventually didn’t work out… you’d still think it’s worth the effort to try.”
you don’t know what the silence between you now meant.
you don’t know, and probably would never want to find out.
you’d hate to know who he thinks about when he opens his mouth,
and you’d forever thank bambam for his impeccable timing with bags full of thai foods in his hand.
©️ astralisortus, 2024. | likes and reblogs are highly appreciated♡
#stray kids angst#skz angst#bang chan angst#bang chan x reader#stray kids x reader#skz x reader#chan x reader#stray kids imagines#skz imagines#bang chan imagines#stray kids fanfix#skz fanfic#stray kids scenarios#skz scenarios#bang chan x you#skz x you#stray kids x you#bang chan scenarios#bang chan fanfic#bang chan au#stray kids au#skz au#isa's fics
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Chills Right to the Marrow (i finally thought of a title for this)
part 1, prev part
cw: blood
The hospital gets louder and louder by the second. More and more people getting brought into the waiting room, nurses running around to make the tough decision of who needs care and who can come back later. Screaming ensuing when they are told that the pain in their shoulder can wait until the emergency shelters are set up and that those who are bleeding or have broken bones are more important. But even those aren’t as important as the person placed on the gurney, being rushed into surgery.
Dustin knows that it’s out of his hands now. That Eddie is alive enough for it to make a difference. For the chances of a successful surgery to swing right over fifty. A fifty percent chance he’ll see his friend again. Where the blood can be washed off his clothes and be forgotten as long as Dustin keeps his eyes open. Eddie’s dying smile imprinted on the back of his eyelids.
The fifty is a number that Dustin made up. Overheard the doctor say about someone who could very possibly not be Eddie, but he ran with it. Eddie’s a fighter, he proved that in his last moments. Stupid as he was, to run fighting without backup. But he was always a fighter, never a runner. Even if he didn’t quite believe that recently. Dustin knew it in his heart. He just had to figure out a way for Eddie to believe it too.
Maybe then, he’ll stay alive.
“Dustin, you’re next,” Steve says, breaking Dustin away from staring at the swinging hospital doors.
“What, no,” Robin protests. “You need to go back Steve, you’re bleeding again.”
Dustin looks down to Steve’s waist, where the makeshift bandage loosely holds together his broken flesh. Still awaiting an answer how it got there in the first place. Among the spatters of green camouflage, there are patches of dark red. Something’s wrong.
“It’s not mine, we know that. Dustin.” Steve grabs Dustin’s shoulder while he tries to catch a nurse’s attention.
“I’m fine, Steve,” he tries to fight. The pain in his ankle screaming as he tries to stand straight. Tries to prove he’s ok. “See, I’m standing fine.”
Steve scoffs. “And totally not wincing in pain. You need an X-ray, to make sure it’s not broken.”
Nancy comes back from talking to the nurse who helped take Max back, having gotten here before Eddie did. “I felt it before we split up again. It didn’t feel broken.”
“You may be smart, but you’re no doctor.” Steve continues to try to find anyone to take a look at Dustin.
He can notice the wince every time Steve tries to breathe. The patches of red are growing.
“No, I’m not,” Nancy snaps. “But I’m smart enough to know that my torn shirt makes for a shitty band aid. And while it might have been enough then, it is clearly not enough now. You strained yourself while carrying him out of there and it tore open your wounds. Just look at your clothes.”
“Not my blood,” Steve repeats through his teeth. “Excuse me,” he says to a passing nurse. “My friend here had a bad fall, can you check that his ankle doesn’t need anything serious.”
The nurse nods, having Dustin sit on a chair.
“Seriously, Steve. I’m fine. We’re fine. You’re the one that’s not fine here.”
The nurse feels around Dustin’s ankle. “Doesn’t feel like anything’s broken. Someone will find you some tape to wrap it in until we can give it an x-ray to make sure. Try to keep weight off of it for now.”
“Thank you,” Dustin emphasizes, looking up at Steve with a cocky expression. Being right and all.
But it fades as soon as Dustin sees the white of Steve’s face. He’s struggling to breath, gripping the back of a chair with a white knuckles grip.
“Steve,” Robin says alarmed. Grabbing his shoulder and trying to get him to respond. “Steve, what’s wrong?”
Steve pants, trying to get a word out but can only fight to inhale another breath. Nancy rushes to the front desk to get them to phone a doctor.
No one needs to protest to them because Steve just drops. The blood from his clothing starting to seep onto the floor.
“Steve,” Robin yells as she crouches down, reaching to check his pulse. “Someone get a doctor.”
Dustin sits there in shock. Feeling more helpless than he has in years. Frozen, stuck to his chair. As his heart fills his ears and the rest of the room becomes muddy. Movement flashes before his eyes.
A gurney gets brought over; Steve’s limp body laid on it while nurses say a mess of medical jargon to each other. Wheeling him behind the double doors, right up to the surgery suites. Paperwork getting thrown into Nancy’s hands, her and Robin filling in the blanks so it can get started.
Dustin’s only seen Steve pass out once before. At the Byers when Billy hit his head so hard it knocked him out. Where the only way to get Billy to stop was for Max to stab him with a sedative. But that could be fixed with bags of frozen peas, wet rags, and colorful bandages. Then, he knew Steve was going to wake up again.
This. This was far beyond anything Dustin’s ever seen. He’s seen the black eyes, the split lips. Being drugged and the red marks of rope around his wrists. But never this much blood. Never this white. Never this scary.
Somehow, Dustin gets back home. He remembers his mom coming to the hospital, wrapping up his foot in a makeshift brace. Robin helping her get him to the car. He remembers protesting. Wanting to stay until Steve and Eddie made it out of surgery. Until Max’s bones were reset. Robin told him it was too crowded for people just waiting around. It was better for him to be at home than taking a chair from someone who needed it.
But what about her? What about Nancy? Weren’t they going to stay? They didn’t seem like they were going to leave. The day had been long. They were running on fumes and whatever adrenaline hadn’t crashed yet. They all needed sleep, they needed to go home too. But Robin turned right around and went through the hospital entrance again. Leaving Dustin out of the loop.
He’s not just some kid who doesn’t know anything. He deserves to stay. Steve was like a brother to him, like family. Bound by a pact. “You die, I die.” Why should Steve have to die when Dustin’s safe at home in his own bed?
Dustin sends out a message on the radio when he gets home. To let whoever is listening know he’s safe. Lucas radios back that him and Erica made it home safe. They’re still shaken up, and Erica is hiding behind her locked bedroom door. But they’re safe.
Twice in one day, two people Dustin loves put themselves at risk in the name of keeping him safe. Of helping him. Like he’s some child on the sidelines who can’t do anything for himself. Which isn’t true. Dustin’s not twelve years old wandering around the woods looking for his lost friend anymore. Spinning in circles to try and find out why his compass wasn’t working.
That was still dangerous. Throwing rocks at the Demogorgon was dangerous. And he was fine. Traumatized, but fine. He wasn’t some dumb kid who needed constant protecting. He didn’t need to be put above his friends just because of his age.
Especially when it is the reason both of them are in the hospital right now.
When Dustin lays down to sleep that night, he ends up staring at the ceiling. The lights of the hospital blinding him every time he closes his eyes. The face of fear Steve made right before he dropped. The blank look of Eddie’s eyes as he took his last breath.
Both of them might still be alive. Both of them might be dead. But he won’t know that until the morning because he’s here instead of the hospital. Here in a bed where he can’t sleep because all he can think of is the possibilities of what could be happening in that operation room. What could be happening in that hospital across town. What happened right before his eyes and terrified him to the very bone.
For two people who did everything just to make sure he was safe, they didn’t think about what would happen as he saw the consequences of those actions right before his very eyes. At this point, Dustin would much rather prefer a hospital bed and a few bites of his own than to wonder if his friends are still alive.
Note: Chapter one of this fic is now posted on ao3, if you wish to follow it there. The first chapter is the first four parts, the Wayne POV, the next will be the section of Dustin POV's, and so on.
I am also changing the main tag for this from morgan's wayne pov to #chills right to the marrow fic, since that is now the title.
tag list, let me know if you want to be added or removed: @the-they-who-nerded, @insteviewetrust, @croatoan-like-its-hot, @jettestar,
@tinyplanet95, @steddie-as-they-go, @slv-333, @littlecelestialmoth, @thatonebadideapanda,
@fandomsanddeath, @marismorar, @wonderland-girl143-blog, @glass-bottle03, @gutterflower77,
@here4thetrama, @goodolefashionedloverboi, @jaytriesstuff, @cryptid-system, @manda-panda-monium,
@resident-gay-bitch, @anaibis, @xxsutherlandxx, @forevermineliv, @mugloversonly,
@gregre369, @n0-1-important, @different-tale-student, @spectrum-spectre, @tartarusknight,
@devondepresso, @swimmingbirdrunningrock, @cheertain, @anti-ozzie, @autumncrocusandladybug,
@greeniebean911, @cr0w-culture, @stillfullofshit, @connected-dots, @daisynotquake,
@morgannotlefay, @a-little-unsteddie, @dolphincliffs, @maskofmirrors, @me-and-my-sloth,
#chills right to the marrow fic#stranger things#stranger things fanfic#everyone lives/nobody dies#dustin henderson#steve harrington#robin buckley#nancy wheeler#lucas sinclair#erica sinclair#eddie munson#ronance#pre steddie#tw blood#cw blood#dustin pov#hospitals
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I love reading your random Boothill thoughts 🥲. Especially the one where he is a dad. Do you think he is a girl dad or boy dad?
Ahhh thank you! Ik you sent it before his story was leaked but man was this spot on 🫠 here’s some dad!boothill hc with reader because im starving
Warning: mentions of pregnant reader and all that jazz, SPOILERS FOR BOOTHILLS STORY.
I FELT IN MY BONES he was a girl dad before it was revealed to be canon! Boothill gives so much girl dad vibes it’s immaculate. He’d love to pick out pink clothes for his daughter, pink shoes, ponies and other plushies! Or rather, he loved.
That’s until you happened to get pregnant shortly before he left for his surgery. He came back a few weeks later with his new body, but no one was home. A small gift bag sat on the table, waiting for him; Boothill opened the bag and grabbed a piece of long paper, a black and white picture. A small bean present in the middle; the back of the picture held a tiny caption, that read: “I’m only a few weeks old. I can’t wait to meet you, daddy.”
Even though the wound was still fresh and open, since not long has passed since the incident on his planet - Boothill began to feel bitter determination to give his baby the best life they could ever have; this time, a life that wouldn’t see its end so fast.
Boothill is very interested in your pregnancy! He’s sometimes unable to go to every appointment (whether be it the ipc who are hunting him, or the opposite), but he knows he can’t mess it up. Not again. He’s always holding your hand when you have an ultrasound scan, glaring at the doctor and making sure they don’t hurt you or the baby, and giving your tummy so. many. kisses. He assists you in the bath, just talking to you can keeping you company, since water, cords and a pregnant human aren’t a good combo. He wants you to tell him everything.
That’s when you finally tell Boothill that you’ll have a baby girl - his mechanic heart shatters and swells with love at the same time; it’s such a strange feeling, that makes the cowboy feel a little guilty. Both of you fall silent, until Boothill makes a move and closes the distance between you, smiling sadly at you and softly caressing your stomach with his hand, “I’ll treasure her forever.”
There are days when Boothill truly feels like the hole in his heart cannot be healed after your first daughter, but he knows she’d love to have a little sister. Yet he’s here, now a cyborg and the only memory of her is just one, lonely picture. He makes sure to never let her existence fade away by telling your round tummy that he’ll love them both until the end.
On a happier note, Boothill is just. Such a good dad, but also a chaotic one sometimes, especially if your daughter inherits her dad’s personality. They’re doing everything together - if she wants to have her hair braided, he does so, and lets her braid his (even if his hair gets so tangled at first, to the point he has to cut it 😭), good god! He loves her so much and always hugs her so tightly when she runs up to him after she notices her dad is back home.
Boothill just loves hearing her little giggles and always makes her laugh! Sometimes he tickles her so much she throws her plushies at him.
Boothill wants all her milestones to be forever preserved. He has tons of pictures of her, a few photo albums - it’s never enough. He’s so proud when she says her first word, when she takes her first steps by herself, her first drawing for him (even if she drew it on the fridge with a black marker), her first birthday. He wants to give her everything she could ever have.
Boothill might've cried the night when his little baby drew him a family portrait - with you, herself, her daddy and older sister. He's injected in her every possible good memory about her, and she never fails to appreciate her older sister even if she isn't there, knowing her dad still loves her just as much.
When Boothill’s little princess cancels the weekly tea party he’s always attended, it’s HIM who feels sad about and pouty about it.
Boothill buys his daughter tons of different hats! They’re always carefully picked and he makes sure she likes them waiting for her approval, but most of the time she wants to just wear his. She doesn’t care she’s drowning in it, it’s the best because it’s Boothill’s hat.
Even though Boothill never mentioned her anything about playing guitar, one day she started to play him a tiny bit of song she learned at school - although clumsily and due to stress, Boothill listened to her and threw her in the air in happiness when she finished - he knew it was your job and couldn’t be more thankful. Once again, he made yet another guitar in his life - this time to finally listen to his little one’s music and teach her many, many other songs they’d later play and sing together.
Oh god, when Boothill’s daughter announced her “boyfriend” she met at daycare, he just stared at her with wide eyes. This is also an instance where he cried that night and you had to calm him down. Later on he insisted to be the one to take her to daycare, and gently threatened the said toddler, “look, stinker. Don’t ya dare GET NEAR ma lil’ angel, or else.” This was his last visit without your supervision. And also, your daughter just laughed at him and left… so yeah, plan failed successfully, I guess?
Mandatory naps with daddy after daycare. Well, Boothill only pretends to sleep when she looks at him - but once she falls asleep on his chest, he looks at her with so much love, gently resting on his chest and stroking her hair, that was just like his and adoring her tiny face, that he thought was the most perfect mix of you and him. Boothill shushes you with his finger quietly, when you ungraciously enter your home. A content smile appears on his lips when you give him and your daughter an apologetic kiss on their foreheads, still hearing her snoozing tenderly.
#honkai star rail#hsr x reader#honkai star rail x reader#boothill#boothill hsr#boothill x reader#.thirst
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I can feel it in my bones, he was MEANT to be a girl dad
Okay...I know I should be writing my WIPs but GIRLDAD ROLAN!!!
I mean look at him! He would have the most gorgeous daughter! I would give him as many as he wanted...
Adorableness under the cut!
I know for a fact he's the type to aways hold his little girls hand when they go out for walks. If she is pointing at things he will explain what it is with a sweet smile. Does she want to pet the kitty cats? With a quick spell she's talking to them and letting her feed the cats treats.
His daughter only wears the finest and softest of clothes, that he has a matching outfit with, because when she wears blue she wants to match with daddy and it always puts the biggest smile on her face when he does.
Every morning after Rolan wakes you up with a sweet kiss and a cup of tea or coffee whatever you prefer. He will go to her room and wake her up so gently rubbing his hand softly on her back to have her wake. Once she is up she's brushing her teeth with him and then explaining to him how she wants her hair done. (please imagine his daughter with her holding her hair in pigtails and Rolan just listens patently with a smile on his lips while crouching down on his knees with a brush in hand)
She attends the best primary school in the city and makes top marks due to Rolan wanting her to have every opportunity he never had the chance at. Never pressures her however, if she seems upset or over whelmed they will have a nice daddy daughter talk with her telling him how she feels as he holds her in his arms. Loves to call her his smart girl.
Often gets swept up in impromptu dances after dinner, spinning her around and dipping her so much till she is just a mess of giggles. Tickle fights and hide and seek are some other of her favorite games to play with dad.
Don't let Rolan find out a kid has a crush on his daughter, will defiantly send him into a pout of "she's too young, my little baby!" Will defiantly death stare said kid at drop off where you have to nudge him to stop.
During thunderstorms or scary dreams its always dad she is crying to first. Though she wants to sleep in your bed with you two Rolan is the one to give her a glass of water and walk her back to bed. She has to be his brave girl, but he will wait their with her telling stories of him and mommy till her little eyes get heavy.
Learns spells like how to make flowers bloom to always give her a surprise. Learns how to make her favorites along with yours, this will be the first spell she ever learn she made daddy's favorite flower: Orchids
Will begrudgingly let her do makeup on him and do his hair for practice, then if he needs a little break will send her to do the same to auntie Lia because "She told me she was jealous and wants a make over as well..."
Tries his best not to spoil her, but she is just such a sweet and polite girl he can't help but what to shower her in anything she could ever want. He is wrapped around her little finger and everyone knows it. He is always bragging about her. Praising her achievements, just like she is always bragging about him to the other kids in her class.
Rolan always makes she her birthday is exactly what she wants, a huge breakfast all her favorite people invited to the tower for a party to celebrate her. Gets so many presents anything she wants, one year she even got a kitty from Rolan
Everyday when he puts her to bed he reads a story to her till she gets sleepy, when he thinks she is asleep he will close the book and pick up her room for her. Before he walks out he leans down to give her a kiss on the forehead, no matter how many times it happens when she mumbles out "I love you daddy." in her sleepy voice it always makes his heart swell.
"I love you too, my sweet girl."
(cut to Rolan coming to bed holding you tightly kissing your neck till finally whispering in your ear, "I want another baby...")
#bg3#bg3 rolan#rolan x reader#rolan bg3#rolan#bg3 thoughts#baldur's gate 3#baldurs gate 3 rolan#bg3 fic#baldurs gate 3 fanfiction#holy rolan empire
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Sunday sad day - alternative universe where Buck didn’t say anything to anyone. He mended things with Eddie without the coming out part.
So Tommy is patient, so patient. He knows how coming to term with your sexuality “later” in life, or at least after your school/college days, when you think you finally know yourself, can be difficult.
So staying down low isn’t an issue. And to be honest even if they were a straight couple, you’d not necessarily announce to everyone in your life that you’re dating somebody after just a month.
Also a month is so short ? 4 weeks? And their schedule is crazy, they barely saw eachother’s. They text continuously but it’s hard to get off time at the same time, especially when you can’t just come out and say “hey can I leave earlier I have some things with my partner” because you’re not supposed to have a partner.
And a second month is barely more than the first tbh. It’s just 4 more weeks; even less if the second month is February. Well it’s not, but still, it could.
They met a little bit more, dates and even sleepovers. Still above the belt but it doesn’t bother Tommy. And two months is so new, it doesn’t even register as an issue.
It’s been 6 months now and he doesn’t remember how many times he had to see girls flirt with Buck while they’re out with the 118. The 118 who still doesn’t know. And Tommy loves Eddie but if the man tell Buck to embrace the attention and stop refusing to talk more than 5 minutes with a girl, Tommy might break one of his bones during their next Muay Thai Fridays.
It’s 7 months and he got an invite to the 118 thanksgiving party at Bobby and Athena’s house. And he’s leaving early faking an illness.
He couldn’t stay any longer, not when the girl that Eddie brought as a surprise blind date for Buck is spending the night looking at Buck and flirting with him.
Not when Eddie is winking at Buck like he’s trying to push Buck to do something.
Not when each time his own eyes meet Buck’s he sees how uncomfortable he is and he knows he can’t say anything.
Not when his heart breaks at seeing the guy he likes, the man he can feel his heart longing for sit there and let it happens, not after the secrets they whispered into eachother’s bodies during their nights together, not after the endless texting and calls.
So he leaves, he thanks them all and let the bottle he brought behind. He leaves and stay in front of the house for 7 minutes, he watches them go by, wondering, hoping truly that Buck would come after him.
He leaves when the 8th minute starts.
His phone buzzes before he reaches his place.
“I’m sorry” - Evan
“Don’t worry about it” - Tommy
He wishes sometimes that he never accepted Buck’s call all these months ago.
It’s 8 months now and Christmas is here, the 118 is throwing a party at the station. Families and friends. The place is packed.
This time when he leaves he takes the bottle with him, after all he didn’t have time to put it down. Not when he walked in and saw that same girl half draped over Buck while they sit on one of the couches with Eddie who looks like the canary that got the cream.
He doesn’t have to do the actor this time, he just pulls his phone to send a simple :
“Hey, I’m sorry. Some emergencies came up and I won���t be able to come” - Tommy
He sees Buck pull his phone and smile at it as he see the notifications, that smile is enough to have him take one more step inside, especially when he sees it fall as Buck reads the text and he cannot not try to take the frown away, but then that girl move further over Buck trying to see the phone and Buck flip it so fast, pushing it in his pocket with a weird grimace, and Tommy stops moving.
He doesn’t count the minutes when he’s outside, no need anyway since no one even saw him. He goes back to his car in silence, or well as in as much silence as possible when the opened doors of the station let their laughs resonate in the street.
He feels his phone buzzing in his pocket but it’s not like checking it is urgent. Not when his night suddenly got free.
He drives away, turning before the station so he doesn’t have to see it, because if he doesn’t see it the way his heart hurt may stop.
He doesn’t see Buck outside with Chimney next to him.
“I was sure I saw Tommy earlier, he was just standing there. He came in and like just stayed for 2 minutes here and he left.”
Chimney goes back in and Buck stays outside in front of the station.
#bucktommy#evan buckley#evan buck buckely#tommy kinard#tevan#buck x tommy#tommy x buck#911 abc#evan buck buckley#buck and tommy#evan x tommy#tommybuck#kinley#not edited#not beta read#making myself sad and I hope I can make you sad too
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Draw me, love me- Soap x reader
(Sorry in advance for my mistakes, English is not my mother tongue. So sorry if it's badly written or if they're OOC.)
"Will you ever draw me, Johnny?"
His eyes fixed on me. With his pencil suspended, he stopped drawing.
"I don't think so, it's merely a pastime," he responded, his tone almost aloof.
"But you've drawn Lizzie, haven't you?"
"That's different."
My lips tightened, my gaze dropping to the ground. A knot of bitterness formed in my throat. If there was one lesson I had gleaned from Johnny, it was that he would never sketch me.
(Never would he love me.)
—-------------------------
-It's quite ironic that our friendship began amidst charcoal and erasers, in a small village lost in Scotland, the only art class for miles around.
-We were the only two students of Madame McGuire, a housewife desperately seeking occupation. Looking back, she was a failed artist. But my parents wanted to cultivate a passion in me, and when my rugby endeavors left me with more broken bones than joy, they finally realized that sports weren't my ally.
-So, at the tender age of 8, I entered that house feeling anxious, and there he was, covered in charcoal up to his nose.
-Seeing him laugh kicked off our sketches.
A stroke of pencil led by questions, followed by a few strokes of erasers as we got to know each other, and slowly our friendship sketch took shape in that decrepit house. Sheet after sheet, our sketches brought us together, his energy was indomitable.
"Hey, will you ever be an artist?" he asked.
It was the first time I was asked the question without disdain. No implication, no 'but think of something else.'
"I don't know," I replied.
That was a lie.
I knew.
I wanted to be, but I didn't dare to dream about it.
"I think you should try; you've got cute pigtails like artists," he said.
"Do all artists have pigtails?" I asked.
"They have quirky hair, my mom says so."
I paused, releasing my marker.
"In that case, my dad can never be one," I admitted sadly.
"Why?" John asked, curious.
"He's bald."
He handed me his favorite marker and resumed his coloring.
"Oh, that's sad for him," he sighed.
"At least he can look like Mr. Clean."
"Is he cool?" he asked.
"...not really," I replied.
"Mine isn't cool either," he said.
"Oh yeah?" I asked.
"When I was born, he left. And now he tries to knock on the door, but my mom won't let him."
"What do you do then?" I asked.
"I threw a bucket of glitter at him," he said.
"Did it work?" I asked.
"Yeah, but now I'm out of glitter for next time," he replied.
"Try charcoal, it stains. Last time, I was covered, and my mom screamed."
"I'll try that," he said.
They were ridiculous sketches, full of stick figures, houses with square windows, and purple-skinned people. But it was our art, our relationship.
_______________________
Slowly, during high school, I found myself gravitating towards the art club, which was slightly larger than Madame McGuire's classes, with a modest increase from one classmate to three. Admittedly, a four-person club crammed into the janitor's closet didn't boast much, but it held a special place in my heart.
Deep down, I harbored a hope that John would join us.
Yet, he opted for the rugby club, and gradually, we drifted apart. While my sketches remained monochrome, his days overflowed with vibrant social interactions.
I felt like a dull canvas, yearning for a splash of color. Meanwhile, he effortlessly embodied a lively watercolor.
Attempts to reconnect faltered. Our conversations in the hallway, the offering of sketchbooks, the inquiry about his artistic pursuits—all met with fleeting gestures, mere nods. In hindsight, I should have recognized my insignificance compared to his bustling world.
Thus, I embarked on a solitary journey from sketches to hues.
It was a daunting, lonely, and unattractive endeavor.
Progress eluded me.
My phone remained silent, notifications reduced to mindless spam, and evenings lingered in the quiet company of my parents.
Weekends became my sanctuary for artistic expression, while weekdays served as a means to evade familial interactions. The cycle persisted.
I found myself trapped in a cycle of sketching, erasing, and doodling, endlessly switching between pencils in a desperate attempt to breathe life into my ideas. Meanwhile, he effortlessly thrived, seamlessly integrated into his vibrant world.
I resented him.
(I resented myself.)
__________________________________
In our second year, Johnny left the rugby club.
No one quite knew why the golden boy, the one so highly touted to future recruiters, would do such a thing, but he did.
That was Johnny now.
No longer the tentative, hesitant charcoal sketch, but a permanent ink drawing.
So, one evening, when I caught sight of his silhouette at the art club, I realized he was back for good.
I didn't know how to take the news.
Embarrassed, I tucked my sketchbook under my arm.
"John," I greeted as I settled in.
"I wanted to apologize, y/n I- I didn't behave well."
"No, no. You've evolved, and that's normal, we can't always stay with the same people."
That's what I kept telling myself.
Adults say stuff like that.
My mom says it when my dad comes home too late, ignoring the scent of perfume on his jacket and the divorce papers in the drawer.
"But still, I missed you. I loved making you laugh and our moments together, and I let all that get to my head."
"...okay," I finally said.
Johnny smiled and handed me a blank page.
"For a fresh start."
"It's your history evaluation, but I appreciate the metaphor."
He apologized and offered another sheet.
That evening, I could finally sketch in peace, with him standing behind me, ink in hand.
Sure, I remained a hesitant pencil, but at least Johnny was there to catch every one of my missed strokes.
Finally back, I felt relieved.
_____________________________
In our final year, something shifted.
Johnny abruptly traded his black ink for bold strokes of red oil paint.
Nothing but red.
His once vibrant gaze darkened, leaving me puzzled by the change.
His aspirations for college faded into whispers, his focus elsewhere, perhaps lost in that obsessive red.
"You're painting a lot in red these days."
"It's my preference."
"Why not... try something else?"
"Are you really the one suggesting that to me?"
I hesitated, unsure of what more to add.
Sure, I remained within the comfortable confines of our village, with pencils, sketches, good grades, the compliant, quiet person, destined for college, but—
I knew.
My life wasn't a venture but a dreary routine.
Yet, why did he feel the need to emphasize it? To dismiss my art like that, to belittle it?
Tears threatened to spill, and I bit down on my lip.
"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to say that. I—things have changed."
"You said that last time too."
"But it's true, I— I'm enlisting, y/n."
Only later did I discover the passing of his military uncle. That's what had altered everything. Johnny sought to shield others, to mold his painting into a formidable barrier.
"I understand."
"Is that all you have to say?"
"Would you prefer I voice my thoughts? About turning young lives into cannon fodder for people seated in diplomatic chairs? It's not wise, John."
"Y/n, it's not—"
"We don't see eye to eye on this, John. And we never will. So, best of luck, I suppose."
"Thank you."
It marked the first time I expressed my opinion without trembling, without yielding, without erasing it.
For once, I had wielded black ink too.
_________________________
Madame McGuire threw a massive party, a couple of years after we graduated. John kept texting me for New Year's, Christmas, and my birthday. I replied, and that was about it. Everything turned cold after he left. Despite the confidence I gained, I struggled to channel it into my drawings, which were buried at the bottom of my drawers beneath my college coursework. I had given up on art.
"Hey, y/n."
Or so I thought. But seeing him standing there, smiling at me, my only thought was to capture him on canvas so I could observe him every day.
"John."
I couldn't finish my sentence before he enveloped me in a hug. His arms had definitely tripled in size, and his hair was styled in a ridiculous egghead cut, a far cry from the mullet he once dreamed of.
"I'm trying to imitate your dad, it seems," he said, referring to his haircut.
"I bet you cried when they shaved it off," I teased.
"Maybe," he grinned.
It was funny; our exchanges seemed fluid again, our pigments blending once more in the waters of friendship.
"Are you... doing okay?"
Awkward.
He had a smile on his face, he hugged me, and yet, I knew the answer.
"I- yeah," he replied uncomfortably.
Maybe not so fluid after all.
"Are you still doing art? I mean, I heard someone from our village got into an art college on a scholarship, and it has to be you."
My smile faded.
No.
In reality, in high school, you were the art prodigy.
One stroke and everyone praised you, one hand movement and everyone was in awe.
But as you grow older, you're not alone anymore. You're not interesting anymore.
You're just an artist among hundreds of others.
I observed him, wanting to lie, to throw pigments in his eyes, to force-feed him acrylics as lies, but—
"No, y/n isn't frivolous, they chose a history degree," my father interjected.
Frivolous.
What burned with desire, with passion for a decade, the thousands of pages in my drawers, of pencils, of hours spent studying, of sleepless nights smiling.
My father summed it up in one word in the harsh reality of the working world.
A sheepish smile appeared on John's face.
"But you loved it," he said.
"Not so much anymore," I lied.
Because how do you admit to cowardly abandoning your only reason for living?
My heart clenched, my eyes avoided his gaze.
John was like me; he knew what art was, what it meant to be an artist.
I felt his hands on my shoulder.
My heart trembled, scared of the passion John could reignite.
"I refuse to believe that," he said.
"John."
"I kept going, you know, I— I still draw."
"Really?"
"In my journal, at least, I draw. If I don't stop, don't you either, y/n, please, promise me."
His promise was there, my feet at the edge of this canvas of friendship.
And without too much thought, I jumped right in.
"Okay."
________________________________
He sent me his sketches whenever he could. Forced to stick with pencil, his art lost its vibrancy. So, I compensated by using colors, paint. Slowly, confidence crept in, only to be shattered by doubt. But every day, I sent him a photo. And whenever he could, he complimented my art. I think that's what made me fall.
My art... it was me.
It was the essence of who I was — the part of me that didn't need words, that I could shape and mold into something beautiful. It wasn't about my body or my face. My art was my soul. So, his compliments, slowly, I took them for more. Our late-night conversations, from opposite ends of the world, I cherished them a bit too much. His laughter, the way he said my name, his hugs, everything was... him. He appreciated my art. So, I thought he appreciated me.
(It's false, I knew he didn't)
"You know, right now I'm in a desert."
"You told me that six months ago, John," I chuckled over the phone.
"In a different one."
"You should have been an archaeologist at this rate."
"I thought about it, you know, but no, I don't want to be chased by a mummy."
"I don't think that's likely, John."
"You haven't seen enough movies, y/n."
"Yes, actually."
A silence stretched.
"I'm getting promoted."
"Good for you," I smiled.
But the silence persisted.
"But I want to specialize first."
"...what do you mean?"
"I... I've always been good at math."
"Yes, but you don't kill people with equations, John."
"Yes."
"No, I don't— oh. Oh."
"I want to try bombs."
"So you're telling me you want to become Einstein at 4 a.m. in a desert over the phone?"
"My mom would have a fit, and I wanted your opinion."
"No, you don't want that, John, and you know it."
He didn't say a word before finally speaking.
"...it's true, I just needed to talk about it."
I was angry. Why tell me? I hated his job, his sacrifice.
"Damn it, human cannon fodder exploding, you—"
I stopped myself. John had made his choice, no matter my arguments. I was his friend.
"Are you happy?"
"Yes. Really."
"Then... go ahead," I murmured, already regretting it.
"Thank you, y/n."
Suddenly, I wanted to shove my sketches down his throat. To convince him. Being a simple soldier meant he remained accessible, but a promotion... A promotion left me alone, surrounded by his sketches of battles and soldiers.
__________________________________
"Sergeant Soap, looking ridiculous," I smiled.
In his uniform, he had just returned from the ceremony. His family couldn't make it, much to his mother's dismay, who had been calling every five minutes to apologize and had asked me for a hundred photos of her son in uniform.
"Soap is cool."
"Soap? Nah."
He grinned, beer in hand in my apartment.
"You must be charming a lot of people in uniform like that," I joked.
"I admit to my little success," he joked back. "But... there's one, at the moment."
"Thomas?"
"How did you know?" he exclaimed, sitting up.
I laughed.
"You send me sketches of him non-stop, it's your trademark, McTavish. You sketch the people you like."
"...in more ways than one," he added with a smirk.
"Ewww!"
He continued his story about Thomas, our laughter fading in my apartment.
Maybe at that moment, I should have remembered that John had never drawn me.
______________________________
In reality, experiencing unrequited love is quite peaceful.
Nothing pulls you in, life just goes on.
Everything feels dull.
And suddenly, you catch sight of your crush and everything changes.
Then everything goes back to normal.
After Thomas, I caught sight of the sketches of Valentine, Ymir, Julio, Shirley.
Their features all blurred together in my mind, their smiles.
Every evening, I observed myself, searching for a resemblance, hoping to attract him, to be captured by his pencil.
But nothing.
So I continued to sketch him without being sketched in return.
And when I finally asked him the question.
"Will you ever draw me, Johnny?"
"I don't think so, it's just to distract myself," he replied in an almost detached tone.
"But you drew Lizzie, didn't you?"
"That's different."
I understood that he would never love me.
_______________________
- You don't talk to John anymore?
I was at my mother's for the weekend.
In truth, I had stopped sending my sketches (my feelings).
John, on the other hand, continued with his (his friendship).
- Not much anymore. The distance makes it hard, you know?
No, it had never been a challenge for us.
- I see. I... you know, I thought he would help you.
- Help me with what?
- Art.
I paused in the kitchen, setting the bowl on the table before turning to her.
- Mom, it's not—
- I know that—I never said anything. I never opposed your father, but seeing you pursue a history doctorate while every evening, I watched your fingertips, gray with charcoal, I can't help but think what a waste it is.
- Dad has nothing to do with this. I needed a legitimate degree, it's not—
- T/p.
Her voice turned cold.
I met her gaze.
- Stop hiding, please. she murmured, tears in her eyes as she hugged me.
I couldn't move.
- Speak up, address the world. I'm sorry for asking you to remain silent for so long. I should have... I should have spoken up, pushed you further. Go ahead.
It was as if a wave suddenly crashed over me.
I collapsed, tears streaming, into her embrace.
- I'm sorry. I whispered.
I didn't know why I was apologizing.
- It's going to be okay, it's going to be okay. she reassured, tears streaming down her face
Tears flowed, my breathing grew ragged, my nose stuffed, my vision blurred. I felt numb. Dissolving into her arms, all I could do was sob.
- I thought I could handle it. I murmured.
Pretend.
Pretend to be happy in a career I don't want.
Pretend to be happy when he doesn't love me.
Pretend to be happy when I'm not there mentally.
_____________________
Three years had flown by.
Sketching was no longer just a step; I dove in without hesitation. It had been tough—financially, socially. I had no connections in the field, retreating back to my parents' home. Rejection after rejection, unpaid internships barely covering my food expenses. Student loans weighed heavily on my shoulders. The other students seemed younger, more talented. But I held onto my diploma, earned through hard work, even if it meant slaving away at a fast-food joint. I kept applying, day in and day out, until one day, I landed a job as an assistant for a small comic book company.
Back in the village for Christmas, I had done the grocery shopping my mother asked for.
"John," I greeted him, having lost touch with him. In fact, I had blocked him. I needed to move forward. So, I sent him a message, asking him not to contact me anymore because I didn't want that friendship anymore. It was pathetic, I know. I was a jerk. But I needed it, strangely.
"You... you look radiant," he remarked.
"Thank you," I replied.
"I... your message, that—"
"I'm sorry. I needed space at that time. I shouldn't have... done that like that," I apologized.
"I see," he said.
"Still... Sergeant?" I asked, noting his mullet.
"Yeah, I... I'm still drawing," he replied.
"I see, that's cool. I... I'm full-time into it now," I admitted.
His eyes widened. "Damn, you made it!"
"I... it's an assistant job for an adult comic, calm down," I clarified.
"Still, you make a living out of it," he pointed out.
"You could say that, yeah," I said with a smile.
"Can I hug you?" he asked.
I couldn't answer before he did. Instantly, I knew I was back to having a crush on him. This man who always loved my stick figures, smiling and loving. His scent was like paint fumes, comforting yet toxic.
"I missed you," he said.
"You too," I admitted, stepping back.
The silence returned. I don't know why I ended up admitting that. I guess I was trying to fill the void. To panic about the silence. So, this confession slipped out stealthily from my lips, hoping to break the silence.
"I loved you, you know," I confessed.
"I knew," he replied.
Damn joke. I bit my lip when I saw him rummaging in his bag. A sketchbook, barely presentable, lay there, the year of our high school was written on it.
"This... I never showed you because we weren't talking during that year, but yeah, you... you were my muse," he explained.
I eagerly opened the sketchbook. And there they were. Sketch after sketch, painting after painting of me. Smiling, in the hallways, in class, angry, sometimes from memory. There was... only me. And John drew people he loved.
"Damn irony, huh. We don't love each other at the same time. It's... sad," I murmured.
"Oh well, you know... art is timeless, right?" he tried to lighten the mood.
I furrowed my brows.
"Tell that to the art restorers who bust their ass on Leonardo da Vinci's paintings," I retorted.
"Y/n, I'm not talking about that," he clarified.
My eyes met his.
"I... I don't know if this is a good idea," I admitted.
"I think it is," he said.
"John, I—"
"I can love hard enough for both of us, give me a chance. Let me draw you again," he pleaded.
"What if... it fails?" I voiced my fear.
"Then it fails, but I'm a pro at bombs, and you're one, so no risk," he said with a wink.
A silence settled.
"...that was horrible flirting," I finally said, breaking the silence.
"It worked, didn't it?" he replied with a smile.
"Okay," I murmured, feeling a glimmer of hope.
And for once, that evening, our two faces appeared at the same time in our sketchbooks.
If you want more : my masterlist
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Your Majesty
King!Jake x Servant!Reader
Angst
The large room had become filled with a draft, chilling you down to the bones as you pushed your clothes into a chest, turning towards the window for a moment.
The sun had begun to set, illuminating the valley in an array of pinks and oranges, a kaleidoscope of colours that you had always admired. You’d miss this view, but you’d miss him more.
“I’m almost finished, Mother, just a few more things to go” you spoke, before turning away from the view that so desperately tried to hold your gaze.
You were surprised to see him this late. In fact, you were surprised to see him at all, considering the past few days that had been had.
“Your Majesty” you spoke, keeping your voice low, your eyes focused on the floor.
Lifting your head ever so slightly, you could see his eyebrows raising into a look of confusion.
“Isn’t that what I’m supposed to call you now?” you replied, before kneeling back down in front of the chest, gently placing your cloth-wrapped trinkets into it, laying them out carefully.
“You can call me by my name, like you’ve always done” he replied, “Nothing has changed.”
You couldn’t help but scoff at him, before pulling yourself together.
“Don’t you see?” you continued, pulling the lid of the chest closed. “Everything has changed. Your position has changed, your family has changed, your life has changed. And it seems that I no longer have a place in it.”
He was silent, simply watching you move as you spoke.
“You promised me that when the time came, that I would be the one that came with you. That you’d stand on your balcony and announce it to the people, that it was me, that I was the one that you wanted.”
You couldn’t help but to turn from him, unable to continue watching him feign confusion.
“Yet here we are. I have to leave, and you have to ascend. How is any of this fair? How could we have spent so many years chasing this dream, only for you to throw it away? It’s your kingdom now. Who cares about the silly rules and regulations, who cares what the people would think? You are their king, you are their ruler. You make the rules. And you didn’t even try.”
He took a quiet step forward, opening his mouth to speak. “I di-“
“No, you didn’t. If you had, we wouldn’t be standing here, I wouldn’t be packing everything that I’ve ever owned into a box, and I wouldn’t be having to say goodbye.
Maybe I was foolish for thinking that it would work, maybe I was ignorant to the truth. But i trusted you. I trusted you to keep your word.”
You stood, then, making your way back to the window. You rested your hands on the ledge, your fingers intertwining with each other. Despite feeling the sting of tears threatening in the corners of your eyes, you pressed on.
“You gave me a lifetime of memories that I refuse to forget. You cannot take those away from me - they are mine to keep. Endless nights sat right here in this room, your voice ringing in my ears, promising me that everything will be okay, that once you were king, we could finally be together.
You gave me more than I could have ever asked for. You gave me your love, but you kept your heart.”
You could feel him stood directly behind you, his arms finally slipping around your waist, before turning you to face him.
Once the words had began, you found yourself unable to stop, every thought that you had spilling out of you like the chalice of the king.
“My heart does not come with me tomorrow. My heart will not sail over the waters and bear the storms in the ways that I will have to. My heart will not know the struggles that are to come. My heart will stay here. And whether you like it or not, it will always belong to you, it will always be yours. You can say whatever you’d like, be it that you’ve chosen her, or that she was chosen for you - but what I know is that my heart will never belong to anyone else.
My heart will stay here while I rot and wither away from the inside out, knowing that I cannot come home, that there is no home for me here, not anymore. “
He lifted your chin slightly, his index finger and thumb resting so gently on your skin. “I don’t want you to leave.” His voice was gentle, but commanding - as if he had already grown into his role as King.
“Your words mean nothing to me now. My ticket has been bought, and my lodgings secured. Don’t you dare forget that it was your idea for me to leave, that it would be easier for her to not have to see me around. Don’t think that I will ever forget the way that you looked at me, like I was nothing but dirt on the bottom of your boot, like i was something that could just be scraped off and discarded. It’s not that easy, Jacob, you know that it isn’t.”
His eyebrows furrowed once more as you spoke, before leaning down, his lips gently pressing over yours.
It was then that your decision had been made, pulling yourself away from his grasp, and leaning down to grab the chest into your arms.
“Let me hel-“ he began, before you turned, the tears finally flowing down your cheeks, leaving marks along the front of your clothes.
“I don’t need your help. I don’t need anything from you anymore.”
You were quick to leave the room, not daring to look back at him. What was done was done, and you were left only to fear for the future.
#fanfic#greta#jacob thomas kiszka#jake kiszka#josh kiszka#joshua michael kiszka#kiszka#kiszka twins#sam kiszka#danny wagner#daniel wagner#greta van fleet
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tuesday again 5/7/2024
i have Got to read a book i enjoy this week or my brain will turn into something the consistency of dried tomato paste on a kitchen counter
also i have lost track of the timing and rhythm of the seasons so for the first time in a very long time there is no may starred war tuesdaypost
listening
Chapstick by COIN off my weekly recommended spotify playlist. i don’t think this song is particularly interesting or well-executed as a whole, but the lyrics
She’s a friend of mine, and an alibi
And the getaway car in overdrive, like
Hey sharpshooter, I like the way you’re moving
i think the use case for this song is a telecom company trying to get you to switch by promising some portable Bluetooth speakers for your summer parties and this is playing diagetically as we slip in and out of various summer parties, following one TV-hot woman in a sundress
-
reading
i am once again not sleeping well and have shoved a lot of mediocre books into my gaping maw. i have read a good fuckin chuck of the jason todd outlaws runs. i like jason todd/the red hood bc i feel a certain kinship with someone trained for an incredibly specific thing who are then thrown away the second they stop conforming. darth maul also but that’s a different post.
i have several bones to pick with writer scott lobdell. i know this was the early teens but can we chill with the misogyny for a singular page. why themes of addiction only when it is needed to fill a narrative lull? and why are you continually going to put jason in interesting situations where he might confront his trauma or grow despite his trauma and then. not have him confront his trauma or grow at all because of it??? i like snatches of the early issues of the run, when the outlaws are figuring out how to be a polycule team on the most beautiful deserted island and crashed spaceship you’ve ever seen. i liked the art in most issues and these had just enough fun flashes of character (about every other issue) to keep me reading. but im annoyed by it.
i finally finished Wilkie Collins’ The Moonstone, the first physical paper book i have finished in a long time. the flaw of being the first in the english detective fiction genre is that everyone who comes after has a lot of time to perfect it. i felt the actual perpetrator was a little beyond belief and the ending was fumbled. however it was very good at sustaining my interest for like 400 pages. not my picture bc i cannot be bothered to find my copy and bother a cat, but this is the penguin edition i own. i don’t actually know if i will keep it on my shelves but maybe it’s more of a trophy of me getting back into reading physical books?
Alexis Hall’s Mortal Follies also annoyed me. i do not think this author’s strong suit is in longer books. i have read previous books in two hours and change and while i found the ending here satisfying from a fairytale perspective, i did not enjoy the path we took to get there. i thought we were ending and wrapping things up at least three times, and the number of Things that happen in order to carry us on to the next Thing does not feel gleefully madcap but sort of frantically shambling. a very classic three-days time limit is introduced in the middle, it is met, and then we continue on for several months. also the author introduces the concept of shipping your friends with an equally made-up word as shipping through one of the more tiresome characters in the novel and this…cracking? chip? in the fourth wall? fucking annoyed me. it felt very out of tone with the rest of the book. surely there was a better way for this character to express that she wanted the two leads to be together
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watching
Hammerhead (1968, dir. Miller). this is leaving tubi soon and sometimes the heart needs a silly little James Bond ripoff. had high hopes for this one bc it was rated R and the baddie was obsessed with collecting vintage erotica. i don’t really know why this is rated R. the erotica we see is almost all prints of Fine Art Nudes. there’s a lot of cleavage and undergarments and bikinis but not like. full frontal at any point. no man has their chest out except for an enterprising motorcyclist near the end.
anyway this is a deeply unserious film, as you may surmise. it’s not much fun, especially when it’s not very good at getting everyone to the next scene. Vince Edwards is kind of a cold fish, i do not know why every woman is throwing herself at him. Judy Geeson makes every scene she’s in better (there’s a very funny scene in a post office where they play both keepaway and the thimble game with an important package) but she cannot hold the whole dragging movie up by herself. god they made leading ladies fucking tiny back then. very throwable
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playing
not fallow but i don’t have anything interesting to say about genshin this week. a friend started playing fnv after several months of subtle hints, i was only able to join his streams after twenty hours in and promptly let him know the inventory is sortable if you click at the top. how had he been going through his whole fucking inventory for twenty hours like that. a man singularly obsessed with both inventory management and min-maxing caps. he had like 8k caps by the time he got to Novac, taking the normal route. people sure can play games in different ways huh
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making
put some dijon mustard and some broccoli in some macaroni and cheese. that's about it
#tuesday again#tuesday again no problem#an important thing to ask yourself as a grownup responsible for your own care and keeping is: am i having fun? and the answer is no the fuc#i am not!
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Eclipsed - Chapter 2
ZoLu/LuZo AU (Sun God Nika)
Summary: Sun God Nika is accused of a crime he did not commit. Nika goes into hiding to avoid being hunted by other Gods who wish to have him replaced. This inadvertently plunges the world into darkness, triggering an ice age. Only one human has faith that Nika will return the Sun.
Prologue
Chapter 1
Zoro released a content sigh, relishing the warmth that enveloped him as he lay on the familiar soil of Isshen Dojo’s garden. Basking in the sunlight, a smile graced the swordsman’s face. It had been so long that Zoro nearly forgot the sensation of the warm earth against his skin. Despite his closed eyes, Zoro sensed someone at his side.
“I knew I’d find you here…” Kuina’s teasing voice echoed above Zoro, prompting a subtle stir. “Come on, lazy bones. It’s time to wake up! Wake up!”
Zoro attempted to open his eyes, but found the task challenging. The warmth was too inviting, too comfortable.
“Wake up!”
Zoro furrowed his eyebrows. The voice had changed. That wasn’t Kuina’s voice…
“Do you usually sleep this loooong?!” The voice whined.
Zoro slowly blinked open his eyes. A blinding light from above cast a glare across his vision. He could barely make out a childishly wide grin that reminded him of his friend.
“Finally!” The unexpected stranger bounced up happily, his fists raised over his head victoriously, as if Zoro's awakening was a great feat. The stranger turned his attention back to Zoro, his wide smile never faltering. Zoro, feeling petrified in the spot he lay, noticed the stranger's bright, glowing red eyes and white hair that danced like fire. As his disoriented gaze wandered, he realized he was in a surprisingly warm cave, the surroundings unfamiliar and surreal to him.
“All I can say is: Wow! I’m surprised that there is a human that actually still likes me!” Nika’s beaming smile seemed to intensify his light. The sight of such genuine glee had become foreign to Zoro. To see another full of such joy made his heart involuntarily quicken. “So! Who do I have the honor of thanking for sticking up for me back there?”
Zoro sat up cautiously. His mind raced to catch up with what was happening. A God was there before him. Not just any God. Nika! The one who had been missing for months. The one with the power to return light to their dark world was sitting before him, tilting his head in an inquisitive manner. His red eyes bright with curiosity. For a moment, Zoro wondered if he was dead. How else could he explain this encounter? The last thing he remembered was falling into the snow. Did he freeze to death?! No, he’d know right away if he had died…
“You have a funny look on your face. Most of you mortals seem to get this way when meeting me.” Nika sat down and reached forward to pinch Zoro’s cheek, as if trying to encourage Zoro to change his expression. Zoro couldn’t help but notice how warm the God’s touch was. “You don’t have to get so serious! All I’m asking is for your name.”
Despite Nika’s encouraging words, Zoro still couldn’t help but be taken aback. Kuina was right when she said the God was unique. Nika didn’t hold himself above Zoro. He spoke to him as if he was an old friend. In fact, the God had almost a childish nature about him. The way he now positioned himself to sit with his legs crossed next to Zoro, the way his smile never faltered, the way those large eyes glistened with wonder.. Nika was unlike anyone he had ever met.
“Zoro..” Zoro finally found his voice to answer. Nika’s eyes shone happily at the reply, which caused Zoro’s stomach to twist into knots. Perhaps it was his gut telling him he needed to address Nika with more respect? “My name is Roronoa Zoro.. uh all great and powerful Sun God Nika.”
Nika immediately scrunched his face in distaste. Zoro didn’t blame him. It felt awkward to address the God in such a way.
“Gross.. no need to get all formal. I just wanted to know Zoro’s name.” Nika let go of Zoro’s cheek. The swordsman couldn’t help but frown at the loss of warmth upon his face.
“Well, I’ve never met a God before. I don’t know exactly how I’m supposed to address one!” Zoro replied with a bit more candor. The interaction was becoming more casual, and Zoro was starting to feel a bit more at ease in the presence of the unconventional Sun God.
“Nika is fine,” Nika said with a shrug, his attention turned to a hangnail on his thumb, which he began to pick at as he continued, “Unless we are around other humans. Then you can just call me Luffy.”
“Luffy?” Zoro asked aloud. Then another question popped into his mind. “What do you mean by me addressing you that way in front of other people?”
“Well, I can’t have you addressing me as ‘your royal sun god’ around others.” Nika explained rolling his eyes like it was obvious. He picked the hangnail free and promptly flicked it across the cave.
Zoro blinked in confusion.
“Okay, that title is nothing like what I said before. And I still don’t get what you mean about us talking in front of others.” Zoro said, a bit more heatedly this time. Zoro never liked dancing around a subject. He preferred straightforward answers.
“I mean when we're traveling together.” Nika frowned, appearing equally upset. As if his answers were the most obvious things in the world, and he didn’t like that Zoro couldn’t understand right away. “You already know that others don’t like me. How would they react if they saw me in person?”
“What do you mean when we travel together?!” Zoro’s voice grew louder as shock took hold of him.
“Geez… I thought Zoro would be a lot smarter since you know I didn’t harm that island.” Nika said with a pout. The God leaned back against the cavern wall with his arms crossed.
Nika’s offhanded comment surprised Zoro yet again. He had always known the God wasn’t responsible for what happened to Ohara, but hearing it out loud from the God himself filled Zoro with vindicating relief.
“You were right at the tavern. I'm set on bringing back the sun, but first, I've got to clear my name. And Zoro’s the one who's gonna be my partner in uncovering the truth.” Nika asserted confidently.
Zoro buried his face in his hands, grappling with the confusion stirred by Nika's vague answers. With an exasperated exhale, Zoro lifted his head, determination ablaze in his eyes, poised to extract some clarity from the enigmatic God.
“Alright, let’s say I’m on board with helping you-” Zoro began slowly.
“Which you definitely are!” Nika chimed in confidently.
“No interrupting.” Zoro scolded. He blushed when realizing he shouldn't be scolding a God but he found a certain comfort in their banter. He continued, “If we're traveling together, I need more information. So, let's start from the beginning. I know you didn’t destroy Ohara, but if you're innocent, then why did you vanish? Why did the Sun suddenly disappear?”
Nika's grin finally faded. A hint of sadness flashed across the God’s eyes.
“Humans aren't the only ones who think I messed up that island.” Nika shifted his gaze away, seemingly reluctant to make eye contact with Zoro while explaining. “Other Gods share the same idea, and they're demanding I be replaced.”
Zoro's eyebrows furrowed in confusion.
“Gods can be replaced?” Zoro questioned, wondering why, if that were the case, the other deities hadn't taken action to end the world's darkness by replacing Nika during his absence. “How? Isn’t the whole point of being a God is that you were born with your gifts. Isn’t that what sets you apart from us humans?”
Nika’s demeanor shifted. A dark look flashed across his eyes when he answered.
“Being born with our gifts never stopped other Gods from wanting more power and finding ways to take it.” Nika’s reply was so dark, so ominous, it made Zoro shiver despite the warmth of the cave. Nika, as if sensing Zoro’s discomfort, immediately switched back to his wide maddening smile. “Anyways, they planned on executing me so someone else can take my place.”
“What?!”
The swordsman couldn’t believe what he was hearing, nor could he understand how Nika could say something like it was an offhand comment.
Zoro's protective instincts kicked in, his hands involuntarily reaching out to grip Nika’s. Wide eyes turned toward Zoro, surprised by the swordsman's intense reaction.
“How can they just decide that after all the good you've done?! Did they even try to find another culprit?!”
Nika's surprise transformed into gleeful excitement, his features lighting up with a wide grin.
"I knew I’d like you." Nika beamed, seemingly unfazed by the anger on Zoro's face. The God was clearly delighted by Zoro's immediate protective response, finding joy in the swordsman's fierce loyalty despite their recent acquaintance. "Nope, they didn't bother looking for another culprit. The evidence pointed to me. Only my brothers believe in my innocence."
Nika gave the swordsman’s hand a tender squeeze, his warm touch causing a subtle blush to spread across Zoro’s face. As they shared this moment, a lingering ache of sadness toward Nika’s situation settled within the swordsman, he sat there silently waiting for the God to continue unraveling the events that led to the Sun’s disappearance.
Nika glanced upwards, seemingly envisioning the events that led to his current predicament.
“Many of the other Gods were divided on what to do with me. They fought a LOT! That’s when some Gods decided to take matters into their own hands. They chose to execute me themselves.” Nika explained.
“How is trying to take down another God not a crime?!” Zoro asked in disbelief.
Nika rolled his eyes, as if the answer was obvious.
“If the God supposedly did something wrong against humanity, it only makes sense to get rid of them. Ohara housed the temple of the God of Wisdom. Destroying the island erased sacred knowledge, lost forever in both the Mortal and Celestial Realms.”
Zoro had always known Ohara as the home of brilliant minds, but the revelation that it held knowledge sacred to the Gods added another layer to the tragedy.
“What happened when they pursued you?” Zoro prodded Nika to share more.
“My brothers tried to shield me, but it got dangerous for them. I couldn’t let them risk their safety for me, so I decided to come to the Mortal Realm to investigate myself. If I can prove my innocence, maybe the other Gods won't chase me. But I've been here too long. Cut off from the Celestial Realm, I can't provide the Sun.” Nika explained with a hint of sadness.
A heavy weight settled onto Zoro's heart. The revelation of Nika’s situation hit him hard; people had assumed the God abandoned them, not realizing Nika was fighting to survive.
“You say you need my help, but what can I do?” Zoro asked uncertainly. “I know nothing of your world. How can I assist in proving your innocence when I don't even know what to look for?”
Nika offered Zoro a reassuring smile, acknowledging the swordsman's concern.
"Well, I need someone like Zoro by my side. You're strong, and you've got a good heart." Nika explained. "I'm not the best at dealing with humans, and you can help me navigate through this world. Besides, I trust Zoro."
Zoro shook his head and chuckled in disbelief as he processed Nika's words. The idea of the Sun God relying on him to navigate the complexities of human interaction was both amusing and somewhat ironic. Zoro, often reserved and straightforward, couldn't help but find it peculiar that Nika saw him as the go-to person for this task.
"Well, you better be prepared," Zoro remarked with a smirk. A rare smile crossed his lips, and he felt a flicker of warmth in his chest at accepting the Gods request. "Interacting with ‘humans’ isn't exactly my strong suit either, but I'll do my best to keep you out of trouble."
Nika’s eyes sparkled with excitement, the infectious energy of a carefree adventurer. The God abruptly rose to his feet, stretching his limbs like he was preparing for an exhilarating journey.
“Great! Let’s get going!” Nika beamed happily, exuding his infectious enthusiasm. The God already started walking towards the exit of the cave, but Zoro was quick to rush after Nika. The swordsman grabbed into a fistful of the God’s shirt.
“You can’t just go out looking like that.” Zoro scolded, his voice carrying a protective undertone. His expression turned more serious as he felt more duty bound to protect this whimsical being. “People are going to know you’re a God right away if you go out with flaming hair, and you’re not even dressed for winter weather.”
Nika looked down at himself in surprise, realizing Zoro was right.
“Oh yeah! I forgot about that.” Nika gently shook out of Zoro’s hold. Soon, he emitted a bright glow that filled the cave. When the light disappeared, Nika stood before him looking very familiar. Zoro immediately recognized this dark-haired, brown-eyed young man as the fidgeting patron from the tavern. Even in his human form, Nika’s eyes still radiated the same alluring warmth.
Zoro didn’t realize he was staring for so long until Nika's impatient fingers gently closed around his arm, an unexpected warmth seeped through his bones. Nika's touch was a magnetic force, tugging at Zoro's attention more than he cared to admit.
“Come on. We’ve got a lot of ground to cover.” Nika insisted.
Zoro, unable to resist the pull Nika had on him, obediently followed. His stoic exterior hiding the subtle warmth swelling within. As they moved together, Zoro couldn’t help but notice the intertwining of their steps, creating a silent harmony between them.
“Where are we going?”
“Ohara!”
#zolu#luzo#Zoro x luffy#zolu fanfic#Zoro x nika#I know this story has kind of been on the back burner with me working on Noble Hearts#but I wanted to post something for Luffy's birthday and I still really like this story idea.#I'll come back to it since I have so much planned
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Found & Lost
1,264 words | The black prince [WT] (sequel to The Outpost)
Content | Multiple whumpees, broken bones, starvation, mute whumpee, mentioned/implied: painful healing, death
Notes | Say hello to the prince! Surely nothing heartbreaking can happen now that he is safely with his people.
Taglist | @echo-goes-aaa @whump-blog
Orafin’s vision went black for a moment when he slid off the horse, bending his broken legs in all the wrong ways.
Despite wanting to get away as quickly as possible, he hadn’t been able to help being glad Elgar couldn’t make the horse more than walk. Even so, everything was a haze of agony, his legs only the sharpest among the bruises and welts and open cuts all over his body, and the painful void inside his stomach.
He could hardly think, even now that General Tarrev’s familiar face struck relief from his tormented heart like a gold vein from raw stone. Barring his siblings, there could not have been a more welcome view than the man who taught him how to fight when he was a child, who could protect him as well as he helped protect the kingdom.
He distantly heard Tarrev order a medic and food to his quarters, and a messenger to ready themself. Then his voice turned quieter as he arranged Orafin into a bridal carry. »What have they done to you, my Prince.«
Orafin could barely process what was being said, but one thought broke through the haze. Something—someone—was missing.
It took all the effort he could spare, but he managed to grab Elgar’s hand as Tarrev turned away.
Tarrev looked into his pleading eyes, and thankfully understood. »You want your companion to come with us?« He switched to the Rekkshuran Elgar had used to communicate. »Can you walk, good sir?«
Orafin didn’t register Elgar’s answer. He found his head leaning against Tarrev’s arm; it was so nice and warm. Then what felt like moments later, he was set down into a cot that felt as comfortable, no, better than his four-poster at home.
He was going to go home.
All thanks to the poor creature who had been enslaved alongside him, and had the courage to run when he couldn’t.
Elgar’s hand hadn’t slipped from his, and now that he was almost comfortably reclined, aside from the pain, and flooding with what joy his exhausted body could handle, he found it less strenuous to turn his head and look at him.
He looked frightened, and Orafin gave him what he hoped was a reassuring smile.
He had promised he would protect the man who had saved him, tonight in an act of unfathomable bravery but in truth probably a dozen times over, and he would keep his promise. He wanted nothing more than to tell him he was safe, that no one would dare lay a hand on him ever again, or else that he could go home when he had recovered his strength; but all he could do was squeeze his hand like they had done dozens of times.
»Here, your Highness.« Tarrev sat down on his other side with a bowl of—it could have been anything, for all Orafin cared. It was food.
He managed to take it in his feeble hands. It felt wrong, freely being handed food, like he would definitely be punished if he simply accepted it; he looked at Tarrev’s face to fight the horrific instinct that had been implanted in him, finding kind worry rather than lurking malice.
»I know it is not much, your Highness. I apologize, but it is dangerous for a starved man to eat too much, too quickly. You will not have to wait long on your next meal, on my word.«
Orafin thought he might cry from the care he was being shown. Elgar had done what he could with what he had, but he had never been quite able to make a material difference, except leaving him a tiny little more of his own food—and how grateful Orafin had been, knowing they were both hungry. He was almost ashamed a proper meal made him feel so much better, when it was so easily given.
He couldn’t focus too much on his concerns, though. It was all he could do to spoon the stew up rather than simply drink it out of the bowl in one go. It was difficult enough, even physically; he had not been allowed to even use his hands to eat for months.
He only distantly noticed the medic entering.
»Your Highness. May I attend to you legs?«
When he didn’t answer—he couldn’t simply nod when he wanted to beg for them to be careful—, the medic frowned. »Your Highness, can you not speak?«
He swallowed before opening his mouth in reply. Tarrev took in a sharp breath, and the medic’s shoulders sagged.
»Let him finish eating,« Tarrev told the medic in his stead, and Orafin instantly knew why. This would hurt. Tarrev got up and went over to his desk. »Wait…«
Orafin was already wiping the bowl clean with his fingers. There would be no way around it, and he shouldn’t be looking for one—they were goint to heal him, not pointlessly hurt him out of cruelty.
Tarrev returned with a slate and pencil. »Can you write, your Highness?«
Orafin took them with trembling hands, setting the cleared bowl down. His hands felt awfully unsteady, but he scrawled thank you on the slate, in the largest letters he could fit.
»I am your servant, your Highness,« Tarrev only replied quietly.
He hadn’t realized how much he missed being able to communicate. There were so many things he suddenly felt the need to talk about.
But first, he held the slate up to Elgar. He had, Orafin noticed only now that the worst of his own hunger was sated, been given his own bowl of stew. He would have been surprised if Elgar could read Ochurian, but Tarrev picked up on his intentions. »His Highness wishes to thank you.«
Elgar only nodded timidly, ducking his head in a clumsy bow.
Orafin wanted to tell him a thousand things more, not the least that there was no need to bow to him, but Tarrev continued while he was wiping the slate, so he merely noted a quick, Please speak Rekkshuran, for the benefit of my companion.
»I wrote to their Majesty, your sibling,« Tarrev said, half-turning to the medic, and then repeated himself according to Orafin’s orders, continuing on in a language Elgar could understand. »If nothing holds them up, they can be here tomorrow night. They will be able to heal you if you prefer to wait.«
The medic nodded, hesitantly. »I can just give you something for the pain for now, then. But it’s always better with these things not to wait too long, even for a mage.«
But Orafin barely registered any of that. Their Majesty, your sibling. He stared at Tarrev, desperate for this not to mean what it had to mean.
Tarrev noticed the moment that had caught him, and his face fell. »Oh.« Orafin wasn’t sure he had ever heard the man’s voice go this soft, and he felt dizzy, knowing that this could not bode well. »Have… Had you not heard?«
Orafin blinked back tears. Only rumours.
Tarrev nodded slowly, lowering his eyes. »I am so sorry. Her Majesty passed from injuries sustained in battle… four months ago now.«
Without ever seeing her youngest son again, believing him dead. Without Orafin there to say his final goodbyes, or hear his mother’s last words, or even attend the funeral. With his siblings believing this to be the second loss in such short time.
Without him.
Orafin had thought he had run out of tears some hours ago, but now he covered his face in his hands and wept more.
#whump#whump writing#my writing#the black prince is apparently a tag that already exists#orafin#tarrev
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