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killersfool · 6 months

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hii! not sure if you’re open to requests but i’m going to give u a few ideas! most of these are for elijah hewson😭

falling asleep on the couch, waking up to not only a blanket around them, but eli squeezed in behind them

being in the studio with the band and messing about?? making jokes and being silly!

kissing and dancing in the kitchen to an old singe they both like?

eli taking care of you when you’re sick and just being super soft and caring!

spending valentine’s day together!

something about the reader playing with eli’s fingers to calm them down?

softly smiling at each other from across the room and also reassuring touches!

telling each other how much they love them

them cuddling in bed and pulling eachother closer

hope these spark your writing :))))

Kiss It Better | ELIJAH HEWSON

here's a short little thing inspired by this request!

PAIRING: elijah hewson x f!reader

WORDS: 1.5k

SUMMARY: eli's girlfriend is ill, elijah comforts her.

GENRE: hurt/comfort, fluff

WARNINGS: references to throwing up

I've never been so ill in my life. My nose is so runny. I've almost used every single packet of tissues in the kitchen cabinet right under the sink — which used to be a lot and now is very little. I've thrown up my insides into the loo way too many times to count on my fingers. Bent over the toilet, eyes pricking with tears, I've never felt so useless. At least the thought of my boyfriend getting back after his gig gives me something to look forward to. But it's far too late.

I'm staring at the TV screen. I hug my knees to my chest, attempting to generate some warmth. The blanket is upstairs — probably hiding in the space between the bed and the wall. Surely, if I attempt to stumble upstairs now, I'll just get stuck and end up falling asleep in the corridor.

I can't stop glancing at the door. I'm hoping for a doorknob twist, knock, ring of the doorbell, stamp of boots, low and raspy post-concert voice. But I'm just met with nothing. No signs of his arrival. He hasn't called me. He usually doesn't. He likes to surprise me. After having the worst migraine of my life, it would give me some comfort if he just gave me a hug. A warm Elijah Hewson hug would cleanse my mind.

Starting to realise that the TV is doing more harm than good, I switch it off. I'm beginning to see blurry triangular shapes and my eyes burn like they're on fire. The living room is pitch black. I'm freezing. I'm tired. I take two paracetamol tablets and chug some water. Curling up on my side, legs on the armrest, I close my eyes.

I wake up. Sunlight gleams through the gaps in the white curtains. My body is wrapped in a duvet, soft and warm. Skin is against mine. Arms are around my body, squeezing me tightly. He's shirtless. I can tell by the tufts of chest hair flicking at my shoulder. His head is on my back, curls all over my skin, lips between my shoulderblades. I don't want to move. I don't want to speak. He's asleep. Gentle snores, deep breaths, in and out.

I must've fallen into a deep sleep because I have no recollection of his arrival or him ever taking me upstairs. I'm usually a light sleeper. This migraine fully knocked me out. That's the best nights sleep I've had in a while. I'm especially thankful I managed to escape from work for the rest of the week.

Elijah's normally the little spoon when we hug like this. It's funny how the tables have turned. I think I prefer this though. But lying awake and tracing the muscles in his back always seems to calm me down.

I want to ask him how the show went and the reason for his tardiness. He had been playing in Glasgow, thankfully only a few miles away from me and had bought me tissues, chocolate and gave me an endless supply of kisses before he had to run down to meet the band.

Opening my eyes fully, I take a peek over at the bedside table. He's brought me more tissues, face masks, more chocolate and a box of sleep teabags.

I realise Elijah's awake when his fingers start to walk along my bare stomach and his mouth is at the juncture between my back and shoulder. He pulls my hair to the side, presses his wet mouth to my neck. He smells clean. I'm sure he's showered. His hair feels a little damp.

He keeps pulling me closer. Arms tightening like he's a boa constrictor. Cool rings on my stomach, large hands tugging at the waistband of my shorts.

"You feeling better?" He asks, between kisses, tongue tracing my jugular vein. It's unsettlingly nice. His words are always gruff the morning after the show. All the singing takes a toll. Makes him sound more mellow. Sometimes I worry for his vocal cords.

"Not really." I groan. A mind-numbing headache is still prodding at my brain and the brightness of the sun makes my eyes burn. He's got a hand on my forehead, cool fingers against fiery skin — checking the temperature.

"God, you're pale. And you're burning up. I should get the thermometer." He gets out of bed. The loss of weight of his body makes the mattress shift. I glance over at him. His hair has stuck up at the top, his bare back glows under the sunlight. He stands up. Sweatpants cling loosely to his hips, revealing the muscles of his abdomen and a chain circles around his neck. He leaves the room — not even giving me time to utter a word of annoyance at the sudden lack of touch.

Then he's back. He crawls into bed. The thermometer is between his index finger and thumb. I look at the cross tattoo on his palm, see the concentration on his face as he plays around with the buttons.

"It's just a migraine," I say but he's already turning it on and pointing at my mouth. I roll my eyes and separate my lips. He gives me a sly smirk, just making me sit like that for a moment. Then he puts the device beneath my tongue and waits patiently. I'm trying not to laugh at how awkward this is. I close my eyes to evade his gaze but I can still feel the force of his stare.

"You've got a fever." Dr Hewson alerts me with his expert diagnosis although the furrow of his brows makes him seem unsure. He looks down at the numbers displayed, rubbing his face with worry. "A really bad one." He's now searching up on his phone what it means.

"Should I go to the doctors?" I shuffle away from him. I don't want him to catch what I have. He has gigs all week, I don't want to ruin anything for him.

He notices my movement. Shaking his head, he drags me back towards him, making me nestle into his chest. His eyes are still darting along a website.

"I think you just need to rest. I'll make you breakfast." Elijah kisses my nose before running downstairs with his mind set solely on making some decent food.

Through the corridor, into the kitchen. He's forgotten where half the things are in the room. Opening cabinets, searching through the fridge, putting water into the kettle. Most of the time he'll get his breakfast on the way to a show. Maybe a café, maybe he'll steal some food from Ryan. Today, however, he's lucky enough to not have a gig and actually have time to look after his girlfriend. Although he's definitely going to make a mess of the place.

His final decision is to make omelettes. Oil on the frying pan, ham—leaving it to heat up until it's a little crispy. Two eggs, cracked and swirled in a glass. Cheese on top, grated with masterful excellence—at least that's what he believes. Folds it over to make it fill half of the pan. Let's it continue to fry. Then he's running over to make a cup of tea. He uses one of the sleep teabags he bought. He's just about to plate up when footsteps echo behind him.

I have to stop for a second when I walk into the kitchen. It's a rarity to see Elijah here, cooking for me. We started dating at the beginning of the tour which unluckily means that he's hardly ever home. He has to leave early in the morning and gets back really late. Whenever he has days off, he takes me on dates and walks, or we just laze around at home, basking in eachother's presence. There's times when he brings me along to the recording studio so that I can reprimand all the band members or give an outside opinion of their new songs.

Elijah seems so focused on getting this omelette perfect. He's running around the place. He grabs two pieces of bread to turn his dish into an omelette-sandwich. I stand in the doorway for a while, just watching him. But, I can't stop myself from nearing him. As he cuts an apple into a slices, I slide my arms around his stomach, pressing my head to his shoulder. He sighs quietly. I breathe in his scent, his comfort.

"You should be in bed," he whispers, although he doesn't seem to want me to let go. I shake my head as he looks at me.

There's music playing on the radio. I turn it up. It's a song by The Smiths. I'm swaying to the beat, moving Elijah along with me. He's still carefully chopping fruit into perfect pieces. Watermelon, strawberries, mango. My mouth is watering just looking at the vast array of flavours.

Elijah drops his knife, turns around to face me. His hands find my waist, his lips find my neck, his head burrows into my chest like he's a mole hiding under soil. We dance along to the crackle of music, feeling the melodies trickle into our bones. Just his presence makes me feel better, every kiss turns my negative thoughts to mush.

#elijah hewson #elijah hewson oneshot #elijah hewson x reader #elijah hewson imagine #eli hewson #inhaler band #inhaler imagines #inhaler oneshots #inhaler dublin #fanfiction #inhaler fanfiction #robert keating #bobby skeetz #josh jenkinson #ryan mcmahon #inhaler #inhaler fanfic #inhaler imagine

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femininomen0n · 1 year

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#inhale. exhale. AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA-#fanfic #fanfiction #ao3 #ao3 writers #writing #relatable #meme #writing problems #writing memes #fanfic authors #writing is hard #eager young and abandoning.fic #taliacore #talia.writes #**

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jasmines-library · 6 months

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Spinning out.

WHUMPTOBER DAY 14. Prompt: Water inhalation. Fandom: Top Gun (Maverick daughter reader x Bradley Bradshaw)

Summary: When a mission goes wrong and you and Rooster are sent into a tizzy, forcing you to eject, you run into a sticky situation when your lifevest fails to inflate.

Warnings: Drowning, Water inhalation, Near death experience, minor ptsd.

Word count: 2K

Notes: I'm sorry. (Side note, this can be plationic or romantic.)

MASTERLIST ⛤ WHUMPTOBER WORKS

🕸 ⋆ ⁶𖤐⁶ ࣪⋆🕸

The sun was just rising above the skyline as the familiar rumble of the jet started up. Shortly after that came the weightlessness as it soared into the sky. It was supposed to be a simple mission, take down a couple of fighters that had stepped over the territory line, then return in time for a drink down at the ‘Hard Deck’.

You would never not admire the way the world looked from up here as you soared between the mountains towards the ocean, leaving the base as a tiny grey speck in the distance. It took your breath away.

“How’s it looking back there, Viper?” Rooster asked from the front of the jet. The com crackled in your ear.

“All good, roo.” You replied, glancing down at the multitude of buttons and screens.

Rooster has been your best friend since you were young. You had grown up with each other and worked your way through Top Gun to follow in your parents’ footsteps. He was the Goose to your Maverick. Literally. Although the two of you were only young when his dad passed, you had seen the way that it broke him, much like the way it broke your dad. And although you would never completely be able to understand Roosters grief, you stuck to him through thick and thin.

Once you were finally old enough to join Top Gun, your dad was hesitant. He had lost his best friend. He wouldn’t lose you too, though it was all you knew. It was all you had wanted to do since you were 6 years old and playing with model planes in the garden with Brad. And so, there you were; strapped tightly to the chair of a plane hurtling through the atmosphere as your best friend’s RIO. And you couldn’t think of anything better.

Time passed nonchalantly as the fighter edged towards the opposition. Although it was a standard mission that you had done hundreds of times you still couldn’t help but form an anxious knot in your stomach, especially when the other jets came into view.

“Bandits ahead.” You informed the Phoenix and Bob who were cruising along besides you.

“Copy.”

You watched the small dots dance across the green screen. The triangle of fighters heading straight towards the four of you. “Heading straight towards us.” You told Rooster, who nodded abruptly and began to manoeuvre the plane to the right.

“Taking evasive action.”

The jet swerved as it raced past the enemy, before setting in line behind them. They broke apart, scattering around you.

“Shit.” Cursing, you tried to adjust the monitors to locate the plane that had slipped from view on the monitor. “I’ve lost one of them. Bob, anything.”

“Negative.”

As Rooster flew, you kept a keen eye out for the third plane which had vanished within the clouds that obscure your view.

Thanks to his skilled training, Rooster managed to take down one of the enemy vessels without an issue. The second one was trickier, with both pairs of planes making a beeline towards it as it raced away, You could feel the force on your body making it harder to move as Bradley urged the plane forwards. You could see the two dots inching closer together until they were nearly aligned.”

“Rooster, I can’t get the shot.” Phoenix called out over.

“Copy. Just give me a moment.”

Narrowing his eyes, Rooster placed his thumb over the missile, twisting the jet so that he could get a clear shot. When the lines finally aligned and the control panel let out a happy chirp, he pressed the trigger down, launching the missile which hit its target and sent it careening into the water. Phoenix congratulated your partner as you continued to search the sky for the missing plane. Though seemingly it was truly out of sight. After deciding that it may have retreated, and receiving the go ahead from Maverick to return to base, you reeled back around and began the journey home.

“I’m glad I can bring you back in one piece Y/N.” Brad sighed from in front of you. “Now there’s one less reason for Mav to kill me.”

That was when the monitors began blinking, and the third dot reappeared on the scanner.

“Break! Break!” You yelled as they locked onto your jet, launching a missile towards you. Quick on his feet, Rooster swerved.

“Bandit found!” He called out over the comms as you moved to fiddle with the switches, although the frantic movement made it hard to move as it sent you sliding around.

The enemy was suddenly coming up in front of you, causing Bradley to break hard. “Shit!”

When it pushed in front of you, the force which it left with, shoved your plane harshly, causing you to slam into the side of your chair.

“Jet-wash!” He cried out.

There was no time to react as the force sent your plane spiralling. Lights flashed frantically in the cockpit as the high pitched alarm screeched. “Both engines out!”

Without the aid of the engines the fighter jet was forced into a tizzy, twisting as it spun out of control. At some point the motion had slammed you into the glass of the cockpit. You cried out painfully.

“Viper!?”

Your body screamed at you as you tried to move but the force of your body as the jet rapidly dropped in attitude was too much to allow you to move.

“Eject!” You told him, craning your head to twist towards the two loops that hung in between where the two of you were stationed. “I can’t reach the handles. You have to eject!”

Eyes wide and frantic, Rooster reached behind him , fumbling for the fabric. When his shaky hands wrapped around them, he gave them a sharp tug and then the two of you went tumbling from the plane and hurtling towards the bottomless ocean.

Rooster groaned against the heavy pull as his parachute opened. He watched anxiously for yours to fly open, letting out a breath when he saw it fly out behind you and your fall slow. But something was wrong, because when you hit the water, you didn’t come back up.

Your arms flailed frantically as you tried to keep yourself afloat, but you had hit the water hard and every movement you made with your legs sent agony across your body, and without the aid of your life jacket, which failed to inflate, the parachute which quickly absorbed the water began to drag you down. You took a gasping breath as you heaved, trying to keep your head above the churning water, but it w as no use. You vanished beneath the surface of the water.

It was dark. And cold. And your lungs burned for air that wouldn’t come as your lungs filled with water. You twisted, struggling within the fabric and rope which had wrapped itself around your body, tangling around you like you were a fish caught in a net. Your eyes stung with the assault of the water as you stared blankly at the inky green above you. Your movements slowed as your energy began to deplete, and soon you knew nothing but the dark and icy water.

Rooster watched in horror as your head disappeared below the water and you didn't resurface. Struggling against the water, he swam as fast as he could. The heavy weight of his parachute slowed him down, trying to drag him towards the same fate as you, but he pushed himself forwards. He had to keep going, he had to get to you. Barely registering the loud humming of the helicopter above, he swam to the green ink that leaked from your suit and began to dive down. The resistance of his life jacket tried to pull him back towards the surface, but he could see you now. Your hair floated around your face, drifting as you lay motionless in the water. Your skin was pale and your lips were turning a shade of blue. He could see the chute wrapped around your ankle and the def

He outstretched his hand until his fingertips brushed yours, but then he was yanked back harshly by the buoyancy-aid. Cursing loudly, he dived back into the icy water, propelling himself forwards. When he finally managed to wrap his hands around yours, he pulled you towards him. His lungs burned and tiny air bubbles escaped from his nose. Fumbling, he struggled to unclip you from the parachute, but after finally freeing you from the binds, your body floated up with his easily.

With a hard kick, Brad resurfaced and took a gasping breath, sucking the air greedily into his lungs and allowing the life jacket to do its job.

You lay morbidly still across his chest. Lips chapped and an ugly shade of blue. Bradley called out, crying your name and begging for your response but you said nothing. Did nothing. Not even your chest rose and fell. The helicopter settled above the water and soon there were hands on him, parting your lifeless body from him. He struggled against them, ignoring the pleading of the medics and the rescue team. He needed to get to you, but you were just too far away.

Maverick watched you anxiously from where you lay on the bed, hooked up to a line of machines. There was a cannula attached to your right side, so he held the left, bringing it up to his lips and placing a gentle kiss to it. Maverick would never forget the moment that he heard the alert come through on the radio. His body tensed and his heart stopped in his chest as though he had been gripped by one massive, icy hand. He refused to leave your side. Not even to sleep and that was because every time he closed his eyes, he was hit with the image of Goose, lying lifeless in the ocean. It was too similar; too much of a sick coincidence spat out by fate. But this time it was different. The two of you had clawed your way back. Rooster had been in a state when he returned; frantic and rambling. Mav hardly made him feel any better after yelling at him. The pilot’s stomach sank at that thought. Unmeaning to hurt the boy, scared he yelled at him- words he would never have said. The thought was relentless as it echoed in his head.

You began to stir, blinking heavily against the fluorescent lights. Maverick sat forwards from where he was slumped in the armchair. He greeted you with a gentle smile as you turned to face him.

“Hey kiddo.”

“Hm?” the noise you made was groggy as you shuffled. Your entire body ached like you had been bit by a truck.

“Oh kid…” He cooed, tracing circles on your palm. “I’m so glad you’re ok.”

You nodded, scanning the room. “Brad?” Your voice was hoarse.

“He’s…” Maverick didn’t have the heart to tell you that he had warned the boy away. But he was saved when the door peeled open and the tired boy pushed his way into the room. He had a small cut on his cheek and a blanket shawled around his shoulders. Bradley also shivered slightly. He stopped dead when he saw your eyes on him.

“Y/N.”

You smiled. “Hey, Roo.”

Maverick watched the two of you intently. His daughter and his best friend's son. He saw the way that his features softened around you and the way that your eyes glistened as you listened to him chatter away. It was a moment of tenderness that brought a proud grin to his face and in that moment, Maverick knew that as long as you two had each other, you would always pull through.

🕸 ⋆ ⁶𖤐⁶ ࣪⋆🕸

<-DAY 13 ⛤ DAY 15 ->

Taglist:

@senjoritanana

@deans-spinster-witch

@amaryllis23

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celtic-crossbow · 7 months

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Whumptober 2023

No. 14 Water inhalation | No. 20 Blanket | No. 23 Shaking

Pairing: Daryl Dixon x Fem!Reader (platonic to relationship)

Setting: Alexandria (pre-commonwealth)

Warnings: Injuries/Illness (temperature induced), CPR, Smut

One minute, he was there. The next, he was gone.

You and Daryl had been traipsing through the snow for hours. The storm was supposed to be days away, so when Eugene had evidence of a large storage facility up the mountain that could contain food and weapons for the remaining communities, of course Daryl volunteered to check it out. Which meant you were going by default.

Everything had been going well before the snow started to fall. Daryl had been nonplussed about it and refused to turn back. You had already been hiking for two days. When the white blanket was up to your shins, you could see the lines of worry etched on his face but he said nothing other than you were closer to the facility than to Hilltop. The two of you could take shelter there and wait it out.

That had been a few hours ago. Now, walkers were reaching out of the snow, tripping you up and snapping at your ankles. Some were beginning to freeze but still moving, albeit slowly. Your knife sank into another skull, the hold on your foot falling away. Daryl had trudged ahead to take care of the lone corpse still on its feet. The wind was too hard for his crossbow to be accurate. You couldn’t afford to waste the bolts.

You kicked the rotted hand away from your foot and looked up ahead of you, squinting to see through the near whiteout. “Daryl?” There was no sign of him or the walker. “Daryl!” You called a bit louder, knowing he probably couldn’t hear you over the howling gusts. ‘Where the hell did he go?’ A tendril of worry began to take root in your gut as you dragged your heavy legs toward where you had seen him heading. There was something on the ground and you wondered if he had dropped the walker and moved ahead to scout.

As you drew nearer, your heart stopped. What you were seeing was a hole in the snow…and Daryl’s crossbow teetering on the edge.

“No. No, no, no!” You began peeling off your pack and your weapons, dropping to your knees at the edge of the ice with caution. It hadn’t held Daryl’s weight when combined with that of a walker. Your gloved fingers collected his weapon and tossed it back toward where you left your own. “Daryl!” The water was black, unmoving. It felt like the mountain herself was telling you she had claimed your best friend, leaving you to stare into the void that had taken him from you.

The mountain didn’t seem to know you at all.

You grabbed the flashlight from the side pocket of your pack, holding it in your mouth while you stripped out of your jacket, gloves, and hat. Not giving yourself enough time to think twice, you dove in. The water was a shock to your system, so cold that it burned and you felt like your eyes would freeze in their sockets. But you couldn’t dwell, you couldn’t stop. The clock was ticking for you both.

You spotted the walker first. Daryl’s knife was still in its skull as it sank lower than the beam of your flashlight could reach. You spun in the water, feeling the fatigue and cold seep into your muscles. You couldn’t stay much longer and the knowledge made your chest hurt.

He wasn’t moving when you spotted him, sinking slowly just as the walker had been. Like a corpse. By the time you reached him, you weren’t sure you could still get you both out of the water. But that would never stop you from trying. You hooked an arm around his chest and began the ascent when you realized you couldn’t see the opening you had dove into!

Panic gripped you when your hand met ice. We’re both going to die down here. Thankfully, luck seemed to be on your side for this part at the very least. Just a few feet further, your hand pushed out of the water and into frigid air. You wasted no time in breaching the surface, Daryl’s name on your lips before you could even drag in your first breath. His wet hair was plastered to his face, but there was no time to assess him now. You needed to get you both out.

Getting the archer far enough out of the water to keep him from sliding back in while you climbed out yourself almost took what energy you had left. Somehow, you managed. Fear of the ice not holding the two of you was tingling at the edge of your thoughts but your number one priority laid unmoving beside you.

“Daryl?” You said his name with urgency, brushing away his hair to find his skin the palest you’ve ever seen, lips so blue that they appeared to be purple. “Fuck!” You weren’t that knowledgeable in CPR but you knew the basics and just had to pray it would be enough.

Tilting his head back, you pinched his nose and placed your mouth over his, forcing five rescue breaths into his frozen, starving lungs. Compressions came next, difficult to do adequately when you were shivering so hard that you thought your bones may rattle apart below your skin.

You couldn’t lose Daryl. You had figured that out long ago, back on the Greene farm. Something about his rough and jagged edges pulled you closer to him, not something he had been happy about, mind you. But as the months passed, you watched him soften. Not just toward you, but in general. He was your person, whether or not he ever returned those feelings. You wanted nothing but to see him happy, even if it wasn’t with you. Whatever it took to keep him in your life.

That same sentiment applied now.

“Come on, b-b-breathe for m-me!” Two more breaths and then back to compressions. You felt tears sting your eyes, knowing they would freeze on your face if they fell. “Please, Daryl.” Just as you pinched his nose and leaned in for the next breath, his back arched weakly and water gurgled within his throat.

You were quick to roll him to his side, not sure where you summoned the strength when you felt so incredibly tapped out. When water gushed out of his mouth and allowed for a series of gasping coughs, you let your head fall against his bicep, your free hand rubbing and patting his back.

“That’s it. That’s g-g-good. Just k-keep breathing.” You sat there for a few moments, both of you shaking hard enough to disturb the snow around you. You weren’t sure what to do next. You knew that removing your clothes had to wait since the layer of water in them would help insulate your bodies for at least a few minutes. You needed shelter. And fast. Or when they sent a team up the mountain, it would be to find you and Daryl and put you down instead of gathering supplies. “W-W-We’ve gotta m-move. Are y-y-you with me?”

“Mmmmm’h-h-h-here.”

You allowed yourself only a second to give thanks to whatever deity might exist that you were able to hear his voice. That you were able to bring him back to life. Now, you needed to keep him alive. God, you needed to keep both of you alive. You slipped on your jacket, hat, and gloves and grabbed everything, including the extra weight of his crossbow.

“W-W-We have to g-get out of the w-weather. B-B-Build a fire.” He didn’t answer but you didn’t have time to grow concerned. He rolled deeper onto his side to get his hands underneath himself and began to push himself up. You knew there was no way he could manage without you, so you didn’t even let him try. Every moment was a moment closer to death.

You slipped your hands under each of his arms and helped haul him upright. The archer swayed on his feet before curling inward with a miserable noise you could barely hear. With your small arms around him, you began trekking through the snow with careful steps. There was no way of knowing if you were on solid ground.

By your calculations, it had been about 45 minutes since Daryl had first fallen into the water. You knew nothing about hypothermia, but his skin was still dastardly pale, his lips alarmingly blue. He was shivering more violently than you and had begun to stumble more than he walked. Without the knowledge of proper care, you had no choice but to go by what you had seen in movies.

Shelter was first. You needed to get him out of the elements. He wasn’t much help in navigating, walking whichever way you steered him. If you didn’t find something soon, you yourself would start to deteriorate and you’d both be doomed.

“Y-Y-You awake over there? Got m-m-me hauling y-y-your heavy ass all b-by myself here!” You sighed in relief when you felt him shift to take some of his own weight. Daryl was a fighter, always had been, even before the turn. “Oh, h-h-hey there! I thought you may have been p-p-pussin’ out on m-m-me!”

“F-f-f-fuck y-y-y-you.”

“S-such a ch-ch-charmer, D-D-Dixon!” You goaded, squeezing him as tightly as you could.

You struggled another ten minutes or so before spotting the silhouette of a building. While the thought of being out of the frigid wind was nearly euphoric, there was still the matter of clearing it; making sure it was safe. Daryl was barely on his feet. A walker would kill him before the cold would. You had no choice but to leave him outside.

You directed him into a grove of trees at the corner of the building, trying to find a place where he could be shielded from the merciless gusts. Once you lowered him next to a tree, you took your first good look at this face. His hair was nearly frozen, even his goatee and there appeared to be some ice or snow in his eyelashes. His teeth chattered behind bloodless lips, eyelids drooping. Jesus, he was knocking on death’s door.

“G-G-Gonna ch-check the b-building. S-S-Stay put and D-D-Daryl?” Your fingers were stiff and tingling under your gloves when you grabbed his chin, shaking his head gently to persuade his eyes to focus on you. “S-S-Stay aw-wake.” His shoulders jerked in what you assumed was a grunt. With a tight smile, you placed his crossbow beside him and patted his knee before heading inside.

On the bright side, you had found the storage facility. There was no time to check it for supplies now, though. You turned the knob on the office door, finding it mercifully unlocked, and then pushed it inward. Without entering, you tapped the blade of your knife heavily against the metal frame and waited.

When the noise drew no walkers out of the shadows, you entered, your flashlight beam sputtering. You probably fucked it up in the water. Oh well. The office was small. An old desk, a small bathroom, and a filing cabinet with some boxes stacked in the corner. You could use the boxes to start a small fire and crack the window to help keep the area ventilated. A fire indoors without an actual fireplace was never ideal but you and Daryl need the warmth or the outcome would be much worse than some smoke inhalation.

Satisfied, you dragged your shivering, aching body back outside, pulling the door closed so a walker wouldn’t wander in while you grabbed the archer. He was right where you had left him but your pulse quickened at finding him slumped forward and unmoving.

“D-D-Daryl!” You fell to your knees beside him, foregoing the flashlight so you could grab his shoulders and shake him somewhat roughly. There was no way you could feel for a pulse. You were almost completely numb. Luckily, the condensation of each breath was visible. “W-wake up!” You shook him again and when his blue eyes peeled open to slowly blink at you, you could have cried. “C-C-Come on.” He didn’t argue when you grabbed beneath his arms and pulled. He had almost no strength to help but enough to get him on his feet. The first thing you noticed was his lack of shivering. You weren’t sure why but that didn’t seem like a good sign when you yourself were about to shake right out of your skin.

You grabbed the strap of his crossbow and slung it over your shoulder before starting toward the building. The journey wasn’t far, you stuttering praise and reassurance that you weren’t even sure he could hear. When you finally made it inside, you were able to move with more urgency. You lowered Daryl to sit against the desk. You dumped out one of the drawers of the file cabinet and placed it on the floor, tearing up papers and boxes. It wouldn’t be the most glorious fire and you’d have to almost continuously feed it to keep it going, but it would be warm.

You fished for the matches in your pack, knowing the water probably fucked up Daryl’s lighter. It was hard to find them in only the dying beam of your flashlight but you did nonetheless. It took a few tries to get the flame to catch but finally it started to burn. You reached above it and cracked the window open before adding more cardboard from the boxes. It would burn a little longer than the papers.

Your attention was then on Daryl. You pulled the blankets from your packs. They weren't very thick but they were dry. You spread the first on the floor and tossed the other at the bottom of it. Like you, his clothes were nearly frozen, crackling when you touched them. “Hey.” You said quietly, touching his freezing cheek. He didn’t respond. And he still wasn’t shivering. Your breathing became irregular and you could swear your frozen body began to heat up when you thought of what was coming next.

“Fuck.” You muttered. It felt wrong to not have his permission to remove his clothing, but it was a matter of life and death. You would just have to ask for forgiveness later. The archer was completely lax, making stripping him down quite the task. Your own body seemed to be starting to shut down by the time you dragged him over to the blanket and rolled him onto it. Closing your eyes for the sake of his modesty, you grabbed the waistband of his boxer-briefs and tugged them down his legs. With quick movements, you tossed the second blanket over him.

As an afterthought, you pushed the desk from the corner to both barricade the door and to hang the wet clothing across so it could all dry. Removing your own clothes was about the last thing you could handle, staggering as you draped them across the desk with Daryl’s before you found yourself staring down at the covered archer. His color was no better and from where you stood, you could hardly tell if he was breathing.

“I’m sorry.” You whispered, pulling the blanket up just enough to slide under it with him. According to the movies, you needed to lie together to warm one another. Not just together but together. With a deep breath, you grabbed his shoulder and rolled him toward you, cradling his head just below your chin. Even with your own chilled skin, you found him to be absolutely freezing. You positioned one leg between his and the other over his hip, trying very hard to ignore certain parts that were touching. With a twist of your upper body, you were able to grab your pack to use as a pillow and then started to rub your hand up and down his arm. “Come on. You’re Daryl fucking Dixon. You kill zombies and ride a motorcycle. I refuse to tell people that some snow and ice took you down.”

The room gradually warmed and you thought just maybe you felt some warmth returning to Daryl’s body. Your own shivering was becoming less and less jarring. Your hand moved from his arm to his back, the flesh cold and slightly damp. When his breath went from shallow and quiet to ragged tremors and he began to violently shake, you couldn’t help but wonder if you had done it all wrong. Was he dying? Would you be the one holding him when he took his final breath? Would you be forced to drive the blade that kept him from turning?

“Please, don’t die, Daryl.” You sobbed, holding him tighter while your tears fell onto his wet hair. Your embarrassment at being butt-ass naked and pressed against your best friend was forgotten, every thought consumed by grief as if he were already gone. “There’s so much I need to tell you. You can’t die until I do.” Without thought, you pressed your lips to his forehead and pulled him close enough to feel his cool breath against your neck, your vision graying at the edges. “You can’t die.” You whispered, finally giving in to the pull of exhaustion.

The fire had long ago burned out, sunlight driving away the shadows behind your eyelids. When you blinked open your eyes, you could see the snow still lazily falling. You felt panic grip your heart. You propped yourself up on your forearm and peered down at Daryl, almost crying with relief. Some color had returned, his lips pale but no longer blue. His skin had pinkened, gradually returning to its natural tan. You dropped your forehead against his temple.

“Oh, thank god.” He was breathing deeply and evenly, his body free of tremors. Only resting. You felt the chill of the room sweep beneath the blanket from where you had moved, and your eyes widened. “Shit, the fire.” You made to get up but an arm snaked around your waist and held you. “Daryl?”

“Warm.” He murmured against your collarbone.

“I can get the fire going and we can get dressed. I had to get us warm. I had to get you warm. I’m so sor—”

Daryl hummed and only tightened his hold. “Warm now.”

Your heart pounded a tattoo into your ribs, your blood rushing so loudly in your ears that you wondered if he could hear it. Slowly, hesitantly, you rested your head back on your bag.

“Ya cold?”

You hadn’t even realized you were trembling but the answer to his question was a quiet “no, I’m okay.”

“Yer shakin’.”

“Yeah.” You watched as he tilted his head back to catch your gaze. He looked tired but otherwise, his color was steadily returning and his skin felt like fire against your own. Could it be a fever? “You…um… you’re really warm.”

He hummed, nuzzling his nose against your lower jaw. “What’d ya wanna tell me?” He rasped. You felt the tone of it straight down to the apex of your thighs. You tried to press them together, forgetting his leg was caught in between.

“Tell…,” you cleared your throat, “tell you?” You managed to squeak out. When you felt his lips press against your pulse, you stopped breathing, suddenly very aware of the lack of space between your naked bodies. And the press of his arousal against your stomach.

“Mmhmm. Las’ night. Y’said I couldn’ die ‘til ya told me.” He continued to press hot, open-mouthed kisses along your jaw, slowly ensuring your ability to summon any coherent thought would be inaccessible.

“I…did.” You tilted your head back, granting him access to the full canvas of your throat. Daryl moved up onto his forearm, his other hand wrapping around the back of your neck.

“Well?”

You lowered your head, causing him to move back but not much. He kept his face centimeters from yours, your lips almost touching.

“Well what?” You kept your eyes on his mouth, your breath stuttering when he dragged his tongue over his lower lip. The hand on the back of your neck came around to grasp your chin, your eyes flickering up to find his already looking back. That mesmerizing blue was nearly lost to his dilated pupils. His gaze was so intense that you tried to look away but his gentle grip remained, keeping you there. His head tilted slightly, lips whispering against your own.

“I didn’ die.”

Your mouth crashed into his, teeth clicking and tongues dancing. It wasn’t at all what you imagined but you had both come so close to death only hours ago. All that pent up anxiety and fear boiling to the surface to present itself as desire and passion.

You gasped when he used his weight to push you onto your back, settling himself between your thighs with nothing between his cock and your needy pussy. If you could think straight, you’d be embarrassed of how wet you were.

When he pulled away to look down at you, you whined at the loss of him, chasing his lips but coming to a halt when he wrapped a large hand around your throat, effectively rendering you immobile.

“Tell me.”

“I…” You felt too open, too vulnerable. What if you spilled your heart, held it out to him, and he rejected you. A voice in your brain told you to consider that you were currently pinned under his naked body but your fear of losing him— of scaring him away— quickly silenced it. “Daryl—“

“Tell me this ain’t whatcha want n’ it stops.”

Gone was the lust driven archer, replaced by soft, kind eyes that were searching your own. You laid a hand over the one on your neck, then moved it to trace the line of his jaw.

“It’d be a lie.” You offered quietly. “I’ve wanted this since the farm. Since you called me a ‘oompa loompa with tits.’” The corner of his mouth ticked upward for the briefest of moments. “I’ve wanted you.” He kissed you again, slower this time, a slow dance of lips and tongues that left you breathless when he pulled away.

You felt the tip of him nudge against your entrance and pulled your legs up to anchor your thighs over his hips. Daryl pushed into you slowly, pulling his bottom lip in between his teeth to keep from groaning. He wanted too badly to hear the sound you were making. Your small hands were on his back, fingernails dragging over soft flesh and raised scars to leave red marks in their wake.

By the time his hips pressed flat against you, his cock nestled inside your warmth, you were both panting. He started slow, a steady push and pull that had you arching into him, reveling in the feel of the movement inside you. It was all you thought it would be when you pictured this while alone with your thoughts of him. All that and more. He was gentle, attentive. He listened to the hitches in your breaths and the quiet moans, getting to know your body and what you liked.

Daryl placed a hand on either side of your head and pushed himself up, dipping his head to your chest to map the flesh with his lips. His facial hair rubbed against your skin with a delicious scrape, the minute pain just enough to cause your hips to buck underneath him. You felt him smile around the nipple between his teeth.

“Daryl.” You breathed his name while your petite fingers wrapped around his shoulders and held tight. There was a familiar burn in your lower stomach, the knot pulling tighter and tighter with each thrust. “You feel so good.” You whined, feeling your body begin to buzz as your orgasm crept closer. You wanted him closer, wanted to feel more of him. It would never be close enough. “Please. Please, please, please.” Tears gathered on your lashes, your head shaking.

“Sshh. I gotcha.” The archer grunted, moving faster to chase his own release. When you pulled at him, he was more than willing to comply, lowering to his forearms so you could catch his mouth. His hand inched down your body, wedging between to press his thumb against your swollen clit. You pulled your mouth away from his and arched into him. Two or three tight circles was all it took for you to fall apart.

“Daryl!” You cried, holding tightly to him as wave after wave crested, your body spasming. “I love you.” You whispered against his ear, your eyes closed and brain shrouded in a blissful fog. You felt his movements stutter before stopping completely, his warmth spilling into you. His hips rolled lazily a few more times before you felt more of his weight come down on you. It was a little hard to breathe but you’d be fuck if you’d complain.

As if he could hear your thoughts, Daryl pulled out of you slowly and rolled to your side, adjusting the blanket and pulling you into his arms. You were still processing how this all happened. Last night, you were both frozen and you were begging him not to die. Now, you were both sweaty and sticky and clinging to one another after doing something you never thought you’d get to do.

And that’s when doubt began to creep in. What did this mean? Did he just take an opening when he saw one? Did he actually want you? He hadn’t said much aside from what he needed to in order to get your permission. And then you had— ‘oh my god’ — you said you loved him.

“Yer thinkin’ real loud righ’ now.” His raspy voice startled you enough to flinch.

“Sorry.” You mumbled, not really knowing what else to say. You really had said enough, hadn’t you?

“Did ya mean it?” Daryl shifted to lie on his side, resting his head on one end of your pack while you did the same on the other end. It suddenly felt like there were miles between you.

“Yeah.” You whispered, keeping your eyes on where your hand lay in the space between your bodies. “Yeah, I did. I do.” With a deep breath, you continued, already resigned to the inevitable. “It’s okay if you don’t feel the same. This doesn’t have to change anything.”

“Ya think I don’ feel the same?”

When you lifted your eyes, the incredulous expression on his face perplexed the hell out of you. “Wait… do you?”

“Do ya even hafta ask?” He chuckled and pulled you close again, burying his face in your hair. “From the start, crazy girl.” You laughed, you weren’t sure why, but it felt like the right thing to do. Daryl was a man of action, never so much for words. And thinking about it now, he really had shown you over and over.

“What now then?” You absently traced shapes onto the left side of his chest, giggling when he pressed a kiss to the top of your head.

“Still snowin’. Guess I need ta make sure yer nice n’ warm ‘til we can make our way home.”

Laughter erupted out of you as the blanket was pulled over your heads and he rolled you onto your back again, kissing and nibbling at any piece of skin he could manage.

And you didn’t worry about the cold anymore.

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nevertheless-moving · 9 months

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But Peter Parker (no not that one, the other — yeah that guy) does actually have an OnlyAdmirer’s account though.

He doesn’t remember exactly when he started it — sometime after losing the job at the pizza place and before picking up the tutoring hours; he remembered he was short for one of Aunt May’s prescriptions that month, but isn’t sure anymore which one it was. Sometime during college.

Low ebb on crime that week, which meant he wasn’t making much from the Bugle, but he did have some extra time, enough to take a deep breathand set up the encyptions on his account (he should probably go this hard for all his spiderman stuff too, but eh, it had been fine so far).

He wears a mask (no not that one, though he did consider it because, you know, it would be freaking hilarious).

He pulls...a grand, whopping total of.... $100 a month. Wahoo.

Ok, maybe a little more on average; and sometimes its up to $200! It’s just worth the fees and the time, and after a while he has to admit it’s less stressful than any of his other gigs.

At first he’s paranoid about someone finding out, both in his personal life and his superheroics (he has, like, 10 self righteous rants prepared about the moral neutrality, nay the moral Good of sex work).

(He’s a little disappointed that it never comes up.} Eventually he doesn't think about it, especially not on patrol, not any more than he thinks about the taco shop, or the GrubHob gig, or any of the bazillion odd jobs that come with working class heroics. Eventually he doesn’t think not to mention it, and the set-up was perfect for him to — ok— sue him, he might have been trying to sound cool in front of an X-Man who was laughing at his jokes— He, uh. May have forgotten. How much X-Men gossip. It’s not like it would have been a big deal had the press event not happened two days later, and— why do other people always get a laugh when they repeat his jokes anyway!

Plus! He was on maybe two hours sleep when the tabloid asked him point blank and for a moment he was so wrapped in the euphoria of a non-Bugle rag interviewing him, and also not yelling at him for damages or anything serious, that he forgot he lived in a world where sex-work was stigmatized so— yeah. Good news! His secret identities are still fine, no-one’s even figured out which OnlyAccount is his. Bad news! Because his secret identity’s still intact, and noone’s figured out which twink is spiderpowered, he’s still only going to make $134 this month, which is barely more than minimum wage when you include prep time.

Other good news! Most fun he’s ever had explaining something from the internet to Jonah.

#peter parker #spiderman #spiderman fanfiction #nevertheless writing #Bad news he got kicked out of the Bugle headquarters #which means he’s either going to have to find time for another stream or go fishing in the Hudson for more lost wallets #JJJ: Bring Me Pictures of Spiderman! I don’t know what Website that Wallcrawler is ruining now but I want—#Betty: already recording #Peter (eyes glowing) (levitating slightly) : [deep inhale]#inspired by reading through brawltogether’s spiderman tag

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evillittlebirdie · 7 months

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Salvation (Kar'niss/Tav)

Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five Chapter Six Chapter Seven Chapter Eight

Once Kar'niss was forced inside the cage, the cleric locked him inside and left him alone. He didn't know how long he stood there, unable to get comfortable no matter how he positioned his legs. The cleric returned with two orcs and a Drow male guard. And within minutes, Kar'niss' cage was loaded on a wheeled pallet. The male guard led the way while the orcs pulled the pallet.

"This is not necessary," Kar'niss protested as he grabbed the metal bars of his cage. He attempted to get the Drow's attention, "I accept my fate. I will go with you wherever you will take me."

The Drow turned to look at him, and Kar'niss felt his hope rise. Instead, the Drow only looked at him with disgust. He shuddered before looking forward. It was the lost contact Kar'niss would have with a fellow Drow for a very long time.

Kar'niss did not know how far away he was from Menzoberranzan when the Drow and ogres stopped their travel. His cage was unlocked, and Kar'niss stepped out hesitantly. Kar'niss had lived in the city all of his life. He looked around. The cold, dark subterrane spotted unfamiliar bioluminescent lighting. He could see a body of water in the distance that stretched far beyond his eyesight. They had dropped him off at the border of Northdark. But beyond that, he had no orientation.

Kar'niss was silent as the entourage left him alone with no weapons or provisions. There was no use in wasting breath.

Gone was his family and his purpose. The only hope he had was twisted with his faith. He could only hope by accepting his punishment that Lolth would take mercy on him one day. Either she would let him die quickly or change him back.

For days, Kar'niss explored the territory. It didn't take long for him to learn to walk fluidly with his body. That didn't mean he was used to it. He didn't realize how much he missed lying down out of everything. He tried to sustain himself only on lichen and mushrooms, but the bloodlust quickly overcame his senses. He pounced on the first living creature in sight. A frog. And fortunately, there was more where that came from. Kar'niss followed the army of frogs until he arrived at the body of water he saw on his first day.

After Kar'niss had his fill of frogs' blood, he walked over to the water's edge. It was unhealthy morbidity that prompted the movement. It had been days since he had the luxury of reflection. He leaned down to take a proper look.

Kar'niss knew, abstractly, that the extra eyes were there. It had been an odd, additional sensory input that he had to deal with. But to see the black blinking eyes on his face was to solidify his fate. Kar'niss whimpered before moving his hands along his face. His eye color had changed from carmine to black and sienna. Beyond the physical changes, he looked filthy. He hadn't bathed since the day of the test. He used to take such pride in his hair. He loved to braid it and decorate it with jewels. He would run his fingers through it to soothe himself when unhappy. It was his tiny source of joy, the one bit of self-indulgence his mother did not object to. Now, it was ratty, thin, slick. The exoskeleton on his arms and torso reflected against the water.

Kar'niss leaned closer to inspect the new ridges of his skin when he suddenly felt his balance waver. His legs lost their footing on the embankment. Kar'niss fell face-first into the water. The shock made him inhale liquid. His body flailed in shallow water before he finally got his footing in the sand. He forced himself up and quickly fled from the water. Drenched and discouraged, Kar'niss retreated into one of the nearby caves. It would be years before he saw his face again.

***

Tav was rather woozy after feeding her vampire spawn and filling up an empty bottle for Kar'niss. She hoped the bottle was enough. She read that driders needed blood every four days. But the literature she read did not specify how much blood a drider needed. If the bottle were not satisfactory, Tav would need to outsource. She was not a blood farm, after all.

"Kar'niss!" Tav called out once she reached the cave. The basket she left earlier in the day was gone. The sight thrilled her. Tav was not sure what Kar'niss needed. But she figured he needed a lantern to leave the cave. Water would quench any thirst. The books would help with boredom while he recovered. And Tav figured that a blanket would keep him warm.

Tav had another basket with her. This one was smaller. Inside the basket was the bottle of blood and a locket. Arabella's parents gave her a locket in exchange for saving her from Kagha. Tav couldn't bear to sell it, and fortunately, Elminster stabilized Gale's orb before he needed to consume its magical properties. The locket could summon a circle of dancing lights. Kar'niss could find it helpful for when he was hunting.

When Tav heard the skittering, she smiled. His movements sounded more fluid. Kar'niss was recovering. The drider emerged from the cave and presented himself with a low bow. "Her Majesty's Chosen..." Kar'niss began with a reverent smile. But then, his face paled with anxiety, "No, no, no. Not Her Majesty's Chosen, they said. 'Too much of a mouthful'. But we cannot say the name. They are Absolute." His teeth worried his lower lip, drawing blood quickly.

"Wait, wait," Tav quickly interjected, alarmed at the stereotypy. "You do not want to call me Tav?" She was confused about why Kar'niss had such a difficult time with her title.

"No!" Kar'niss quavered, taking a step back. "To obey we dishonor, but to honor we disobey."

Finally, the answer dawned on Tav. "You will not call me by my given name."

"Improper!" Kar'niss concurred with a nod, now moving his gaze back to her.

"Then...what is something you are comfortable with calling me? Something short but respectable," Tav prompted. She wanted to avoid where this was going. She could use a drider as a fighter by her side, but she did not want a slave.

Kar'niss hesitated before he offered, "Mistress. It's familiar."

Tav took care not to wince at the title visibly. She certainly had never been addressed a 'mistress' before. It would take getting used to. "We'll work towards Tav. But if you're willing, I'll take 'Mistress.'"

Kar'niss smiled hesitantly. He raised himself to his full height. His shoulders slumped down as though a weight was lifted off his shoulders.

Tav glanced down at the bottle of blood. Hoping to lighten the situation and change the subject, she gave an uneasy chuckle. "So I read that driders need blood. We don't have many options for fresh blood..." Tav stopped herself from speaking. Maybe telling Kar'niss that the blood was hers wasn't the best option. "But I was able to get this for you." She offered him the bottle of blood.

Kar'niss stared at the bottle, his lips opening slightly. Tav could see his fangs peeking out. "They offer blood..." He perplexed. Just like with the haggis, Kar'niss slowly reached forward only to recoil.

Patiently, Tav kept the bottle in her outreached hand. "I take care of those under my command. You saw my companions. Did they look neglected?"

Kar'niss quickly pointed out, sinking back into a bow, "They are well equipped and serve you satisfactorily. A fair mistress feeds her slaves. They obey or will be shamed. Useless slaves do not eat ."

After analyzing Kar'niss' statement, Tav realized how conditional he thought each action was. She wanted to clarify that her companions were not slaves. She would rather have that conversation with Kar'niss than him accidentally spouting out rhetoric in front of Astarion.

If Kar'niss was any other person, Tav could tell them she would care for any injuries or nourishment. She would then offer two options. They could either leave with no obligation to reimburse. Or, they could stay and pull their weight in one fashion or another. Tav figured Kar'niss would collapse if she offered him that level of freedom. So, as it stood, Kar'niss was her responsibility.

"If I believe you are without use, I will tell you. Do you think you know more than me?" Tav accused. She hated to be firm with him. Especially when he recoiled even more, almost curling into himself. But she needed to get her point across.

Kar'niss fretted, "No, no, no. Of course not, Mistress."

"So, to keep you in service, I am providing blood," Tav persuaded him. "Please, take it."

Kar'niss looked at the bottle and then at Tav, much like the haggis. He took the bottle. One of his claws grazed against Tav's hand. It was not sharp like Tav thought. Instead, the claw was dense and smooth, like stone. Kar'niss moved the bottle down to his pedipalps. The bottle caught snugly on the hook of his left pedipalp.

"I bet that's handy," Tav pointed out, chuckling at her pun. Oh, Astarion would kill her if he was there.

Confused, Kar'niss looked at her and then back to his pedipalps. He didn't respond. Tav could see his eyes flickering back and forth. How long had it been since Kar'niss shared a pleasant conversation with someone? And even then, was it a frequent reoccurrence?

Fortunately for both of them, it was Kar'niss who changed the subject.

"Mistress...they have humbled us with their gifts. I ask them to please take pity on this ignorant creature. Tell this beast what they request as tribute."

"Ummmm...." Tav was nonplused, unsure how to respond, "No need for tribute. I told you that I didn't need anything. Just get better. Please...rise..."

Hesitantly, Kar'niss raised his body to his full height. "Yes...of course...I understand. I will serve to the best of my ability. I am contemptible. Once I regain my full strength, I will protect you with my life. No hair on your head shall be mussed, no sweat shall be broken, and no blood shall be shed. Not while I breathe."

Tav felt her cheeks redden at the proclamation. No one had ever done that for her. She knew that her companions would fight for her, as would she for them. But no one ever vowed in such a way for her. Something uncomfortable shifted in her belly before an odd sense of satisfaction waved through her.

"Thank you," Tav let out, unknowingly letting out an exhale. She didn't know what to say other than that. It felt lacking, given the depth of Kar'niss' vow. But the locket may show her appreciation. Tav reached into the basket to pull out the locket and showed it to Kar'niss. The drider bent over, inspecting the jewelry.

"I know I gave you a lantern. But I wanted to share this with you as well. It can summon dancing lights. Just an added bit of protection. I also like watching them. It lifts the spirit in this bleak place," Tav told him.

Kar'niss' breath was taken away at the sight of the locket. "For...for me...But...it's pretty. And pretty things are not for...us...monster..." He shrunk back, repeating the pattern of initially rejecting Tav's offering. "Long ago, long ago...under the spider...Not now. Deplorable, base creature."

Tav once more played off her comrades, "You saw my companions. The circlets my men wear. Aren't they pretty? They're also powerful."

"You would put me with them?" Kar'niss' eyes widened at that implication. Something in him paused with wonder and then the slightest flash of hope. "I...I can have something that shows I am in your force. So all could know I serve Her Majesty."

"Yes," Tav affirmed cautiously. She unclasped the necklace. She held the two ends of the chain and gestured Kar'niss to move in closer. Kar'niss acquiesced. Now that Tav and Kar'niss were almost face to face, Tav could take in the lines on his face. At one point, Kar'niss had to be stunningly handsome. She could see it in his cheekbones and facial structure. She took in the scar on his lip and the ridges on his cheek down to his neck. His eyes were piercing, striking. Tav clasped the locket around Kar'niss' neck, brushing her hand against his hair as she did so. Under the grime and oil, his hair could be as white and luxurious as Astarion's. Tav could borrow some pomade and rosemary oil from Astarion to wash Kar'niss' hair.

Once the locket was secure, Tav stepped away from him. Kar'niss straightened to his full height. He seemed taller than what Tav initially noticed. Maybe it was that drop of happiness Tav was able to give him. He looked at the locket as though it was a holy relic. His hand hesitantly touched the locket in awe. "Thank you, Mistress," Kar'niss breathed out. She could hear the tears in his voice before he finally sobbed.

"Kar'niss!" Tav cried, "What's wrong?"

"You have given us, given me , everything. Shelter, food, blood, provisions, this beautiful pendant. You have not scorned or punished. I've talked out of turn and been obstinate. I should prostrate myself at your feet. Yet you give and smile . I am not worthy of this light. Please, Mistress," Kar'niss cried out. His hands went to his face to cover his eyes. He continued to bawl, "I shame you, I shame myself. I shame Her Majesty with unclean, vile, unholy thoughts. If you knew, Mistress, how prideful and selfish this beast is. Rutting, savage, ugly monster. Unfit, unfit!"

It was then that Kar'niss pulled from Tav's company and retreated into the cave.

Bewildered, Tav stood there, unsure whether to follow or give him space. The caring part of her wanted to follow him over the practical part of leaving him. Typically, the caregiver won out. And this instance was similar.

Tav stepped to the mouth of the cavern, looking into the darkness. She could see webs in the light. The cave must have been longer than she thought because she couldn't see Kar'niss. She took a few hesitant steps before walking further into the cave.

#whumptober 2023 #no.14 #Feed me poison fill me till I drown #flare #water inhalation #“Just hold on”#tw angst #baldurs gate 3 #kar'niss/tav #kar'niss #writing #bg3 fanfiction #baldur's gate 3

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spookythesillyfella · 11 days

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i keep thinking about making digitaltime content but .. i don't know what to do ... :[

anyway that one text post made me think of my colin birthday art so yk . whatever . i am okay with that .

★ [ original text post under cut ]

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unfortunatesenseofhumour · 4 months

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Well I found a Naruto founders era fic series called Without A Softness Showing about four days ago and have binged the first fic for each perspective so far. That's about 500,000 words. Send help.

Seriously though, it's an amazing fic series and as soon as I was finished I was struck by the urge to draw Runa-sama, Tobirama's nogitsune summons. Every time she's on screen everything feels so horrifying and tense and I love it so much, peak inhuman character.

Please excuse the sloppy calligraphy, it's been years since I even touched the English stuff, much less kanji.

@wyrvel @simkjrs I'm not sure what the etiquette is for @ing people here, but I hope you don't mind? I offer sincere praise and art in exchange for disturbing you.

#fanart #without a softness showing #fanfic #fanart of fanfiction #I have read half a million words in the past four days help #my brain got yoinked and is currently spaghettifying itself trying to wrap around this entire series #I want to inhale the insanity I feed on it like Runa except more socially awkward

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perfectly-clear-from-here · 7 months

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inhaler chapter 4 is up now!!

Chapter 4. anticipation has a habit Fandom: The Last Shadow Puppets, Arctic Monkeys Rating: Mature Relationships: Miles Kane/Alex Turner Additional Tags: Friends to Lovers, pre-TAOTU, miles has insomnia, Slow Burn, Lots of denial, Light Angst, Fluff, Eventual Smut, Mutual Pining, Drunkenness

Snippet:

“Mate, could those jeans get any tighter?” A lad in the crowd hollers at Miles's skin-tight white denims.

“Course you’d like to know, wouldn’t ya?” Miles jests, followed by the chorus of girly giggles and rough whistles. The frisson of the party starts to settle into his bones.

“Ah don’t worry ‘bout that, ‘m sure they’ll be off before the end of t’night,” Matt assures them with a grin. “Ain’t that right Alex?” Alex forces an elbow into Matt’s ribs, but he might as well just be adding a bathtub worth of fuel to the fire. "Aye don't think your bloody oglings going unnoticed, 'nd I've only been here five seconds!"

#GUYS WTF I CANT BELIEVE IM FINALLY POSTING THIS ITS BEEN MISSIONS #ty to everyone for sticking around seriously im eternally grateful for ye lot #ANYWAY WHY ARE YOU STILL HERE GO READ IT (please and ty <3)#milex #milex fic #milex fanfiction #inhaler #miles kane #alex turner #baby milex #milex fic recs #fan fiction #tlsp #the last shadow puppets #ao3

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killersfool · 5 months

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hiiii i’ve a wee fluff imagine idea for bobby!! : )

bobby and the reader live together in a flat in dublin and the reader goes to trinity uni to study english literature (or smt else that has like a lot of reading and essay writing anol that craic) and she’s falling behind in a lot of her assignments and it’s all piling up and she’s just all overwhelmed and doesn’t know how to cope.

she ends up breaking down into sobs or shutting down at random points in the day due to stress and rob hasn’t got a clue what’s wrong and keeps noticing these random break downs throughout the week.

basically he comforts reader and helps to organise herself and just all fluffy cute comfort fic <333

If I could flip back time, bend the seconds and go back three years ago, I would do it right now.

Pile after pile of flashcards, annotated books with pastel post-it notes shooting out of the sides, folders of Irish poetry I can hardly understand, tattered photocopies of Hozier lyrics, every work of Shakespeare staring at me from my overcrowded booksheld — dusty, messy, probably even dank. Miss Carter has decided to set three more assignments onto my workload for the week. An essay on crime fiction (I haven't even read the first book on the reading list), my creative writing portfolio and then another essay analysing a piece poetry of my choice. Reading and highlighting Hozier's lyrics of 'I, Carrion (Icarian)' is the only thing keeping me going. Phoebe Bridgers blasts through my ears. It's quarter to 11. I need a break. An early night would be nice. Or TV. But do I really want to sit next to Robert whilst he watches his weird YouTube videos?

I kick my table. Not out of anger. Not out of irritation. I just want to see all of my notes topple ontp the floor. They do. Then I'm kicking the table three more times. Or maybe eight. All my flashcards are on the carpeted floor, next to my discarded, empty packet of pinballs. I'd stolen them from Robert's stash. He'll never find out.

Climbing over my pile of unread books by my doorway, I push open the door. It squeaks. Some oiling would be nice. Trinity college really provides the best for their students!

I still wish my roommate was also doing English, someone to bond with over shared trauma, to gossip about our nightmarish teachers and fellow students. But no, this guy is doing a degree in bloody mathematics. The complete dichotomy of English. No similarities. No way of comparing the courses to eachother. Him and his terrifying videos that he watches with his shoes up on the armrest, cheek in his open palm, drinking a cup of tea. Like it's that simple. Numbers and sin, cos, tan and circle theorems and whatever tragic nonsense is being spouted in his lectures.

He hardly speaks to me. Three years together and I barely know him. Sometimes I tag along with him when he goes out for breakfast. Once every two weeks. Sunday morning. We talk about school, about friends, about anything that pops in our heads. Yesterday we spoke about music. He originally wanted to pursue a career in music. A band. But they didn't work out. He took a gap year to pursue this group. So he's a year older than all of the other third years. He doesn't let that faze him. When he told me stories about his band, 'Inhaler', I had to lose eye contact, look down at the pink marshmellos floating about in my cup. He looked lost. This wasn't the place for him. He missed the confidence upon stage, the ability of making something out of nothing. Life is unfair. That is when I realised it. Hearing about shattered dreams and names of songs that were never produced.

I also realise life is unfair right now, as I accidentally bang my hip onto the kicthen island, the knife-like corner lodging itself into my skin. It's like the world is against me.

Sometimes I wonder if Robert thinks I'm an idiot. I feel like I'm an idiot when I walk past his bedroom, hunched over his laptop, headphones on as he works through the most difficult maths questions I've ever encountered in my life. He makes university seem easy. Has his allocated times for study, going out with friends, the gym, practicing bass, going though record shops, meals, watching TV. Everytime he gets home, he drops his things down in the kitchen. I sneak a glance at the big green 'A*' on all of his test papers. I look up to him. His intelligence, his masterful management of time. I'm always too frightened to ask him how he does it. He'll think I'm stalking him.

Me, on the other hand, I waste time. I don't have balance. I never have time to be with my friends. Always locked up in my room. A prisoner. Essay after essay. Poem after poem. Book after book. A constant cycle I've been in for three whole years. The stress is weighing down on me like a hundred bags of bricks. I need to stop for a second. To breathe in. To calm down.

So I do the last thing I would normally do. I go into the living room and sit beside Robert on the sofa. He's half asleep, jeans cuffed, hair all over his face. He sees me walk in, glances up, eyes big and speculting. He instantly moves his spindly, spider-like legs from the armrest to give me some space. I can hear some sort of maths video playing on the TV. I'm scared. At least it's not English. I'm immune to maths. It doesn't affect me anymore. Whatever logorhythmic scale this American YouTube man is yapping about isn't making my face contort at all — it's like sorcery.

This could be a way of winding down. Maths. I'm calmer now. No changes of focus or narrowing of perspective. No pathetic fallacy or magical realism. Just messes of words that don't really make sense at all.

"'D'you want to watch TV? I can turn this off if you want." Robert has his thumb on the home button.

"Leave it on. I just need a moment."

He dubiously puts the remote back down. He yawns, stretching out his arms and leaning back. I hate it when boys do that. With his parted, manspreaded legs, adams apple bobbing, head rolled back. It's idiotic. Completely idiotic. He doesn't seem too intrigued by Mr American man. The video is a guy next to a whiteboard writing millions of brain-numbing equtions. Robert is nodding along. I think I'm going to cry. I don't know why I want to right now. My hip is actually starting to throb and ache. I look down at my jeans. There's a hole in them. There's blood. It's wet. I hadn't noticed before. It's properly pouring out blood.

"Fuck. Fuck. Fuck." I exclaim, hand pressing down onto the cut through my jeans.

Robert swiftly nears me. He's looking at me up and down, hands trying to find a place to move to. It's dark in the room. He reaches for the lamp switch. "What is it? Are you okay?"

"I'm bleeding. Jesus christ. That kills. Fuck me."

He passes me his jacket and says, "Apply some pressure."

Then he runs out of the room. Fast as a plane. A man on a mission. Long curls dancing to the rhythm of his steps. Mr American man won't shut up about algebraic expressions. He's got a really bald head. Glimmering.

Robert is back. He has bandages. I don't know where he got those from. Antiseptic wipes, plasters, sweets, even a cup of tea. He was only gone for about five seconds. How did he manage to get all of that? He hands me the cup of tea and sweets whilst asking, "What happened?"

"I walked into the island like an eejit. I'm so feckin' stupid."

"Just breathe, okay. You're not an eejit. I do that every day."

I have to unzip my jeans to let him check the cut. Which is awkward, to say the least. He's looking at me like a doctor — not really caring about seeing my skin — but I'm still so shy around him. He sees me struggle with the button. He undoes it, fingers coming in contact with mine. They're slender. So very perfect for the bass guitar. Then he's unzipping my jeans. Only the tiniest bit. A mere centimetre of my knickers appear out of the top. Any more than that and I'd be flush as a tomato. I've always had a little crush on Robert. Being stuck with a really smart bass guitarist with the dreamiest eyes for three years is enough to make a person fall. The reason I've been avoiding him lately has been due to that fact. I don't want to make it obvious.

He finds the cut. It's bled through my knickers, making a big blot of dark red. He pulls down the waistband of my pants, prepared to wipe the wound. I have to grind my teeth together to prevent a sob from escaping me. I'm crying. Stressed and hurt and just wanting to dissolve into nothing. The cold draft of wind isn't improving the situation. If only there was no such thing as coursework and I couldn't glide my way through university like Robert.

More and more blood. I think I might pass out. The blue-eyed boy is knelt down on the floor, knees biting into the carpet so that he can properly see where to put the bandage.

"So how's English going?" He's not looking at me. Only at the wound. I don't think he's noticed that I'm crying. I don't want him to. I cover my face with bloody hands, accidentally smearing the metallic substance onto my nose.

I don't know what to say. Do I tell him how much I regret picking it? Do I make this already awkward situation about ten times worse? I hate when people pity me. I hate when I feel like eyes are lingering for far too long when I cry. But when Robert looks at me, it's different. The pools of serenity circling his iris aren't looking down at me with a sort of aristocracy. That's how my English peers stare me down. No, instead, he's looking at me like there's a billion questions rushing across his forehead. He just needs to decide which one to ask. Or to simply say nothing. Like I am. We've both learnt how to cohabit in silence. To walk past eachother and ignore the feathers of conversation falling between us. We're busy. Always busy. Except for those perfect Monday mornings that I always look forward to. Especially the one time when he showed me around his favourite record store. He had asked me to choose him a record to buy. I walked through the entire shop, fingers shifting records, reading unfamiliar artist names. Then, I saw it, the — now bane of my existence — Hozier's 'unreal unearth'. He bought it. He'd told me he only really knew 'Take Me To Church'. I'd leant against the till as he paid and said, 'it'll change your life.' Then he'd locked himself in his room. Through the ever so thin walls — paper thin — I could hear each track hum into my room. I never got the chance to talk to him about the album. I think the thought of bringing it up made me feel sick — due to the English essay upstairs still waiting patiently to be finished.

Now there is an excuse. To talk. I'm injured. I don't want to move. He's still attempting to wrap a bandage over my stomach, then across my back until it's around my torso. I feel his fingers graze my skin with every subtle movement, along my spine, the small of my back, my abdomen, my hip bone. He's still looking at me. Searching. Like I'm a new island and he's an explorer trying to name me.

"What's up, sweetheart?" He finally talks again. His words are throaty, emananting from the pits of his throat. He's still wrapping, waiting for an answer.

"Just college. You know. It's killing me."

He shakes his head. "You're so smart."

"Says you."

He shakes his head. "Look, this might be a bit weird but sometimes when you leave random essays lying around or even creative writing. I read them. They're incredible. Your mind just works in such an interesting way."

I'm at a loss for words. He reads those? Those are usually just failed attempts that I toss aside. Scrap paper. Strange drawings. I don't even want to look at them.

"You get top grades in every test," I sigh. "I'm barely passing. I'm the worst in the class. My professors hate me, I've got so much work, I'm falling behind in every assignment—"

Then I'm properly crying. Sobbing. Breathing so heavily I think I might collapse. Heaving. Sniffling. Covering my face so he can't see me. I'm like a child. Pathetic. Stupid. Worthless. I was never good enough for Trinity. Why did they let me in?

Warm arms, press of skin. Just above the wound, over my chest, arms dig into my body, hugging me from behind. Head burrowing onto my shoulders, knees into the sofa. His lips ghost the back of my neck. Tears are falling down. He turns me around to face him. I hate how he's seeing me like this. My cries are usually saved for when he's out with friends or blasting music on his record player. He's never seen me this vulnerable, just utterly ripped into shreds by the hands of life. His scent is making me feel better, the tissue now on my cheek makes me feel better, the quiet words of 'breathe, let it all out, it's okay' make me feel better. He's calming me down. I start to forget what I was even crying about when I look into his eyes. This intense eye contact. Remembering his height. Even sat down, his torso is far longer than mine.

"I've got an idea," he murmurs, peeling his body away. I miss the warmth. I miss the touch.

"What is it?"

"We should go somewhere. Get out for a bit. Say it's a 'mental health field trip'." He curls his fingers to accentuate the apostrophes."Maybe down to the Cliffs of Moher. When you're all healed up of course."

"Give me a week."

"A week? I'll be the judge of that." He raises an eyebrow, now tying up the bandage.

"Where did you learn all this?"

"I'm actually first aid trained. Did it in my first week of uni." He takes a deep breath, settles back onto the sofa.

I take a sip of my tea. My eyes are surely blotchy and red. I bet there's mascara all over my face. "Thank you so much."

"No problem at all. Do you want to tell me what's going on? Is there any way I can help?" He's referring to my school work. "I was alright at English in high school. No where near as good as you are. But maybe another opinion might help you."

"I'm really stuck on a Hozier analysis."

"I never told you how much I love that album. It's perfect." His eyes glow like they do when he's talking about something he loves. Usually it's caused by talking about playing bass, but right now it's due to the beauty of Hozier's music. "I learned the bass line of De Selby part two."

"Show me. Now." I don't even ask. It's simply a demand. Anything to take my mind away from that cut still bleeding profusely. A little concert would be nice. Especially if said concert involves watching Robert play bass. I sometimes peek through the crack in the doorway to see him sat down on his bed, pick between his index and thumb, bass guitar on his lap, headphones over his ears. The pure concentration on his face is unparalleled. Notes thrum quietly through the room. He falls into any piece of music.

"Alright." He laughs at my enthusiasm. "Then I'll help with your English."

"Thanks." This is probably the most I've ever spoken to him. I'm mumbling each word, not wanting to look into his eyes.

He disappears once again. This time I hear the thudding footsteps over creaky floorboards. I hear a door squeak open, the faint patter of rain upon the ceiling, the quiet murmur of distant sirens as night blooms. It's tranquil. For a moment, I'm at peace. Until I remember the stack of unread books in my bedroom. I groan into my hands. Everything just keeps getting worse and worse and—

He's back. Not empty handed. Bass in one hand, Hozier lyrics and my pencil case in the other.

"I emailed your professor about the trip. I'm sure she'll be okay with it." He's off again. He comes through the door with his amp and lead. He plugs both in.

"You're a life saver, Rob," I say.

He starts twisting around the knobs on the bass. Volume up. Then he's tuning. He smiles up at me. I think I'm staring. I think he can tell. His long fingers, tattoos, rings. It's all too much. My fingers are restlessly tapping the armrest. My legs are up on the coffee table. He pulls out his phone and plays the song. Then I'm lost in the music. His eyes are closed as he slides his fingers up and down the neck of the bass, as he stomps his feet down on the carpet to every drum beat. If only I could go back to the days I'd go to concerts every day. If only I could go back and see 'Inhaler' on a world tour, watch Robert from the crowd, completely in his element. Exhilarated, chanting, knowing every lyric like it's my mother tongue. Sometimes I wonder what life could've been like if the band had worked out. If the world did realise just how incredible they are. But, here, appreciating each pluck of every string, the grin as he watches me. I can't take that for granted.

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writeouswriter · 4 months

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Setting my goodreads reading challenge next year to 3

#goodreads #I set it exponentially lower this year and started the year alright then still fell off <3 #hyperfixation on something else still has me by the throat but alas #I think the 300000 or so word fanfiction I read counts in my heart plus all the little ones #reading #I honestly don’t understand how people do like 100-300 books a year do you just inhale them not absorbing a thing #do you not sleep work or eat #and that capitalism post oh word #anyway setting it lower so you can still feel accomplished if you go several over but don’t feel bad not reaching

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jamietarttsnorthernattitude · 6 months

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Uh oh. Who let the himbos on a boat?

Quick minor whump before I unleash days 15 and 16.

For the day 14 prompt: water inhalation.

Read on ao3.

#jamie tartt #ted lasso #ted lasso fanfic #ao3 #jamie tartt fanfiction #isaac mcadoo #other himbos are there but they have no lines #i'm on a boat #whumptober #whumptober2023 #no.14 #fic #water inhalation

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msmoony7 · 4 months

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need my inhaler fics to get the same amount of likes as my marauders ones😩😩

#harry potter #marauders #hogwarts #inhaler #inhalerdublin #marauders fanfiction #james potter oneshot #james potter #sirius black #remus lupin #eli hewson #elijah hewson #bobbyskeetz #bobby skeetz #robert keating #ryan mcmahon inhaler #ryan mcmahon #josh jenkinson

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kalevalakryze · 7 months

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The Water Rescue

Fandom: Star Wars - All Media Types, Pairings: Ahsoka Tano/ Hera Syndulla Characters: Ahsoka Tano, Hera Syndulla Warnings: Mentions of Drowning, Near Death, Injury, Burns Notes: For Whumptober Day 14 Prompt: Water Inhalation | “Just hold on.” Word Count: 1,106 AO3 Link: Here!

There were hands scrambling at her shoulders desperately. When her eyes opened, she was met not with the acrid battlefront, but the sting of salt-water, and the blur of green skin as her savior reached into the waters, finally getting a grip on her arms.

Darkness swallowed her once more as the Green Savior started to pull. “Hey, Snips.” Anakin… She tried to chase his voice and the memory of blue eyes, tried to chase not the man he became, but the man he was. “I know you’ll figure it out- Where you need to be… You always do.”

Her back hit the cool metal of the extended ramp, hard enough for water to come out of her mouth in spittle; Someone started pushing against her chest and stomach, urging the water that was suffocating her from the inside to force it’s way past her lips once again. Sputtering, her savior rolled her to the side, allowing the Togruta to throw up sea water and splash onto their boots, soaked from their small dive after her.

It took too long for them to get oxygen into Ahsoka’s lungs, her eyes had shut before her first unobstructed breath, and before her body could register the frigid temperature of Seatos, leaving her frame trembling against the frigid aid and frozen ramp, even in unconsciousness.

Despite the Togruta’s expansive build, Hera had outgrown her by almost half a head, and while the Togruta’s muscles were a fine bit more defined, the Twi’lek had more than her fair share of lugging around the gladiator built Jedu that came into her life so often.

Getting Ahsoka situated in her arms was not difficult, getting back to the improvised landing pad where the T-6 was settled was not difficult, but getting Huyang to back off for five seconds was proving to be impossible.

“Huyang, please.” She called at last, having to dodge around the fretting droid so she could get Ahsoka into the bunk he’d been over preparing.

With reluctance, the ancient droid looked between not-Jedi and Rebel, servos whirring as his head moved in contemplation. “Very well… I will go and thank young Jacen.” The droid finally relented, sparing his last connection to the Jedi temple one final look before moving somberly off the ship to find the young force-sensitive.

Sighing to herself, Hera began the tedious work of peeling away Ahsoka’s sopping wet clothes, leaving them in a pile near one of the small emergency drains to take out and handle later. The state of the woman’s gloves were worrying, though she couldn;t imagine the pain the burns scalded into her palms had to be, leather scorched to raised skin in the lines and forcing her hand to curl painfully to avoid stretching ruined skin out. Poking experimentally as the injury got her a twitch from the force-sensitive woman. “Just hold on for me,” The Twi’lek whispered, rising to her feet with a quiet ‘pop’ of her knees.

“Hera?” Ahsoka’s voice was rough and scratchy from all of the salt water she’d swallowed, her one good hand reached out to loop her fingers around Hera’s bare wrist, thumb pressing into her exposed pulse point, to double check that the woman in the ship was real and alive.

“I’m just going to grab you some bacta, Kaa’lia. Is it still in the ‘fresher?”

“Mmmm,” Was her only response as the woman’s hands dropped tiredly back to the bed, tugging at the sparse sheets to cover the gooseflesh that rose to bare, cold skin.

When Hera returned with one of the kits emergency bacta packets, she caught Ahsoka in the process of fighting to sit up and get out of bed.

“Nuh-uh, no way, return to sender, Ma’am. Lay back in that bed or so help me,” She fussed, hurrying back to the bunk to offer the woman aid in getting back down.

“Hera, really, I’m fine.”

“I’ve made the executive decision a long time ago that Jedu can’t be trusted to determine their own wellbeing, so I have decided; you are wrong.”

A small, defeated smiled at Ahsoka’s lips as the other woman returned to perch at the edge of the cot once more.

“You’ve got me there.”

“I know, dear. Hands please.” Ahsoka offered a quiet, dramatic sigh as she settled her hands in Hera’s waiting ones, nose crinkling at the pain of moving her burned hand, wincing at the cool feeling of bacta being spread across the warm, raised skin and the careful wrap of bandages to stop any from being wiped away.

“Let me give you a hand getting dressed?” Hera questioned when all was said and done, fingers nervously smoothing across the uninjured skin of Ahsoka’s pinkie, the pad of her thumb smoothing across the woman’s chipped nails.

“You already got me undressed,” Ahsoka teased gently, turning her good hand around to brush her fingertips against the General’s knuckles.

“So, you want me to leave you naked?”

“Well…” Ahsoka’s lips pulled into a mischievous smile, albeit weighed down by exhaustion, lopsided as she shifted in the bed.

“Nope, you were literally drowning less than thirty minutes ago.” Hera argued, rising once more and crossing the ship without allowing the woman a chance to retort. Chasing the memory of the compartment that she knew Ahsoka often kept Hera’s spare sleep clothes.

Getting Ahsoka to sit back up long enough to work the sleeveless shirt around her shoulders had been easy, comfortable even, as the Togruta’s forehead rested into the softness of her stomach, hands resting on the backs of her knees as Hera worked the ties at the back closed, fingers brushing soothingly down the soft, leathery feeling of her back lek, feeling the older woman’s breathing begin to even out under her gentle ministrations.

“Got to get pants on, hirani,” Hera whispered, pressing her lips to the tip of Ahsoka’s left montral where it tickled the side of her lek. “Then, you can get some much needed rest, and we can figure out where to go next.”

At the promise of sleep, Ahsoka managed to lean herself back from the comfort of Hera’s abdomen, offering a groggy, not-so-helpful amount of aid in sliding the loose pants up her legs.

Ahsoka was already lost to the calm embrace of sleep, only conscious because of the gentle tug at her waistband of the little movements of Hera’s fretting, but eventually, the Twi’lek managed to tuck Ahsoka into the threadbare blankets, the Togruta’s breath fanning over Hera’s lips when the woman brushed against her to offer a gentle kiss, easing her into the calm plunge of slumber at last.

Twi'leki Translations: Jedu - Jedi Kaa'lia - Love Hirani - Beautiful

#whumptober 2023 #no.14 #water inhalation #“Just hold on”#star wars #ahsoka series #fanfiction #drowning tw #burns tw #injury tw #near death tw #herasoka #lightpilot #hera syndulla #ahsoka tano #hera x ahsoka #ahsoka

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crimsonlyinglilly · 7 months

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No. 14: “Feed me poison, fill me ‘till I drown.”

Flare | Water Inhalation | “Just hold on.”

More of stolen three, the end goal Elijah's plans come together.

Hints of Elijah/Jackson, i’m not a fan of love triangles and in the age old quote, Hayley has two hands, as do Elijah and Jackson.

-----

Modern day.

Elijah has worked for years for this, yet somehow when it happens he’s still surprised. He can feel the bindings now free from Freya and Finn adding to his own, and can feel the echoes of Dahlia’s and Esther’s magic twisting together as it attacks itself.

But there Dahlia laid, her mind trapped in the hollow of their power unable to hurt anyone until she died. He couldn’t stare too much he still had one thing to do before he’d end up being pulled in with her.

Dahlia could die with the person who she loved most, Esther could die for her children to make up for the damage she had done to them. It would take a few days for the magic to truly destroy itself, their line was powerful and had had centuries to grow stronger.

He just had to break the curse and free the wolves and then he’d be done.

“Just hold on.” he told the child, his niece, “it’ll all be over soon.”

“What have you done?” the Hybrid asked from where he had been about to tie himself to Dahlia, a terrible choice, Elijah would know.

“Dealt with her, the moment she attempted to bind another I made sure she was linked to another witch.”

“Who?”

“Our mother, brother.” It was odd referring to someone other than Finn as brother, well it wasn’t something he’s had to get used to. “I’ve changed the ritual, their magic’s going to waste away attacking each other. Even if they make up, they don’t have control anymore, " he chuckled, “it’s strange to have all the control.”

It’s not hard to follow Dahlia magic back to the curse she had cast so recently and using all three of their magics undo it, Elijah alone he would have failed, but he wasn’t he could almost understand Dahlia’s want for a coven but after all the cruelties she has put upon them, had long crushed any sympathy.

“What about Freya and Finn?” Klaus calls him back before he could let the sudden exhaustion take him, the bindings pull was growing.

“I knew how to break their binding years ago.” he answered with a wave that was more of an attempt to steady himself than a flourish, “it’s just they would never have allowed it.”

“Why not?” Klaus was frowning, glaring almost, which Elijah found rude, here he was saving Hope, freeing his family of both their mother and aunt, and Klaus was looking at him the way he thinks Freya and Finn would, anger and disapproval.

“Because breaking theirs rebounds onto me, and they promised to never leave anyone behind.” he explains and suddenly he understands, Klaus was raised by a witch he understood what it meant.

“You didn’t?” a female voice asked and Elijah blinked, Hayley was standing in front of Hope, he didn’t have long left if the pull was causing him to lose time.

“Oh I did but I'm not leaving anyone behind, I'm staying behind and letting them go.” he barely managed to get the words out before he stumbled, losing his battle against gravity. And was caught by a solid arm, Elijah starred as Jackson came into focus in burning vision bringing with him the pointless painful regret he had since Elijah had started to let himself feel, to want.

His relationship with Jackson, the one he could have had with Hayley. A future to know his niece and siblings, getting to see Finn allowing himself to love his vampire, getting to see Freya heal.

It had to be this way they would understand, it was to save Hope from his life, a life on knowing Dahlia’s broken love.

Freya and Finn would be free, he broke their rule, broke the promise they made before Elijah had truly understood their life, but they would have time to move on.

He’d make sure by taking both their nightmares with him, the one that gave them away and the one that made their lives hell.

“It seems my times up,” he tried to blink the growing dimness away but it stayed “Thank you Jackson it was real, and tell Frey and Finn I’m sorry but I made a choic-“

The darkness swallowed him and Elijah breathed in the magic pulling him down like water drowning him.

—--

He had said it with almost childlike awe, a difference from Eli’s calm controlled confidence Jackson had first met, there again he had also seen Elijah’s fear when he arrived to revive Aiden, when he had relived himself as the missing Mikaelson the fact the entire pack could smell his terror at idea defying Dahlia.

‘It was real’ like he hadn’t believed it himself, Jackson was so stuck by it that he almost missed when Elijah dropped.

It was werewolf reflexes that allowed him to catch the witch before he completed his fall to the floor, he had no doubt Eli would frown at the mess it would make of his suit.

“Is he okay?” Hayley asked, Hope was safe in her arms and the witch that had caused all the problems seemed to be in a similar state to Eli on the floor.

“Asleep.“

“Get him in the truck.“ Normally he wouldn’t have accepted the order but there was an urgency in Klaus’s words.

“What? Why?”

“We need to see if Freya, Finn and Davina can undo this.“

“Why? Can’t we wait until their magics gone and he’ll wake up?”

“No, he’s the anchor to the spell but he’s bound to both of them, there magic goes, they die they’ll take Elijah with them. And as much as I want Dahlia dead I’m not giving her my brother as a consolation prize.”

—-

When he opens his eyes he finds himself on a hill, watching as Dahlia and Esther embrace, and it’s seeing the peace on Dahlia face that makes him want to snarl to rip them apart because how dare they make up, when Freya heart will always have a hole in, when Finn chokes on apologies at the sight of his own blood, when Elijah can’t-

He stops his train of thoughts with a deep breath and interrupts them with a call, smiling at him.

“Mother, Aunt Dahlia, we’re all here to die.” it’s a relief to finally say the words, he chuckles.

“Elijah it was you.”

“I’m putting my hopes in you mother,” he addresses Esther, and crushes the urge he always has at Dahlia’s anger to fix it and soothe her anger. “going against Freya’s belief that you care nothing for your children.

“Elijah, you betrayed me.”

“Aunt Dahlia, I have loved three people throughout my life. I have long known that the only way two of them would be safe and happy would be the removal of you”.

“You chose them over me.” she snarls back and suddenly is easy to ignore the little boy that just wanted her to smile, the foolish child that once thought he could help her, the anger he had been biting back for decades consumes him.

“Don’t take that tone, Dahlia.” he snaps, it’s a delight to see her taken aback by the same words she had used against Finn and Freya so often, “You’re the same, nothing we could have ever done would place us before her in your heart.” he’s attempt to swallows back the true rage in his tone fails, he had stopped expecting anything more since he was fourteen, yet somehow the pain remained. “So I gave you what you wanted, you can die with the one you loved the most, Freya and Finn can be free to live as they want.”

“And you?” it’s his mother who asks, he’s almost amused that it’s not Freya she reminds him of but Finn. He is however confused by the concern he sees, she had him for barely a year, she had Freya and Finn for five each, raised the others their whole lives, can’t she just be relieved her actual children are safe.

“I can stop.” The admission tires him, years of plotting countless young honest souls used and thrown away. Jackson’s look of concern when he found the scars, the way he had looked as he dragged Elijah around the bayou,there was nothing to gain there yet Elijah had followed, Haley’s kindness even after she learned who he was, he had wanted, it had almost made him find another way, but it was too late for that.

“Stop?” Dahlia's eyes are sharp and he wonders what she wants, is she looking for something to use to change his mind or simply to hurt, it doesn’t matter anymore so he confesses the truth.

“Stop being torn between my love for you while you tear us apart to soothe your own hurts. Stop questioning what is me and what is what you made, what I made of myself to please you.”

The truth of why he chose to die instead of taking a chance, he doesn’t know what he is without her and he’s too scared to find out. A coward, oh Mikael would be ashamed, wouldn’t he? From what he heard from Klaus during the few weeks they knew each other he was sure but the four days he had learnt from the man he’s not sure, that man had missed his children, had wanted Elijah back even while he stood at Dahlia’s side.

He walks away from them, footsteps changing from one step to the other as grass changes to polished wood, a piano appearing in the space, he looks back at them as he sits on the bench.

His mother and aunt, surrounded by green grass and flowers looking far younger, innocent to them, from a time before they had the chance to ruin lives.

“Just hold on,” he repeats the only words he would ever say to his niece “it’ll all be over soon.” His fingers find the keys without looking, he’s amused to feel them bare, free of his gloves and showing the various scars he had gathered, he offers them his best smile and starts to play.

Time moves faster here, two days in the real world would be just hours here. He’ll enjoy his last hours making something.

—

Dahlia watches him, even as she has the closeness she had longed for, even as she has her sister back, watching him play his music alone as they wait to die.

She had accepted death, as long as she had Esther she could accept it was a long past their time, but there was something she couldn’t accept so easily.

Elijah, her bright, brilliant boy, the one she should have known would have been the threat, with his patience and calm mind, the way he was methodical in all his tasks. They were all her children, she had raised them, but it was Elijah that took after her most, in more than their similar looks.

She suddenly understands why people want children, not to increase their power but to leave something behind, to watch something grow and then outgrow them. And Elijah had done that.

She didn’t want him to die, she wanted to leave him behind.

Dahlia wanted Elijah to thrive after she died, yet here he stayed, an anchor to his spell, bound to them by her ritual, doomed to follow them because of it.

Because Dahlia had fed the boy poisoned affection, now it was going to kill him.

Because she had made him and he refused to live without her.

It was perfect, it was what she wanted but now it was ash in her mouth.

“Sister!” Esther whispered, she knew her sister had likewise had been watching him, she didn’t need to whisper Elijah wouldn’t hear them over the music but still it brought back memories of staying up late and whispering so as not to wake their parents. “We can’t let him do this.”

“Do you have any idea how to stop this? Our magics are entwined, the only one here with any power is he and if Elijah could be convinced to stop this he wouldn’t be here. This has been long planned for. We will die and my binding on Elijah will ensure he follows.” it almost hurt to say aloud

“Release him.” Esther almost begs but her sister is smart enough to know if it was that easy she would have done so to begin with.

“I can’t break the binding without my magic.” she replies barely keeping her irritation under control.

“Unless we place our magic within him, use the binding as a-” Esther's answer is sudden, for a moment it gives her hope.

“Conduit.”it was almost like when they were children, first learning magic always there to give each other a boost, “But there's still a risk that much power already in conflict will kill him, even if we only have a little left, Elijah has always-”

“I trust his siblings, but this is our only chance.” Esther’s looking at her with the same eyes she used to when she wanted Dahlia to sneak away from her chores. “For our boy.”

“Together.” She took his sister’s hand.

—-

Elijah didn’t notice as something changed until water swallowed the keys under his figures and the shock caused him to lose hold of the piano’s shape, the water climbed up him with speed after that, that he only had time to turn and see them, before it reached his chin

Dahlia and Esther were still looking as young as they had before, their hands still linked but both were looking at him with an intent that he hadn’t planned for he could see their mouths moving but the water was growing louder that he had no hope of hearing them.

Shit, this wasn’t to plan ,what were they doing? Had Freya been right and Esther cared for her own life more. He could tell the water was a representation of their magic but all this was doing was killing them faster, he could already see them fading.

“What ar-” he choked as he inhaled the water, his chest grew tight and before he could question how he was drowning, he discovered what they were doing as he felt sharp sparks erupt within his chest, they were pouring their magic into him, thankfully blackness swallowed him, so he would miss the feeling of the foreign magic burning throughout him and likely tearing him apart.

—-

He woke up to a starving hunger and a glass shoved into his hands. He sat up and downed the glass without hesitation before he looked up at the crowd of people.

“Wha-” before he could finish his question, Freya and Finn nearly flattened him.

“Never do that again!” Finn’s hands were heavy on his shoulders.

“What were you thinking!” Freya nails dug into his arm.

“We made a promise!”

“And yes you left us, you left us behind here.”

“We’re never letting you out of our sight!” he was pulled into Finn’s chest and Freya joined the hug to flatten him between them.

“How could you!” Freya seemed to run out of words at least, one on her hands had moved to ran through his hair.

“I’m sorry, I've been waiting for years, when she came after Hope it was the best opportunity.” he told them, pushing back to look them both in the eye.

“You didn’t tell us.”

“She might have found out, besides she’s always easier on me, if i was found out it wouldn’t have been as bad.” he explained.

“Sorry to cut this short but he’ll likely want more blood so how about we take this elsewhere.”

“Blood?” he asked, suddenly realising the taste in his mouth was metallic, Blood , he looked at the floor to find ritual marks.

“Kol had researched the original spell to make them.” Finn told him as he and Freya stepped back.

“And big brother Finn is excellent at developing shortcuts in spells.” Kol added a smirk spread across his face, “you're not quite an original but you’re a hella more than a normal vampire.”

“It took all their blood to get past Dahlia’s spell.”

He pulled himself up stumbling slightly only to be steadied by another hand, he followed it back to find Jackson, this was becoming a habit he thought, but couldn’t get the words past his throat to make a comment on it

All his words dried up as he stared, he hadn’t known Jackson was involved with the Mikaelson when he first met him, but after he found out he hadn’t stopped even when Dahlia had used his body, he had let himself become selfish with the belief he wouldn’t have to live with the consequences.

“We’re going to have a long chat after this.” Jackson told him quietly, before letting go and Elijah couldn’t crush the spark of hope that flared.

“Really?” he couldn’t stop the word escaping him because he’d understand if Jackson wanted nothing to do with him

“You walked into a pack of pissed wolves and brought Aiden back despite the fact that we all could smell how terrified you were of his murderer.”

“You're going to explain why our dear aunt placed a spell on you to stop you from being turned.” Klaus called to him as he finally joined them in a kitchen.

“I think you would know the answer to that.” After all, she hadn’t done it until after Elijah had told her of the strange vampire that he had made a friendship, over creating beauty and also enjoying violence, during the year he was awake in the 16th century.

It would seem Freya’s spell to draw them back to their family had worked since he had met their father and at least two of their brothers during his brief freedoms.

“Ah,” Kol cheered, “so you are Klaus’s lost little musician.”

“Little!” he sputtered, he was ignored but Finn pulled him under his arm.

“The one that got away, there's a portrait of you in the music room.” Kol continued.

“Shut up Kol.” Klaus grumbled.

“Wait? What?” he couldn't help but ask, he had only sat for Klaus once and it had to be over a century before they moved here.

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