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eupheme · 2 months

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— are you mine?

joel miller x f!reader

rated t - 4.4k

tags: over-protective and soft jackson!joel, partners-to-lovers, mutual jealousy, secrets, miscommunication and rumors, light angst, valentine’s day

a little valentine’s day gift for the lovely @sweetercalypso - I was so thrilled to get you for the Space Sister’s exchange! I really hope you like it! 💌💕

A change in your usual patrol schedule, a dash of over-protectiveness, and a gossipy partner leads to you desperately wish you could turn back time.

Because how can you face Joel, after this?

"I don't like it."

His voice comes from next to your shoulder. Rough and low - your eyes drifting over heavy, muddied boots, then up. Trying not to linger where his strong arms cross over a broad chest, the pull of fabric against skin where the sleeves are rolled up to elbows.

"Don't like what?" You ask, as your plate and mug join the pile of others in the bin to be washed. Finishing up a quick breakfast in the mess hall before your patrol shift begins.

A second lingers, before Joel answers.

"Don't like the thought of you out there without me."

His answer makes your stomach flip, butterflies already sprouting at the unexpected encounter. You hadn't thought you'd see Joel until later - an unexpected change in last night’s schedule. Sending him out from evening until dawn, and leaving you with a new partner for this morning.

"You're the one that swapped shifts." You point out, finally glancing his way. Seeing the pull of his brows, the shift as he leans against one of the heavy wooden support beams, "Anyways, I won't be alone. They have me with William."

The mark between his brows deepens, "Don't know if I like that, either."

Your own eyebrows raise, "What's wrong with William?"

He doesn't answer - the dark pull of his gaze breaking, as his eyes drop.

"Heard rumor there might be someone in the woods," Joel changes the subject, "Dirt kicked over the ashes, footsteps leading off to the east. No sign of anyone, but that don’t mean they ain’t hangin' around.”

He's worried, you think. Your hand reaches out, hovering for just a moment before you're clapping his bicep, instead of his bare forearm.

"Just because there was someone there, doesn't mean they're bad." The touch lingers for a moment, before your hand is dropping - shoving into your jacket pocket, "Besides, it’s daylight now. We'll be fine. Always are."

His look is dark, at your words.

An optimism lingering in you that has long been leached from his system. An uneasiness that lingers in his blood and bones - a shift of his his as he reaches to draw something out of his back pocket. Pressing it into your hand, when you reach for it without thinking.

"Know how to use this?"

It's a knife - his knife - the folded handle fitting his broad hand but feeling more like a dagger in yours.

“Joel, please-” You all but huff, torn between annoyed and touched. Reaching out to hand it back, but he’s shifting sideways to dodge you.

“Humor me, alright?” He’s grumbling - but he's not done - fishing something else from his jacket pocket. Holding it out for you to take as well - heavy and plastic in your other hand.

You flip it over, seeing the small antenna fit above the speaker, the buttons worn bare and smooth beneath. A gleam of red, the light already on and winking.

"Ellie's got the other. I'll get it from her this morning." He explains, "Two-way radio. You need anything or run into anyone, I'll know."

It would be stifling, if it were anyone else.

Insulting, perhaps.

But knowing that Ellie does this for Joel soothes you, teeth biting into your lip to hold back your smile.

And you can’t deny that you did feel a little uneasy, heading out without your partner.

"Fine.” You tell him, with a sigh.

“But just this once."

The ground crunches beneath your feet, a frost and thin snow freezing and blanketing the green pokes of grass overnight.

You’re already ready for spring, even though the world has just creeped into February. Missing the crunch of leaves instead of ice. Yearning for the daffodils and crocuses to pop up, as the earth thaws.

But for now - you’re content to concede that it’s easier to do your job, at least. The only damaged grass around you, the only marks in the dirt, are your own.

Quiet, idle conversation with William passing as you take the usual route - your rucksack a familiar weight against your shoulders. Padded with the faded and patched feather-down of your coat as you weave between trees.

Checking traps for food, finding nothing. Not unusual when the rest of the world seems to be sleeping.

The sun is nearly overhead when you reach the watchtower, the spindly legs that hold the narrow room high in the sky. The rungs leading up are wide, but you still hold your breath as you climb. Only exhaling at the top, when both your feet are firmly on the metal platform - cold air sharp in your lungs with your inhale.

It's pretty up here. A clouded blue sky above, a suggestion of snow. A wistful hope that it will hold off until tomorrow, as your patrol partner unlocks the door - checking the inside before you follow.

Your rucksack lands with a thud just inside the door, which closes behind you. The windows are cracked, spider-webbing from the corners, but still holding firm enough that it shields you from some of the chill outside.

Looking out above some of the trees, giving you a peek of Jackson when you stand in the southern corner.

Here, you can take a minute to breathe. To talk, while keeping watch and warm.

You can’t remember the last time you've been out with William. You didn't run in the same circles - he had a regular rotation of patrol partners. You had Joel, and sometimes Ellie, and you never found a reason to stray.

That thought, the change, had kept you busy on the patrol. Your mind wandered as your feet moved on your own, through well-known paths. Eyes seeing but your thoughts elsewhere.

He had seemed worried, at the mess hall.

Or - on edge, at least. Distracted.

There had been a quick rap on your door, a mumbled excuse about them needing him last night. Letting you know you'd be with someone else for your shift in the morning. A glance over his shoulder, nodding towards the figure that was waiting for him, before he was off.

And although he had made the switch, he sure didn't seem happy about it this morning.

William was friends with Jesse, who was friends with Ellie and Dina - you couldn't think of a reason for the ever-present mark that had deepened between his eyebrows.

You wonder why - because surely, a set of trained and fed partners would be more than a match for anyone drifting through the woods on their own. Even you weren't so nervous, and you didn't have the years and grit of someone like Joel.

And it wasn't like William was unprepared. He'd been doing patrols just as long as you had, maybe even a little longer.

It's here that you're drawn away, your companion’s voice breaking through your thoughts. His foot tapping yours, where you both sit on the old, wooden floor.

“Been a while, huh?”

You nod in agreement, offering the slightest lift of a smile, “Yeah. Been couple months, at least.”

“More than that. Bet it’s been close to a year.”

“Oh.” You blink, thinking back.

Wondering if that’s why his gaze has been on you so often this morning - that he’s nearly forgotten what you look like, “Guess I hadn’t noticed.”

You hadn’t realized it’s been that long. And at the same time, only that long.

Joel had drifted for a while in Jackson - untethered, but never far from the nearest door, the nearest wall. Content to watch from the fringes, to stay unnoticed. To slip out, when he’s had enough.

It still took a few months until he was rotated into the patrol. Until you met him, fully. Needling conversation out of him in these morning walks, or when the stars stretched out in the inky night.

Fully expecting him to trade out, when he could. Others often did - preferring a variety of company.

He never did. And neither did you.

Things worked with Joel. And more than trust had bloomed in those lone hours together, something that had planted in your first days of seeing him. Carefully tended, nourished by the slivers of traded secrets and shared looks and moments where you had thought that just maybe…. maybe… you weren’t alone.

"Don't know how you can stand patrolling with him. He’s a scary dude." William mutters, the sound low as you hunker down below the rim of the metal railing.

You frown. Joel's not scary. Not really. Not to you.

A grouch, for sure. All bark and bite, but it's never once been directed at you.

“Joel?” You ask, clarifying.

“Yeah, Miller.” He gives you a sideways look, “You know he's killed people, right? Like, not just infected. People, people.”

The stories and rumors aren't new to you, they cling to him like ghosts. The whispers when he came into town had never stopped - but with time, they had lessened.

He had intimidated you, at first. A low voice and an angry look that would send anyone scurrying, but in the two years since he's been here, it's all faded at the edges. Gone soft.

Looking back, knowing now how he looks after Ellie, looks after you - you’re not sure how you ever saw him that way.

And you think, you hope, that deep down - he does care. That a part of him might feel the same.

It’s there in the way he sought you out this morning. More than a dislike in the change of his schedule - that wouldn’t have loosened the knife he carried.

It was there in your patrols. In the way you felt safe, with him - in how it flowed from outside those wooden walls to inside the town, inside his home.

"We all have." You reply, with a sharp finality.

You didn't really remember the days before. Your life had been filled with spoken memories, but they weren't yours. The days of lawfulness are akin to fairy tales - merely stories, in your mind.

Who were you to judge, when your own hands were stained?

The infected weren’t the only monsters in this world. You’re sure he had his reasons, as did you.

William makes a sound of agreement, before dropping the subject. Content to watch the sparkle of snow, caught in the wind where it drifts down from tall branches.

That silence is broken a little later, with another question.

"You goin' to the dance later?"

Your legs stretch, toes wiggling in the chill of the room. Even enclosed, the cold seeps in through the cracks and thin panes of splintered glass.

"Of course."

Everyone would be.

The dances in Jackson were few and far between. Even more rare in these cold months - people preferring to stay warm, keep out of the snow that gathers in the alleys, the chill that whips down the rows of buildings.

The day before had been spent decorating the church hall. There was an ache in your arms where you had helped Wendy roll out the dough for cookies - watching as the younger folks cut hearts out of recycled paper in the mess hall, to be strung along the walls.

Underneath the stars above and in the glow of the lights, it would be beautiful.

There's a steadying breath next to you.

A moment, before he's asking, "You goin' with anyone?"

The rest comes in a rush, "I mean, do you wanna go with me?"

He turns your way, as you slowly go still. Too surprised to form an answer, trapped in his gaze with your wide eyes and parted lips.

"I-" You begin, and then falter.

William was nice. A little older than you. Showy, when he was with his friends, ready to do anything for a laugh.

Nice, but not Joel. No one was.

And deep down, you know that it's not like Joel thought of you that way. Returned those feelings, despite your wishes.

But you knew he'd be there. He'd go for Ellie, who would make sure she was there to see Dina.

And you'd go for Joel.

Even if just to see him, even if only for a moment.

The silence has stretched too long, an uneasy shifting next to you as he waits for an answer.

"There someone else?" The lilt of his voice has turned sharp, accusatory. Slicing through your thoughts, demanding your attention.

And again, you stumble. Still unable to form words, still too caught off guard - tongue twisted in knots.

“There is, isn’t there?” Another verbal nudge, and it’s here that you find your voice.

"There is... uh, someone." You manage - not ready to spill your guts, but there’s no chance you’ll agree to go with him.

"Yeah?" His eyebrow raises as he scoffs, "Who, Joel?"

He laughs at his own joke - and it's only now, as it's turned on you, that you notice how cruel it can sound.

Your own eyes drop, head turning back towards the wall.

And it’s here that your eyes snag on the cherry red gleam that peeks from the outside pocket of your rucksack.

The radio.

Forgotten entirely, in the long walk over.

Panic courses through you.

Can he hear you, from here? Is he listening now?

You send up a silent wish, hoping that perhaps he's stepped out. That if you're lucky, the radio doesn't quite reach this far.

The silence gives you away, before you can brush it off - too caught up in the fear that twists in your stomach. A look had crossed your features that William had caught, the laughter dying as he pushes to his feet.

"You can't be serious." There's the mocking curl of his lip, a look of incredulity, "Miller? Are you out of your mind?"

There had been a flicker of thought - thinking that you could go over, switch it off. Or change the subject, tell Will to just shut up - but there’s something in his tone that distracts you - igniting your dread and embarrassment into anger and irritation.

Making you slip up.

"So what if it is? It's none of your business-" You begin, but he cuts you off.

He’s fully turned your way now. The melting snow of his boots soaking into the hem of your jeans, with how he close he sits. Close enough that you can see the grit of his jaw, as he flings another barb at you.

"You think he's going to treat you right? Do you even know where he was last night?”

It feels like a slap in the face - the way you flinch, cheeks burning.

“He… he was on patrol.” You stammer, unsure where this is headed.

“Could be. It’s easy to change logs when you got a brother out at the same time.” He shrugs, as if it’s nothing. As if your world hasn’t tilted on it’s axis, leaving you off-kilter.

Your heartbeat thunders behind your ribs, in your ears, “What do you mean?”

“I mean… Fred said he saw him at Esther’s house. Last night and this morning.”

Rumors spread like wildfire in a town as close-knit as Jackson. It wasn’t hard to see where he was going, even if it pained you.

Esther, who tended the greenhouse.

Esther, who Joel had once been set up.

Esther, who split last month with her husband.

Esther, who kept the house.

You’re frozen. As if the cold has sunken into your skin, bonded with your bones. An aching weight settling over your heart, stealing your breath.

Because in this moment, you truly realize how much you’d been thinking about him as yours. Suddenly realizing the depth of you feelings for Joel - how much he’s come to mean to you.

It’s devastating, thinking about him being someone else’s.

It just can’t be true.

But…

But wouldn’t it explain his actions this morning?

Did you misread worry for guilt? Or secrecy?

“Look.” He says, after a pause. Giving you a pitying look, his hand reaching out to touch your shouler, “All I’m saying is that I’d never-”

It was all too much.

You’ve had enough.

"Can you just drop it?" You hiss, suddenly, "I'm not going with you."

The focus of his gaze still rests on you, as you push yourself to your feet. Grabbing for your bag - it's still a little early, but you're not about to stay stuck up in this tower with him.

"Where are you-" He's asking, as you shake your head - slipping past him, through the door.

"I'll see you back at Jackson."

Letting it slam shut behind you.

It's stupid, to wander off by yourself. Even if you weren’t too far from home, no more than a thirty minute walk.

The rifle left in William's possession, where it still rested against the railing. Joel's blade heavy and cold in your hand as you fish it from your jacket pocket.

Matching the stone-heavy weight of your heart, as you follow your footsteps back towards town. Your thoughts twisting, as you silently bargain with whoever might be listening.

Wishing foolishly that you could turn back time.

Content with even just not knowing.

Because that’s the worst part, right? That you know he knows. And that he knows you do. That surely - he heard it all.

If you were alone, if you hadn’t taken that radio, you’d still have your secret.

Maybe Joel wouldn’t have his, but you’d try to bear it. Find a way to put the pieces of your heart together, and try to move on.

Cherish those few more days, weeks, before he would have told you. Maybe by then, you could’ve acted happy.

But now, you’re certain he won’t want anything to do with you. Certain that you’ve ruined a good thing - not just the patrols, but your partnership, and friendship.

Because who would want to stick around with a girl with a stupid little crush?

It leaves you feeling flayed open. Grateful for the whip of the wind, giving you an excuse for the tears that spring to your eyes.

For a moment - in your embarrassment - it leaves you even thinking about running away.

You'd survived for this long. It would be harder, on the outside. But perhaps, you could start over.

With a sigh, you crumple the thought up, and toss it away. It's no more than wishful thinking. No different than hoping the world would crack beneath your feet, and swallow you whole.

No…

You would have to bear it.

You're less than a mile from the wooden border around town, when you pick up the crunch of boots on snow. Fear prickles down your spine as the blade clicks open in your grasp, your pulse leaping beneath your skin.

The waver of a shadow, moving between the trees in front of you. You go still, squinting, tucking yourself behind one of the thick trunks.

They're alone.

It could be someone from town, but you'd heard there was only one set of boots near the fire they found, the night before. A quick glance over your shoulder - wishing you hadn't split off.

Wishing you had taken the rifle.

They move closer, and your breath catches as they call out.

Not just a greeting, but your name.

A wave of relief washes over you, you know that voice. This figure. The cock of his hip as he stands, the shoulders that slope when he sees you - a hand raised in greeting.

"Heard you leave. Shouldn't be out here by yourself."

The warm glow in your belly chills, at his words.

The acknowledgement that he had been listening souring your mood. It has you bristling at his tone, misreading his worry.

"I'm fine." You wiggle his knife at him, the blade glinting in the afternoon sun, "Didn't have to come all this way."

In the path you take to skirt around him, you miss the pull of his brow - the frown that forms. The way he breaks into a jog to catch up behind you, staying a few steps back as he does a visual sweep of the woods behind you.

Your strides are long, focused on the crunch of grass beneath your feet. Eyes fixed ahead as he follows, until the tall wooden posts loom up ahead.

Above, and then through.

If you can just make it home, you think that would be enough. The little house is only a few streets away from the edge.

Something that he hated - how it wasn’t safe enough.

Something that used to please you.

He’s still following, your silent companion. Chivalrous, you suppose, to make sure you get home okay. Even after everything.

You’re nearly there - feet taking you up the rickety steps for your porch - when that silence is finally broken.

“You know it ain’t true, right?

For as quiet as his voice is, it still seems to cut through the air, halting your step. Your eyes still fixed on the door ahead of you, but you find yourself stopping - waiting.

“There ain’t anybody else.”

There’s a weight in the way he says it. A confession, layered in the low pitch of his voice.

It has you turning.

To where he stands, where your shadows meld together. And it’s only now that you see him - the intensity of his gaze. The mis-matched buttons on his coat, the cold that burns at his nose and cheeks until they’re pink.

He’d been outside for a while.

Searching for you - leaving hat and gloves behind.

“Where were you last night?” You ask - and he watches you like you’re about to bolt. Palms facing you where they hang at his sides, finger stretching out and then curling.

Reaching up now, to scrub through his hair in frustration - loosening dark, peppered-gray curls.

“I was there.” Joel admits, and there’s the acid ache of jealousy welling up in your chest. Picturing him with her instead of with you - like in your wishes, your dreams.

“But-” His hands raise, when he sees your expression, “But I just stopped by. I was on patrol with Tommy, you can ask him.”

You want to believe him. But you know you’re both thinking the same thing - thoughts flickering back to William’s suggestion.

“Or, you can ask Maria. You know she won’t cover for me.” He adds - and that softens you, just a little.

“Why did you trade?”

The moment hangs, where you’re left staring at each other. Your heart gallops in your chest, as he fights an internal battle - before his eyes slide across your cheek, over your shoulder.

But then there’s the smallest, rueful smile. His dark eyes flipping up to yours.

“Didn’t think it’d be like this.” Joel sighs, moving closer - to the bottom step. Enough to where you could reach out and touch him. Enough to where you see the weariness etched in his face, from where he stayed up all morning to keep watch over you.

“Got some roses for you. They’re at the house.” The words come slowly, “Was gonna give ‘em to you tonight. Wanted to do this right.”

Wanted to do this right.

The words echo in your mind. Pieces of a puzzle starting to fit into place, but you still feel like you’re behind - forever out of step and catching up.

“That’s why I was out last night. Esther is… rekindling things with her husband.” He manages, “Traded his shift last night for ‘em so they could be together. Went back to pick ‘em up this morning.”

“Roses.” You echo, “Why?”

“Why?” Joel frowns, as hands brace on his hips. Looking flustered, looking like he wishes you could just understand.

And suddenly, you do.

Your own words come slowly now, “For me? For Valentine’s Day?”

Relief crosses his features, those dark eyes going soft.

“Yeah, darlin’.” He smiles, “For you.”

Emotions swirl and surge through you. Relief yes, but also something stronger, something that flutters behind your ribs and threatens to burst free.

“I didn’t-” You begin, and then stop. A tightness in your throat, as you gaze at him, “I was so worried that you heard what he said, that it was real-”

“I heard.” A dark look crossed Joel’s features, a grit of his jaw, “Heard what you said too. Made me hope, ‘til he opened his mouth again.”

He’s on the top step now, no more than a few feet away. Irritation prickling at him from the memory of you in that tower, tucked away with someone who wasn’t him.

Until his hand is scratching at the scruff of his beard, his look changing.

“But if I misread this-” Joel starts - almost hesitant, if a man like Joel could be.

It makes you want to laugh, after everything. Because you get it, now.

Just how foolish you both had been.

“You didn’t.” You’re quick to cut him off, “You... you heard right.”

There ain’t anybody else…. but you.

It’s always been him.

He kisses you under the eaves of your little porch.

Stepping into you as your head tilts up - cold fingers tracing your chin, cupping your jaw just as his lips skim against yours.

The lightest brush, as something electric sparks - radiating from that point of contact, skittering down your spine. A soft moan that slips from your throat, before he’s pressing closer - before your hands are slipping, gripping onto his shoulders beneath the thick canvas of his coat.

Everything fades - growing hazy. He’s all you can feel, as your eyes close. Something finally clicking into place, as your lips part for the brush of his tongue. Another moan as he licks into your mouth - stumbling footsteps in both of your haste.

Until your back is bumping against wood, and his arm is wrapping around you. Surrounding you, leaving you breathless as the frame of the door digs into your hip.

Finally sated, in your need for him.

And yet more hungry, than you’ve ever been.

The grip of your fingers loosen, as you reach for the door knob. Fumbling for a second before it’s loosening, and you’re stepping back - bringing him with you, your other hand still fisted in the fabric of his coat.

He groans into your mouth, a hand wrapping around your waist so you don’t stumble, as he follows you inside.

Then there’s low husk of his voice, the barest curve of a smile, “What about your dance, sweetheart?”

Teasing, in the way he spins you around. In the way you’re caged in against the door again, tucked away safely from the other side.

No prying eyes except for his.

Your answer close to a whine, with the way his fingers find the zipper on your coat, drawing it down.

“I think…” You manage, distracted by the press of his lips against your neck. In the fingers that dip beneath your layers, seeking bare skin.

“I think we can be a little late.”

happy valentine’s day, friends! 💌💕 and especially to elaine - these were such fun prompts! you are the sweetest and I hope you have such a good day!

#I tried to incorporate something from each of your prompts! 💖#SpaceSistersSecretValentine #joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #joel miller x f!reader #joel miller imagine

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vnusoki · 9 days

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MORE THAN JUST A DREAM . . . ꗃ synopsis. life and death were an endless cycle everyone experienced. from the moment they were born, it was fated for them to meet the cold hands of death. but it’d taken you too soon, and they can’t handle that.

ꗃ tags. satoru gojo x reader, nanami kento x reader. angst. hurt/no comfort. reader dies. descriptions of wanting children. sadness. decline in mental health?

ꗃ a/n. hope you enjoyed this ! a like or reblog would be fantastic !

SATORU GOJO had known of pain all his life. From the moment he’d entered Jujutsu Tech, and from when he left to pursue the career of a Jujutsu Sorcerer, pain was a companion that had lingered for too long over the years.

A vestige of a shadow forever following him to the darkest of alleys and to the brightest of places.

He knew not of its shape, for it was constantly changing. Mutating into the faces of those he’d lost and failed to save. A constant reminder that even the strongest could not save everyone.

It had been you, on a summer afternoon, basking in the light chatting away, that had burned away the darkness that had long since held captive his life.

It had been you, all smiles and laughter, kisses and heartfelt hugs that had taken him away from the dark place he’d grown so used too.

It was as if you’d restarted his life, and for the first time in what seemed to be forever, satoru had been excited for something. Truly excited. It was no wonder he’d grown feelings not long after he’d met you. You were the light to his life. The sun to his moon.

Of course he’d have to try give you both a shot. To show you too that you could be something even greater together. It was a shocker when you’d confessed that you too felt the same, and as if the puzzle pieces had finally fallen right into place, he’d held your face in his hands and kissed you not for the first time, and definitely not the last.

Satoru pulled away from your body, his lips still feeling as dry as ever. In his arms lay you, shredded Jujutsu uniform barely clinging to your body. Where the uniform was destroyed was a myriad of injuries too many to count.

You almost looked as if you were sleeping. Your lips slightly parted and your eyes glued to whatever you had been looking at above you. If they cleaned the mud and blood off your face, they could’ve mistaken you for sleeping beauty.

Only this time, you never awoke.

Satoru’s hand began to shake, slight tremors shaking the very bones inside. He clenched his fist tighter, so tight his nails dug into the calloused flesh of his palms and drew blood.

‘‘…wake up for me, baby…’’ his shaking off your shoulders started small until he was furiously shaking you, terror now finally resonating with him. The haunting reality dawned on him like the sun rising on a new day.

‘‘…you have t-to. you promised, dammit…’’

Youu had promised him. Promised that you’d try your best to stay alive, but that was not guaranteed in the world of Jujutsu and once again, satoru was reminded that not even the strongest could save everyone and as the rain washed away the blood on his hands, he remembered.

NANAMI KENTO knew not of love when was a salaryman. He knew only how to increase his chances of his businesses venture becoming a hit, or how to get more money. Nothing else, nothing less, nothing more. What would he need it for anyway? All he’d ever loved had died with him the day he left Jujutsu Tech.

Maybe that had been the case once, a long time ago. But now, when he held your hand as you walked through parks of green and walked past rivers of clear water, all he knew was love. You had taught him that.

When he’d met you, it had been at the height of winter where the snow fell down in heaps upon heaps. And though it had looked very beautiful in the orange glow of the street lamp, his eyes were only stuck on you, as if you were all he could see.

You were all he could see for the longest time after that. From the mornings to the nights, or even when you both committed to your love making. He found waking up beside you, the swell off his bruised lip a reminder of all the love he gave to you, and all the love he still had left.

It was at night, one spring day, months ago, that he found he wanted to get ready and settle down with you, start a family, travel the world, see everything he’d told you about, taste every type of bread in the world. Your dreams together were infinite threads weaving into intricate spider webs of love.

If only it hadn’t been cut. The dreams of the future come crashing down with you as he finally takes hold your cold, limp body. Your chest is coated in red, a deep slash across it.

He couldn’t believe his eyes. You, we’re gone. The light that had shone in your eyes only a few days ago had long since disappeared only leaving behind dull orbs, lifeless of any feeling.

His grip on your tightened as tears fell from his eyes for the first time in hours since he’d found your body. He hadn’t allowed himself to cry since the death of his best friend, but you’d made him cry for a plethora of reason, none being sadness.

It was ironic really, that you, the one who’d dreamed of the future as if it were only a step away, would be the first to go out of the both of you. The dreams you’d long made in preparation, the holiday destination to Malaysia, all died with you and a part of nanami did too that day.

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sh1-n0bu · 1 year

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HELLO HELLOOO I was just wondering if I could ask if you could do a

Kaeya or Thoma ORR Diluc x Self destructive reader? Maybe any genshin character but whenever my mind goes to angst my mind automatically goes to Kaeya and Diluc LMAO

And basically Reader has a hard time expressing feelings and finds comfort in their lowest so they are seen as reserved

And Kaeya or (Character) tries their very best to help them despite reader rejecting their affections and worries But Kaeya or (Character) loves them too much to let go so they just stay by Reader's side

You can add more or plan the rest of the story but right now that's all I could explain

One last if I could ask I'd like to be Banananon/ 🍌 Anon

Besides that have a great time! Your works are amazing 🫶

✿ 𝙧𝙚𝙘𝙤𝙫𝙚𝙧𝙞𝙣𝙜 ✿

characters: kaeya, diluc and thoma x nb!reader

warnings: angst, comfort, reader daydreams a lot, mentions of self harm and healed scars

notes: what the reader is going through and their description of self destructive thoughts, actions and behaviors are all greatly influenced by my own not so great moments. if such topics are triggering to you then please scroll past or continue with caution. i hope you’re all doing well in this dark times. i love you and thank you for being here

as the sole survivor of his family and the one given the task to be his destroyed home nation’s one and only hope, the cavalry captain has his own dark moments

definitely did used to self harm as well. it only worsened after his fight with diluc and crepus’ death

and seeing you, his closest companion, lover, his light and life, his dark days and pillar suffer through the same things makes him want to curl up on the floor and wail until there’s nothing left in him

will sit you down and have a nice long talk with you. it can range from your self destructive habits, self harm scars, bad coping mechanisms to even the gossips the cavalry captain had heard or shared with lisa, how diluc’s hair seemed a bit more trimmed today at angel’s share, how the cats at cat’s tail was seemingly more affectionate etc etc

anything you want to talk about, kaeya’s here

scars, relapses or even a new stimming you’ve got, he notices the second he sees it. he may have one eye but he’s keen on noticing the smallest, minute detail that is changed

but if you don’t wish to talk about it or don’t hint anything to him then it’s okay. kaeya can wait but please don’t take too long until you have completely destroyed your own self beyond recognition. he can’t carry the guilt and regret

if you have been relapsing too much then kaeya will have no other choice but to sit you down and talk about it

he will even come to a compromise to quit his alcohol addiction and learn to live again with you, together

if he comes back from his work to see you feeling down in the dumps, prepare yourself to be wrapped up in the biggest fluffy blanket like a burrito and given cuddles and smooches mwah mwah mwah mwah (¯ ³¯)♡

“there there, darling. we’ll go through this together”

another person who has self harmed in the past

personally speaking, i think he used to self harm in a deprivation type of way especially during his time when hunting the fatui harbingers in the merciless eternal winter clad nation of shneznaya

depriving himself of food, water, hygiene, sleep, the basic human necessities to survive

so after the whole hunting harbingers thing is over and the wine tycoon comes back to mondstadt, diluc’s trying his best and starts to let go of his self harming habits, actions etc

in the present time when he sees you, his lover, the dawn to his dark side, the apple of his eye and his most cherished person doing the same things he used to do - it pains him immeasurably

diluc is a straightforward person. if there’s something he doesn’t like he says it, shows it without wasting a single second

but this. this was an incredibly sensitive and a hard topic for anyone to talk about or mention

so he decides to wait for you to say something or even give him the smallest of hints first. however don’t take too long because if diluc sees you continuing to be self destructive then he’s taking things into his own hands

will bring up about the topic on a warm night, when the two of you are cuddling close to each other under the blankets as the fire in the fireplace crackles softly

the atmosphere is soft, silent and comfortable with the smell of your cups filled with hot cocoa wafts through the air. this is when diluc gently brings up the topic

will patiently wait until you wrap your mind around things and answer him. even then the uncrowned king will stay quiet, taking in every words, every names, every breath and sighs you produce with a gentle squeeze to your intertwined hands

when you’re finished opening up to him, diluc will place down both of your cups on the nightstand of the bed and pull you in for a cuddle. you can cry if you want to, he will soothingly rub shapes and sizes into your shoulder with a low hum to soothe you

“it’s alright, my love. you’re safe now. here, with me”

first of all

yes my skrunkly (you), you can marry the puppy vibed blonde fictional man you saw on your device screen. mama nobu approves, he looks like a green flag

anyways, with that shit out of the way

green flag. seriously. just green flag all over

thoma has personally never experienced or committed any self deprecating, harming or destroying actions, thoughts or whatsoever

he does have bad days but that’s it. bad days. he likes to stay enthusiastic about life and living in general so he simply sits down, takes a breather, maybe pay a visit to the stray cats and dogs he looks after in inazuma city before continuing

when thoma first notices your scars whether they’re healed or not, or even sees your self destructive habits such as not eating when your stomach is grumbling, tugging on your hair harshly, peeling the skin around your nails - thoma instantly reaches his hands out and envelopes yours in his own

with a soft voice, the housekeeper would envelop both of your hands in his before looking into your eyes with the most saddest kicked puppy look

will ask you if you’re okay first and foremost before holding your hand and walking back home together. on the way he will buy you some of your favorite treats, drinks, point out a newly opened shop, a new vendor etc etc

when home, thoma would make a nice chamomile tea before sitting down with you on the chabudai. first will start with the small little talks about what happened during his time at the kamisato’s, a cute cat he saw and will eventually slowly drift into your habits

he will be here with you through thick and thin. you’re his pudding after all but before that you are your own person and you deserve to live

“sweettums… i will always be here with you through anything and everything okay?”

565 notes · View notes

cuckoo-on-a-string · 1 year

Text

Civilian Asset 2.

Polyamorous/femme/female reader x multiple

Summary: Things go from bad to worse.

Master List (coming soon) / Prev chapter

Warnings: Mild/brief self harm (over-washing hands), peril, violence, kidnapping, torture, corpses, gore, extremely brief threat of SA

Tagging: A couple folks have asked about tagging. Unfortunately tagging breaks my posts, so I don't keep lists. But I DO reply to each comment on each chapter when I post something new. So it's like a hand-written invitation delivered by butler to your inbox.

A/N: Thank you so much for the support! I hope you enjoy the ride!

When you remember how your legs work, you find your way to the bathroom. Away from the windows, it’s pitch black, and you have to flick on a light to see your hand in front of your face, but the yellow glow itches over your skin, and you work fast, turning the tap to cold and using the little bar of hand soap to attack the lingering rust red hiding in the creases where skin meets nail.

You wish for a big, bristly brush. Or some steel wool. You’d scrape the skin off and start over again if you could. Without so much as a washcloth, you’re forced to pick at yourself, scratching until your flesh is raw and fresh blood seeps up to hide the old.

Once you’re sure the handler’s blood is gone, you slurp a few handfuls of water, sure you’ll feel the affects of dehydration after so much vomiting soon if you don’t. Passing out is never fun, but in the current circumstances, a little dizziness at the wrong moment could be a death sentence.

A little voice whispers in the back of your head that everything tastes like iron as you sip, and you drown it by throwing the next scoop of water directly in your face.

The makeup you wore to the club has not faired well, and you’d rather be the idiot civilian in need of rescuing without mascara tracks streaking your face.

The cold water and hand soap leaves your skin flushed and red, but you’re clean. Maybe even a little refreshed.

Breathing comes easier.

It’s easy to pretend this is just an unplanned sleepover. This isn’t the first time you’ve spent an evening puking up your soul and washing your face without proper skincare products because your drunk ass never made it home.

This is okay.

This is livable.

All you have to do is sit tight and keep behind a locked door. Easy enough.

The light stays on. Even if it makes you uncomfortable, you can’t resign yourself to the total dark again. But you step out. Better to enjoy the illumination from a distance.

You wedge yourself into a corner between the empty living area and the hall to the bath and bedrooms, keeping away from the windows. No one said anything about snipers, but you have seen movies, and even if there isn’t a ghost out there with a gun, windows are an opportunity for the wrong person to see you moving around.

In the day, windows are eyes looking out. At night, the eyes turn in. It’s the kind of lesson you learned as a girl. Be aware, because someone wants to take a look without asking. Someone is hiding in the car beside yours, so be careful where you park. Don’t walk with headphones in. Kidnappers like to grab long hair and ponytails. There’s always someone who wants to hurt you, and they’re always going to be bigger and stronger, so the only way to win is to see them before they strike. This is definitely not the situation you grew up imagining, but you’ll take the intrinsic paranoia of being a woman in public as the gift it is in the moment.

Headlights from passing cars sweep the room from time to time, and you freeze like a deer as the LEDs paint the walls white. The beams cutting through the empty windows feels like a countdown, gears in a clock turning, and as the number of cars grows, you gradually notice some of the light stays behind, weakening the shadows where you hide. It’s closer to dawn than you realized, and soon this awful fucking night will end.

A knock shatters the silence, and your hand falls to your pocket, where your phone waits. Didn’t the woman say she would call? Could she have forgotten, or…?

Another series of knocks interrupts your train of thought, and you wrestle with the urge to leap towards the door the way you lunge to a ringing landline. Habit.

You get to your feet, backpack slung over one shoulder, trying to decide whether to approach the door or go hide deeper in the safehouse. It’s a Choose Your Own Adventure story from hell with no way to turn back to the previous page if you get shot.

In the end, someone else makes the choice for you.

A key rattles in the lock, and grey morning light floods the space as the door swings open to reveal three tall, clearly male silhouettes. They file through and shut the door quickly – too quickly? A smiling blond in the front approaches, hands up, trying to put you at ease.

“Hey, ready to go?” He talks like he knows you, but you most definitely do not know him. It tugs at your stranger danger trigger, and your hands flex against the urge to raise defensive fists. He’s American. The woman on the phone was American, too. Maybe that’s a good thing. “We’re here to get you somewhere secure, okay? Got a car out front.”

The other two sweep the room, move down the hall, clearing the rest of the safehouse with handguns easily hidden under their casual civilian clothing. The leader sounds like he’s from Boston. The other two have a bit of South in the mouth from what you catch of their brief commands and replies. It’s all very official. They’re professionals. There’s no reason to think they’re anything other than what they claim.

The smiling man knew where to find a key, so logically, someone in command told him. They knew where to look. They know you’re supposed to go somewhere with them.

So why do the hairs on the back of neck prickle?

Another lesson from your teen years pops to mind: If it feels wrong, it probably is.

Your phone jumps to life in your pocket, and you seize it with dread and hope as the man’s eyes dart to your hand, his smile suddenly and mysteriously missing.

“Don’t.” A flat command with a threat rippling under the surface like a riptide.

You hesitate, locking in place like he’s drawn a gun on you. “Why?”

He smiles again, more forced than before. “Because you don’t need to. We’re already here.”

His bullshit steams in the morning sun as it drops from his lips.

It feels wrong.

It is wrong.

You leap back and accept the call.

“Team’s five min – ”

You shout over her as the man lunges, talking faster than you realized you could. “Three men! Had a key! Americ-”

The blond tackles you, his shoulder in your diaphragm, and the air leaves you with a squeak as your back slams into the thin carpet. He’s heavy, and you hit the ground hard. As you blink away stars, you distantly hear the woman’s voice from where the phone has fallen a few feet away.

“Shut-up,” the man growls, driving his palm into your face.

His hand pushes over your mouth, and you don’t stop to think before sinking your teeth into the asshole’s skin. It isn’t the first time you’ve had reason to bite a bitch, and you hope it won’t be the last.

He jerks away with his own yelp.

You haven’t quite gotten your breath back, and you barely manage to bleat, “Help,” before the window of opportunity closes again.

A backhanded strike sends your vision spinning, leaving you discombobulated long enough for all three of the men – all shouting over each other – to roll you over and zip tie your hands behind your back. A heavy stomp and distinct crunch tell the fate of your phone.

You’ll tell the woman at the end of the line no more secrets. That tie is severed. You scream again anyway, because maybe someone is close enough to hear you. This is a residential neighborhood. Someone may wake up and feel heroic.

“Shut-up.” The leader smacks your head into the floor to make a point, and your teeth catch on the inside of your cheek. “We could’ve done this nice and easy. Painless. Quiet. But you wanna be a bitch? You wanna play games? Fuck it. Fine.”

You pull against your restraints, trying to get up on your knees as the blond addresses his friends, “We’ll do this at the warehouse. Grab her.”

Swearing, the other two heave you onto your feet and start dragging you out of the safehouse. One makes an attempt to fling you over his shoulder, but you kick and writhe until you tumble off, so they make due with hauling you by the arms as your heels scrabble across the carpet, the doorway, the concrete. You’re losing ground. They’re taking you away. And your mind is full of frantic thoughts about kidnappers and secondary locations and dropping survival rates.

One keeps a gloved hand over your mouth when it’s clear you won’t stop screaming no matter how many times they tell you to. Well-behaved women seldom make history, and well-behaved hostages rarely live to tell about it. There is no reason to go quietly into that good night, and fuck if you won’t fight them every inch of the way.

But they’re bigger, and stronger, and they get you to the car.

The blond leader waits by the trunk, holding it open with one hand while he cradles the one you bit near his chest. You get a glimpse of red teeth marks before his teammates literally toss you into the trunk and slam it shut.

It’s darker than the safehouse, and with your hands trapped, you can’t find any of the emergency pulls designed to help people in just this situation. One of the simplest horrors – losing control of your own body – tightens your throat. You can’t defend yourself. Can’t even put your arms over your face the next time one of the bastards takes a swing at you.

The engine rumbles to life, and your kidnappers peel away, flying over speedbumps and taking tight corners in their rush to leave before the real escorts arrived. You roll and slip at the mercy of inertia. Both fortunately and unfortunately, there’s nothing sliding around with you in the dark. While a crowbar or tire iron could’ve stabbed you or given you a concussion as you bounced and crashed around the narrow space, they might’ve helped free your hands. The best you can do is guess at where the taillights are and try to stomp through the corners.

You do not succeed.

But you keep trying as the coarse flooring scours a rug burn into your cheek.

This could be your last chance to get away, and if you can get the trunk open, you’ll gladly jump into the freeway. Tied hands and all. Living with one less limb or a broken spine is better than dying slowly in a warehouse. Right?

You don’t get to make that decision.

The road turns rough under the wheels, and you nearly vibrate to pieces, collecting bruises as you collide with the ceiling, floor, and walls.

You taste blood, probably from where you bit your cheek. Or maybe from the slap. Or any of the dozen times your head struck something during the ride.

It isn’t a big deal. It shouldn’t be, at least. But you’re bleeding. You just got the blood off your hands, and now it’s on your tongue. Your wrists sting where the plastic zip ties cut too tight. These men will kill you. They will hurt you until you’ve told them whatever they want to know, and then they’ll throw your body somewhere filthy for scavengers to tear apart.

You’re helpless.

The feeling sits like uneasy bile in your gut, churning with raw fear and howling anxiety as you fight back tears.

Shocky. Is that a word? You feel shocky.

The facts of your reality are a little too much right now, so your consciousness pulls back half a step. It’s happening to you, yes, but not in an immediate way. It could be a vivid thought experiment, or a dream you’ll realize is a nightmare when someone shoots you in the head and you don’t die. Your mind just lets all the feelings slip between open fingers to fall in a pile at your feet. The writhing miasma of panic and discomfort screams, trying to crawl back up your knees, but it doesn’t hurt so much down there.

You’re distancing yourself. That’s the word. Maybe it will help when they take you apart.

The car rolls to a stop. Your heart nearly stops with it. You hold your breath as the engine shuts off, listening to each shift the men make as they exit the car. The squeaks of old seats and aging suspension echoes through the trunk, and slamming doors send shockwaves through your bones as the men crunch over gravel to reach the back. The hatch pops open, and the fully-risen sun blinds you.

How long was the drive? Hours? Minutes? The sky is awfully bright.

As you squint, tears automatically beading in the corners of your eyes, the leader speaks up.

“We done playing games, or you gonna make this difficult?”

You lash out. Even if your hands are bound, your legs are still free, and you kick like a mule when the first man reaches for you. You miss him on the upswing, but he’s balancing with one hand on the trunk’s lip, and your heel slams down hard on his knuckles.

He wheels back, cursing, but you don’t have time to celebrate. Before you get your leg back into the deep, dark depths of the trunk, the leader grabs you by the ankle and yanks you out. The latch digs into your back, and you shriek as you go face-first into the gravel.

You’ve taken your pound of flesh from all three. The leader has your bite on his hand, you hopefully fucked up one goon’s fingers, and both of the supporting meatheads should have good bruises from your resistance on the way out of the safehouse.

None of them are well pleased.

“Fucking fine then.”

Still holding your ankle, the leader moves towards the decrepit building they’ve parked behind. He’s a bulky guy, but he’s got a bad case of vanity muscles. He can’t walk and pull at the same time. It’s step – drag – step – drag – step.

The little stones jab through your clothes, slicking into exposed skin and grinding deep bruises along your hips. Growling, you kick and wriggle, aiming for the asshole’s wrist and knee as you try to inch away like a worm.

He loses his grip, and for a blessed instant you think you’re free. Then meathead one and two each take an arm and haul you inside before their leader loses any more face. They don’t give you a chance to get on your feet, clearly frustrated with the whole ordeal. You aren’t a threat, but you’re a pain in the ass, so they treat you like the problem you are.

Spotty sunshine cuts through broken windows like dozens of spotlights in the wide storage room. The remaining glass is too filthy for anything but a muted glow to creep through. Still, there’s enough light for stubby grass to grow in the cracks. The place has seen better days, and rustling wings answer the thugs’ heavy steps as a flock of nesting pigeons take to the air. Everything smells like bird shit and mold.

The leader drags a rickety wooden stool to the center of the room, and the goons force you up to sit on it. Like most stools you’ve encountered, this one is a little too tall, and your toes don’t quite scrape the ground. The support rungs where you might’ve rested your feet for balance have rotted away to splintered stumps, and your sneakers paw the air, trying to balance, before you realize your escorts aren’t letting go.

Blondie steps in front of you, insincere smile back on his face. Clearly, he feels in control again, now that he has two grown men holding you down so you can’t run, can’t fight back.

“We know the hand-off didn’t happen,” he says, almost friendly. “We know you met with the handler, though, and he definitely had time to tell you something.” Leaning in, he lifts his brows, feigning an open expression as hands squeeze the blood from your bound arms. “I need you to tell me two things. I need you to tell me exactly what the handler said to you, and I need to know exactly how much you’ve told Laswell. That’s it. You can still make this easier on yourself. Just tell me the truth.”

Your jaw clenches shut. Your lips seal closed in a frown. It’s instinctive, almost defensive, like crossing your legs and leaning away when a man crowds you in a bar. He can’t have what he wants. You won’t give it to him.

You don’t even know who Laswell is, but you assume she’s the one who directed you to the safehouse.

A flicker of irritation warps the leader’s face again, and he says, saccharine sweet like fruit about to rot, “We could always do a cavity search to make sure you didn’t receive anything.”

You don’t take time to think. Following your gut, you sneer, giving the bastard elevator eyes even his goons will notice. Meeting his gaze again, you simply say “Gross.”

The following slap leaves your ears ringing. It jogs some of your disassociated mind back into your body, and you blink rapidly, searching for your equilibrium as you stare into the corner of the room, where his strike turned your head. Something wet wells over your upper lip, and when you try licking it away, you get a mouthful of copper.

“Fine. Fine!” The leader moves behind you, throwing up his hands. He rustles through something where you can’t see, muttering under his breath, and you wonder if he’s ever done this before.

Maybe he’ll give up. Maybe, if you keep quiet a little longer, they’ll just…

Rough hands force your left pinky straight, and something cold presses against your fingertip, pinching the nail.

Oh.

Fuck.

He’s gonna rip it off.

It doesn’t even hurt yet, but you can’t catch your breath. It’s evacuated your lungs before the screaming starts, and you go deathly still as you try to brace yourself.

The pliers lift and tug in a quick but ruthless motion, ripping the nail from the bed, and your vision goes white.

Pain too intense to stay in your finger crackles through your shattered nerves, and you struggle to fold in on yourself as every muscle tries to get away, to physically disconnect and run from your own hand. Your lungs won’t expand, and squeaky, stuttered cries punch out as you try to breathe.

“Just tell me what you know! It’s not that hard! Jesus!”

The pliers settle on the next nail, and you start hyperventilating. It’s just pain. It will pass. It’s just pain. It will pass. A friend once confided he’d studied torture-endurance tactics when he started running. You cling to them as the second nail lifts and whimper through a desperate inhale. The key is time. Nothing lasts forever. One way or another, it has to stop eventually. It isn’t as effective as it probably was for your friend, though, because his torture ended in a good shower and cool glass of water.

You aren’t ready to die.

But you don’t talk, either.

The asshole on your left jerks you hard to get you to quit shaking so his leader can grasp the next fingernail, but it’s not something you can voluntarily stop. “She’s not talking. Just shoot her so we can get out of here.”

The leader throws down the pliers, and they clatter across the brittle concrete. He paces behind you. Each step sounds like the second hand of a clock ticking away his patience, ticking away the minutes you have left to live. “He wants to know the extent of the breach. Our mess. We clean it up.”

His teammate scoffs, “Just because you want to impress him –”

“This isn’t about impression anyone, dumbass!” The leader’s voice pings around the empty warehouse, and you flinch, ready for that anger to turn on you. He marches back from the corner his pacing took him to, snapping at his associate over the top of your head. “What do you think happens if we don’t meet his expectations? If we don’t fucking exceed them? Think he’ll just shrug and call it a learning experience? Fucking – dumbass!”

“Bet he’d be angrier if we get caught because you wanted to exceed his expectations.”

Silence. A full thirty seconds. You count them in your head, like you’re playing hide and seek.

“We’re running out of time.”

The leader sighs. A rustle. Something clicks, something you imagine is the safety of a gun, and the men holding you in place lean away without letting go.

You struggle, jerking and swaying so you almost knock over the stool, but the men anticipated your fight against the end, and their bruising grips crush to the bone.

Something brushes the hair on the back of your head, gentle as a kiss. Oh, it’s definitely a gun.

“Last chance.” The leader still acts like he’s being reasonable, that his inconvenience is greater than your entire life. Like he ever could’ve been the hero in this scenario.

Now that he’s shown his hand, you have no reason to speak, even if you had planned to. Caving to his demands won’t buy back your life. It might not even win another hour. You didn’t get the message out, so you’ve already failed. And you’re going to die.

Doesn’t mean you aren’t terrified. Your face drips with tears and blood. The salty tracks sting what you assume is a cut on the side of your face, and every breath of wind stirs the naked nerves on the tips of your fingers to fresh agony.

You don’t want to cry, and you sure as hell won’t beg these assholes for anything. But you can’t bear to watch, so you close your eyes like a child, face screwed up as you wonder how much the bullet will hurt on its way through your brain, how much you’ll feel before it ends you.

The hands on your arms tense. The barrel of the gun presses firm and cool against your scalp.

A crack like thunder shatters the stillness, and it’s amazing that you can still hear the men holding you down yell and jump after you’ve been shot.

Another bang, and the man on your left lets go as something warm sprays your face.

Your eyes pop open.

That shouldn’t happen. You’re supposed to be dead.

The man to your right yanks you off the stool and pins you to his front with an arm across your throat. Using you as a human shield. Because.

He’s the one in danger.

You register the dead bodies of the blond leader and the one who argued for your execution on the floor. Blooming pools of red seep from wide holes in their skulls. Something greyish oozes from the hollow of the goon’s former expression.

The last surviving teammate has you facing some of the high, broken windows, and you recall your fears of a sniper when you cowered in the dark safehouse.

A new gun pushes into your temple, and you try to twist away only for the man to squeeze your neck so hard he cuts off your air. You aren’t sure if means to choke you, but you can’t fucking breathe. Unbalanced, with your hands still tied behind your back and a gun to your head, there’s nothing you can do but slip and stumble where he pulls you – presumably out of the sniper’s line of sight.

As he tries to drag you towards an exit, the door falls in with a boom, and two large men with much bigger guns than your kidnapper’s rush him.

“Drop it now! Get on your knees!”

Your kidnapper doesn’t comply. He whips back and forth, putting so much pressure on your throat your vision dances with black spots, and your feet drag, almost entirely limp, over the floor.

“I’ll do it! Back off! I’ll shoot her!”

The two men move in concert, orchestrated like a pack of wolves as they split up and gradually move on the hostage-taker. The man drifts back towards the stool and his dead friends without realizing, far too involved with the nearer guns to remember who’d killed the others.

He grinds the gun against your face, and you squeeze your eyes shut again. How many death threats can you survive in one day? If the approaching team doesn’t move faster, you’ll suffocate before you get shot.

Your shoe slips in blood, and as you feebly scramble to keep your feet under you, a third shot reverberates through the room, and you’re falling. The man holding you tumbles forward, pinning you under literal dead weight with his arm still twisted around your neck.

You only have a moment to panic, and then big hands are tugging the corpse away, and the light seems as bright as it did when your kidnappers opened the trunk. You can breathe, and the oxygen shudders into you like a punch to the sternum. Coughing, you try to remember how this breathing shit is supposed to work.

One of the men quickly but carefully rolls you onto your side so he can cut off the zip ties, and your hands ache with the rush of blood to your fingers. Including your mangled nailbeds. Ah, fuck. Those smart.

The second man kneels in front of you, pausing to speak into a radio while his partner gets you free.

“Good shot, LT. Target down. Securing the package now and moving to exfil.”

He is very Scottish, and that puts some little, anxious voice in your head at ease. The group who took you was American. This is not the same club. As if shooting the kidnappers wasn’t enough to prove that. But for whatever reason, the accent matters more to your rattled mind.

The man behind you helps you sit up, and as you flex your hands, as happy as you are hurt, he asks, “Are you seriously injured? Can you walk?” A nice, English accent. It has the same effect as the Scot’s voice. These are friends. They’re here to help. Even if they’re even scarier than the men who first took you.

“I’m… fine.” A lie. “I can walk.” In theory.

They hadn’t done anything directly to your legs, but everything feels shaky and unsteady, so you aren’t sure how well they’ll hold once the adrenaline drops.

“Okay.” The Scot pulls you the rest of the way to your feet with the same firm efficiency as his comrade as the Englishman turns with a raised gun to watch the room’s other exits. “I need you to hold onto the back of my vest.” He takes your undamaged hand and guides your grip over the heavy strap covering his shoulder. “Just like that. Very good. Just move when I move and we’ll get you out, yeah?”

You nod, feeling small and strange – he’s bigger than you initially thought, and you feel like a child hanging onto him like this. But you understand what he’s doing, and you’re slightly more confident in your ability to leave on your own two feet now that you have some physical support.

“Okay.” He lifts his gun and signals to the second man. “Let’s move.”

It’s a short, cautious trip back into daylight. The Scot checks corners as you progress, keeping himself between you and potential threats ahead while the Englishman guards the rear, ready for an ambush.

When you escape the shadows of the warehouse, a black SUV races up to meet your little band. You flinch back, but don’t let go of the Scot’s tactical vest, and the young man behind you rushes to assure you all is well before you bolt. “It’s our team. Don’t worry. You’re safe now.”

The Scot opens the door, hops in, and because you’re still holding onto him, you go, too. Behind you, the rearguard leaps in, and the vehicle takes off before he even wrangles the door shut.

It takes a moment and the Scottish gentleman clearing his throat before you realize you haven’t released him, and the hold leaves you kneeling awkwardly on the bench seat between the two… soldiers? Agents?

He does the hard work for you, unfolding your fingers the same way he brought them to the vest. “There you go, hen. You’re alright.”

Anxious, face burning, you slip down to sit like a functional adult with your ass on the leather and your feet on the floor. Two more men sit in the front, one with a rifle. One with a fucking fishing hat. That’s all you can see around the headrests. Nothing sticks in your head as you look around, and you can’t see out the tinted windows very well past the bulky men with their outsized guns.

You’re alive. You’ve been rescued. But every little sensation, every dawning thought and fact make you feel worse. Small. Trapped. Rushing somewhere out of your control.

You feel, once again, very terribly like a civilian caught in the wrong world.

#ghost x reader #captain price x reader #soap mactavish x reader #soap x reader #x reader #poly!reader #cod mw fanfiction

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guess-my-next-obsession · 5 months

Text

Starlight, Chapter One:

pairing: fae!ezra prospect x princess!oc (Marigold)

rating: M (series is 18+ only, arranged marriage, fantasy elements, talks of potential violence, vague and brief mentions of su!c!de, Ezra is a charmer and definitely written OOC to suit my fantasy needs but there are canon elements incorporated)

wc: 7k

series masterlist

I arrived in Nox, the land of eternal midnight, one week after climbing into my father’s gold-plated carriage.

The ride was long and grueling, my back and rear feeling the brunt of the effects of such a rough journey. But even in my soreness and desperation for my plush mattress back home and the smell of gardenia wafting in through my open windows, I refused to complain to my father’s guards for a break. In fact, I refused to utter a single word as we rolled through the snowy forest just north of Heims and just south of Nox. The darkness had already begun to creep upon us, so slowly I hadn’t even noticed until it was pitch black outside.

“Welcome to Nox, Princess,” one my father’s guards announced with a sly smirk, his eyes fixed on my profile as I pressed my face to the window of the carriage, my eyes wide and jaw slack as I watched the forest around us clear little by little until there was nothing but open, dark sky over top. “Amazing isn’t it?”

Whatever I had imagined stars to look like before that moment seemed insulting in comparison to its reality. Tiny little white, blue, and yellow dots of light shone like diamonds and crystals against the blue-black void around them, my heart aching in my chest at the simple beauty of it all.

“To your left is the moon,” the guard offered, drawing my attention to him for a split second before I was sliding across the carriage bench to peer out the other side. As soon as I looked up, I saw it.

It hung in the sky like a cosmic ornament, it’s gray so bland it should have bored me, but there was something about that round beacon of light that called to me. I couldn’t help the gasp that slipped past my lips as I looked to the tiny flecks of light beside it for only a split second before returning my attention to the main attraction. It seemed to calm my nerves the same way the sun did, just without the warmth.

Perhaps different didn’t always mean worse. Perhaps this new world around me—one of darkness and covered in a soft blanket of snow—would surprise me and kick dirt in the face of all of my fears.

I could only hope.

I couldn’t be certain of what time of day it was given the constant state of darkness around me, but as we rolled up to the front of the giant castle—it’s black stone and gothic design such a stark contrast from my home in Solis—I reasoned it must have been around dawn judging by the soldiers training in the east courtyard.

I watched the man supervising, his midnight blue tunic beneath a plate of black armor making him look like an imposing sight in contrast to the blanket of stark white beneath his feet. As I climbed out of the carriage with the help of one of my father’s guards, I locked eyes with the assumed-General across the hundred yards that separated us. He seemed to remember something, abruptly shouting a command at his soldiers to finish their training without him before turning on his heels to head towards the side of the castle.

I shivered at the authority in his voice, in the quickness in which he strode across the field. As if it were mere feet instead of hundreds of them.

“Welcome, Princess Marigold,” a sentry standing in front of the dark stone doors called down the brick stairs separating us, drawing my attention away from the soldiers who carried on as though the General’s eyes were still upon them.

What cruel punishments had they experienced at his hand for refusing to follow his commands?

“The King is eagerly awaiting your presence,” the sentry carried on, his eyes glancing at the guards behind me. “I’m afraid your men will have to bid you farewell here.”

I turned to the men who I’d known since I was a child, but whose names I hadn’t the slightest idea of. Still, they were people of Solis. The last I’d see for…ever, possibly.

I gave the men a bow of my head, not trusting my voice to remain strong as I wished them farewell, in turn wishing my old life farewell, too. All I could manage was, “Thank you.”

“Come, Princess,” the sentry called, growing impatient with my goodbyes, or perhaps he was just anxious over what might happen to both of us if I were to keep the King waiting too long.

The thought alone was enough to set my feet in motion.

After being led through the large entrance hall, the walls a bleak pewter stone that matched the ceiling and floor, I was led into the large throne room where the King sat waiting on his black, imposing throne upon an equally imposing dais. I took him in, his black hair perfectly quaffed, his stone gray eyes piercing me from yards away. His bone structure was impossibly sharp and symmetrical, and I couldn't help but wonder how someone so beautiful could possibly exist without the help of magic.

How stunning must his parents have been to create such a handsome, broad, masculine looking man?

I tore my eyes from him to save myself golden skin from turning pink, my focus fixing on his left.

There was a smaller, more feminine looking throne beside him that sat empty except for a midnight blue velvet pillow and a diamond crown that looked as if it was made from some of those tiny flecks in the sky.

This was to be my future seat, my crown. My stomach turned at the thought until my eyes focused on the person standing to the right of the King.

There, beside my soon-to-be husband, stood the General. With light brown skin, dark chocolate eyes, and a blonde streak in his dark, wavy head of hair, he was alarmingly handsome, even in comparison to the impossible beauty of King Kaius. But there was something other about him, something unlike myself or any person I’d ever met. I couldn’t quite tell what his position was amongst the ranks here, General or advisor, but judging by his armor and the blade he wore at his side, I decided I didn’t want to risk pissing him off to find out.

As if he could sense my curiosity, his brown eyes glowed amber and a bouquet of Marigolds appeared in his hand only to be given over to the King. Magic? He…

Fae.

My father liked to tell me frightening stories when I was a girl about a time in his own youth where the Fae ruled over the mortal lands. He told me of their cunning, their silver tongues, and most importantly, their wicked magic that had the power to wipe out entire kingdoms.

But after the revolution, a bloody war waged against the Fae in which Kaius’ bloodline and my own defeated them and ascended to their respective thrones, the fae were largely driven elsewhere. They fled overseas, in an unnamed land no mortal dared to even think about, let alone attempt to visit. And as far as my father was concerned, that was the end of their story.

But now…now I could see just how little he knew about anything.

Suddenly, I felt whatever hope I carried that perhaps my fate—my new life—wouldn’t be as awful as I imagined dying out like the last ember in a pile of ash.

A new world. A stranger as my husband. A faerie as his….

“Princess Marigold,” the sentry bellowed into the chamber, his voice echoing against the walls. “You have the honor of standing in the presence of King of Nox, and the King’s Hand.”

The King’s Hand. My new King—my future husband—had enlisted the council of a faerie? The species that attempted to enslave my own?

The ember fighting to stay alive inside of me died completely.

“I do hope your journey was smooth,” Kaius said, throwing the flowers at the sentry standing beside me, the petals half-crushed by the time the bouquet was in my shaking hands. His voice was velvet smooth, as if it were made of the same darkness and night outside of these walls. He cracked a smile at my quietness. “For what it’s worth, you look wonderful. Far lovelier than your father let on.”

I forced myself to reply. “Thank you, my King.”

He seemed to approve of the use of the title, his head nodding subtly.

“I will have my Hand show you to your quarters,” he announced, snapping his finger before waving it in my direction.

His arrogance was odorous. I couldn’t bear to be in his presence for another moment, and yet…

“Surely you have a handmaid—“

“There are no women on the grounds,” he announced, indifference bordering on agitation in his tone. “Until now, that is.”

No women, no…

Who was to help me bathe? If I were to fall pregnant, who would help me give birth?

I could have fainted there in the center of that too-large throne room if it hadn’t been for a sudden calm that washed over me when the King’s Hand stepped closer, his eyes glowing again.

“Please, allow me, Princess,” he bowed, holding out his bent arm to me. I accepted it only to repay him for whatever magic he worked on me to save myself from the embarrassment of passing out.

“There will be a ball this evening to welcome you to your new home,” Kaius called after us. “Please see to it that she bathes. I can smell her from here.”

Well, I suppose he said I looked wonderful—not that I smelled that way.

“You smell fine,” the Hand assured quietly as we exited the chamber. I didn’t miss the glare he shot over his shoulder at the King or the icy warning in it. Bold, even for a Fae.

His eyes caught mine as he turned forward again, witnessing the way my eyes narrowed at the sight of him. Of what I remembered from my father’s stories.

“I am not a monster and I am not out to kill you, Princess,” he assured with a slight smirk. I couldn’t explain why, but I could feel the centuries it must have taken for him to master such a look. Dangerous and not, all at the same time.

“Can you read my thoughts?” I snapped, suddenly conscious of his power.

“No,” he said, calm and amused. “Only your feelings, Your Highness. ”

“Well, stop,” I said, turning my eyes away from his as he led me up a grand, winding staircase made of the same dark brick the rest of the castle was built from.

“It isn’t something within my control,” he said. “But I’ll stop intruding.”

I nodded and tried to will a cold, hard exterior to mask my softness. I couldn’t begin to imagine what these people, cruel and calculated, would do with it.

After a beat of silence, I found myself speaking again.

“Why—“ I started, but quickly gained control of myself. I had no idea what this fae was capable of, let alone his motives. He quirked an eyebrow at me, his eyes scanning my face as he silently assessed me.

“I told you,” he spoke cautiously, as if he were talking to a wild beast he feared but desperately needed to tame. “You needn’t be afraid of me, Princess. Ask your question. I can feel the way it’s eating you up inside.”

I ignored the way his voice fell into something lower, something far too intimate for my taste.

“Why would the King appoint a fae as his Hand?” I asked against better judgment. He smiled slightly at me as we paused at the top of the stairs, his hand raising to halt the guards that I wasn’t even aware were trailing us. The men obeyed, stopping at the bottom of the stairs while he led me down another long, dark hallway.

“The King does many things I do not understand,” he said, his voice a trained whisper. “My existence is bound to his. He saved my life—“ The Hand held up his right hand, or more accurately, the ornate, solid gold prosthetic in its place. I wondered if he could feel my shock, but if he had, it didn’t show. “So, here I am.”

I ignored the urge to question him further on that specific subject. Perhaps another time.

“Do you enjoy it? Being here?” He must’ve been able to sense me feeling him out, that flicker of a smile vanishing into thin air.

“Not often,” he replied. At least he told the truth. “I find Court in all its pomp and frill to be incredibly isolating. But, on the other hand, it provides. I am free—to an extent. Just as you’ll be.”

“To an extent,” I repeated with a scoff. “Why are there no women around?”

“There are, just not in the castle. The rest of our court prefers their own manors to living on the grounds,” he said, turning another sharp corner. “And as for your personal servants, I’m meeting with potential handmaids this afternoon. If you’d like, you can come along and select them for yourself.”

“Yes, that would be…fine,” I said. “You’re awfully…friendly. For a Hand. I expect you’re taking note of every single thing I say to report back to the King.”

“I’m not taking any more note of you than you are of me,” he winked, unlocking a chamber that felt cold even with the two large, stone doors closed. “If you expect that I am a spy sent to observe and report, I must disappoint you.”

“What are you then? An ally?” I asked, quirking a brow at him.

I couldn’t help but feel torn between the image of a faerie that my father had painted for me—the very same father that cruelly sent me to this dark, awful, cold place—and the picture in front of me of an honest, warm man.

“I could be a friend,” he said. “But at the very least, I am here to make your life easier. Whatever you need, send for me and I will do everything in my power to make it happen.”

“I always thought it would be my husband doting on me like that,” I joked, shaking my head at the childish imagining. “Speaking of. What is he like? What might I expect? Is he a romantic? A brute?”

The Hand seemed to think hard for a moment. I could see him retreating into his own mind, as if it were a real place and not just something inside of him. When he came back to the moment, I suspected he’d have masterfully worded his response to avoid any missteps.

How long had it taken to learn such a skill?

“The King is what he is. He can be a very good man, and he can be…a very good King. I have a feeling you understand the need for the distinction,” he said, his eyes scanning my face again. “I wouldn’t pry. He’s generally better left to himself and his own doings.”

“I’m perfectly fine with keeping my distance,” I returned, rolling my eyes at the reality of my new life before gesturing at the door. “Well, if this is to be the start of my prison sentence, don’t let me delay you any longer.”

“Your Highness,” he sighed, leveling his eyes with mine in a way that no one ever had, as if he were talking to an equal. “This place is only a prison if you let it be. There’s plenty to see, to do, to busy yourself with. Don’t lock yourself away and let this grief eat you whole.” His eyes softened as they combed over my face. I wondered how pitiful I must’ve looked to earn such a stare. “Friend or ally, it is my pleasure to serve you, Princess.”

I didn’t say anything, only giving him a single nod before entering my chamber and closing the door.

In between quick, panicked breaths, I surveyed the suite around me. It looked nothing like my chamber back at home.

It was an absurdly large, two-story suite fit for a Queen—though, I remembered it made sense given that I would be one soon enough. On the first floor, there was the foyer I stood in, its dark stone walls, matching charcoal curtains, and velvet black furnishing reminding me of a very posh dungeon. Beyond a set of black, paneled ,double-doors was a less intimidating sitting room with a black-brick hearth that reached up to the high ceiling. On either side of the sitting room sat a dining room and a study that matched the current gothic aesthetic. I only briefly scanned the wall-to-wall bookshelves in my new study before venturing upstairs to my main chamber, a large dressing and bathing suite attached on either side.

I couldn’t stop my throat from swelling as I took in my new surroundings. This was nothing like home to me.

Instead of the sheer yellow curtains that flowed in the open breeze in my old bedroom, there were dark blue velvet curtains drawn over the large floor-to-ceiling windows to keep out the cold. Instead of my white linen comforter and canopy bed, there only sat a large, gothic style four-poster bed with a velvet, onyx-colored blanket tucked in neatly.

There was no lightness in this castle, but I foolishly expected that perhaps my room would, at least, be an inviting space for me to lock myself away in, as the Hand said.

Perhaps he could remedy the decor and furnishings for me if I asked nicely.

I ignored the idea and headed into the large bathing room on the right side of my bedroom, its giant windows overlooking the snowy grounds of the castle. At least this room seemed to hold some beauty.

Between the large windows showcasing the dark winter wonderland outside, the stars I was only just becoming familiar with shining so brightly overhead, and the giant pool in place of a normal bathtub, I couldn’t find myself to hate this space. This, for now, would be my haven.

Shedding my overcoat, I suddenly realized that no bath had been drawn for me, and seeing as how I had never drawn my own or watched it be done—what a clueless and pampered girl—I started to panic.

What would the punishment be if I showed up to the ball still smelling of my travels?

I didn’t have a minute to consider it before the pool started to fill with steaming water, the room scented with ylang ylang and gardenia.

The Hand’s doing, no doubt.

I sighed away the rest of the shiver I still had from being outside, and stripped down to nothing before stepping into the perfectly hot water, every ache in my body fading instantly.

So, this was to be my life. I’d tend to my husband’s urges, attend gatherings, and sit here in this bathtub trying to convince myself not to throw myself through the window.

A fitting punishment for the least loved daughter of five.

After a long struggle of trying and failing to fashion my corset by myself—I wasn’t going to ask The King’s Hand to help me into my dress, even if I was entirely certain he’d agree—I opted for a looser gown that buttoned at the front of the bodice.

Though I wasn’t used to this darker, cooler color palette, I couldn’t help but admire the fine fabrics filling my armoire. The one I’d chosen for this afternoon—if you could call it that—was made of the smoothest silk I’d ever touched, even smoother than the luxurious fabrics my sister came back from Florere with during her last visit. Its color was just as dark as the night sky around me. On the shoulders, there were beaded black rosettes that sparkled even in the dull light coming in through the window. Covering my arms was a sheer black mesh that glittered as if it was made of starlight. I couldn’t find a reason to fault it.

A knock at the stone door on the lower level of my suite tore me away from the full length mirror in my dressing room. I slowly made my way down the stone staircase to the foyer, my heart racing with fear at the thought of Kaius waiting behind the door instead of a sentry or The Hand.

I wasn’t sure what that told me about my future marriage, but I could only assume it wasn’t a promising start.

Thankfully, I was only met with the sight of The Hand, his smile turning into something more indulgent as he took in the sight of me in my new gown.

“A lovely choice for this afternoon, Princess,” he said, finally meeting my eyes. “The violet brings out the brown in your eyes.”

I didn’t know what to say or if I wanted to accept the compliment. Still, it was smart to be polite.

“Thank you,” I managed. “Shall we go?”

He let out a breath of a chuckle and nodded, holding his arm out for me.

“Is that necessary?” I asked, staring at him and his arm that remained held out for me.

“Does my chivalry bother you?” he teased, lifting an eyebrow as I continued staring blankly at him until he finally let his arm fall to his side. “I was under the impression Princesses enjoyed good manners.”

It took everything in me not to scoff in his face.

“I enjoy good manners that don’t involve me hanging on the arm of a man I do not know, all to be seen as a trophy—a prize that you’d do well to remember is not yours,” I snapped, some of that Solis heat boiling in my veins. He only looked pleased by my response.

“You are certainly not what I imagined,” he said, shaking his head at me with that stupid smile on his face. “That’s not to say I’m disappointed.”

“I don’t suppose it matters whether or not I am what you imagined, does it?” I returned.

“I suppose,” he agreed before waving his hand down the hallway. “Shall we?”

“I suppose,” I echoed, my voice sharp with irritation.

We made our way from the east wing of the castle to the main reception room on the first floor in mutually agreed upon silence. I didn’t want to hear any more of his quips nor did I imagine he wanted to hear any more of my snide retorts. And instead of conversation, I busied myself with mapping out the castle.

If I were going to spend the rest of my days here, I thought it best to get well acquainted with my surroundings, but it seemed the castle was built purposefully to confuse its residents. With all the dark stone and torchlight, I couldn’t tell which way was where. The only markers were the staircases, each one fashioned with a slightly different shade of charcoal to distinguish their location.

I quickly made a mental note to establish my bearings based on this knowledge later.

As we entered the reception room, I took note of the guards posted along the walls and at every entrance and exit. It must have looked terrifying to the sixteen women who stood in a neat line in front of a smaller dais than the one in the throne room. It looked terrifying to me, and I was here as the future Queen Consort.

“Introducing The King’s Hand and the future Queen, Princess Marigold!”

I hoped there would be a way to convince Kaius to cut this bellowing out of my entrances. It seemed ridiculous to have a sentry squawk out my name every time I entered a room, especially once I became Queen and everyone knew who I was.

“Your choice, Princess,” he said, gesturing at the two chairs on the dais. I wondered if there was any significance in him offering me to choose my seat, but decided that if there was, I wouldn’t bother searching for it. I sat down in the seat on the right and nearly gasped at the plushness of the throne.

Was everything here made this well?

“Thank you all for coming,” he began, his voice more commanding than it had been just a second ago when he was speaking to me. “I do ask that in the future, you bow in the presence of your new Queen.”

I wanted to slap him for speaking for me. I didn’t think these women should have to bow before anyone considering half of them were old enough to be my grandmother.

“Your new Queen asks that you do not bow to me unless you feel called to do so,” I cut in, surprising The Hand as he opened his mouth to speak again. “Bowing only means anything if it’s done with the right heart.”

He seemed to find my outburst intriguing, or perhaps infuriating given the way his jaw tightened as he turned from me back to the women.

“As the Princess wishes,” he managed. Pointing at the first woman in the line up, he spoke again. “Come.”

“Must you be so demanding,” I whispered to him, earning only a glance in my direction.

A young looking girl approached the dais, her pale skin and tangled white-blonde hair bringing a soft frown to my face.

“What is your name?”

“Drusilla, Your Highness,” she said, bowing low enough to sweep the floor.

“Age?”

“Sixteen.”

Gods. She was hardly more than a child. Even I still felt like one and I was a decade older.

“She’s a child,” I whispered, appalled that his people would even bring her before me.

She’s an orphan.

I heard his voice in my head as clear as if he had spoken right in my ear. I contained my gasp as he turned to me for a moment, his eyes still glowing.

It was either offering servitude or leaving her to starve.

I swallowed the lump in my throat at his show of power and nodded, turning to the girl.

“Have you any training? Any expertise?” I asked, hoping that the softness in my voice could quell some of her trembling fear as she fought not to look me in the eye.

“No, Your Highness,” she said, her voice weak and frail as her frame. She looked near death, as if it was a miracle she was still standing.

“Drusilla,” I called, forcing her eyes to meet mine. “Have you eaten today?”

She shook her head. I didn’t think she’d eaten in a week judging by her frailness.

I turned to The Hand and nodded, hoping he understood me even if I couldn’t get in his head like he did mine.

“Take her to eat then show her to her quarters,” he commanded. I watched as not a second passed before the sentries were doing as they were told. “If any one of you attempts to lay a hand on her…”. His power surged around us enough to darken the already dreary room. “You lose that hand. And that is only a taste of what else might be lost if anyone disobeys my command.”

The men bowed, silently pledging their honor, before leaving the room with a still trembling Drusilla. I made a mental note to visit her as soon as I could to try and calm some of her fears the way my elder sister did with me during my departure.

“Are all Hands this powerful?” I asked, lacing my voice with mockery to disguise my intimidation.

The Hand didn’t answer.

“Next,” he demanded, waving at the second woman in line.

She was older than the rest of the candidates by far, though I had no clue of how old she was exactly. I took in her raven black hair, the lines etched on her sickly pale, almost gray skin, and finally met the endless black void of her eyes. I knew at the first glance that something was off about her. Something I didn’t want near me.

“Your name,” he inquired. The older woman grinned widely enough to bare her rotted teeth, forcing my stomach to flip with both fear and disgust.

“I have no name,” she replied, her voice shrill and scratchy like claws raking over stone.

I’d only ever met one of the Cursed—a wicked group of witches that dabbled only in the dark side of magic--before, after she was brought before my father to be tried. That witch looked slightly younger and more refreshed than the one in front of me, but there was no mistaking their identical set of onyx eyes.

“You’re one of the Cursed,” I accused, shocking myself along with the rest of the room. The Hand whipped his attention towards me for a moment before turning back to the woman at my feet.

He took a few moments to inspect her using some sort of magic, at least judging by the way his eyes seemed to glow that shade of gilded bronze again. Whatever he must have discovered, it was enough to force his face into a stern scowl as his eyes faded back to their normal dark brown.

“Do you deny practicing the dark arts?” he asked through clenched teeth, his hand moving to rest on the hilt of his dagger. “High Priestess?”

The wicked old woman grinned at the use of her title.

“Do you?” she purred, her wicked tongue laced with venom. “You’ve got more darkness in you than me and all my sisters combined.”

“Take her away,” he ordered. Six guards surrounded the witch and seized her, though she certainly didn’t make it easy with all her hissing and thrashing about. “Lock her in the Dark Cell. Since she loves the darkness so much.”

“Hypocrite!” she screamed, shrieking like a witch. “What a foul hypocrite of a Faerie! The darkness will come for you too!”

“What is she—“

“Have the witch taken to the dungeon before I cut her head off and have it mounted in the throne room,” he ordered, leaving no room for questioning in the harshness of his voice. As the guards carried the still-shrieking witch away, I stared at him with wide eyes, fearing the glimpse of darkness—the same darkness the witch accused him of harboring inside—I just saw in his eyes. Sensing my frightened stare, he softened himself with a sigh and turned to me. “I apologize, Princess. Clearly my men are not as trained to spot evil as you seem to be.”

I couldn’t stop looking at him. I wanted to tear his mind apart and lay its contents out on a table to carefully study one by one. He seemed entirely unreadable.

“I’d like to go back to my chamber,” I whispered, voice small with fear. “Please.”

Studying me for a moment with what looked to be concern mixed with guilt, he nodded, turning back to the guards waiting behind the remaining women who stood trembling with fear.

“Take the rest away,” he ordered with a wave of his hand. He waited until there was not a single soul in the room before turning back to me. “I apologize if the witch’s outburst frightened you. I can assure you, it is rare that one of the Cursed gathers the courage to make an appearance, and even rarer that they cause any harm. They’re simply old Crones who like to waste away worshiping at the feet of Death.”

“She said that you…have darkness in you, too,” I replied, my voice hardly above a whisper as I tracked his every move. Hesighed, lifting a hand to rub over the coarse hair covering his chin.

“Yes,” he admitted, though it looked as though it pained him to do so. “All Fae carry both light and dark inside of them. We are made of it. Not equal parts, necessarily.”

“So you’re made up of…more darkness than light?”

“She seems to think so,” he said, dropping his eyes to my lips before bringing them back to mine. “What do you think? Do you see any resemblance between me and that old witch?”

“Not physically, no,” I let out a huff of amusement.

“And how about the way I make you feel?” he asked, the corner of his mouth twitching as if he was fighting off a smirk. “You knew the moment you saw her for what she was. Yet, you have yet to hurl an accusation like that at me.”

“Would you like me to?” I asked, finally earning a laugh from him. I found myself smiling, too. It seemed The Hand had a knack for putting me at ease.

“Would you still like to return to your chambers?” he asked, standing up and walking over to where I remained sitting.

“Yes, I think some rest will do me well,” I said, standing up with the help of his hand. “It’s been an exciting morning.”

“I believe this evening will be just as eventful given that this court hasn’t seen a new member in years,” he said, walking with me down the steps of the dais before leading us out into the corridor. “A word of caution, if I may.”

“You may,” I said, glancing over at him just to admire the way the torchlight lit up his face. A face I had no business admiring.

“Don’t let yourself be alone with anyone at the ball, Marigold,” he said, meeting my eyes as we walked. “They’ll either try to seduce you, exploit you, or kill you.”

“Gods,” I choked, shaking my head. “Court in Solis was so boring compared to this. The only torture to be found there was having to listen to my father’s speeches.”

The Hand chuckled. “Kaius isn’t much of a public speaker, so at least you’re clear on that front.”

“When am I to officially marry him?” I asked, that fearsome pit in my stomach growing at the mere thought of marrying a man I didn’t know.

“Tonight,” he said, sympathy filling his eyes as he watched me shudder. “If…if you’re comfortable, I can ease some of your fear.”

“No amount of kind words—“

“I meant with my magic,” he smiled. “I can take it away for a while. Help with the nausea.”

I sighed. I shouldn’t have to need magic in order to not be sickened by my fate.

“What if I were to accidentally trip down a staircase? Fall from a ledge?” I joked. Mostly.

He clearly found no amusement in it as he stopped us abruptly, his eyes boring into mine.

“Please try not to make those kinds of jokes,” he said, his tone both stern and gentle. “Kaius’s mother…she—“

“Oh, Gods,” I gasped, covering my mouth as my heart dropped into my gut. “I am—Gods, I had no idea.”

“Kaius would be very quick to…react if you said anything like that around him,” he warned, making my skin pimple as I thought about the ways Kaius could possibly react. I didn’t want to find out. “So, please try to save your dark humor just for me.”

I ignored the idea of saving anything “just for him” and continued walking, feeling his presence looming behind me in thick but not unwelcome silence.

“How are you liking your suite?” he asked as we neared my chamber.

“It’s…dark,” I replied, unsure of whether or not he’d take offense given that he, apparently, was dark, too. “But I do love the bathing room and its windows.”

“I thought you might,” he said, a content sound to his voice.

“How?” I wondered if perhaps he’d done some spying on me before I came, either with or without my father’s knowledge. Though, it made sense that the King’s Hand would want to know what kind of person they were getting for their new Queen Consort.

“Not you, specifically,” he assured, turning to me as we stood in front of the giant stone door to my suite. “I just figured that whoever ended up here would enjoy a good view of their new environment without having to…interact with anyone. Though, there are certainly better views of the stars elsewhere on the grounds.”

“Like where?” I asked, more out of politeness than anything else.

“There’s a conservatory in the East Wing with a library,” he said, his voice soft with reverence. “The roof is made of glass, so there are no obstructions. Just the stars.”

“You sound quite fond of it, I wouldn’t want to steal your hiding place,” I joked, finding it oddly easy to do with him even with all my distrust.

“I’ve been too busy to spend any time there in a while, so feel free to borrow it. Or steal it. Whichever pleases Your Highness,” he smiled, something hinting and playful in it that made my chest buzz the way it did with my first childhood crush.

“I’ll consider it,” I said, biting back a smile before gesturing at my door. “I should rest.”

He nodded, reaching for the steel handle and pressing the door open. “Would you like me to ensure you get a peaceful rest?”

I raised an eyebrow at him. “Is that a threat?”

“With magic, I mean,” he chuckled.

“How does it work?” I tilted my head, studying his irises. How was it possible for them to look so ordinary most of the time only to…

His irises turned golden again, his stare unwavering and focused. “I essentially convince your mind that you are at peace, content. Your body reacts to the signals, and it washes away the effects of all of those nasty worries and fears.”

A wave of calm washed over me, just like it had earlier in the throne room when I nearly vomited out of sheer nerves.

“Do most people here know that you…can do this? Can read their emotions?”

“No,” he said, those glowing eyes fading into something far less supernatural. “Just Kaius, my generals, a few trusted members at court, and…you.”

“Can all Fae do this?”

“Magic, yes. Sensing emotions, no.”

I nodded, suddenly feeling so content that I considered curling up right there on the cold stone floor of my doorway.

“Rest,” he ordered softly, his voice a whisper. “I’ll send your new handmaid to you an hour before the ball.”

“You’re only giving me an hour to get ready for my wedding?” I asked, giving him a half-smile as I crossed my arms around my body, already trying to get cozy.

“Can I tell you a secret?” I nodded and he smiled. “You could show up in a burlap sack with your hair in tangles and still be the most beautiful person in the room.”

“I doubt that,” I chuckled, fighting a blush from appearing on my olive cheeks.

“I mean it,” he insisted with an amused grin. “Our court is a dark, dreary gray, and you are…a golden ray of light. They won’t know what to do with themselves when they get a look at you.”

“Is it custom for the Hand to spoil their guest with so many kind words?” I teased.

“Not a guest, no. But for my future Queen?” His eyes danced across my features, the sight clearly pleasing him as his smile spread even wider. “My Queen might do well with getting used to being spoiled.”

“Are you going to refer to me as that after tonight?” I asked, the heaviness of my eyelids causing them to bat in a way that likely sent the wrong message. Or perhaps it sent the right one given the way my chest still buzzed with excitement. “My Queen?”

“It has a nice ring to it, don’t you think?” His voice had lowered in a way that made me feel dizzy and drunk, my feet stepping closer by sheer instinct. His head bowed from our height difference as he kept his eyes locked on mine. “But it is quite boring. I’ll have to think up something more fitting.”

“And what do I call you, Your Highness?” I purred, suddenly finding it hard to stop myself from closing the foot of distance between us.

“Ezra,” he replied, low and warm and much too intimate.

My breathing halted as he lifted his hand up as though he were about to cup the side of my face with it, but he stopped himself, letting it fall back to his side.

“Sleep well, Your Highness,” he murmured, bowing just enough for me to realize it before he vanished into thin air, leaving a waft of his scent--smoke, moss, cedar, and some spice I couldn’t name--in his wake. I kept myself from fainting by dragging my feet into my chamber and slamming the door shut.

Was I truly allowing myself to develop a crush on not only my soon-to-be husband’s second in command, but a Fae? The scary monster from all my father’s bedtime stories?

But he didn’t feel like a monster. He felt like a friend, or at the very least, someone from back home. I couldn’t help but gauge people based on what my mother would have thought of them. When she didn’t like someone, she never let it show. Instead, she’d give me knowing glances during conversation, each widening or narrowing of her caramel eyes telling me exactly what she refrained from saying.

How dull.

What a narcissist.

He’s so stuffy he makes your father look humble.

I couldn’t imagine her speaking to Ezra and finding him boring, or vain, or snobbish. The only glances I’d receive would be ones that told a different story.

Look at those eyes.

He’s annoyingly considerate.

Now this, Mari, is a man.

But it didn’t matter what my dead mother thought of him, or even what I think. Kaius could have both of our heads on spikes if he found out and became jealous. I’d learn exactly how he’d react when provoked, and I had no interest in that sort of pain. I wanted peace, even in my prison sentence. I’d keep Ezra as a friend, and nothing more.

For as long as I could bare it.

#pedro pascal #pedro pascal fic #pedro pascal fanfiction #pedro pascal fluff #ezra prospect #ezra prospect x oc #ezra x oc #starlight

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jademickian · 4 months

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I think it’s pretty neat that stargazing was a Gallavich thing.

In season 2, Mickey says “you want us to put a blanket out and look for shooting stars next?” There is that—once again—an inner desire hidden behind the veil of a witty rhetoric. The dawn is popularly the symbol of new hope, the sun coming up shining its light, enveloping the ground with a potential of joy and rebirth. But with stargazing, the darkness in which it transpires precedes the coming of dawn. It is the hoping itself, the wishing, the tilting of head towards the sky, like the heart whispering a prayer to the universe. The sun is a very bright star that illuminates all. It’s overwhelming with its promise of renewal and warmth of love. That's why it’s much easier to look at tinier, less brighter stars at night. The multitude of them enough to give light—not too much—but just enough to stare at, so it doesn’t hit you all at once. The dawn would tell him he deserves to love and be loved, and that contrary to his belief, he’s not fucked for life. It’s a crazy jump, and the blaze of it might even burn. Meanwhile, the twinkle of the stars would tell him that a boy likes him enough to hang out with him, and that it is okay to long for something so far out of reach, for now.

In season 5, Ian is having some grass time (he’s lying on the grass), stargazing. Earlier than this, he mentions you can never see this many stars from Chicago because of light pollution. Mickey calls, and he holds it up to stare at his ringing phone. Contemplating whether he should or should not. He stares at the stars—weaver of fates, guider of travels. Desire, once again, for answers. A confirmation. Some direction. There must be something because here, they’re clearer, unlike back home where it’s hindered by stray city lights. Maybe this could help clear his clouded mind. Maybe he could draw constellations by connecting the dots and it’ll show him what to keep, what to lose. A glint. A flicker. “That’s the most important thing, to find somebody to love, right? Who loves you back for who you are.” But the thing about the stars’ divine message is that it could often be misunderstood. Misinterpreted. Maybe the stars will sigh, oh well. Guess you could take detours. Because another thing about stars is that, although enigmatic to a fault, they know where everything must go. They are close to the language of the gods. Perhaps for now, the answer is to be apart because in the grand scheme of things, it will all play out as planned.

In season 7, together, under the very same stars. It is hope and desire realized. Who would’ve thought? It was inexplicable, almost alien, that this is how their story is going now. But to the stars, it’s an old song. This is exactly where they should be. It’s the same narrative back then under the bleachers, when they didn’t know better. When voicing your feelings seems a futile and gargantuan feat. It’s the same story now, when they reconvene after, celestial forces refusing to cut these ties. When feelings are all you could voice out, as you’ve learned that if they swim inside you long enough, you’ll drown. “God I missed you.” The stars have known since the beginning. Its plans, slowly unfolding themselves. The wisdom they hold seem nearer now that if reached by the fingertips could be cold to the touch—not yet, not yet.

But even stars could grow impatient.

Even stargazer lilies—observer of heavenly bodies, predictor of futures—bloom facing the sky. Upwards, toward the stars, the flower looks upon. Maybe they’re ready for the dawn. The sun, the bigger and brighter star. The ball of fire catapulting itself, yet it doesn’t burn. It caresses, warm to the touch, and over the land gives life. It is here before them, and it will be here after.

“Now?” Now.

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qiutls · 11 months

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TNGDH 001

I became a hamster. No wonder I thought I was hearing squeaks last night, it turned out to be like this. Shiny golden fur that doesn’t lose its light even in the dark. Four lovely pink-tinted feet. Long whiskers that twitch whenever I move my cheeks. The black curtains flutter and the light leaks in from the steel cage hitting my eyes. Wait a minute… a steel… cage? A cage?! ― Eek. (Why?) I didn’t just become a hamster. I became a hamster that’s been trapped somewhere. * Thud. Thud. Thud. The cage I was in suddenly shook heavily and my small body rolled around in different directions as the cage kept moving. Who is it?! Who the hell drives like this?! Can’t you drive safely! Thump. My body sways to the corner again and I feel my butt stinging from falling too many times. Then I heard a horse sniffing, it felt thrilling to think that I was going to ride a horse. However, it only felt thrilling for a bit before I thought, It seems like I’m gonna be meeting King Yeomra. King Yeomra is the King of the underworld, hamster thinks he'll die because of the cage being shaken. Where the hell are we going? Why did I become a hamster? And why the hell are we not riding a bus or a train, but riding a horse? This is unfair, I feel so wronged. It’s so absurd that I have to explain, it’s so obvious that I’m a human not a hamster! That’s right I’m human! Bae Soohyun. I’m turning 27 this year. Even though my life was like a thorny path, I am a small mugwort that didn’t give up and kept living. It was a life where it seemed like I kept working day, night, dawn, early in the morning, from Monday to Tuesday to Wednesday to Thursday to Friday to Friday to Friday… But I had no doubt that my hard work would pay off. After years of hard work, it seems the day has finally come. The day when the game I developed became a big hit. I think it’s dead. Dead… That’s right… I died. After the earlier confusion of becoming a hamster has passed, my memories slowly started to come back. The game became popular and it felt like the son I was raising finally became successful. I was finally able to receive the first batch of settlement money thanks to the game. I rushed back home feeling so happy that I could fly. Rattle. The cage suddenly shook as the horse started moving. And I started shaking back and forth, my head felt like it was going to pop and my eyes slowly lost shine as I felt dizzier and dizzier. Are you kidding me?! I kicked the cage a few times hoping for the shaking to stop and then heard a voice not so distant. “I’m sorry.” An unfamiliar, deep yet friendly voice. “Just endure it for a little bit more.” But why did it feel like I’ve heard this line somewhere before. I’m sorry, just endure it for a little bit more. I’ll take you to your new home soon. It suddenly came to mind. While walking at the crossing on my way home, I bumped into a child who seemed anxious while carrying a hamster cage, then a car hit my body. I instinctively felt my death then, all my senses were occupied by the fact that I was hit by a car, and my consciousness started fading away. Twinkle. In front of my eyes something glistened brightly. Wait a minute, what’s that blue thing… [ Hello World! ] I was stunned by the blue system filling up my field of vision. A familiar phrase, the most basic sentence someone with programming knowledge would know. This is the very first phrase you learn to code when you start programming. Then, several windows came up one after another.

[ Connection confirmed. Checking data. ] [ Determining quest. ] [ Calculating miracle value. ] [ Synchronization not complete. Please wait. ] [ Synchronization 0% complete. ] What does this mean? Data? Quest? Synchronization? Since the moment I woke up, this ridiculous situation started and kept going, I didn’t even get the chance to be surprised. While in a daze, the horse which had been rattling the cage non-stop suddenly fell silent and the owner of the voice earlier seemed to get off the horse. The tumultuous movement stopped, but I still felt nauseous. The cold wind blew into the cage, and I shivered. Suddenly, I heard another distant voice. “Your Highness, are you sure you don’t want to throw it out?” Your… Highness? First I rode a horse, now someone’s talking to a royal. These are words that you wouldn’t even hear in 21st century Korea. The term “Your Highness” is only something I heard as a child watching sageuk dramas. Then the deep voice I heard earlier replied. Sageuk is a k-drama genre in which characters wear historical costumes. “It’s a pup that was left alone by the horde, don’t you feel it’s a bit pitiful?” pup - baby hamster / horde - group of baby hamsters “What pity, Your Highness? It’s a child of a demonic beast, when it grows up,it will learn to seduce its prey.” I looked down at my small and round body, what do you mean seduce? Is this body even capable of seducing? In the first place, I’m not even a demonic beast, just a normal hamster, no I mean human! Heh, you’re quite convincing using that serious voice of yours, but you’re obviously joking! The man with the deep voice suddenly cut through my thoughts. “It’s still a child.” “A child of a demonic beast, Your Highness.” “That’s right, a child.” “Your Highness, the most important thing is that it’s a demonic beast!” That… Can you please stop referring to me as a child. It’s weird… While I was grumbling away my frustrations, I heard the man speak, this time anger laced his voice. “Are you questioning my decision?” He spoke words that could normally be taken lightly yet the way he enunciated it word by word felt like a threat, and that there was only one correct answer. “No, Your Highness, I was just momentarily confused since such a thing has never happened before. How dare I question the Grand Prince’s decision.” “Right. So, I’ll take care of it, surely you don’t think I am weaker than a demonic beast that’s barely the size of my fist?” You’re telling me he’s not just a royal, he’s the Grand Prince? “I already sent a man to the estate to prepare it's house, it would be fun to add little ornaments with it.” “Your Highness, you can also raise a real hamster, should I tell the man to prepare another one?” “No. Don’t test my patience.” “…Yes” This person is quite stubborn huh.

Soon the cage started shaking again, this time as the man walked, I could hear his armor rattling and his heavy footsteps rang. Then I felt the air around me get warmer little by little as he marched up the stairs.

It must be winter. Yet I died during summer, now I realize the abnormality of the situation. The man took me to a room and then removed the cloth covering the cage.

“Here we are.” I crouched in a corner and pretended to be asleep desperately. Somehow it felt like the smart thing to do, I couldn’t speak even if I wanted to tell him about my situation. Even if I told him, who’s to say he will not decapitate me for spewing nonsense.

How did my life become like this! Give me back my money! My skills! My future that was unfolding brilliantly! “Tsk. Tsk.” The man clicked his tongue, then he sighed deeply. Hey! I’m the one who’s supposed to be sad at this situation, why are you the one clicking your tongue! Ah, I really hate when people do that… Oh right, I was pretending to be asleep… Sleep… “Does it really not have a human heart?” He murmured.

What human heart? What is he talking about? “Looking at these naive eyes, before it turned into a demonic beast, did it really not have the heart of a human?” N-naive? Which eyes looked naive? Surely it’s not mine? “That’s right, for them there’s no such thing as compassion... Did I stay away from the North for too long? It’s no different from a glacier, it’s freezing. Tsk.” Suddenly, the man opened the cage, stretched out his hand and caught me in his palm.

― Eek! I was so surprised I forgot I was pretending to sleep, as I opened my eyes, I made eye contact with him.

[ 50% synchronized. ]

[ Kyle Jane Minehardt. Great Duke of Blake. ]

The blue system window showed up below his face. Hold on, this name, I’ve heard of it somewhere. Without knowing what was in my head the whole time, he raised me closer to his face. I felt his warm hand full of scars and calluses against my soft fur. Then he rubbed my cheek.

E-excuse me?! “You did well enduring the ride home, cashew nut, you must’ve been bored the whole way.” Bored? The ride was full of shock and horror for me, okay?! Wait, aside from that, can’t you put me down first? What the hell is this situation, why did you suddenly remove me from the cage… Wait! No! Don’t peck me! ― Squeak! Eek! [ Let me go! ]

“Yes, yes, I know how you feel.” What do you know… You don’t understand a thing! Ack! Why’s he kissing me like he’s dying of love! A kiss… ― Squeak! Squeak! Squeak! [ You bastard! What kind of dog kisses nonstop like you?! ]

“I’m glad you’re feeling better.” ― Squeak! [ Get lost! ] “Did you like being kissed?” I can’t take this anymore!

Wait a minute… This face… I took a moment to observe all his features, his pale yet tough complexion, distinct eyebrows, his hair that’s dark as a raven, his eyes which glowed crimson. A cold and resolute beauty.

― Eek! [ Grand Duke Blake ] I remember. The Duke of the North, Kyle. A supporting actor from the novel, The Heart of Winter, I always read while traveling to and from my company. Not only was he a supporting actor, he’s a supporting actor that dies in the middle of the novel. A man who’s life was miserable from start to finish, yet died with no regrets. The reason why I remember him, and not the protagonists of the story, was that he’s the unluckiest character in the novel. He was unlucky to the extent that I lamented his cold fate many times.

So, I died, and transmigrated into a novel? “Cashew nut?” Cashew nut, my name, I mean the name of the hamster’s body I’m occupying. Kyle stared at me, he seemed to be worried as if something went wrong. His gaze was warm and full of kindness.

Stop looking at me! This bastard, you’re gonna pierce through me with that stare! I’m just worn out… I flicked my head away from his stare, and turned back to glare at him. I tried my hardest to look as mean as possible.

“That look…” It’s scary right?! You’re so afraid you could die, right? I look like a dangerous demon, don’t I?! So put me down!!! You kiss crazed bastard! [ Cold and strict personality. Clean and thorough. Frigid and Merciless. ] “You look so cute, staring at me like that.” Aren’t you the cold blooded Duke of the North?! Let go of me! What do you mean cold and strict?! What merciless? ― Squeak! [ Let go! ]

Yet the Duke didn’t let me down for a long time and I had to put up with the crazy kisses the he bestowed.

Help me, please! Save this hamster!

novel ⠀✿⠀ next

#TNGDH

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meidnightrain · 6 months

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THIS LOVE - diluc

❝ tossing, turning, struggled through the night with someone new. baby, i could go on and on, on and on. ❞

summary: the dark-knight hero has always been known to keep a distance but he always ends up right by your side

warnings: reader is gn, slightly angsty(?), diluc backstory spoilers

notes: day 11! i can’t write diluc for the life of me so i took a rather different approach to this and focused on making it more poetic than dialogue based. i hope you like it!

taglist (open): @staretes , @rynnlvrs , @sentifua , @i-probably-sleep-too-much , @reilly34 , @qqingque , @akutasoda , @mhiieee , @starryshinyskies , @rintosae , @kazemiya , @pix-stuff

you remembered it like yesterday. the days like a blurred memory, gold tinted around its edges and the background noise like faded static.

loving diluc had been like clear blue waters of the ocean, the high tide of waves bringing the both of you together with such ferocity that you collided against one another. a love that was fragile but powerful at the same time, so pure that you found yourself emerging fresh and new every single time.

you had fallen for him when you were just kids, when he had picked up a dandelion by the gates of mondstadt’s heart during the windblume festival, embarrassed and whispering for you to make a wish. for he had been all you ever wished for, you realised as you clasped the flower in your hands, watching its seeds fly off into the breeze.

was that what love was supposed to feel like? restless and free, with ups and downs but something true that you’d know by heart? for this love had left a permanent mark on you, like his name had been tattooed on your skin for you to trace the words when you missed him. for this love glowed in the dark, never leaving the both of you in the darkness as you were each other’s light. or so you thought as time decided that this love would be put to the test.

he couldn’t have attachments, that was what diluc realised after his father had passed, the fear pushing his heart to beat faster. what if he had to lose you all because of him? he couldn’t live with your blood tainting his hands, embedded deep in his fingernails that he couldn’t scrub off. staining his hands forever and ever for he could never bear to wash away the last remaining mark you had left on him.

so, the skies grew darker and the currents swept him out like how they had brought him into your life. and he was gone, leaving you behind for your own protection. in silent screams, in wildest dreams, you never would have dreamed of this ever happening. that he would think that by breaking your heart, you would be safe, though you didn’t know how it killed him inside. your heart may have broken but his had shattered.

moving on had been hard, you both would be lying to yourself if you said that you didn’t think of the other. he was in every dandelion your eyes landed on to the point you kept some on your window-still, so that you would always wake up to the sun shining down on him. you were in the ocean waves he would always make sure to patrol by at night, the moonlight illuminating the water just as bright as your grin.

you would see him in dreams disguised as nightmares, feel his lips graze your cheek ever so slightly before he vanished into thin air. his smile a ghost, a figment of your imagination you would soon come to terms with as you fell to your knees and awoke in a cold sweat. feel nothing but the cracking of your newly-healed heart and the tears rolling down your cheeks that he would have once wiped away.

it had driven you mad, for this love was like the lanterns in the candelabras back at dawn winery. its light flickered for him and only him but he was still gone. and just when your grip on the last thing you ever owned was faltering, moments away from sinking into the depths of the ocean like a ship, he showed up just in time. and when you both looked at each other in the eye after so long, it all came down crashing.

it was the sudden ache in diluc’s chest, the inner voice and sleepless nights that had called out to him. all he ever wanted was to hear his name roll of your tongue, wanted for you to be the rock in his stormy sea, wanted for you to always be by his side. he had loved you when you were kids, he had loved you when you were teens and he would love you even if you were oceans apart. when you’re young, you always run whether it be from your problems or for an escape, and he had run away from you. but he would always come back to what he needed. and he needed you like how you needed him.

it was like the ocean you had always been mesmerised by ever since you were young. no matter how hard the waves receded, he would always come back to you and you would do the same.

this love was good for it was the sun shining down on you after you braved through the storm. this love was bad for it was like being swept out to sea, the waves pushing you down repeatedly, begging for you to drown. but this love that you had both tried to forget, tried to move on from, was now alive back from the dead and had brought you back together.

his hands had to let you go free but this love would always come back to him.

<- prev masterpost next ->

#🕊️ - 1989 event #・ nouveau livre ˎˊ˗#genshin impact x reader #genshin x reader #genshin impact x you #genshin x you #genshin impact x gender neutral reader #genshin x gender neutral reader #genshin x gn reader #genshin impact x gn reader #diluc x reader #diluc x you #🪧 - event: 1989 #🗞️ - genshin impact fics

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hbyrde36 · 7 months

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Chapter 2: Housekeeping

No Vacancy

Chapter 1 AO3 link

Steve and Robin were kneeling side-by-side, wrist deep in dirt pulling weeds and planting new annuals in the red brick planter box that surrounded the motel's sign. It was his first full day off since he’d arrived in town, and even in the midst of manual labor in the sweltering heat, he was enjoying having a little time in the sunshine without having to keep an eye on tourists who didn’t understand how dangerous an undertow could be. He didn’t mind being put to work, in fact he’d ask for this. He knew it was the only way he was going to get to spend some quality time with his best friend, as busy as she was.

He dipped his head, blinking away the sweat that had trickled into his eyes while they worked. It was late morning, and though the day had started out at a semi-comfortable 75 degrees or so, it was now nearing the mid 90’s and rising.

“You know you don’t have to help out around here. You are a paying guest after all.” Robin said, not for the first time since they had started this little project.

“Yeah, but only because I forced you to take my money.” Steve pointed out.

She rolled her eyes. “I maintain that I owe you enough in gas money from all the rides you’ve given me over the years that you should have your own room here forever free of charge.”

“No, this is your livelihood. Just take it, I don’t mind paying.”

“Oh I'm taking the money, because god knows we could use it, but don’t be surprised when I find a way to slip it back to you one day.”

Steve grinned. He had no doubt she would do just that.

Hanging out with Robin wasn’t his only motivation for seeking out tasks around the building in his downtime. He’d become so used to being up and out by dawn every morning, that he hadn’t known what to do with himself when he woke up that day. Though he was off, he still found himself wide awake by 6AM, his body’s natural alarm waking him up at the time it was used to. He had nowhere to go, and nowhere he had to be, but the thought of hanging around while Eddie was asleep, or worse, of being there when Eddie woke up made him jittery.

Still, he had taken a few minutes to lay quietly in the dim light of their room and gaze at the man resting in the other bed, something he hadn’t allowed himself to do before. He admired the spill of Eddie’s dark curls across the stark white of the pillow case, and the fullness of his lips as they curved into the hint of a smile, reacting no doubt to whatever pleasant dream he was having. Steve longed to comb his fingers through all that hair, and to feel those lips against his own, but he knew he was more likely to get struck by lightning than to ever be allowed the privilege to touch Eddie Munson.

Steve knew he was unwelcome in their shared space, and no matter how desperately he wanted to show Eddie that he wasn’t the same asshole he remembered from high school, it was hard to do that when they so rarely crossed paths. That hurdle was what had given him the idea to start leaving fresh coffee behind for the other man. It was a small gesture really, that didn’t cost him any extra time or money, but he hoped Eddie recognized it for the olive branch that it was. Maybe coffee wasn’t enough though. How did the old saying go? The way to a man’s heart is through his stomach. Steve wondered what sort of breakfast pastry said, 'I like you and I want to be friends.'

Muffins?

Croissants?

He could always ask Chrissy for advice on Eddie’s favorite foods, but he wasn’t sure he could manage to do that without revealing his unfortunate crush.

After a little more internal struggle he’d gotten out of bed, dressed quickly in his last pair of clean cut off shorts, that were admittedly a little too tight, and a white tank top. It was still too early for most of the world to be awake, so he went for a walk around the neighborhood to clear his head until he could bother Robin, though not before he set the coffee pot to brew like he had every other morning.

Robin cleared her throat, an unsubtle indicator that she was about to say something he wouldn’t like. Steve braced himself.

“I meant to tell you,” she began casually, poking around with her small shovel without actually moving any dirt. “A guest in the room next to yours called in a noise complaint the other night. Apparently there was a bit of banging and some loud moans. Anything you want to share with the class?”

Steve opened and closed his mouth several times before responding. “Yeah…Sorry about that. Eddie, um, brought someone home from the bar. I would offer to talk to him about it for you, but I'm pretty sure he hates me, so maybe it would be better if Chrissy said something to him about it.”

Robin stared, mouth hanging open in disbelief. “What?!”

He squirmed under her scrutiny as he peered down into the small hole he was digging instead of meeting her intense gaze. “He brought someone home. It wasn’t a big deal. I went down to the pool area and slept on one of the chairs for a while to give them some privacy. It was fine.”

Robin rubbed at her temples, the dirt from her hands flaking off into her hair. “Jesus, Steve. I’m sorry. I thought…” She trailed off.

He tensed. “Thought what?”

“I thought you two had finally gotten your shit together! I should have known better when you came to me all mopey this morning asking for busy work on your only day off.”

Steve gulped, his heart skipping a beat. Had he been that obvious all this time? He thought he’d been hiding his feelings pretty well.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” He lied, knowing full well it would never get through her bullshit meter undetected.

No, hmm?” she hummed. “Tell me, which part are you confused about? The one where you’ve had a massive crush on Eddie since high school, or, the part where Eddie also has a huge crush on you that he hides by pretending he hates you?”

“Neither of those things is true. And I'm not mopey!” He said, pointing his trowel at her threateningly.

Robin gave him a sarcastic, yet sympathetic smile before patting him on the head like a dog. “Steve, sweetie, platonic love of my life, you are so full of shit. I’ve watched for months, years even, as you hung on every word Chrissy said about Eddie. Did you really think I wouldn't notice?”

“Fine. If I admit that I like him will you please drop this?” He begged.

“No.”

Steve raked a hand over his face, smearing dirt along his nose and forehead in the process.

“Tell me more about this dude he brought home.” Robin said.

Steve threw his hands up in the air. “I don’t know… it was 3AM! I was still half asleep when I walked past the guy.”

Robin’s eyes went wide. “Wait, wait, wait, 3AM?!” Did Eddie wake you up in the middle of the night and make you leave your room so he could get it on with some other guy?”

He groaned. “Please don’t ever say ‘get it on’ to me again.”

She stood, wiping her hands off on her pants as she rose. “I’m gonna kill him.” She said, and started to march off in the direction of his and Eddie’s room.

Steve panicked, knowing she would only make things worse and they were tense enough as it was.

He jumped to his feet and grabbed her wrist, holding her back. “Stop! It’s fine. We sort of talked about it ahead of time. I knew this was a possibility.”

“Why on earth would you agree to that?!”

“What was I supposed to say, Robs?!” Steve shouted back. “Oh, sorry Eddie. I know you hate me and everything because I was such a dick back in school, but I've sort of been pining over you from afar for the better part of a decade, and it’s gonna kill me to see you hook up with other people!!”

Steve sucked in a breath, suddenly remembering that they were out in public where anyone could overhear. He looked frantically around the courtyard but luckily the coast seemed to be clear.

“I’m sorry.” Robin said, voice gone soft. She threw her arms around his shoulders and hugged him tightly.

He sagged against her, taking the comfort she offered for a minute before pulling away. “It’s okay. I knew what I was putting myself through when I agreed to share the room.”

“Can’t you at least tell him he had to take his hook-ups somewhere else? It’s not an unreasonable request for a roommate. You should talk to him the next time you guys hang out.”

“What part of, he hates me, do you not understand? We don’t hang out.” Steve said.

Robin shook her head. “He doesn’t hate you, trust me.”

He rolled his eyes. “I’ll believe that, when you believe that you have a shot with Chrissy “

“That is completely different, dingus!”

“How?” He asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Well for one thing, we’re actually friends,” she fired back. “And I don't want to mess that up.”

“Ouch.”

“Sorry.” Robin winced. “I don’t know, Steve. Maybe I could have told her before we bought this place, but now we’re in business together. If I told her how I felt and she didn’t feel the same way it could ruin everything!.”

Steve didn’t think there was a chance in hell that Chrissy wasn’t just as crazy about Robin as Robin was about her, but he understood the hesitation. She did have a good point. Besides, who was he to judge?

“I guess we’ll both just have to keep suffering in silence then.” He said.

She clinked her small shovel against his as if they were toasting with wine glasses. “At least we’ll be in our misery together.”

Eventually they were done with the flowers and Steve had no more excuse to put off going back to his room. He badly needed to do some laundry, he was completely out of clean swim trunks, and Robin needed to get back behind the front desk. He hoped that Eddie was awake now at least.

Steve paused to admire their handiwork before walking away.

“Hey, I just noticed something.” He said, waving Robin over to his side. “Why isn’t the ‘no’ on your ‘no vacancy’ sign lit? I thought you were booked up?”

“Oh, I, uh, yea.” Robin sputtered. “I have a call into our maintenance guy about it. He just hasn’t had the chance to get out here yet. I think there’s a bulb out or a loose wire or something. It’s no big deal.”

Steve frowned. “Do you want me to have a look at it for you? I’m pretty handy these days.”

“NO! I mean, thank you, but it’s under control. Andreas said he was coming tomorrow. I don't want him to think we’re cheating on him with another maintenance man.” She laughed awkwardly. “You won’t always be around, and this place would fall apart without him, so I wouldn't want to jeopardize that.”

Steve eyed her curiously. Something definitely felt…off, but he couldn’t put his finger on what. He was probably just being paranoid. Maybe she was worried he would break something.

He gave a half-shrug. “Whatever you say.”

Steve took several deep breaths as he climbed the stairs up to the second floor, trying to calm his nerves before facing Eddie. He unlocked the door and sighed in relief, realizing that the room was empty. It was a little early for Eddie to be at the bar, but maybe they’d needed him to come in ahead of his shift for some reason. Either way, he was grateful for the moment alone with his thoughts, even if he was a little disappointed.

Steve sat on the end of his bed and rested his head in his hands. He knew he shouldn’t be this hung up on a guy he barely knew, let alone one that couldn’t stand to be around him. It was silly, honestly, considering they hadn’t actually spent that much time together, or any time really. He had precious few memories of watching Eddie from the shadows of his own popularity. Most of what he knew about the guy had come third party through Chrissy and Robin. Maybe he just needed to get out more.

He’d been something of a serial dater in his teens, but by his senior year of high school he thought he’d found ‘the one’, in a girl named Nancy wheeler. After a soul-crushing breakup in the bathroom of a Halloween party that neither of them had even wanted to go to, Steve had sworn off the whole institution, at least for a while.

He found Robin soon after, his actual one true love, when they both worked the same after school job at an ice cream shop, and she became the best friend he’d always wanted.

Their friendship had been enough for him for a while. He went to the community college so he could stay close by while she finished her own senior year and they spent just about every waking moment together. Then Robin graduated and went off to her fancy school a whole state away, and his grades hadn’t been good enough to follow her.

They still saw each other as often as they could. He would drive up on Friday nights and sleep over in her dorm room for the whole weekend, but then she met Chrissy. Two hometown acquaintances who just happened to go to the same school. Suddenly the former band geek and the former cheerleading captain became the best of friends, with the potential to be more to anyone with eyes, and Steve worried that he would soon become a perpetual third wheel.

So, he started to put himself out there again. He went on a fair few dates with women, and even more with men, once he’d finally accepted his bisexuality and discovered he had a heavy preference for them. In the back of his mind, Steve had always known he was attracted to boys, but made the choice to ignore that part of himself because it was easier and safer to just be straight. In the end, all it took was one drunken weekend hook up at a frat party on Robin and Chrissy’s campus to open his eyes to everything he’d been denying himself.

It made him look back and remember things he'd tried hard to forget about. Like his crush on an old classmate that he’d thought was long over, but came rushing back with a vengeance when he realized that the Eddie from all of Chrissy’s stories about her own male best friend, was the same long-haired metalhead that Steve used to daydream about in English class. Suddenly he was listening with rapt attention to each detail she shared, and was more than happy to see every picture and post card the man sent her, even if his handwriting was illegible. He found himself much less interested in dating after that.

When Robin had first asked him to bunk with Eddie, after realizing her mistake, he’d been so excited thinking that maybe he’d finally have a chance with the guy. Those hopes were quickly shattered when he saw the panicked look on Eddie’s face as he’d walked into the motel lobby.

There was no use moping about it now. Steve stood and blew out a long breath. He just had to make it through the summer. 12 weeks, 11 now actually. He could do this.

He washed his hands and wiped a wet washcloth over his face to get the worst of the dirt off in an effort to be more presentable, but only a shower would do the job properly. That would have to wait until after he got his laundry done. He picked up his pajama pants from where he’d left them on the floor that morning and added them to the heavy mesh bag of dirty clothes before hoisting it over his shoulder and setting out for the laundromat.

The place Robin had told him to go was less than a mile from the motel, so he decided to make his way there on foot. He took his time, admiring the old Victorian houses with their lavish gardens as he passed by. He hadn’t really understood why Robin and Chrissy wanted to move here after college until he’d seen the place for himself. It was beautiful, and it felt like life moved slower here, or maybe it just seemed that way because almost everyone you met was on vacation.

Steve finally reached his destination, and felt his heart sink into his shoes as he spotted a familiar head of dark curls sitting by the big front windows. He froze with his hand on the door, seriously considering running away and finding another place to do his wash. There had to be other laundromats in town. He would travel if he had to, anything to not be stuck in there waiting for his clothes to finish all while Eddie either ignored him or glared at him. The decision was taken out of his hands entirely when he realized the other man had turned and was now staring directly at him through the glass. He probably looked like an idiot standing out there like a deer in headlights, not moving, so he of course overcompensated, quickly swinging the door open and throwing himself through it.

Eddie, for his part, looked a little stunned at Steve’s sudden appearance as well, which made him feel the tiniest bit better about it. Steve tried to save some face by smiling and giving the other man a little nod in greeting as he moved past on his way to the machines, but judging by the way Eddie continued to stare, he must have missed the mark of coming off cool and casual by a mile.

He busied himself with separating his laundry into two of the washers, one for lights, one for darks, and tried to ignore the way he could still feel Eddie’s heavy gaze on him. He felt his whole body flush under the attention, and his heart was pounding so loud he thought anyone standing nearby would be able to hear it.

When all of that was done he had no other choice but to make his way to the only seating in the establishment, the small grouping of chairs where Eddie currently sat. He willed himself to calm down and was pleased to find that by the time he turned around Eddie was no longer looking his way, and was instead seemingly engrossed in this month’s edition of Rolling Stone.

Steve took a seat, skipping a chair to keep a polite distance between the two of them, and wishing he’d had the foresight to bring along a book or his walkman. He settled for a two year old Life magazine that someone had left on a side table in the waiting area. He wasn’t reading it so much as he was staring at it to avoid looking anywhere else. The two men sat in a tense silence for about five full minutes before Steve felt eyes on him again.

“I thought you were working today.” Eddie blurted out.

Steve flinched a little at the sound of his voice, but managed to play it off like he was flicking the hair out of his face. “No, I..um. Uh, finally got a day off.” Steve stuttered through his response, wondering how he’d ever been considered a smooth talker or a ladies man. Couldn’t prove it by him now.

“Right. Yeah, same here.” Eddie said.

There was another long beat of quiet and Steve thought maybe he should say something else, try and strike up a conversation or something. He could do that, that was a normal thing for two guys who were essentially roommates, right? He was trying out a few different lines in his head when Eddie spoke again.

“It's just that you were gone when I woke up, so I thought…” He trailed off.

“I was helping Robin with some planting in the courtyard, flowers and stuff.” Steve offered, thrilled at getting out something resembling a complete human sentence this time.

“Oh. That was…nice of you.” Eddie said with a furrowed brow.

Steve shrugged and tried hard to think of something to say next. Eddie had asked him a question, sort of. Well, he’d given him an opening to talk about his day at least. He should do something similar, he figured, but it was like his mind went blank every time he looked into Eddie's eyes.

“How are things with your, um, friend, from the other night?” Steve asked, and immediately wanted to throw himself through the window.

Oh God. Why!

Why had he picked that to say? What possessed him to bring up something so unbelievably awkward when this whole exchange had been, thus far, borderline unbearable.

Eddie blinked a few times in surprise, cheeks flushing pink as he answered. “Oh, that was just a one time thing, y’know? I don’t even remember the guy’s name.”

“Oh. That’s…cool.”

“Is it?” Eddie’s expression hardened. “Or is King Steve of all people about to slut shame me for a one night stand?”

“I didn’t mean…”

“Sure you didn’t. You were single-handedly responsible for taking the virginity of who knows how many of the girls back in Hawkins, and you’re gonna sit here and judge me for sleeping with one guy?”

“No!” Steve insisted. “I’m sorry, I swear I wasn’t trying to judge you, and I certainly wasn’t shaming you. You just…”

“I. Just. What?” Eddie asked through a clenched jaw.

Steve sank down in his seat and sighed. “You just make me really nervous, Eddie.”

Of all the things Steve had said, this seemed to be the one that most threw the other man for a loop. He sat there staring at Steve in stunned silence for several seconds and then started cackling loudly.

Steve was almost offended. He’d told the truth, been vulnerable even. What was so fucking funny about the idea of him being nervous?

“I make you nervous?” Eddie managed to say between laughing fits. “That’s a good one, big boy.”

Big boy.

Steve crossed his arms over his chest, pretending like that nickname hadn’t short-circuited his brain for a second. He tried to frown but it was hard to do when Eddie’s eyes sparkled like that and his dimples were on full display.

Eddie took pity on him and eventually got himself under control. “Okay Steve, I believe that you didn’t mean anything by it.”

“Thanks.”

“How long have you got on your washers?” Eddie asked abruptly, glancing up at a big clock that hung above the door.

“About 30 minutes or so. Why?”

Eddie rose from his seat and inclined his head towards the door. “Come on.”

“Where are we going?”

“There's a little cafe on the corner, unless you’re not hungry?”

“No, I mean yes, I could eat.” Steve said.

“Good. Let’s go then, my treat.”

Steve hesitated, feeling a bit like he was suffering from whiplash. “Why?”

Eddie smirked. “Because I’m starting to think maybe I've been a little too hard on you, but I can't be sure. I figure, before I continue to be an asshole I should probably try and get to know you to make sure you deserve it first.”

Lunch with Eddie was great. Not the food, although that was good too, it was nothing compared to the company. Steve found that Eddie was surprisingly easy to talk to once he got started. He felt like he was finally given the chance to explain that in reality, he was nothing like his former high school persona. That it had been a combination of the fear of disappointing his parents, and good old peer pressure that had led him to accept his role as king of hawkins high. He told Eddie that going along with the popular crowd and being friends with Tommy and Carol were among his biggest regrets in life, and there was a lot he’d change if he could go back.

“Unfortunately I didn’t have my big epiphany until halfway through senior year, right around the time Nancy dumped me and I met Robin. At that point it didn’t seem worth it to try and fix my reputation, so I just let people keep thinking I was the same asshole I always had been, and tried to keep my head down until graduation.”

“And yet you wound up right back where you started.” Eddie said.

“What do you mean?” Steve asked with narrowed eyes.

“Well, you’re a gym teacher back in Hawkins now, aren’t you?”

Steve couldn’t stop the grin that spread across his face. “How did you know?”

Eddie laughed. “Robin talks about you a lot, sometimes I even listen.”

“Yea, yea. I know, laugh it up. Failed former jock becomes a middle school gym teacher. I’m a walking cliché.”

“Not all cliché’s are bad.” Eddie shrugged. “Do you like it?”

“Yes, and no. The kids are great, but I never meant to stay in Hawkins.”

“Now that, Harrington, I understand completely.”

“I bet. How many different cities have you lived in now?”

Eddie raised an eyebrow.

“Chrissy.” Steve answered simply. “I listen too, and I’ve seen all the photos and postcards.” He admitted.

Eddie gasped. “Even the art prints from San Francisco?” He covered his face like he was embarrassed but Steve could see him peeking through his fingers. It was adorable.

Steve nodded, fighting to keep his expression serious. “I found them very tasteful.”

Eddie laughed again, and it was quickly becoming Steve's favorite sound in the world.

“Alright, Stevie, even I can admit when I'm wrong. Maybe you’re not such a bad guy after all.”

They sat in the cafe talking until long after their food was gone, and the plates had been cleared, eventually moving their conversation back to the laundromat when Steve remembered he still had to put his things in the dryer. Eddie shared a little of his own background, how he’d come to live with his uncle at the beginning of 5th grade. That Wayne had been a better parent to him than either of his actual parents ever had been.

He told Steve that he’d left Hawkins because the people there didn’t understand him. They looked down on him. Thought he was a freak, trailer trash, and would amount to nothing more than a drug dealer. He said he could never see himself moving back there but that he wished he could visit his uncle more.

Something shifted between the two of them that afternoon. The animosity Eddie had been projecting at him was gone like it never existed. He was friendly, flirty even at times, and Steve was on cloud nine, even if he did feel like he was going to pass out every time Eddie smiled at him or casually bumped his shoulder. He wasn’t naive enough to think that Eddie meant anything by it, he knew his crush was one-sided no matter what Robin said, but at least now he felt like there was a real chance that they could actually be friends.

Chapter 3

@penny00dreadful @every-aj-needs-an-angel @manda-panda-monium @hellion-child @dreamwatch @brbsoulnomming @epiclazershark @estrellami-1 @lokfae @raisedbylibrarians @impala314 @meganwinchester @kacatshi @warlordess

As always just let me know if you want to be added or removed from the tag list!

#steddie fanfic #no upside down au #steddie #buckingham #stranger things #steve harrington #eddie munson #robin buckley #chrissy cunningham #no vacancy #it was the 90s #double idiots to lovers #platonic stobin #platonic hellcheer

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starhvney · 1 month

Note

HelloI hope you’re having a good day! Can I request a one shot of a reader that has a crush on Gene and kawaii-chan sets them up on a date?

𝐌𝐈𝐒𝐒𝐈𝐎𝐍 𝐂𝐔𝐏𝐈𝐃!

𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆: mystreet gene x fem!reader

𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘: accidentally telling your romance-crazed friend who your crush is sounds like a terrible mistake… but maybe it’s not so much of a mistake after all

𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐒: pure fluff, kind of awkward conversation from the reader(real), ft. wingwoman nana ashida (and aph), reader is shy and exasperated

𝐂𝐖: none!

𝐀/𝐍: i took so long to write this for no reason but i actually really like how it turned out

𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓

you should’ve known she was up to something again.

“want to go to the cafe for some coffee and snacks this morning?” nana had asked you in the doorway of your room, holding a bundle of her clothes in her arms and rollers still in her hair.

“oh, yeah! like, now?”

“um, in an hour… i need to leave early and run some errands before and then i’ll meet you there,” she says with a small nervous giggle. “oh, and wear something cute! i have another friend coming!”

“oh…kay?” you barely agree before she had darted back down the hall.

you should’ve known. it was too late, though, when you looked up from nana’s last minute canceling text as your eyes met his. you repressed a groan when you saw realization dawn in his dark blue eyes.

recently, the two of you had reconnected after bumping into each other. your jaw had dropped at how much he had changed since you last saw him.

not only had he somehow gotten even taller after high school, he looked… better. naturally, he had matured further into his features, as did you. but you noticed a completely different change in him. it was something deeper than skin, you realized, when he had begun to apologize for how he had acted in high school. his expression was genuine and his eyes were full of regret.

deciding to leave the past in the past, you both agreed to have a second chance at friendship. over the course of the past month you had bonded and grown closer, and you couldn’t help but admire him for how much he’s grown. then, slowly, that admiration has snowballed into… affection.

sure, you always thought he was attractive, but the irregular beating of your heart against your rib cage was something new. suddenly you started paying more attention to his features. how one side of his mouth turned slightly down as he smiled. how his dark black hair was somehow always perfectly messy and attractive. or how his sleepy and bag-ridden eyes would squint and light up when you managed to say something funny. did he always have that little freckle near his jawline?

this is what you get, you internally scold yourself, for letting your feelings slip in conversation the other night. katelyn nearly blew a gasket, complaining about how you were way above his league and could do way better. but aphmau and nana couldn’t stop squealing and teasing you about it until you finally managed to retreat to your room for the night. you should’ve known it would be only sooner or later that they would pull something like this.

“…hey.” he greets, the deep rasp in his voice almost physically startling you out of your thoughts. “i thought nana wanted to meet me here to talk about a job at their new cafe, but…” he trails off, lifting up his phone with a shrug.

you quietly clear your throat, trying to ignore the heart rising against your cheeks. “um, she asked me to come this morning to hang out, but she just canceled, too.”

gene’s eyebrows pinch together, before looking back at the cafe counter in thought. “well, wanna get something to drink since we’re here?”

“oh, yeah, sure.” you reply, trying to control the nervous warble in your voice.

after ordering, you two finally take your seats, sitting across from each other.

“you said nana was talking to you about a job?”

“yeah.. she said you highly recommended me, actually.” gene leans forward on the table, his head tilting as he rests on his laced hands.

“well, you said you were looking for a new job… so i mentioned you, is all…” you trail off, your eyes nervously darting away to land on… a very familiar looking duo in poor disguises.

your roommates’ light pink and black hair stuck out from tightened hoodies, paired with sunglasses that were completely conspicuous for a cafe in the morning. nana only gave you a cheeky smirk, while aphmau cheesed and held a thumbs up.

oh wow.

“…you good?” gene questions, his head beginning to turn in the direction you were looking.

“uh, yeah! no i’m fine, aha! just thinking. um, if you would take a job at a maid cafe. it’s just a little funny for me to imagine, i guess.”

he smiles in amusement, shrugging his shoulders. “if it pays well, why not? besides, i’m open to trying something that might not be expected—“

“order for gene!” the barista calls out, setting our order on the counter.

“i’ll get it.” gene announces with an almost inaudible click of his tongue, quickly leaving you to your fried thoughts.

you send a glare at your friends mouthing profanities and a baffled look in their direction. they merely twirl their hoodie strings, looking away innocently. you can only bury your face in your hands, lowly groaning.

“are you sure you’re okay?” gene’s voice approaches you, followed by the sound of your drink and pastry sliding onto the table.

“yeah… just annoyed that nana canceled at the last minute.”

“well geez, i didn’t think you’d be this upset at being alone with me, but—“

“that’s not what,” you start, head whipping up to see his teasing smirk. “ugh, i just mean it’s not professional. i’ll be sure she hires you.”

his smirk melts as he lets out a soft chuckle. “just as sweet as always, huh?”

you release a sigh, shoulders sinking as you take a sip of your drink to relieve you from your stressed rambling.

“hey… speaking of which…” gene starts, head tilted down as he looks up at you through his dark lashes.

“order for… cupid?” the barista calls out with a questioning tone, causing gene to stop what he was about to say. you watch nana and aph out of the corner of your eye, giggling to each other as they go up to get their order.

… unbelievable.

“i’ll take that as a sign, i guess…” gene mutters, turning your attention back to him.

“what…?”

“listen, i,” he runs his fingers through his hair, eyes narrowing at you as if he was trying to read your mind. “do you like me?”

you’re sure your heart nearly bursts through your throat as your eyes widen and jaw drops. you stutter out some sort of noise, but before you could form any coherent sentence or thought, gene continues.

“because i really like you,” he admits, his voice sounding almost unsure of himself for a moment. “and, i hope i’m not reading this wrong, but it kinda seems like you feel the same.”

a beat passes. and then another. if you didn’t feel like you had tunnel vision in this moment you might have noticed the poorly disguised duo shaking each other in excitement as they shuffle and lean closer to try and hear the conversation.

“…yes, i do.”

gene leans back, a look of relief passing over his face before his usual laidback and confident demeanor has returned. it’s like he never sipped up in the first place.

“yeah, you’ve never been good at hiding things. you may not say anything, but your face says everything.” he leans forward again, brushing a stand of hair behind your ear.

he leans even further, his lips dangerously close to the shell of your ear as he whispers, “your roommates aren’t very good at it either.”

he leans back with a grin, before turning to look at the two culprits behind this whole ordeal. they freeze in place, nana nearly dropping her phone from where she has clearly taken a few pictures of you two. they scramble to grab their drinks before sprinting out the door, whisper shouting, “abort mission, cupids have been spotted! go go go!”

“i guess i’ll thank them later.”

“…i’m gonna kill them.”

#aphmau #aphmau mystreet #mystreet x reader #x reader #aphmau gene #gene x reader #mystreet gene x reader #mystreet gene

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yinastra · 17 days

Text

✩ The Waves Overhead ✩

── ⋅ ⋅ ── ✩ ── ⋅ ⋅ ──── ⋅ ⋅ ── ✩ ── ⋅ ⋅ ────── ⋅ ⋅ ── ✩ ── ⋅ ⋅

Freminet x gn!reader

Summary: Freminet has had an imaginary friend since he was little.

A/N: Can be romantic or platonic.

CWs: Heavy angst

TW: Suicide, death, self harm, eating disorder, starvation, PTSD, delusions, READ AT YOUR OWN RISK.

── ⋅ ⋅ ── ✩ ── ⋅ ⋅ ──── ⋅ ⋅ ── ✩ ── ⋅ ⋅ ────── ⋅ ⋅ ── ✩ ── ⋅ ⋅

Freminet has always been a quiet boy. Met with conversation, he retreats back into his shell, locking his heart away.

He'd like to open up to people, to trust them, but how could he?

Instead, he enjoys sitting by Fontaine's 'sea' in their company.

They conversate for hours on end, the only divider being the setting sun and the dawn's light.

Even then, they are with him everywhere he goes.

In his dreams, in his heart, in his memories:

he wouldn't have it any other way, of course.

This person understands him so well- it could even be considered uncanny.

Nothing seemed real without them by his side.

Real?

They were real.

He'd take walks with them by the shoreline.

How strange was it that nothing was clear anymore?

When did all the shade blend together?

All the colors mushed into each other.

This was real.

This was reality.

── ⋅ ⋅ ── ✩ ── ⋅ ⋅ ──── ⋅ ⋅ ── ✩ ── ⋅ ⋅ ────── ⋅ ⋅ ── ✩ ── ⋅ ⋅

Freminet has always had an imaginary friend.

Ever since he was little, there's always been someone by his side.

Someone he felt he could speak to freely, someone he depended on.

Someone who got him through the days.

Starving to the bone.

The days where his mother couldn't afford to buy them food, so she instead tucked him in extra tightly into the small, handmade quilt, telling him that the next day would have something to fill his empty stomach.

The days he'd cry in bed because his mother didn't come home that day. He was always so afraid for her, what if she never came back? What if the debt collectors─

There they were.

His light, his beacon of hope.

The person he'd talk to about all his problems, he'd even forget his hunger when he spoke to them.

The person who'd reassure him through everything. It wasn't all in his imagination, he swore!

They listened. They replied. They helped.

Freminet has always had an imaginary friend.

Everyone always thought it was delusion. It wasn't. He knew. How could he ever speak to another person?

Person.

They were a person.

He knew them.

They knew him.

He swore it.

── ⋅ ⋅ ── ✩ ── ⋅ ⋅ ──── ⋅ ⋅ ── ✩ ── ⋅ ⋅ ────── ⋅ ⋅ ── ✩ ── ⋅ ⋅

The hunger ate away at him, even now.

He could eat whenever he wanted now, but he couldn't.

He couldn't bring himself to fill his stomach─ it made him feel sick.

The days where he couldn't eat anything, they had lasted for so long.

So, so long.

Food no longer looked appetizing. He could barely deign to put it into his mouth, the texture making him want to puke it all up.

He used to be so excited to eat food– to be able to eat food consecutively, days in a row. It used to be an occasion worthy of celebration. But now? Now he can't..

He can't stomach food. He can't eat it continuously.

He'll throw up any food he eats on the second day in a two day cycle.

That's how it became after–

What he saw?

No, no.

What he didn't see.

── ⋅ ⋅ ── ✩ ── ⋅ ⋅ ──── ⋅ ⋅ ── ✩ ── ⋅ ⋅ ────── ⋅ ⋅ ── ✩ ── ⋅ ⋅

The waves swallowed him up.

Falling into the serene "sea", he found himself lost in his mind. His thoughts echoed off of the sides of his helmet.

The dark.

── ⋅ ⋅ ── ✩ ── ⋅ ⋅ ──── ⋅ ⋅ ── ✩ ── ⋅ ⋅ ────── ⋅ ⋅ ── ✩ ── ⋅ ⋅

That bright, bright day. He had just fixed an old broken clock they had. His mother sold it, and they ate that day! Two days in a row, a true gem.

He walked to the house by the shore. The small shack looked desolate, the windows boarded.

His imaginary friend's home.

His imaginary friend.

He opens the door.

The small, tattered couch was in the corner, the small coffee table and lamp accompanying the atmosphere.

Dark.

Had they gotten some new type of decor? How interesting, he thought.

How interesting, that their friend's hair hung onto the motionless dummy's scalp.

How interesting, that their favorite shirt clung onto the dummy's body just like he remembered.

How interesting, that it had their eyes─ dull, of course.

Laughable. Hysterical. That wasn't his friend.

His friend's eyes were bright. As bright as the ocean underneath the sunlight, as the light reflected.

His light.

His hope.

This "decor" was much too cool to the touch.

Cold.

This was not them, it couldn't be.

It wasn't, he said.

It wasn't.

── ⋅ ⋅ ── ✩ ── ⋅ ⋅ ──── ⋅ ⋅ ── ✩ ── ⋅ ⋅ ────── ⋅ ⋅ ── ✩ ── ⋅ ⋅

The water's motions return him back from his memories.

The coolness of his surroundings chills him.

He makes his way back to the surface.

There was the house on the shore.

He swore it was a person. He swore they were real.

He drags his heavy feet to the entrance, turning the door knob.

The couch was there. It was real.

It was...

He sits down on it, a wave of familiarity rushing over him.

The coolness of the seat, the hard back.

The seat had to have been covered with dust with how grainy it felt. Even like..

dirt.

He lightly traced the carvings on the stone-hard, gray back.

Their name and a date engraved on the stone.

There was a tree outside of the window, he remembered it well.

He looks up, tracing the stars.

The stars looked different.

Blobs of faint light, burning out constantly.

Running his hand along the branch above that couch.

He'd sat by that couch for hours before.

That..

couch?

That was right.

That couch.

The distorted grey shape behind him.. the one he leaned on.

It was the couch.

Really.

It was.

The coarse rope beneath his fingertips give him a feeling of Déjà vu.

He'd just hang here for a while.. right?

Yeah. That's right. He'll stay here to watch the sea.

Next to them.

Where they'll meet again.

Under the waves overhead.

#freminet #freminet x reader #genshin impact #genshin angst #yinastra #freminet x you #freminet x gn! reader #gn reader #freminet angst

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writtenonreceipts · 9 months

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@cassianappreciationweek thanks for hosting this event! This is the only thing I have prepared for the week.

We are keeping with a mini tradition I’ve found I love with character/ship weeks--baby fics. Enjoy.

no tag list, it’s pretty short...

Cassian Week Day Two: Yvette

The babe made a small noise akin to a newborn fawn. Something soft and mewling. Something new and fragile.

"Alright little one," Cassian murmured. He brushed a finger over her smooth, rosy cheek. "You're alright."

She gave a half-hearted yawn and wiggled in his grasp. Barely more than five hours old and the babe had already exhausted herself.

She only had a dark tuft of hair on her head that Cassian hoped would lighten to the burnished gold over her mother. Her eyes too were darker than his. Maybe they would lighten too. Lighten to that steel gaze of silver fire. Just like her mother.

“You’re going to be so loved, you know that?” he said. He adjusted the blanket wrapped around the babe so it was snug around her. She was so small he could keep her balanced with just one arm, her head fitting almost perfectly in his hand. “You’re mama’s been waiting so long to meet you.”

Scrunching her nose, the babe blinked open her eyes. Cassian lifted his daughter up so she was eye level. She squirmed as tears began to well in her eyes and then, too soon, she elicited a sharp cry.

“Hey, hey,” Cassian crooned. He tucked her against his chest, keeping her tight and warm. “We’ve gotta let mama rest. She worked hard to get you here, you know.”

Through the blankets, Cassian could feel the small shudder of wings. It had been easy to guess that Yvette would be born with wings. After the events with Nyx and everything that followed with Nesta’s magic--both of their fears had remained. It was impossible not to worry even with the comfort of knowing what the magic had granted them too.

Cassian eased Yvette against him so he could run a gentle hand along her back, soft and sure. The babe whimpered again but not as furious.

“I’ve got you,” Cassian said. He pressed a kiss to Yvette’s forehead, marveling at the smooth skin.

Here he was: a battleworn bastard with too many scars to count and holding a baby. His baby. When all his life he’d never thought he would have a mate, let alone a child. And here she was safe and sound in his arms.

“I’ve got you sweet girl.”

Slowly, Yvette eased back to sleep. She let out a little hiccup and burrowed against him. Cassian knew she would need to feed soon, but Nesta was still asleep and he certainly didn’t want to wake her, not yet.

He glanced over his shoulder where Nesta was still sprawled on the bed. Thankfully it didn’t look as though Yvette’s fussing disturbed her. Good. He wanted Nesta to rest. She’d been on bedrest the last three weeks of the pregnancy and the labor had been long and arduous. But Nesta, full of that strength and power that Cassian so admired her for, had endured.

Cassian strode out onto the balcony attached to their room and overlooked the city. It was quickly approaching dawn and pale gold and pink light scattered across the sky. A few stars still lingered off in the distance, but they were quickly disappearing. It was a new day full of new promises.

He dropped a kiss to Yvette’s head and stared out over his home. He marveled at it all. They were safe and they were together. Just as they should be.

#cassian #baby fic #cassianappreciationweek2023 #acotar #nessian #nesta archeron #nesta x cassian #soft!cassian

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philliam-writes · 11 months

Text

you are in the earth of me [05]

Pairing: Anthony Lockwood x fem!Reader

Warnings: violence, death (minor character), ptsd and anxiety (but also sort of comfort)

Summary: Your name. He snarls your name; your name that is sharpened against the marble of his teeth like a weapon, a spark that rips into the marrow of your bones. Like a hook yanking you back into the present, the now. The fight leaves your body, you sag against the ground as you choke on adrenaline. And his—Lockwood’s nails dig deep, half-crescents of fire into your skin. “Come. Back.”

Notes: [01] || [04] | [06]

Words: 7k

A/N: a longer chapter cuz where i initially wanted to stop didn't feel like enough and i really wanted another cliffhanger. next chapter will be about reader's past and i can't wait to introduce you all to matthew. i also rlly enjoyed writing this (especially the whole possession bit, and after that it sort of turned meh). hope you guys enjoy!

05: carry whispers from the dead

You wake up hours before dawn, anxious and restless. The black bookshelves stand like dark, tall shadows around you, silent sentinels guarding you in your sleep. It’s the first time you’re alone with your thoughts; locking them away behind a brittle door works only for so long until they break out and descend like ravenous hyenas upon your despair.

Astonishing, how your whole life has turned upside down within two days. Working for Rotwell has never been your dream job, but it was secure, the payment always on time and there was prestige to it. If this is a sign to change professions, switch to a safer job with less risk to die a horrible death at the hands of ghosts and ghouls or any other occupational hazards, you’re blind to it.

Imagining yourself doing anything else than what you’ve done for more than a decade is near impossible—you’re good at getting rid of ghosts, swinging a rapier and chucking salt bombs across the yard with a sharp shooter’s precision. Anything else? Hopeless case. Your hobbies? None that you want to turn into a profession.

Freedom is a bitter, foreign taste, but one you know you will grow accustomed to. Getting your business running will have to wait though until you’ve solved the greater mystery. Into the dark, you draw the badge’s symbol with your index finger. Even with your eyes closed, you can still see it clearly, printed against the inside of your eyelids.

Why does it feel so familiar? Where have you seen it before? This feeling isn’t just curiosity; it is recognition and the profound desire to understand like hooks sitting deep beneath your skin.

Time trickles away, slowly like sand passing through an hourglass when behind the heavy dark curtains a slim sliver of grey grows as the world lightens. The house comes alive; wood creaks quietly as someone stalks downstairs. They pause in front of the library door, and you expect the door to creak open any second. But then they move back to the staircase, and down into the kitchen. You wait for a full minute before you get up, change into a new, fresh set of clothes and follow.

Morning light streams into the kitchen, softening every counter. When you enter the room, there is a voice talking—and then suddenly stopping. Lucy whirls around, her hands resting against the kitchen sink as she prepares to brew a pot of tea. Her eyes are wide, and then they pivot to something on the counter, something you haven’t seen until then. It’s a sealed silver-glass with a skull swimming inside the contained liquid. A skull menacingly cutting horrid grimaces your way.

Stopping mid-way to rubbing the remaining exhaustion from your eyes, you drop your arm. “That’s a Ghost-jar,” you notice, surprised. “You guys own a Ghost-jar?”

Lucy looks over—no, exchanges a glance with the skull inside the jar. Then she shrugs, trying to appear nonchalant as if that is nothing uncommon, but her shoulders are stiff. “It’s George’s,” she says quickly. “He’s erm … he’s doing research on it.”

“I thought only the big agencies have access to those.” You cross the kitchen to get a better look at it, bending down slightly so you’re eye-level. The skull manifests bits and pieces of flaky skin onto its bone, as though conjuring what it used to look like before it presses the masses of rotting flesh against the thick class, squashing its nose against it. “For something that’s dead, it seems very lively.”

Suddenly the skull stills. The skin peels back until it’s only bone, and the ectoplasm inside the jar flares in an ominous green light. You think it’s staring right at you, through you, even. Where its teeth stack neatly against each other, it moves them up and down, up and down as though . . .

“That’s funny. It looks as if it’s talking.” And then you remember a voice coming from the kitchen when you came downstairs. You look up at Lucy, brows furrowed. “Wait, were you talking to it?”

But Lucy is staring at you, a puzzled expression on her face. You’re sure your face must be a mirror of hers, because she couldn’t have had a conversation with the skull, right? She must have simply talked to it, like you talk to your pets when you’re alone with them and pretend as tough they understand you. Anything else would mean this is a Type Three ghost. Anything else would mean Lucy is able to hold a conversation with it and understand it. Something like this hasn’t happened since Marissa Fittes.

Lucy is relieved of an answer when her colleagues enter the sunlit kitchen, filling the tense silence between you with idle chatter. Your eyes draw involuntarily to Lockwood—this time not due to the early husky morning voice he unsuspectingly wields like a bludgeon, not knowing what effect it has on you, not because he just said “Stop sticking the skull inside the oven, George.”

You stare at Lockwood because this is the first time you see him not wearing his suit and tie, but a normal, plain, white T-shirt over grey sweatpants. It’s like seeing him without his armour, broken down to something so simple and casual, something so … intimate. The short sleeves end just under his shoulders, showing his arms which are . . . not particularly muscular, but he still fills out his shirt nicely. The neckline dips low against his collarbones, showing his long, elegant neck. He looks like any other boy—man, you think to yourself. Worse even, he looks exactly your type. You like to think of yourself as a very determined person, but nothing in the world can dissuade you from letting your gaze roam down his lean frame, and linger at this hips where his shirt hikes up to reveal a generous expanse of pale skin. Lower, against the grey fabric, there is a clear outline of—

“Let us know when you’re done.” George’s voice pounds like a sledgehammer against your eardrums. You whirl, stare at him staring at you staring at Lockwood, and hope the ground opens up under your feet and swallows you.

Lockwood locks eyes with you, and grins. A boyish, cheerful grin, showing the slightly pointy canines on either side of his teeth—which you find adorable. Why do you suddenly notice all these things about him? Maybe you need to plunge your head under the water tap to cool off. Or a nice punch to the jaw.

“Morning,” Lockwood says. “I see you’ve met our agency’s . . . mascot.”

The green light flares behind you, and when you look, the skull is spinning wildly in its jar, jerking up and down. You imagine if it could shake a fist at Lockwood, it would.

“Charming.” You clear your throat, making way for George who makes a face at you as if you’re an annoying fly that buzzes around his head. “Does it have a name?”

“We, uh . . . just call him Skull,” Lucy provides.

You look at the skull, which impressively manages to roll its eyes. Not that it has eyes. But you got the impression it is annoyed, which must be your imagination. This thing doesn’t understand you. “So you just hang out with it?”

“No, we—” Lockwood rests a pointed look on Lucy as he reaches for the jar and hefts it off the counter to store it inside a cupboard “—usually keep it away because it ruins George’s appetite. We’re no friends or comrades of ghosts.”

“Yeah.” George shuffles past you to put the kettle on. “It’s not like we can talk to it anyway. And it doesn’t talk to us. That would be weird.”

All three of you look at him as he sets four mugs on the counter, nailing the coffin shut with four distinct clings of porcelain on wood. You’re pretty sure they can talk to it, and it talks to them. That indeed is weird.

Breakfast is quickly done though you barely feel hungry, instead just push a lump of scrambled egg around the plate with your fork. It seems like any other day for the agents of Lockwood & Co. You watch Lucy take a huge bite off her avocado-egg-toast, and keep staring for a moment. From the other Rotwell girls you were used to seeing them taking dainty little bites out of their dishes, nibbling at them like soft baby rabbits.

There is nothing soft or delicate about the way Lucy eats. You feel your heart warm up to the sight, a knot in your stomach slowly untying until you relax into your chair.

When she notices your eyes on her, she pauses, even stops chewing as though you’ve caught her in a most horrible act. So you tear into a waffle drowned in maple syrup as if you’re a starving woman without any table manners. To your utter astonishment, Lucy begins to smile slowly, like the moon slipping slowly beneath the waves of a lake.

Now you wish you had agreed to her and George staying. After clearing the table to spread out everything they’d pack into their kit, watching Lucy and George ready and geared-up leaving through the front door after a few quiet words with Lockwood peels your nerves raw.

It shuts with a soft click, throwing the entrance hall in shadow, and then you’re all alone with Anthony Lockwood. A thought that sparks a shot of hot tingles crawling up your lower back, settling in your shoulders and turning the muscle harder than stone.

Lockwood, noticing how tense you’ve grown, draws slowly closer as if approaching a cornered animal. “It’s going to be fine,” he says, and for a moment it seems as though he’s reaching his hand up to—touch you? Place it on your shoulder to take some of the tension off? But then his hand changes course and settles at his neck where he rubs the skin under his jaw. “I—and Kipps—got you into this mess. I’m somewhat responsible for you now, and I won’t let anything happen to you.”

You are numb from tension. The word responsibility scrapes along your spinal cord like a jagged knife. “I’m nobody’s responsibility,” you say quietly. “Least of all yours.”

Lockwood leans away as though your words are a physical force pushing him away. You see his throat bob as he swallows, his lips pressed into a tight line. “Come on, Tony. Let’s get this over with while it’s not too bright outside.”

He doesn’t say anything but you have grown familiar with his displeased expression—pricked eyebrows, pursed lips, dark eyes unfathomable as though veiled by heavy dark curtains. You begin to understand why Kipps always riles him up; it’s kind of fun to see his composure crack, to get under his skin and see the restrain crumble—it makes him tense in all the right places.

“Wait here,” he orders and disappears back into the kitchen and through the cellar door. He thunders down a spiral staircase, and a moment later you hear a heavy iron door squeal open.

When Lockwood returns, a small iron box in his fist, he juts his chin towards the opposite door from the kitchen, meaning for you to follow. He leads you into the living room where you got patched up when you first arrived at Portland Row. He draws the heavy curtains shut, swallowing the room in shadow, then moves some furniture to the side, leaving the space in the middle of the room empty where he drags a single chair over and motions for you to sit down.

This is it. You take place trying not to look as if he’s asking you to sit in an electric chair to execute you. Lockwood towers before you, arms crossed, tapping his slender fingers against his biceps.

“You really don’t have to do it,” he says, surprising you again with how reluctant he is to go through with this plan. But what else can you do? You take your glove off quickly, like ripping off a band-aid before you can rethink your choice. Something so small and unremarkable like this key shouldn’t invoke so much terror and anxiety in you. It’s like a pair of hot tongues that if left unattended will burn a hole in the rug, but with nowhere to place, you don’t know how to get rid of it so you just have to hold and endure it. Instead of an answer, you hold out your hand, palm facing up.

Lockwood pauses, holds your gaze. “Ready?”

You’ll never be. But something about his dark eyes is like an anchor, and you stare at him, embossing the elegant lines and planes of his face into your mind and hope it will pull you back from wherever your mind will dive into in a second. You nod.

Lockwood takes your wrist gingerly, as if any hasty movement might draw you away. Not averting his eyes from you, he places the key into your open palm.

In that one second before your mind becomes blank, you think he pushes the rough pads of his fingers into your skin, a warm, solid weight in comparison to the ice-cold Source, but before you can wonder if it’s just your imagination, the world goes dark.

Touching is a lot like being suspended in water. Dark, murky water with no bottom, no surface. One moment you see your own face, and then it is another that you don’t recognise and then it just feels like drowning. The psychic whiplash pierces through you like a hot bullet. A roaring tide of emotions rolls over you, drowning you in overlapping echoes of the past.

Fury. Anger. Greed. But beneath all that, deeper than the roots of old trees: hopelessness. Fear.

Countless deaths and unspeakable violence is tied to this Source, but only the very recent was grave enough to tie a ghost to it—to have someone hold onto it with nails that now sink into your flesh and pull you down, down, deeper down as he claws his way back to the other side—your side, and you wonder Why, why, why and as you sink deeper, let your consciousness drop to the dark, bottomless pit, you find the answer inside a gnawing, razor-sharp maw that swallows you in one bite: Revenge.

The realisation pours like ice-cold water over your limbs; locks them tight, like a second skin stretching over yours—too tight, too cold; then too hot. Your heart shrinks to the size of a small, hard stone as the words pour from your mouth.

“It’s not fair,” you sigh. Your voice sounds strange, so feminine. Tears prickle behind your eyes. “It’s not fair, I worked for it. I went through Hell just to get it from this bloody Relic-man. It cost me a fortune, it almost cost me my life. My life.”

You have become lost to the world, a voice says, not yours, a girl’s voice, and you repeat it, in a sing-song voice, quietly, “I’ve become lost to the world.” It feels like something important is missing. “Ah, I wasted so much time.”

There’s sadness, but it isn’t a pitying sadness; it’s a larger sadness, one that seems to encompass all the poor striving people, the billions living their lives, a sadness that mingles with a wonder of awe at how hard humans everywhere try to live, even when their days are so very difficult, even when their circumstances are so wretched.

Life is so sad, you’d think in those moments. “Life is so sad,” you repeat out loud, “my life for that key, so many lives for that key and I did all those things, those things I did—”

“What is the key for?” a voice—a boy’s voice—asks.

You snap your eyes open. You’re in a living room, a small spacious one with comfy old furniture and curious things lining the walls. There’s a lanky boy staring at you, arms crossed. An iron rapier glints off from where it lies on a table, easily within his reach.

When you look down and see the key—the key for the box—the coldness in your chest doesn’t feel as suffocating.

“Oh.” You smile. “I thought—I thought I’d lost it. I thought I—”

You swallow. Your chest hurts, the coldness passing for hot, searing pain that makes breathing harder. Thinking harder. You scratch your arm, dig your nails deep into your soft skin. It’s an old habit, feeling like ants crawl all over your skin when you’re anxious—or is it his habit?

A sob tears through you as you try to force air into lungs crushed by grief. “I didn’t want—I didn’t mean to do all the things—BUT HE LEFT ME NO CHOICE!”

The boy reels back, hand swivelling towards the rapier. “Who?” he asks, his voice is raised and he looks spooked as if he can’t quite believe what is happening. You feel the same. You feel like something is trying to crawl its way out of your throat—black-ink in your throat wanting to spill out and tell and yield and become something (someone).

You press your fists into your eyes, hard. Why can’t you remember how you got here? Your head hurts, the ants—not the normal types, but fire ants—crawling all over your skin are on a death-march to put you under the ground and you need to get out, get out, get out—

—he needed to get out. The sounds of heavy boot slapping on pavement followed him all the way to Lee Tunnel. He thought Relic-men were an easy enough target, nasty people, ugly and disgusting like vermin beneath his boots, but nothing, and nobody, was ever easy when it came to money. And this was exceptionally Big money with capital B. No more debts, no more crawling in the dirt to beg for more time, more chances—he could finally move away with sweet Emily and build a new life after he split the profit. They dreamt of Italy, somewhere where the spring is warm and smells of the earth.

He just needed to get out and away and find— They were supposed to meet here, somewhere inconspicuous, somewhere nobody would ever expect to see esteemed—. The smell of foul sewage mixed with rainwater made him choke back on bile. Last time, this was the last time.

A blind end. He whirled around, all the way back then, but that’s when the Relic-man caught up to him, delivering a pipe right into his gut. He staggered down to his knees (not yet), sprawling on all four (not yet, not yet), spit blood onto the cold concrete ground. When he tried to get back up, the pipe came down again, hard, against his knee and he felt the bone shatter. He’s screaming (you’re screaming), and he presses a hand right against his pocket, that’s where he held the key, that’s where he held his future, but was this worth dying for?

They were supposed to meet here. So he screamed. A soundless scream (you’re no Listener after all), a wailing scream for someone that from childhood on, had been trained to respond to it. To rise from bed when he cried, to run to help him when he fell down (and you recognise this feeling as you crash into the ground—the ground is a mirror, a lake inside an ocean inside a world filled with turmoil, and you’re so, so scared, why is nobody holding you).

The first shot rang out. A heavy body fell on top of him, and grunting, he pushed it aside. The pain in his leg was excruciating now. Saved. He was saved by—.

Reaching into his inside pocket, he pulled out the small box with the key, rising to his feet under so much effort he felt like might faint from it. He lifted the box. He smiled.

The second shot rang out. His heavy body fell to the ground. He was confused. His chest hurt. It wasn’t supposed to happen like this. But nothing, and nobody, was ever easy when it came to money. Not even—, but how could he? How could he?

No more debts, no more crawling in the dirt to beg for more time, more chances; he won’t move away with sweet Emily and build a new life. Confusion. Betrayal was its own death by a thousand cuts.

He was aware—was drawing closer. He was aware of the rushing canals under the ground; the labyrinth-belly of a monster running beneath London. With trembling fingers, he opened the box. He picked up the key. That wretched, wretched key. His future. My life, he was thinking, my life. And then he threw it into the sewers.

There’s a hand around your wrist, shaking you. When the room comes back into sudden focus, the boy is looking at you, eyes wide. He looks almost frightened.

“Give me the key,” he says with an impatience to his voice as though this isn’t the first time he’s asking for it. You see red.

“No!” You jump to your feet, bearing your teeth. “Nobody except me can have it, it is mine!”

“No,” he replies, calmly. There is something about this voice, a part of you remembers, something calming and alluring like a cup of warm milk with honey. “This is not you. You are trapped in an echo, these are the Visitor’s feelings and memories. You need to let go.”

You look at him, a pressure behind your eyes wants to remember, wants to trust him. You shake your head. “No. Not again.”

The door is to your left and you charge for it, surprising the boy enough he lets go of your wrist—but you only make it a few steps before hands catch your arms in a vice-grip and he’s shouting a name—not his name, whose name is that, it’s a woman’s name.

You drop your head forward and then swing it back. There’s a crack when the back of your head smashes against his nose. He lets go, loses his balance and falls. Another step towards the door.

Again, his hand, this time around your ankle. The world spins as you fall to the ground, bracing for impact with your hands—don’t let go of the key, never let go of the key—your knuckles scrape along the rug as you twist your hand and kick out, but the boy is already on top of you, pushing you into the hard ground, your wrists next to your head as he pins you down.

“Look at me, hey— Look at me!”

You thrash around, shake your head, if only your hands were free you could curl your fingers around his throat and make him let go—

Your name. He snarls your name; your name that is sharpened against the marble of his teeth like a weapon, a spark that rips into the marrow of your bones. Like a hook yanking you back into the present, the now.

The fight leaves your body, you sag against the ground as you choke on adrenaline. And his—Lockwood’s nails dig deep, half-crescents of fire into your skin.

“Come. Back.” Two single words, punched out of him and hitting you deep in the gut. There’s blood, on his nose and lips, on his white shirt. You’ve never seen this expression on his face, his dark eyes are haunted, his cheeks hollowed as though he’s an empty shell.

“Lockwood,” you croak. He flinches, and something in his face changes. “Lockwood, why do you look like shit?”

Lockwood stares at you. Stares some more. His lips are slightly parted—he’s a mouth breather, you realise. And then he sags with relief, his head falling forward. His face disappears behind the fringe of his dark hair and you want to reach up and brush it away but he’s still holding you. You can feel your pulse hammering against his palms.

He lifts his head back up, eyes locking with yours. His right hand slowly moves to your clenched fist, fingertips grazing your skin and sending shivers up your arm to your spine. He taps against your curled fingers. Like a flower opening her petals, your fingers unwind from the key and he takes it from you.

Lockwood leans back, his body leaving your space. He settles on his heels, his chest rising and falling. His tongue quickly darts out, the tip running over his bottom lip and he flinches from the blood on his mouth.

You keep lying on the ground for another heartbeat, pressing your back harder into the surface to remind yourself this is your body. You’re in control. The memories are rushing back right about now, rising up your throat. You sit up in a rush, and stare at Lockwood who looks dead tired.

He only raises his eyebrows at your expression—seeing something waiting on the tip of your tongue, but you can’t speak around the words, choke on them.

“Matthew. Wake up, my brother. Please wake up.”

Your voice was insistent, and from childhood Matthew had been trained to respond to it. To rise from the bed when you cried, to run to help you when you fell down (is this your or the Visitor’s memory?).

“His brother.” Your voice is barely a whisper. “His brother killed him.” The words were out of your mouth before you can stop yourself. Your breath catches, and a sharp pain cracks in your heart—perhaps the worst kind of all. And then you break down crying and you don’t care that you’re crying in front of Anthony Lockwood because how could he. How could he?

“So that’s how the key got into the sewer system and eventually landed at the flooded C Station. He did all that so it wouldn’t fall into his killer’s hands.” Lockwood reaches into the open package tucked between your and his thigh, pulling out a few dried apple rings.

You’re sitting on the living room’s floor, legs stretched out on the rug, backs leaning against the back of the sofa, arms pressed against each other. It seems possession from a psychic connection and nearly breaking his nose brings people closer than you’ve expected. Your mugs long cold, your eyes puffy and red from crying, you watch him press the cold compress against his face. He winces slightly when he turns to look at you.

“Sorry,” you say for the third time. “I wasn’t aware a Visitor could even do that.”

Lockwood waves you off. “Come off it,” he says. “That wasn’t you.”

“Well. Maybe I did feel a little satisfaction knocking you out like that.”

Lockwood grunts, the corner of his mouth tugging upward. “We’ve had something similar happen to Lucy.” He drops his hand into his lap. He’s cleaned the blood from his face, but the collar of his shirt is still stained dark. “It was nowhere near this violent, but . . . I’ve seen it. And I still agreed to this. I shouldn’t have.”

“It was my decision.” You stare down at your gloved hands. Dried apple crumbs stick to the fabric. “And it did give us some answers.”

“But not where the key fits.” Lockwood nibbles on an apple piece. “Let’s hope Luce and George have more luck at the Archive.”

“And there’s still the matter of the man that attacked me. I think Karim might be right. He doesn’t necessarily have to be the killer.”

Lockwood chews on that for a moment. “You said he smelled of what? Liquor? What if he’s another Relic-man?”

“Tidiest Relic-man I’ve ever seen.” You scrunch your nose. “It was . . . something heavy. Whiskey, or rum, I’m not sure.”

“I can ask someone about that.”

“Ah, dragging someone else into this case? Good idea.”

Lockwood flashes you a bright grin—you categorise it as his signature Lockwood grin. “I’ve always been a big fan of the more the merrier.”

You tilt your head, your mouth slowly curling into a mocking curve.

Lockwood dips his head to you, and his voice is husky when he murmurs, “Thank you. For helping us out.”

You didn’t expect this. Heat crawls up your neck, but you have a hard time looking away from Lockwood’s dark eyes. He’s beautiful. The thought rattles like a marble inside your head, a pretty, shining marble that is very hard to catch.

“Don’t let it get to your head.” Your voice matches his volume, low and almost a whisper. “I’m doing this for personal benefits only.”

“I didn’t expect anything different from someone who’s worked for Rotwell.”

You smile at each other. It feels safe, it feels good. Professional. Which is why you ignore the weird flutter in your stomach, the treacherous feeling of hunger and more that is just the post-adrenaline settling. Maybe you should have a second breakfast.

Outside, the phone rings. Lockwood picks himself up, groaning slightly. When he leaves to pick it up, you inspect the marks he’s left on your wrist, from his nails, his fingertips, pretending you don’t like his imprints on your skin as though you’re a thing fashioned from a potter’s—his—hands.

When Lockwood returns, he leans against the doorframe, both hands tugged into the pockets of his trousers. “Luce just called. Seems like your little library pass didn’t just get them insight on the symbol, but also additional info on the case booked for tonight. George found new information that leads him to believe this might be a double haunting.”

That would prove more difficult for only two agents, especially if it’s not clear yet which Types the ghosts are. You think you know the question Lockwood is about to ask, so you beat him to it, “Want me to tag along?”

Lockwood smiles. It seems like a challenge. “I trust you’re capable of working in a team?”

You climb to your feet, using the sofa as support. “We’ve already been through this. We are in this together,” you echo back his words from the previous day. “I’m afraid you’re stuck with me now.”

“Tragic.” Lockwood doesn’t sound as if he’ll lose sleep over this. “Meet you back here in fifteen. I’ll call a cab.”

You quickly finish the apple crumbs left in the package and hurry up to the library to change into your gear. A dark turtle neck, comfortable pants, and sturdy boots you’ll put on downstairs. You’ve put on your gear harness, arming yourself with everything you’ll need on the case in quick and easily accessible: one canister of Greek Fire, two vials of lavender water, a couple of salt bombs. In your kit are stowed your other utensils like different thermometers (depending on which one still works), a flash (you’re not sure when you’ve last changed the batteries), two chain nets (at least one is without holes), a long rope of iron chains (newly purchased). Last but not least, your rapier. The Solinger Rapier is a good piece of work, you can give Lockwood a little credit for that. It feels good to be ready and in gear, you feel like donning your armour isn’t just a physical thing but putting your mind into a high-defence vault too.

If you think too much back on what you’ve seen in the Visitor’s memory, it’ll shake you up again, and just for the rest of tonight, you want to be a functioning agent doing your job.

Grabbing your kit, you vault back downstairs where you find Lockwood in the kitchen refilling the last of his salt bombs. He’s changed as well, wearing his signature suit and a long trench-coat. His socks peek out from his slippers, a bright pink.

“Take some of those,” he says without looking at you, nodding towards the counter. There’s gum, chocolate barns, cookie bags and a box full of tea bags. You stuff the cookies and tea bags into your kit. Lockwood stashes the rest when the door rings. “And that’s our ride.”

There’s an energy you feel strumming in his bones as though he’s a high-strung fuse read to blow. He turns around—and stops. Lockwood just stares. He stares at your uniform, which isn’t really a uniform because you don’t wear a jacket anymore. He seems particularly interested in the gear harness hugging your upper body, sitting snugly around your shoulders, your chest, your shoulder blades.

You raise your eyebrows to your hairline. “Everything all right, Tony?”

Lockwood clears his throat. “Please stop calling me that.” You might be wrong, but it looks like he’s a little flushed. Maybe all the blood he’s lost from his nose injury earlier is finally rushing back to his head.

“Why, you don’t like being called Tony?”

“I really, really don’t.” He takes his kit and moves to the entry hall, putting on his shoes. You follow and mirror him. “Why? Because of Kipps?”

“Because of my sister.”

You almost topple over. You didn’t know he has a sister, and Kipps has never mentioned her either—and that’s not strange at all, lots of people have siblings. What makes you pause is the way Lockwood said it. He makes it sound as though having a sister is tragic.

When you look at him, his expression is already a shut door, his eyes closed windows. He will not say anything more on that subject, his whole body language makes that pretty clear: he’s drawn a line and he drew it hard, using it as a blueprint to build a brick wall. Whatever door he feels like building in, only he has the key and you don’t think he’ll allow you back in anytime soon.

You wonder if he accidentally slipped up. If he said something he wasn’t planning on saying, and now he regrets it. He regrets that you know.

It’s like the last two hours didn’t happen when you found some sort of solace in each other after the Visitor possessed you. You’re used to rejection, but this still tastes bitter. This tastes like a whole bloody basket of lemons turning your whole mouth inside out.

So you don’t say anything, just follow him outside and into the cab where Lockwood gives the driver clipped instructions where to go. The car speeds off, the silence between you stretches on and settles like an unwanted animal scratching at the closed door between you. You wonder what happens if the door splinters and the creature creeps inside.

Through the late afternoon streets where the citizens deal with their last errands and the city sidewalks begin to thin out of people. Curfew is in another two hours. Soon, only agents and ghosts will roam these streets. The cab halts near Bermondsey station. Lockwood pays the driver and turns sharply to the meeting point. You trudge along. Years previously, when Bermondsey was a centre of industry instead of a trendy neighbourhood full of art galleries and coffee shops, the Crawford Ironworks were a textile factory. Now it is an enormous brick shell whose inside has been emptied and left vacant. The floor is made up of overlapping squares of rusty steel; slender steel beams arc overhead, wrapped with ropes of grimy black wires. Ornate wrought iron staircases spiral up to catwalks decorated with hanging plants. A massive cantilevered glass ceiling opens onto a view of the steel-grey sky. There is even a terrace outside, built out over the Thames, with a spectacular view of the Tower Bridge, which looms overhead, stretching from Bermondsey to Whitechapel like a spear of tinselled ice.

Lucy and George are sitting on the main iron staircase, their conversation is too quiet to hear when you approach. They don’t seem surprised you’ve joined their case, but you don’t miss George’s eyes squinting behind his glasses when he sees you.

“I heard you found something,” you say, holding out your hand to George who reluctantly gives back your library pass. “Hope you had fun while it lasted, Karim.”

He mutters something under his breath. Lucy juts her elbow into his side. “The Leviathan’s Cross,” she says aloud, pausing, you think, for dramatic effect. “Ever heard of that?”

Lockwood and you exchange looks. You both shake your heads. You ignore your heart stumbling over itself. The symbol is familiar, but the name is not.

George’s eyes pin Lockwood to the wall. “They’re something like our dear Orpheus Society.”

“Ah.” Lockwood straightens his impeccably straight tie. “And I assume there was no address? No membership list, no picture of the CEO and their phone number?”

George rolls his eyes. “Don’t try to be funny, it never works.”

You raise your hand like a little kid at school. “What’s the Orpheus Society?”

George, Lucy, and Lockwood hold a full silent conversation with their eyes and facial expressions only. In the end, Lockwood says, “You know, let’s save this for later and get the job done first. After that, we can pour all our resources into figuring out what we’ve learnt.”

“Fair enough.” You clap your hands, rub them together in anticipation for an evening out doing what you do best. “Where did you set up base?”

Command centre, as George likes to call it, is in a former employee kitchen alcove tugged right between two open-plan offices that take up both floors above the main hall. Lucy is cleaning up the empty mugs after you all had tea while George and Lockwood fill you in on the job, explaining that a couple of days ago the owner of this factory (a small man with a slim face reminding them of a rat) asked for their services. He plans to sell the compound, but it’s always been haunted and he needs to get rid of the ghosts before handing the building over.

“At least one ghost was definitely seen on the top floor by the night watch,” George says between two ravenous bites into his cookie. “Worker’s garb, they hear machines going off at night, and there are two cold spots up there. I think the ghosts manage to work in shifts. That’s why everyone thought it’s just one.”

“That’s impossible,” you say, breaking off another piece of chocolate with your teeth. “They’d have to be intelligent to work out something like changing when one appears and the other doesn’t. Ghosts don’t care for that, they haunt simultaneously.”

George raises both hands. “I don’t make the rules.”

“But you research all this, you should get your facts straight.”

“Want to bet? When we’re up there, just start screaming when two ghosts start killing you, OK?”

“It’s not impossible,” Lockwood chimes in. He spends the time until evening falls with a crossword book spread over his lap, his tongue tucked between his teeth. You focus on any part of his face except his mouth. “Remember the two Spectres we got down in Lambeth? Someone put their bones together and when one stirred, the other came back too.” Your eyes land on Lockwood’s crossword puzzle, which he is poorly hiding, and you see that he isn’t solving the puzzle but merely colouring in the empty boxes.

“It’s almost time we go up.” Lucy looks at her watch. “Sun’s setting.”

“All right.” Lockwood slaps the book closed happily, flicking his pen into his kit. “We’ll go up and measure the temperature first, place our iron chains and put up defence rings.” He stretches, that high-strung energy back. You get the feeling if Lockwood isn’t on a case or his mind not occupied with solving a problem, he might combust from all that need to act; to do something.

You’ve got everything you need when you notice Lucy hauling a hefty, bulky backpack onto her shoulders, readjusting the straps.

“Looks heavy,” you notice. “They’re not forcing you to carry all the equipment, are they?”

“No, it’s—” She shakes her head as if trying to shake off cobwebs. “I just like to be double careful. Better have one iron chain more, you know?”

You nod. That makes sense.

All geared up and ready, George leads you past the inoperable lift to the staircase at the end of hallway. He opens the doors and you fill into a rectangular room that you think might have been pearly white once, but years of decay and neglect have darkened the walls. Huge dark rings from water damage stretch like growing mould alongside the iron staircase that you ascend to the upper floor.

Lockwood stops at the door, turning towards you and Lucy. “Ladies, if you don’t mind.” He puts his hand on the handle and pushes it down but doesn’t open the door yet. “I think your Talents might be more useful than mine.”

Lucy and you exchange a look. She nods towards Lockwood, and he slowly swings the door open. Lucy ventures inside, you hard on her heels. You can immediately tell she zones out right then and there, trying to pick up any psychic auditory echoes. You put your gloved fingers to the wall, brushing along the crumbling masonry. Dried, dusty mortar sticks to the tip of your fingers. Exhaustion washes over you, tiredness from overwork, from a general unhappiness of working too hard, working too long but it’s never enough, never enough. If you could sum it all up it would be a feeling of depression, a hopelessness settling deep into your bones.

Unease pokes its crooked finger into your stomach, stirring its contents. Misery. One wave, then another—much deeper, a twin echo that doesn’t quite feel the same. The second echo hits deeper, plummets steeper, the sudden realisation that someone who has been part of your life is gone and why would you remain in a world where they are not?

You rip your hand back from the wall, and slowly turn to George.

“Karim.” You voice is nothing but a whisper. “What did you say those ghosts were? To each other, I mean.”

George scratches his belly under his shirt. “I didn’t. But nice of you to ask. They were twins.”

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cuckoo-on-a-string · 1 year

Text

Hello, Mr. Monster: The Nightmare's Interlude

Hello, Mr. Monster master list

Summary: Eros and Psyche inspired Soulmate!AU, Morpheus x female OC/reader (18+)

So, as some of you know, I've been very sick for a while. Everything's behind schedule, but then this struck me, so I thought I'd share. The Jeff fan club rides again! The next proper chapter will be out... soon? Not doing the tag list thingy for this, but that will return with the next, proper chapter, and I'll give ya'll a heads up about this blurb in case you missed it then. <3

The nightmare was older than the beds beneath which it lurked. It had slipped a cold, hard grasp around dreamer’s ankles before there were words for either. From the dawn of sleeping things, it startled creatures from fantasies and reminded all of the unseen dangers lurking in dark places. Snakes, spiders, and wicked things with tooth and talon. Worse threats, even: strangers and ghosts, murderers and curious thieves.

When the Nightmare King vanished, the thing from under the bed went looking. It was one of many, in the beginning, but others grew distracted, lost hope, or found fresh inspiration in the delights of the waking world. It did not give up its quest. Traveling from shadows under a bed to those under a low table on the other side of the planet, it searched. It saw without eyes and heard without eats. It listened from under chairs and lurked under parked cars. But the waking world was vast, and after nearly a century of hunting, it began to despair.

The Endless were not gods. And the Nightmare King did not take up his mantle with a light heart. Perhaps he’d left, abandoned his creations to wither and fade.

Was that a kinder end than simply unmaking the Dreaming in one, fell stroke?

Perhaps Dream of the Endless was captured. Or ill. Or enchanted by some fell demon. Perhaps he wasn’t in the waking world at all, and he’d been bound in the deepest circles of Hell, or drugged into bliss beyond the gates of Tir na NÒg. Without word, every possibility was as realistic as the last. The nightmare only knew its lord wasn’t dead. If he’d fallen, another aspect would’ve been given his function, and the Dreaming would not stand in ruins.

So, the nightmare kept searching, obsessed with a new purpose, a new reason for existing, and it decided not to return before its lord.

It found all kinds of things. Lost treasures. Creatures hiding from worse monsters than the dark. Other dreams and nightmares seeking refuge from their increasingly-unstable home. Bottles, buttons, and dust bunnies. Never a hint of its lord.

And then – something.

A thread of power reaching out through a sleeping mind, the glitter of sand and ancient power.

The nightmare rushed through the shadows, following the trace like a bloodhound. It would get there first. It would rescue their lord. They would return to the Dreaming and set all right. A quest fulfilled.

But when it finally chased down the source, it didn’t find Lord Morpheus. It reached up to clutch a very small, very human ankle.

The girl-child jerked awake at its touch, hiccupping on tears, and the nightmare wondered which of its brothers it had interrupted. It did not wonder long, though. It was too busy feeling a new sensation, one it was meant to inspire rather than suffer.

Horror.

This child had been… mangled. Deep within. Her mortality hung in tatters, like curtains in the windows of a haunted house, framing what should have been a miracle. His master’s name. The dream of dreams. But whatever had irreparably damaged the child’s natural place in the flow of life and death had carved over the name.

And there was the sand. In her soul. In her blood.

It must pull her deep into dreams, the poor thing.

She was fortunate to wake at all.

A strong child.

Little fingers brushed over nightmarish crusts and ooze, gentle with papery skin, and the little girl said, “Hello.”

The nightmare had never had a conversation with a human child before, and after a moment’s thought, it gave her ankle a slight, answering squeeze. Nothing to hurt her, but enough to acknowledge and return her greeting.

“Are…” Her voice quavered and died, but she tried again, determined. The nightmare hung on her every breath, waiting.

“Are you here to hurt me, too?”

It released her. Instantly. The shadows swallowed it back under the little princess bed, and it recoiled into the inky black as that new feeling – horror – brought goosebumps to its hairless flesh.

This was its lord’s soulmate. It had seen many come and go from Lord Morpheus’ embrace, but this – well. This was different. This was unique. Something that would not come again, even in another dozen millennia. The little human was precious, even if its master was not there to appreciate and protect the one creature whose wyrd twined so intimately with his.

“Don’t go!” A little face appeared, upside-down over the side of the bed, trying to see in spaces too deep for mortal eyes. Even eyes, the nightmare realized, as clever as hers. Oh, the trouble this child must find.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to offend you. Are you… a nice… monster?”

The nightmare returned to the light slowly, ensuring it wouldn’t scare her, and she smiled, reaching down to shake its hand.

“It’s very nice to meet you, Mr. Monster.”

The nightmare did not realize it at the time, but it was already lost. Lost to the hope in terrified eyes and the smile that invited it into the daylight for tea parties. Lost to slow conversations through knocks and a hand-drawn copy of a Ouija board the girl “saw on tv.”

It explained it was a nightmare, and she explained her name meant “dream,” too. When it said it didn’t have a name in the way she did, she gasped, told it that was terrible, and offered him one.

Jeff.

He became Jeff, and without meaning to, he found a new kind of quest. Even if his lord should never return, Jeff would guard his lady. The little dreamer marked for death with terrible power because she’d first been marked for love.

Protector. Guard. Confidante. Friend, even. He’d never been such things, but he took up the role gladly as the child told him about her parents, who knew something had happened to their child, but couldn’t believe her story about the fairy under the bridge. Jeff believed her, and Jeff remembered.

She explained why her favorite foods were the best, why it was important to have a favorite color, and why swings were her favorite part of the playground.

One day she came in with a little bottle, giggling, and called him out. He stretched into the yellow sun, the tips of his fingers brushing the hem of her lavender dress.

“Mommy made my nails pretty, so now I’m gonna paint yours and make you pretty, too, kay?”

She painted his broken, half-peeled fingernails with glittery purple polish, and they made her so happy he kept them that way a whole week. Jeff would do many things to keep her smiling, because sometimes the terror carved into her young mind swelled until she became sick with it. The fear stole the breath from her lungs and the thoughts from her mind. It came most often in the dark, when she felt most alone, and Jeff held her little foot to assure himself she hadn’t shaken apart into broken pieces, and to let her know he was there.

And then came the night he failed her, the night the child lost her family and stared into the eyeless maw of her soulmate’s favorite creation. Jeff tried. He warned her not to go out, and when she didn’t listen, he pulled her under the bed.

But too late. Not enough.

The Corinthian pulled her out of the shadows and sent her running into the woods. Truly alone, where Jeff couldn’t so easily follow.

The child fled, pursued by hungry things in the night, the Not Deer among them.

The Corinthian returned to the room and smiled down at Jeff, wiping the parents’ blood off his knife.

“Nice girl you had there. Real peach.” The greater nightmare crouched low, taking off his sunglasses. “Not ripe yet, of course. It’s better this way, don’t you think? If she can’t survive a few of us, how could she survive our maker?”

He called, and summoned, and reached for every dream and nightmare he knew walked the waking world without malice. Some of them came. Jeff rallied Polyphemus, the shepherd who once carried the smallest dreamers away from the deeper shoals of Nightmare, into gentler dreams.

Enough came. Enough heard. They did what Jeff could not and snatched the plucked the girl out of reach of her pursuers. Polyphemus, and the nightmare Gault, and Fiddler’s Green – who wore a strange shape and a new name.

When that awful, terrible night had ended, when the child – Aisling – was safe enough in the hands of human authorities, Jeff began leaving for longer and longer periods, hunting ardently for his lord. The girl was not safe. She would never be safe until Dream of the Endless returned.

The fear became worse, paralyzing attacks that interrupted her waking hours.

She struggled in even the most welcoming foster homes, trying to navigate a pitying world that saw her as half-mad at best. And when Jeff reached out to comfort her, the other children screamed and ran to tell adults about the monster under the bed.

Other nightmares came to visit, and Aisling made her roommate cry after she asked to leave the closet door open “so the boogeyman can breathe.”

She did not smile so much.

She did not paint his nails, and she stopped drawing Ouija boards after one foster family subjected her to an exorcism.

Jeff listened to many would-be families plead with her to be good or demand to know why tormented the other children. They wanted her, if only she could behave. If only she’d stop lying. If only she’d stop playing sick pranks on the little ones. If, if, if. They only wanted her if. Jeff had seen her face horrors that could break the human mind and still smile after. He did not know how to help, so he held her ankle as she slept, and her hand when she was grounded.

He went with her to therapy sessions, learning beside her as she developed coping mechanisms to manage the fear. Panic attacks, the therapist called them. But the therapist also pushed her to tell a more palatable truth, to accept a human killed her parents, not a nightmare with mouths for eyes. The therapist wanted Aisling to stop talking to shadows and to make a best friend who wasn’t a monster under the bed.

The child, who was a little less a child every day, refused.

In the silvery glow of a full moon, she looked across the bedroom she – for once – had to herself, and told Jeff, “I won’t let any of them tell me what to be.”

The new families did not accept her, and she did not accept them. She wasn’t cruel, but she wasn’t right or normal, so it never mattered if she was kind (though Jeff knew she was). Rather than waiting for age to liberate her, she demanded the mortal courts recognize her as an adult two years too early. She finished her schooling, found a job near the house her parents left for her, and won her independence.

Then she began collecting folk of the Dreaming. The house where the Corinthian killed her parents was remote, far from the city where she’d been hurt. It was a good place for things too delicate, too big, or too strange for the waking world. Polyphemus came and herded them all, keeping the refugees of the Dreaming safe from the greed of the waking, and keeping the folk of the waking safe from the power of the dreamfolk.

The child who was now a woman had adventures. She traveled and developed her intuition into proper magical skill. The dreams and nightmares were her life, and Jeff continued shifting between the child and his eternal search for his master, determined to fail neither one a second time.

He could not have guessed that the child would complete his first quest without his help.

#fic: hello mr. monster #morpheus x reader #morpheus x oc #sandman x reader #dream of the endless x reader #jeff the nightmare

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