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#like at least?? we got a moment where she’s rattling off as she should and we got ollie hugging both her and roy

gemini-sensei · 8 months

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Biggest Surprise | Cobra Kai x Chubby!Fem!Reader

Request: I was wondering if you could do any headcanons or maybe a blurb on Reader having a cryptic pregnancy? And she out of the blue goes into labor or has the baby/s?

CW: secret relationship, mentioned sneaking out, hospitals, cryptic/stealth pregnancy, labor pains, very brief discussion of miscarriage, surprise baby,

Reader was walking into the kitchen of her shared apartment to grab a snack on the afternoon her life changed forever. She greeted Moon as she walked past, both wearing pretty smiles. It was a regular day of the week as far as they were concerned, rather chill and uneventful so far.

Except when she opened the fridge, a sharp pain shot through her abdomen. She threw the door away to grab her stomach, making everything in the door rattle. It caught Moon's attention and she stood up.

"Are you okay?" she asked, walking over as Reader groaned in pain.

"I don't know," she mumbled.

The pain passed and Reader let out a heavy breath. She took a moment to calm down, but it was a little hard with Moon fussing over her. Whatever that pain was, it wasn't anything to get worked up over. So she shrugged her roommate off with a little smile and thanks, then grabbed the snack she'd initially come in there for.

Moon watched her. "Are you sure you're okay?"

Reader nodded with a smile. "Yeah, I'm fine. It was probably nothing."

They let it go and Reader went to her room, But about thirty minutes later, the same pain shot through her again. She was lying in bed, groaning as she withered on the sheets, texting Moon that it was happening again.

It didn't take long for Moon to get to her room but by the time she got to Reader, her roommate was halfway curled up on her side, holding her pudgy belly. She saw the tears in her eyes and the pained look on her face, making Moon feel horrible as she wanted nothing more than for her friend to be okay.

As she rubbed Reader's arm, trying to comfort her, she said, "We should go to the hospital."

"Yeah, probably," Reader groaned. The idea scared her, but what choice did they really have? "What could this be?"

"You could have a ruptured spleen or something," Moon suggested.

They waited for the pain to pass again before Moon helped Reader up and into her shoes. They walked down to Moon's car, where Reader got another shock of pain as soon as she sat down and started crying.

"Oh, God, Moon, please hurry!" she begged.

Moon helped buckle her in and rushed to the driver's side. She drove them to the hospital as fast as she possibly could without getting pulled over, though they got pretty lucky with green lights and little traffic. It was an agonizing ride for Reader as she dealt with the pain with loud groans; it was unlike anything she had ever felt before and it was hard not to scream.

When they arrived at the hospital, Reader hobbled up to the door until a nurse saw them coming in and brought over a wheelchair. Moon explained what was going on and they took Reader into a room quickly so they could figure out what was wrong with her. They took her vitals and asked her questions about her previous health and any sicknesses, and then they took her blood and promised to come back. It took a while and everything was up in the air until the doctor came in.

She introduced herself and smiled calmly, hoping to keep the air in the room as easy as possible. "I just have to ask you a few questions. When was the last time you were sexually active?"

Reader felt a little embarrassed as the topic came up. She glanced over at Moon, who had no idea of anything she'd been up to over the last year or so. She'd firmly told all of her friends that she wasn't interested in seeing anyone, but that really wasn't the case at all... However, she knew better than to lie to the doctor.

"A few weeks ago, why?" she asked. She couldn't have gotten an STI or anything like that. She didn't get hurt, at least that she could remember. So that left one final option. "Oh my god! Am I pregnant?"

The doctor maintained a calm demeanor. "Yes, yes you are. We were so shocked by the results, we had to run the tests two more times just to make sure."

Moon gasped softly, but didn't give any judgment or words about the secret Reader had been keeping. If anything, her dating life was the last thing on everyone's mind and Moon had her priorities in the right places. "Is the baby okay? I mean, Reader is in a lot of pain. Is she...?"

The doctor quickly shook her head. "No, no. Nothing like that. In fact, Reader... you're in labor. Those pains you're feeling are contractions, you're body preparing to deliver the baby."

"What? But that can't be right. I never even knew about it!" Reader cried out desperately. She was nowhere near ready to have a baby. She'd only just found out she was pregnant. She shook her head, crying harshly, and Moon tried to wipe away her tears. "This can't be happening! I can't have a baby!"

The doctor came over to comfort her as well, shushing her gently. She had a very maternal nature to her that helped ease Reader as her sobs turned into soft whimpers. "Hey, hey, I know this is scary. This is a lot for you to find out in just a few minutes, but you're going to be okay. My staff and I are going to take care of you two and you're going to be just fine, alright?"

Reader nodded, though she had a few questions about all of this. "How is this even possible?"

The doctor sighed. "It's fairly rare. It's called a cryptic pregnancy. Usually, very few or no symptoms present themselves and you're body doesn't change much. For the most part, some women will learn of the pregnancy halfway through. You're one of the ones that have made it to full term it seems."

They all fell silent as the information sank in. Then Moon asked, "So what now?"

"We'll, you're pretty close to giving birth. We're going to move you to the maternity ward before that happens and we're going to give you the rundown of what's going to happen," the doctor explained. "We're going to try and prepare you for this as much as we can before the baby comes."

"Okay," Reader said, laying her head back as she had to sit with the reality of the situation.

She was about to have a baby. A baby she didn't know about, a baby conceived months ago, a baby wasn't even slightly prepared for. She put a hand over her stomach, feeling nothing but soft, plush fat. It was hard to imagine there was a baby somewhere behind it, ready to be born nonetheless. And it scared the crap out of her. Where was she going to put a baby? How was she going to raise a baby? How was she going to tell the father?

Before she could think of any solutions, another wave of contractions rushed through her and she grit her teeth, groaning. She knew that the closer they got to each other, the closer her baby was to being born, and she was terrified. What was she going to do?

xxx

After being moved to the maternity ward, Reader was taken through some brief albeit helpful coaching. She listened to the doctor carefully and had Moon at her side the whole time. Though it was a startling and scary experience, Moon was optimistic throughout the whole situation. She held Reader's hand through contractions and promised that she was going to stay there with her for the whole thing. It made Reader feel ten times better.

When they were left alone, Moon finally asked, "Is there anyone you want me to call?"

She didn't ask who the father was. She didn't pry. She only asked if Reader wanted him there. It was so simple and sweet of her, and Reader appreciated it. If only it helped her figure out what to do.

"I don't know," she mumbled, thinking of her boyfriend. They'd been dating for almost a year, albeit in secret.

They hadn't wanted to make a big deal out of their relationship, thinking that if they started dating, it could meddle with their friend group. It was already hard enough with the whole backstory of Tory and Miguel and Sam and Robby thing always in the past. No one ever mentioned it, but they all knew it was there. What was the sense in making things harder? Then things just happened and she and her boyfriend liked being alone together, no one asking them dumb questions or getting in their way. It was easy, simple, lovely. So they snuck around and told some little white lies to see each other. No harm, no foul. Neither of them could have predicted where it would lead them.

Moon nodded in understanding. "Okay." She stood up and came to sit at Reader's side, showing her roommate her phone as her mood brightened. "Well, I started a list of things we're going to need. Obvious diapers and clothes and blankets and bottles-"

"Whoa, Moon, slow down," Reader said, looking between her and the long list she curated. "We don't even know what's going to happen. I mean, I haven't taken any prenatal meds or anything like that. I mean, what if the baby is sick or I'm not even allowed to keep them?"

"The hospital isn't going to take your baby from you, Reader," Moon told her, wrapping an arm around her and rubbing her shoulder. "And secondly, it isn't like you drink or do drugs, so I bet the baby is fine. And if they are sick, we can figure it out."

"We?"

"I told you, I'm here for you. For all of this, not just the birth."

"I couldn't ask you to do that."

"You don't have to. That's what best friends are for."

It wasn't long after that when the doctor and nurses came in and Reader was being instructed to push. Moon held her hand through the whole process, telling her that she was doing a great job. The delivery didn't take very long either. Reader pushed all of four times before the little one slid out and the doctor caught them.

Moon was encouraging her and telling her how proud she was of her when the loud wail of a baby broke the air. Both young women looked up to see the doctor holding up the messy infant with happy eyes.

"It's a boy."

"He's so little," Reader said as her baby was laid on her chest. She smiled at him, through the tears and sweat that poured down her face. Overcome with pride and love, she cried. "Hi there."

He nestled up to her, wailing and fussy. They were given a minute before a nurse scooped him up to be cleaned and evaluated. Reader watched from her position on the bed, her smile never leaving her face. Suddenly, her whole world had changed and it was all because of that little boy, whom she loved so much.

Once he was declared healthy, things moved quickly after that. Reader was cleaned up and checked on, her baby boy was dressed and given a bassinet to rest in, and things calmed down after that. Moon and Reader talked for a little bit about what to do and how they were going to do things, but as soon as Reader yawned, Moon told her that they would pick up the conversation later. Before she fell asleep, though, Reader asked Moon to tell their friends to come by the next day. She wanted them all to meet her son. Moon told her she'd let them know and with that, Reader fell asleep.

xxx

The following day, when everyone showed up at the hospital, they were a little confused as to where they were going and why they were there. Moon hadn't been very specific in the details, as she'd been almost as tired as Reader when she'd sent the text to the group chat, so everyone arrived a little worried.

They were chatting in the waiting, trying to figure out what they were doing there and what was going on. Yasmine had texted Moon that they were there, all having shown up within minutes of each other because as soon as visiting hours started, they were all pretty much there. Moon came out to get them and she was smiling wide.

"Oh, you all made it. Reader is going to be so happy to see you," she said.

Miguel asked, rather concerned. "Is she okay? What happened?"

"Yeah, you all you said was that Reader was in the hospital and wanted to see us," Sam said, just as worried. "Then we all texted you and you never texted back."

Moon got a guilty and apologetic look on her face. "Oops. I'm sorry. So much has happened. We've pretty much been here since yesterday afternoon and last night I fell asleep. My bad."

"Reader isn't dying, is she?" Robby asked.

"What? No, nothing like that," Moon said, shaking her head. She waved for them to follow her and she started walking. "Just follow me. It's something you kind of have to see to believe."

They walked down a few halls and as they approached the room, Moon slowed down and put a finger to her lips. "Shh. You have to be quiet when you walk in. I'm looking at you, Hawk."

"I can be quiet," he said defensively.

Moon playfully rolled her eyes as Sam elbowed him in the side, then she opened the door and led them inside. No one was ready for what they saw inside.

Reader was sitting on the bed with a small bundle wrapped up in her arms. She was smiling and talking softly, not noticing the group coming into the room at first. They were in a state of shock as they watched her, not at all believing what they were seeing until a tiny hand lifted from the blue blanket in her arms and reached for her. She reached back and let the little hand take hold of her finger.

"Oh my god," Yasmine let out.

Tory scoffed. "Well, that's the last thing I expected."

"What were you actually expecting?" Demetri asked.

"Stitches," she asked.

Reader looked up and smiled at her friends. "Hey."

Sam hurried over and stood at the end of the bed, as if to get a closer look but was scared to get too close. For as shocked as she was, she kept her voice calm and steady, not wanting to tighten the baby. "Reader, I didn't even know you were pregnant."

"Neither did I."

Everyone's jaws dropped at that.

"Are you serious?" Tory asked, walking over with Yasmine close behind.

The guys followed, too, but let the ladies go to Reader first, as they were obviously far more excited and ready to face the reality of the situation than they were.

Reader nodded to Tory. "Yeah. No symptoms, no changes. No indication at all. And yet, he's as healthy as can be."

She looked back down at her baby, who was looking up at her with big, pretty eyes. She couldn't help but think that he had his father's eyes, but she kept that thought to herself. They were beautiful and she loved them.

"It's a boy?" Yasmine asked excitedly.

"Yeah," Reader giggled.

The ladies - mostly Moon, Sam, and Yasmine - engaged Reader and talked about the baby, fussing over him and his mere existence. They talked a little about how it had happened and what was going to happen next, which was when Demetri and Miguel stepped in and asked the harder-hitting and logical questions - how was she going to pay for a baby? Where was he going to stay and sleep? Where was she going to get everything she needed for a baby? It was a lot to think about and they within good reason to be asking such questions.

Robby and Hawk stayed close to the wall, both a little awkward in the situation. Robby was a little uneasy around babies and though Hawk worked with young kids at the dojo, he had little experience with babies. They didn't say much but congratulated Reader.

When asked if anyone wanted to hold him, Yasmine and Sam got into a small argument over who should get to hold him first, failing to realize Moon had been the first person after Reader to get to hold him. Ultimately, the honor went to Miguel, who was just as eager to hold the little guy.

It was a night moment, all of them together, celebrating this new life. Reader was absolutely scared shitless but her friends assured her that she wasn't going to be alone in this. As far as they were concerned, the baby was one of them now. They were their own little family after all.

But her stomach still fluttered with butterflies as she looked out at the room, knowing she was going to have to face the father sooner rather than later. That was why she wanted this little meet and greet organized in the first place so that he would show up and meet his son. Reader wouldn't have to tell him one-on-one, even though she knew that perhaps that'd be the best way to do it. She was young and scared and in her mind, this was the easiest way to rip the bandaid off. She knew she'd be talking with him alone soon, but until that time came, she'd enjoy this moment.

Who's the father of Reader's baby? Let me know who you want it to be and I'll write a part two! Or if you want multiple endings and you just choose who you want it to be, I can do that too.

Choose: Hawk | Miguel | Robby | Demetri

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separatist-apologist · 1 year

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Red Earth & Pouring Rain

Remember what we found? No one can ever take that away. Something forever.

Summary: When Feyre's father tries to set her up with one of his high society friends' sons, Feyre does the only thing that makes sense in the moment: she fakes a Scottish fiánce. Writing him letters detailing her escapades, Feyre never expects anyone to read them. But when a mysterious uncle leaves her and her sisters three scattered castles, Feyre's forgotten fiánce appears on her doorstep, determined to make an honest woman of her yet.

Or- that time Rhys fell in love with a stranger writing him letters.

Big thanks to Unhinged Bookclub for help with the moodboard and @the-lonelybarricade for being my UK consultant (which consisted mostly of me asking about swear words)

Part 1/2: I've Got Something Burning, Coursing Through These Cold Veins | Read on AO3

Dear Rhysand Campbell-

Today is my sixteenth birthday, which ought to be cause for celebration. I want to be happy about it, but I’m not and I can’t tell anyone. My sisters already think I’m terribly spoiled and my father probably would, too, if he ever cared enough to notice me. Ugh, that sounded spoiled, too. Maybe they’re right. I don’t suppose you understand.

Of course you don’t. You aren’t real. And I guess there’s no danger in telling you about this miserable birthday party (if you could even call it that) or worrying you’ll think I’m spoiled and a miserable brat (like my older sister accused me of) (don’t worry, I pulled out one of her extensions in front of Tomas Mandray which…in retrospect…maybe proved her right on the miserable brat front. It was pretty funny, though. Even Elain cracked a smile.).

It all started with my father. He woke up one morning a month ago, looked me straight in the face, and asked me how old I was. I didn’t know what to say (I might have forgotten), so Elain told him I would be sixteen in a month. And he said we should celebrate, which made me so happy. I rattled off a list of things I wanted to do, and I thought he was listening.

I should have known he wasn’t when he put Elain in charge of planning. It’s not that Elain is malicious, she’s just…prim. Perfect, really. The sort of daughter he actually wants, I think because she doesn’t make a lot of fuss and maintains his calendar for him like mother used to (she died when I was nine).

And I definitely should have known we were NOT going camping when Elain had me measured for a dress. She looked so apologetic and I couldn’t bear to hurt her feelings when I know she’s trying really hard to fill the gap mom left when it comes to me, even if it makes her spineless when it comes to dad. And I could have asked Nesta to ruin it, but I guess I’m a little spineless, too.

So by the time the day arrived, it’s this huge party for all of dads friends, one of whom is running for parliament and needs money. And I look so very stupid in a floor length ball gown and—I am not joking—a jeweled tiara while all these old men in their fifties whore themselves out for cash. There was a cake (five tiers and chocolate, which is my favorite flavor, at least), there was singing, and of course the aforementioned incident in which several of Nesta’s extensions were pulled from her head unceremoniously.

Some leering prick told me I was a woman now. Well, he said it to my breasts, not really me. What is it about men that makes them think that’s a normal thing to do? Am I supposed to be flattered? Elain whisked me away, a smile plastered on her face and when I asked her how she stands it, she only laughed and said, “Oh Feyre.” Like I was the silliest person in the world.

She looked like a princess, and I don’t envy her for it. Every man our father is friends with is trying to trick or trap her into marriage. I think she could be a princess like Kate Middleton if she had the interest.

Anyway.

Father made some grand speech right before the cake cutting, where he talked about peace and, for some unknown reason, Brexit. He also thanked God for our monarchs, which, I didn’t realize he was that religious but I guess for this crowd, he is.

You know what he didn’t do? Say thank you for his daughters? Imagine, blessing Charles but not the daughters who enrich his life. Nesta was gripping a steak knife so tightly I thought she might actually stab him and Elain’s eyes were glassy and sad, even with that plastered smile.

And despite how Nesta thinks I’m a miserable brat, she DID stand up and demand everyone sing me happy birthday. And Elain led everyone in an off-key rendition of the song, which was nice. Serving staff cut the cake, and there were, of course, no candles.

Happy sixteenth birthday to me.

And at the very end of the night, some lord (I think—honestly, I wasn’t even listening at that point, I was just thinking about getting those miserable shoes off my feet) told father that his son was single, and also sixteen. I could see father's interest peak and I can’t be like Elain. She’s always letting those awful boys take her on dates, and they always make her cry. So I blurted out,

“Actually, I have a boyfriend.”

Father asked who, but already he didn’t care. So I said the most made-up, Scottish name I could think of—Rhysand Campbell. Maybe you do exist, somewhere. Actually, there are probably hundreds of you, though who's counting? What’s important is that YOU, Rhysand Campbell, are not real and this address is to a post office in the middle of nowhere Scotland. I expect it’ll be shredded. Perhaps the mail worker will read it and have a laugh at my expense.

Still.

Thank you for saving me tonight.

All the best,

Feyre Archeron

Dearest Rhysand–

I didn’t think I’d write to you again, but I think I have to confess my lies, and you are the only person I know who won’t judge me.

Of course, you’re fake, but in my mind you’ve become a little real. Everyone wants to know how we met, and if you’re curious why they would ever want to know that, well, you are very convenient. You see, most girls my age want to date. And in some ways, so do I. There are some very handsome boys, nice boys, even.

But none of my family approves of. If they found out I slept with Isaac Hale, I think they might actually kill me. He’s a fishmonger, which is a very real job thank you very much. It only sounds fake and like something from an eighteenth century book because of the word monger. Which made me laugh the first time I heard it. Anyway, I thought maybe it was better to just get things over with, and he really was so nice that I just…kept going back.

He has a girlfriend now, and I’m trying to pretend it doesn’t hurt my feelings a little. Even though I know I could never bring him home. Nesta would sneer and call him smelly and Elain…well, Elain would probably be nice but her eyes would be pitying. So maybe it’s for the best.

I’m sidetracked again.

So Isaac has his girlfriend from Milton Keynes, which I am absolutely NOT jealous of, even if her eyebrows made her look insane. I admit, I was brooding which Elain says is going to give me frown lines around my mouth. And of course father took that moment to stroll in and say he knew just the thing that would cheer me up.

That thing??? A MAN. In what world has a man’s presence ever made a woman feel better? Even Elain turned her head to roll her eyes, thinking no one saw. Nesta was in a mood, though I didn’t ask why—I don’t care, so long as she keeps yelling at father on my behalf. She told him seventeen was too young to worry about marriage, which made him remember that Elain is nineteen and Nesta is twenty-one, so I suppose we’ll all be dealing with that fall out later.

But the Lord of Rose-something-or-other has a son. Tamlin? Timothy? I was not paying attention. What I did say, was, “You know I’m dating someone already. I’ve told you all about him.”

I probably could have gotten away with that if Nesta and Elain weren’t in the room. We talk more frequently and they’ve never once heard me say your name. Of course Elain was fascinated, and Nesta was suspicious. Father is far easier to gaslight.

“Ah, yes,” he said, that liar. “Remind me, who’s son is he?”

And I said, of course, that you were no one’s son, but just a regular Scottish man.

Nesta, that traitor, narrowed her eyes. He can always tell when I’m lying. “Oh? How did you meet this London-living Scotsman?”

Murdering your sisters is a crime. I’m saying that as a reminder to myself, because if she invented a fake suitor to get father to leave her alone, I would have gone along with it. So I said we met in a tea shop. I made you charming. I said you saw me from across the room and couldn’t help yourself. In this fictional meet-cute, you were enamored at first sight, and I, of course, believed you were the most handsome man I’d ever seen (I did not mention that because I was talking to my father).

That was important, because NO ONE thinks that about me. They think it about Elain, who is so beautiful it makes my teeth ache, and they might think it about Nesta if her eyes didn’t promise violence all the time. But not me. And I have mostly made my peace with it, but it would be nice if there was one man who didn’t prefer my sisters to me.

Even if I have to make him up in order for that to happen.

He told me to invite you to dinner. Please, oh please, Rhysand Campbell, will you do me the honor of dining with my dysfunctional family? Father will want to know all about your father, and if your family could be of use to him and his shipping business. And Nesta will hate you on principle alone, while Elain won’t be able to help but like you.

Of course I like you, if only because you are not real.

It’s a shame you can’t make it because you’re heading back to Edinburgh to take care of a sick relative. You’re so compassionate, so selfless. This is why I like you.

Thank you (again) for rescuing me. Too bad you’re just me, rescuing myself,

Your beloved,

Ferye Archeron

Darling Rhysand,

Last names are formality by now, don’t you think? I’ve officially taken things too far. The nice thing about being overlooked is everyone kind of forgets what you’re doing (or that you exist), which means you and I have been happily dating for the last two and a half years. If I go out with someone else, no one questions it because they assume I’m seeing you.

And no one cares that they haven’t met you, because you’re some nobody they assume I’ll eventually tire of. Which would be all well and good if I hadn’t blurted out, in front of god and EVERYONE, that you asked me to marry you. Let me set the scene:

I panicked.

Okay, I guess I didn’t need to set much at all. It was another party and as you can guess, I was in another stupid dress. Have you ever seen Gone With the Wind? You know those kinds of dresses? That’s how I feel, no matter how sleek and lovely the dress actually is. And I know I look perfectly fine in them, but I feel out of sorts. Like a doll, like someone who LIKES when men stare down my dress despite their wife right beside them, and tell me I’m beautiful.

They never say that when they’re looking at my face.

Anyway, do you remember Tamlin? Well, he’s a baron and his father and an MP, despite having so much money he doesn’t need to work (I suspect he just misses when the nobility could boss around the english populace), and he is quite taken with me. Rhys (can I call you Rhys? I feel like since you proposed I could probably call you that), he’s actually really handsome, too. The first time I saw him, I almost considered breaking things off with you. No hard feelings, of course, it’s just…you’re not real.

But he’s duller than dry paint. BEIGE dry paint. We have nothing to talk about, and believe me, I’ve tried. I thought if I could get him to talk to me for even thirty minutes, we could get naked.

But it’s like pulling my own teeth, dragging answers out of this man.

And, between you and me, he once told me “your hair looks clean” as a compliment. He couldn’t even lie and say I was pretty? So you and I continue our romance, implausible as it is. Tamlin’s father was saying how handsome we’d be, and Tamlin jumped in to ask me on a very public date and I am a coward, I think.

Because I said, “Rhysand proposed.”

And Nesta burst out laughing, the bint. It was Elain, eyes brimming with hope and pleasure—she so badly wants to see one of us do whatever we like, father be damned—who asked to see the ring.

Of which there isn’t one. So I’ve made you poor, I’m so sorry. I lied and said you didn’t have one, because you were working toward affording something nice and of course I don’t care about it (because I don’t). Father demanded to meet you and Tamlin was humiliated (a silver lining to this whole affair, truly).

Any reasonable person would have just confessed the whole plot right then and there. But I am not reasonable, my darling fiance. I am, I think, a little crazy because I slipped out the next morning and purchased a ring myself from Boodles, and since I bought it, it was perfect. Nothing terribly fussy—a sapphire cut in the shape of a diamond, with little diamonds haloed overtop, like falling stars. Set on a delicate silver band, it really is quite lovely.

I showed father, who was rather impressed with it. I lied and said it had belonged to your mother, who was so overjoyed at the thought of getting a daughter that she solved your ring dilemma on the spot.

It doesn’t fix the problem of everyone wanting to meet you, of course.

Our engagement is going to be short lived, I think—just as soon as I can figure out what to do next. If I’m not careful, I’ll be saying I eloped and then what?

What then, indeed.

Yours, faithfully,

Ferye

Rhys,

Well.

It’s officially over. Why am I so sad? You were never anything more than a figment of my imagination, and yet telling my family you had ended things drew real tears from me. Elain comforted me, and Nesta called you a self-serving asshole, which is her way of assuring me she loves me. Father, of course, just barely remembered you existed despite the ring I’ve been wearing for a full year. I tucked it in a box as a token of how far I’m willing to commit to a lie (and because it was pretty expensive, and I don’t think I can return it).

Even though you’re fake, I didn’t have the heart to make you an asshole. I said your mother had become gravely ill and you had to care for her. That it was with your deepest regrets you ended things—that you thought I deserved someone who could be in London fully, and you would always regret me.

Nesta called it “typical male bullshit,” so I suppose she believes me now. Or she’s willing to pretend, given how sad I am. I’m mostly sad that I think I should probably stop writing to you. I’m twenty, now, and I think it’s time to stop indulging in my fantasies and be real. I’m nearly finished with school, and I should devote more time to paintings.

And besides, Elain is practically engaged, which has taken the pressure of marriage off Nesta and I, for now. Lord Graysen Nolan. How I wish you were real, because you would think he was a total twat, too. Nesta begrudgingly tolerates him because Elain is so head over heels, but he is awful. A scourge, a plague upon mankind and CERTAINLY upon my beautiful sister. He’s going to dump her in some ancient country estate, fill her with babies, and crush her into dirt and she can’t even see it.

He is handsome and charming, though, and he has my sister wrapped around his finger. I think it’s because he doesn’t think she’s beautiful—though, I think he says so in his effort to break her down. She is so used to everyone finding her impossibly lovely that the first man who insults her is worthy of her heart.

I’m rambling again. Anyway, this is my official break-up, fake boyfriend slash fiance. I have loved you, though you never existed. You were the perfect man (because you were fake), and I’m not sure how any others will compare. Maybe I’ll try boring Tamlin again.

What’s funny is that we could have been together, if you’d been actually real. Some dead uncle gifted my sisters and I three castles—one apiece—and mine is in the Scottish highlands. Isn’t that wild? He was my mothers uncle, so technically an uncle twice removed? I’m not sure how that works, honestly. But in his will, he left us each a castle in need of repair to do with as we like. Elain has dreams of turning hers (of course it’s located in the English countryside) into a charming bed and breakfast while Nesta wants to live in it as, and this is a direct quote, “the local bog witch all the children are afraid of.”

As for me, well…I’m not entirely sure what to do with it. I intend to go visit at the end of the month with my paints to see if inspiration might strike. I admit, I’m curious about a real life castle—maybe I will start a farm and remove myself from society instead. Everyone will ask (no one would, because that would require remembering I exist, but lets pretend they would), “What ever happened to Feyre Archeron?”

And my father would be forced to tell them I own a multitude of cows. All of which are named—and perhaps even treated like my children. Who can say? I am not sure if I’m cut out for livestock, or farming or even castle living. Maybe I’ll make it a museum or something else that requires little effort on my part.

The caveat seems to be fixing it up. I can do that, I suppose.

This whole letter is rambling. It is supposed to be me telling you goodbye, and putting this whole messy affair behind me. Thank you for being my only friend, which I recognize is pathetic. I hope the postal worker who has been reading these takes pity on my plight, however pathetic it was.

I will think of you fondly.

Yours, forever,

Feyre

Feyre wiped her nose on the back of her hand, breathing rather hard for someone who was in decently good shape. Six months since she’d moved to the highlands, thinking replacing the inner workings of a centuries old castle would be easy. Replace the plumbing and the floors, rework the electric, and fix the broken glass and she’d be done.

If only. Every day there was some new, horrible discovery. Bats in the attic and rodents in the cellar. A crumbling foundation that had to be nearly rebuilt. A leaking roof that flooded water into the great hall, which then ruined all the flooring Feyre had installed, causing it to be ripped up and replaced again.

It cost a small fortune before the sprawling structure was decent enough to sleep in, let alone live in. And though she had her uncles inheritance to go along with fixing the god forsaken castle. Of course, that money was only for castle repair, and was just barely enough. She’d used her fathers money, too, a paltry sum given just how much of it he had to give away when it was for one of his friends or some do-nothing politician looking to cut taxes in a way that personally benefited her father.

Feyre also considered she was far luckier than Elain, who’s castle came with a rather surly occupant that swore he also owned the castle—and after a little digging through legal records, was found to be correct. Feyre would have lost it if she had to compromise at all.

Except, now she had a nearly finished castle she had no idea what to do with. As it turned out, Feyre did not have the aptitude for farming like she’d hoped, and rather missed living in the city—though, she didn’t miss London. She missed people, and things to do, but not London itself.

There were enough rooms to turn it into a hotel, like Elain was considering. Feyre also thought it made a rather nice venue for people looking to host events or get married. The view of the Scottish highlands was breathtaking, and the castle itself was really nice. Stone on the outside, mostly modern on the inside. Full, working plumbing so long as no one shoved too much toilet paper into the drains, claw baths, and big, four poster beds in circular rooms overlooking the hillside. There was a full, working kitchen Ferye had never used, a ballroom, a grand hall, dungeons—anything a person might want, if she could only figure out how to market it.

It was just a passing idea. For now, Feyre was living in it with a small, paid staff to keep herself fed and the bats from sneaking back in.

It was pure privilege to spend her days painting, and yet Feyre felt like she’d earned it. Without her father and his obnoxious social circle breathing down her neck, she could run wild like she’d always wanted to. She had a little hammock in the courtyard she frequently fell asleep in, a barbeque she’d spent an exorbitant amount on only to use twice, and was even considering digging out a pool. Why not? Who could stop her?

No one.

She’d have to go back eventually—home, that was. Her father’s calls were becoming more frequent and becoming more annoyed. All three of his daughters had just vanished, leaving him to manage his own life for once. Who was he going to build life-long alliances with if he couldn’t move Feyre and Nesta around like pawns.

Elain was all but sold to the Nolans, if the ugly engagement ring Graysen had given Elain was any indication. Feyre supposed she’d have to come home for that tragedy. Sometimes Feyre wondered if Elain wasn’t dragging out the business with her castle in an attempt to avoid wedding planning.

Maybe that was just wishful thinking.

Feyre woke that warm, summer morning like she did every day. Breakfast was waiting in the small dining room on the main floor—a simple fare of sausage, beans, and toast. She dressed, braided her hair in a long, french tail, and gathered her art supplies, intending to make her way to the furthest point on the grounds.

Outside the heavy, rounded doors lay a neat stone path meant to feel old, though it was very modern. She’d watched the workers lay it herself. And standing at the very end of it, dressed in a black shirt and a blue and green plaid kilt, was the most beautiful man she’d ever seen. His dark, blue black hair ruffled in the wind, while eyes so blue they seemed nearly violet, stared openly at her.

She saw plenty of Scotsmen, given she was in Scotland. And yet there was something about this man, with his toned shins clad in high, black socks and his tall, powerful body, that gave her pause. She could see the hint of ink just above his knees and the curve of his neck, and when Feyre looked back to his face, his mouth was curved into a sensual smile.

“Feyre Archeron?” he asked with a rich, dark accent.

Feyre cleared her throat. “Yes, that’s she—I ah—I mean, that’s me.”

His smile widened. “Aye, ye are, aren’t ye?”

She blinked. “Can I help you with something, Mr…?”

He chuckled, placing a broad hand against his muscular chest. “Ma apologies. I’m Rhysand Campbell.”

A soft scream escaped Feyre’s lips. “Liar.”

He took a step toward her, reaching into the leather sporran hanging from his waist. Feyre couldn’t breathe, watching in horror as he pulled a stack of letters out and offered them to her.

She didn’t take them, shaking her head back and forth. “Prove it.”

He was still grinning, reaching for his wallet. Feyre’s hands shook when he pulled out a license, proving he was exactly who he said he was.

“How…?”

“Did ye think there was no one in all of Dornoch with the name Campbell? It’s quite common a last name.”

Feyre’s heart was mere seconds from jumping out of her chest.

“It was luck I happened to be named Rhysand.”

“Luck,” she repeated, looking skyward. “All those years and you never thought to write back/”

He merely shrugged, taking back his license from her shaking fingers. “At first? It was charming. I figured ye’d stop eventually. Ye wrote a lot of things.”

“Oh, I get it,” Ferye said stiffly. Prick.

“I’m sure ye don’t,” he replied with that insufferable smile.

“No, I do. You got my letters, figured out who my father was, and now you’re here for money. Is that it, Mr. Campbell?”

“Not quite,” he replied, coming closer still.

“Enlighten me, then.”

“Where’s tae ring, darling?” he all but purred. Ice slithered through Feyre’s veins, her eyes landing back on those letters. She’d spent three years writing to him, pouring out her secrets, venting about her family…and telling him all about their nonexistent romance. At best, Ferye had imagined an elderly postal woman reading those letters with a mixture of pity and amusement before tossing them. Never, in her wildest dreams, did she imagine that an actual man was reading what she wrote.

“It’s here, isn’t it?” he pressed, those eyes flashing with delight. “Sentimental, lass.”

Feyre shook her head again. “No. Absolutely not. Send father those letters—”

“And Nesta? Or Elain?” he pressed, preventing Feyre from turning on her heel and leaving him standing in the garden looking foolish. “What about them, hm? What do ye think they’d think of yer scathing assessment of them?”

Feyre exhaled. “What is it that you want? A sham engagement?”

“Oh, a wee bit more than that. I’ve come to claim my wife.”

“You don’t even know me,” Feyre protested, wondering if she ought to just call the police. He was blackmailing her—into marriage, for a purpose she couldn’t ascertain.

“We’re in love,” he said, some of his smile fading just a little.

“So I’m supposed to, what, exactly? Call up my father and tell him—”

“The engagement is back on,” he interrupted, closer still. She could smell him, then—like citrus and the sea, washing over her with the warm morning breeze. Rhysand blotted out the sun with his large body, peering down at her with enough intensity to make her uncomfortable. “And we’re in love.”

“Lies.”

“Ye should be verra familiar with that, darling,” he replied, an edge to his voice.

Feyre ran a hand down her face. “For how long?”

He shrugged. “Who could say?”

Prick prick prick!

“A marriage built upon the foundation of blackmail. You are too charming, Mr. Campbell.”

“Just as ye always imagined,” he replied with a wicked grin. “Now. Are ye going to invite me in? Or do I have to beg?”

“Why not?” Feyre grumbled, eyeing those letters. Rhysand caught her, offering them up again.

“Take them. It’s not like I didnae make copies.”

Still, Feyre snatched them from him all the same, holding them close to her chest. She’d hoped she might undo this mess simply by throwing them away and thus, removing his leverage. In truth, were Rhysand ever to show her father her letters, it would merely force him to pay attention to her. Elain and Nesta would forgive her, with time.

But the idea of her father knowing just how much she loathed him, all while craving his validation and approval, was too much for her pride to handle. It was enough to make her think that, perhaps, this wasn’t such an awful idea. If she could set some hard rules, having a ne’er-do-well for a husband kept her from ever having to get married to someone awful.

Like Tamlin, who still sent the occasional too-formal text inquiring after her help.

And this man was hot. Surely he knew it, too, if that wide smile and the way he kept running his hand down his chest was any indication. How long could he tolerate her? How long before he realized his new wife had no intention of sleeping with him, of showing him any affection?

He couldn’t blackmail her into sex—even Feyre had her limits and had to assume he did too.

Or hope, anyway. The bar was in hell, even for a man who’d shown up on her doorstep and declared his intention to marry her.

She forced a smile on her face. “Right this way, Lord Campbell.”

His smile vanished. “I preferred when ye were calling me Rhys. All my friends do. My wife should, too.”

“I’m not your wife yet,” Feyre reminded him. “My sisters are going to be so thrilled. Elain will want to throw an engagement party, and father—”

“Elope,” he said, stepping through the threshold with big, wide eyes. “I’m not going to London for a wedding.”

“Your wife is from London,” Feyre reminded him through gritted teeth. “You’ll have to visit them eventually.”

“Why? Invite them here. Surely there’s space.”

Feyre whirled on her heel, smacking straight into the hard plain of his chest. Rhysand reached for her arms, steadying her with a soft chuckle. “Careful, lass.”

“Let me get this straight. You will make no concessions in this sham marriage? Because, despite what you’ve imagined, blackmailing is a crime and my father has a lot of money.”

“Do ye want to go back to London?” he asked patiently, one perfectly groomed brow arched. As if he already knew the answer to that. As if he knew Feyre would have done anything to stay exactly where she was—far from London, far from her father and his circle of friends. Feyre crossed her arms over her chest, hating how smug he looked.

“It will be an actual wedding. And you will invite yer family—”

“I have none,” he interrupted, a shadow crossing his handsome expression. Feyre faltered.

“Friends?”

A soft smile. “Aye. Friends I do have.”

“Okay. Then friends. And you will keep your hands to yourself the entire time. Separate beds. Separate lives.”

He clenched his jaw for a moment before nodding. “Aye. I can do that. Any other demands ye have?”

“Once we’re married, I want you to burn those letters,” Feyre said, feeling suddenly small and vulnerable. “I’ll—marriages are not so easily undone.”

“And how do I know ye won’t back out tae moment they’re gone?” he asked, cocking his head to the side.

She considered pleading with him. Was it not enough, she wanted to ask, to make her go through with this? That he knew things about her she’d never wanted anyone to know? He couldn’t let her forget it? Feyre took a deep breath and willed herself not to cry. Not in front of him.

“Very well,” she said, trying her hardest to channel Nesta’s icy disdain. “Let me just—”

She turned, and he caught her by the arm, spinning her around. “Give me a reason to trust ye, lass, and I’ll destroy them.”

“And will you be giving me a reason to trust you?” she asked, wrenching her arm from his grasp.

“I could have gone straight to ye father. Shown him what ye did, demanded he pay me to keep quiet. I came to ye, instead. I don’t want yer money, Feyre. Just…”

“My home,” she finished with a sigh.

“Aye,” he agreed solemnly. “A castle that belongs to Scottish blood, not the English.”

“That’s one way to look at it,” she snapped.

“Tae only way,” he murmured, and despite the softness of his tone, it was clear he didn’t care for disagreement. Feyre dug the heel of her hand into her eyes and sighed loudly.

“Call him,” Rhys said, nodding toward her shorts and the phone outline in the tight fabric. “Tell him the good news.”

“He will never accept you as a son.”

Rhys only shrugged. “As long as his daughter loves me.”

“She doesn’t,” Feyre snapped, but it didn’t matter. She pulled out her phone and dialed.

Took a breath. And then.

“Dad? It’s me, Feyre.”

-*-

Living with Rhysand was a mixture of insufferable and tolerable in equal measure. The castle was sprawling, big enough that for the first day, she didn’t see him at all. She’d instructed the staff to serve him and slipped that ring back on her finger in order to keep up appearances. Absurd, given any truly happy couple reuniting might have spent that first night locked in bed together, and Feyre had very much shut her bedroom door with the letters Rhysand had given and begun to pour through them.

They were worse than she imagined. Not only had she complained about her family, she’d divulged personal secrets, told him about her hopes, her dreams. She’d sent him sketches, she’d told him about the people in her fathers social circle, along with all the most embarrassing and hilarious gossip. Things that Rhysand could have sent to a trash magazine and humiliated half of London with.

She’d treated those letters like a diary, never thinking there was a real man on the other end. Feyre couldn’t sleep that first night.

Or the second.

She did sleep the third, but only because Elain had promised to come down that weekend, delighted to meet the man she’d heard so much about. Nesta had sent back only three words.

Are you sure?

If Nesta came, she’d see straight through Feyre, so Feyre supposed she ought to be grateful Nesta was embroiled in some kind of property dispute with her castle and a local reenactor who took to staging battles of Scottish victory over the English on her front lawn with loud enthusiasm. Feyre suspected Elain was rather happy to escape for a bit, and might soften Rhysand ever so slightly.

And maybe if he realized there were more interesting Archerons, he might take to courting Elain instead of insisting with the sham wedding. Not that Elain would ever agree to it, but…men had always gravitated toward her. Feyre thought Rhysand simply wouldn’t be able to help himself.

On the fourth day, Feyre slipped back through the castle, lugging her art supplies in a canvas bag with her. She expected the grounds to be empty, that Rhysand would be inside lording about her staff like some kind of king.

She heard the sound of wood splitting in the courtyard before she saw him.

Shirtless, in that kilt and the same black socks, rolled halfway down his shins from sweat and exertion. He’d found an ax and with a mighty swing of his powerful biceps, brought it screaming onto a block of wood.

Feyre couldn’t take her eyes off the slick, taut muscles of his stomach, his back, tattooed in dark whorls of ink. Rhysand seemed far too pretty to do any sort of manual labor, which brought Feyre back to the present.

Though, he’d absolutely caught her ogling him. He halted, pushing one booted foot up onto the heavy stump he was using to split wood while using the hem of his kilt to wipe at his forehead. “What are you doing?” she demanded. Didn’t he know she paid someone to bring in firewood? Besides, there was heating the castle—she’d also paid for that.

“Chopping wood,” he replied, his eyes sliding to the neat stack at his feet. His tone was polite, though perhaps annoyed. As if he really wanted to say, what does it look like I’m doing?

“I pay someone to do that.”

“Of course ye do, lass,” he said with relish. “I don’t see why—I am more than capable of helping.”

Feyre hesitated. “You want to help?”

“Aye.” He frowned. “What did ye think I was gonna do? Sit around waving my hands like some kind of fancy lord?”

“Yes, actually—that’s exactly what I thought.”

“I already told ye. I don’t want yer money.”

Yes, he had said this, hadn’t he? Feyre sniffed. “Fine. You want chores? There are bats in the attic again.”

He offered her a handsome smile. Coupled with the bright sunshine and his warm, brown skin, Feyre’s knees wobbled a little. Why couldn’t he look disgusting? Her traitor body had not gotten the message that they hated him.

“I can do that,” he said. “And anything else ye have for me.”

“I’ll make a list,” she said tartly.

But later, when Feyre was alone with nothing but her thoughts and her canvas, all she could think about was Rhysand, midswing over that block of wood. She thought of the tight expression on his face and the controlled movements of his body.

And even though she hated herself for it, she reached for a piece of charcoal.

And began to sketch.

-*-

Elain arrived at the end of the first week of Rhysand’s arrival. True to word, Rhysand had done every chore Feyre had left for him without complaint. He’d cleared out the bats and fixed several burnt light bulbs, digging out a ladder from god only knew where. And when he ran out of things to do, he turned his attention to the dilapidated stables Feyre had never bothered with. In truth, she’d always meant to tear them down.

It seemed Rhysand meant to fix them up.

He was out there when Elain swanned in, tan from a summer outdoors in the English countryside. She grinned the moment she saw Feyre, throwing her arms around her sister's neck.

“It’s so good to see you,” Elain said, squeezing tight enough to make Feyre’s ribs ache. “How are you holding up?”

“Me? How are you holding up?” Feyre asked, pulling away to search her sister's expression. A faint blush bloomed over Elain’s cheeks.

“Well—I’m, well, I’m perfectly lovely, if we’re being honest.”

“Oh?” Feyre asked.

Elain held up her hand, wiggling bare fingers while Feyre just stared. “You got your nails done?”

“You’re so terribly observant. I’ve called off my engagement—just in time for you to be married. I’ve come to see if you want any of the things we put deposits on, so they don’t go to waste.”

“You—what?” Feyre gaped, realizing only then Elain was trying to show her a hand without an engagement ring. “What happened?”

Elain only shrugged, though more pink crept up her neck. “It wasn’t right. I was…I was deluding myself, I think. It doesn’t matter, because I know you hated him, so you don’t have to pretend. I’ve brought pictures so you can see everything, and it would be no trouble to have it all brought here for you. I know how much you hate planning,” Elain added brightly. “I only wish I could be more helpful.”

“This is already too helpful,” Feyre said, pulling her sister through the open hall toward the spiraling stairs that led both to the left and the right. Elain drank it all in as the skirt of her buttery yellow sundress swished around her legs. She looked every inch a princess, and it took no effort at all to imagine her walking these halls four hundred years before while poets and bards sang songs about her beauty.

“Are you going to introduce me to your husband?” she asked, looping her arm through Feyre’s. “I’ve always wanted to meet him. Nesta used to swear you made him up and I told her you’d never do such a thing. It’s nice to prove her wrong sometimes.”

“Yes,” Feyre agreed. “He’s working on the stables. I’ll take you to him.”

This would be the moment of truth. Rhysand would see her and realize his mistake, just as all men did. He wouldn’t be able to look away—and Elain seemed radiant that morning, glowing like the midafternoon sun beating overhead. Her golden blonde hair was perfectly curled, a cascade over her slim shoulders while a set of pearls graced her ears. She’d put on make-up, which Feyre never did, and had the air of someone both effortless and yet unattainable.

The same air Rhysand had, if Feyre was being honest. They’d make a smart couple. Why did that thought annoy her so much?

Feyre led Elain over the grounds slowly, giving her a tour and pointing out all the work she’d done while Elain explained how her bed and breakfast was going. She’d created a tentative peace with the other occupant and owner of her castle—a man with a distinctly French sounding last name and decidedly French first one. Lucien Vanserra. He sounded snooty, and given the difficulty he’d created for Elain, likely some seventy year old man looking to exert his control one last time before his time on earth ended.

“Oh, he’s not so bad once you get to know him,” Elain said, which was a very Elain sort of thing to say. She could charm a wild bear holding a sword. If the man had eyes, it likely hadn’t been hard to talk him into a small compromise.

Rhysand was coming out of the stables as Feyre and Elain began to walk in. He didn’t see them approaching as he mopped up the sweat on his brow with the hem of his shirt. Feyre’s breathe caught at the sight of peeking abs, vanished the second he saw Elain. His eyes slid from her sister back to Feyre, some answered question flickering in his gaze.

“Elain, this is Rhysand,” Feyre told Elain just in time for her sister to plant her foot in a wet container of wood stain.

Elain screeched, yanking herself backward. Her lovely white flat was ruined, which was a shame, truly—though Rhysand? wasn’t looking at Elain at all, but Feyre. His expression very much betrayed his annoyance, some shared secret she didn’t quite understand, as if to say oh. I understand now.

“I’m so sorry,” Elain said, looking at the mess pooling around them.

“No need,” Rhysand replied, though there was some disappointment in his tone. “I was going to do tae floor as well.”

“Of course. Probably not like this, though,” Elain replied with a small laugh.

Rhysand only nodded, looking back to Feyre for some guidance. But it was Elain who was the conversationalist, and when she realized he didn’t know what to say, pressed forward. “How is your mother?”

Oh, christ. Feyre had forgotten that lie, amid the others. Rhysand became rigid for a moment, haunted by Elain’s ask. “She passed, I’m afraid.”

“Oh,” Elain whispered. Rhysand only nodded, his jaw tight with emotion. So that had been true, in some way. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s not yer fault,” Rhysand murmured. “But I miss her.”

Elain nodded. “Well,” she said, wiping her hands on her dress nervously. “We should ah, probably let you get back to…”

“I’ll see ye both at dinner,” he replied, offering up his most charming smile. And that was that. Elain, holding her shoe by the crook of one finger, waited until they were out of earshot before she said, “You really undersold how handsome he was.”

And when Feyre turned to look over her shoulder, she found Rhysand leaning against the wooden door frame, eyes wholly on her.

It was that night that both Feyre and Rhysand seemed to realize they could not sleep apart in opposite wings of the castle. Elain had made some little quip about how nice it must be to have all this alone time and Rhysand’s fork had clattered to his plate while Feyre’s cheeks burned with embarrassment.

He’d come to her, at least. Feyre sat up against a sea of pillows when she heard him knock, sucking in a deep breath.

“Come in.”

A moment later, the handle turned and there he was. He’d put on plain black sleep pants and a white t-shirt, and his still damp hair told her she’d just freshly showered. If she’d been smart, Feyre would have dragged a divan up from another room so he could sleep on it. As it stood, there were two little chairs facing a small breakfast table and then her rather large, four-poster bed.

And Rhys was a tall man. He looked around, drinking in the cream colored rug and the sand and stone walls, illuminated by an overhanging chandelier. A little potted plant sat half dead in the circular window at the far end of the room, while books were stacked on beneath the television stand haphazardly.

“I’m not sleeping on tae floor,” he told her when he realized their predicament.

“I assumed,” she replied, scooting to the far side of the bed. “No touching.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he replied with a theatrical eye roll. As he padded toward her, he asked, “How long will she be here?”

“The weekend,” Feyre replied, trying—and failing—not to notice how good he smelled. “Why?”

“She’s not what I imagined,” he finally said, dragging a hand through his hair with contemplation.

Feyre immediately felt defensive. “She has that effect on people.”

He frowned. “Oh? And what effect do ye imagine she’s having on me?”

“She’s just very…”

“Verra…” he prompted, waiting for Feyre to spit it out. “Dull?”

“What?” Ferye gaped. “She’s not dull.”

“Proper, then. A real English princess,” he amended.

It was asking for pain, and still Feyre couldn’t help herself. “Then what does that make me?”

He smiled again, his face blooming with warm affection. “Wild. Free,” he added, thinking to himself for a moment, as if he needed to choose his words carefully lest he insult her. “Ye are far more lovely than her—”

“Don’t,” Feyre snapped, unable to stand the lie. “No one thinks that.”

She turned to her side, angrily fluffing a pillow before turning off the bedside table.

“I think that,” Rhysand murmured defensively. “I saw a picture of tae three of ye, once.”

She half twisted to look at him. “How?”

“We do have the internet here too, lass. It was simple enough to google ye. I wasn’t sure which of ye was which—but I hoped ye were…well…Feyre. I thought ye must be Elain, given how much you talked of her beauty.”

Feyre’s heart pounded. “You’re such a liar, Mr. Campbell.”

“Not when it comes to ye, darling.”

There was a pause of silence between them, hanging thickly as Feyre digested that information. Hoped. She didn’t know what to make of that.

“I’m sorry about your mother.”

“It was one of the things I liked about getting tae letters,” he murmured, settling into the bed. After turning off the lights, it felt easier to peel back some of her defensiveness, to listen to him talk. “My sister died when she was wee, and my mother, well. She never quite recovered from it. When ye wrote that first letter, she was ill again and my father was in one of his rages. And there ye were, in a similar predicament. I thought maybe it was fate.”

“Why didn’t you write back?” she asked, turning fully to her side, her head resting on her elbow.

“Cowardice, I suppose. Ye were a bit younger than me, too. Sixteen, but I was nineteen. It dinae seem right, and truthfully, I didnae want spook ye.”

“Is this your attempt at not spooking me, then? Demanding I marry you for reasons you’ve yet to divulge?” she asked, this time without her usual anger.

“Aye,” he murmured, twisting so he was facing her, too. “I never said I was a good man, Feyre. Only that yer letters were never funny to me.”

“Will you tell me why all this was necessary? I might be able to help, you know—”

“One day,” he interrupted, his voice firm. “When all this is done and ye aren’t so angry, I will. I want to. Not tonight. Hate me all ye like, but I know ye—you’ll be trying to get out of this marriage if ye think you can solve my problems with money. I don’t want yer money.”

“Yes, so you keep saying and yet once we’re married, you’ll have it, regardless. Surely you’ve considered that.”

Rhysand’s pause betrayed him. So he hadn’t realized he’d become unspeakably wealthy the moment Feyre said I do.

It settled some wild, ugly thing in her. “That’s yers,” he finally said.

And with nothing left to say, Rhysand turned over and left Feyre to fall asleep.

-*-

Feyre agreed to take the least offensive things from Elain’s wedding, which, to be fair, were few and far between. The cake was nice, along with the flowers of which Elain would always be the expert. Tables and chairs, and of course, the caterer. Elain had been delighted, in no small part, Feyre suspected, because it meant Graysen wouldn’t be getting his money back. What had he done to her? It wasn’t like Elain to be so petty, but with each thing Feyre said yes to, Elain’s smile grew wider and wider until Feyre wasn’t sure how her sister's smile didn’t split.

And then, with an exasperated sigh, Elain was gone to check on Mr. Vanserra, who was likely wrecking everything in her absence. Feyre thought she’d be sad to see Elain go, but the minute her sister's car pulled out of the drive, Feyre felt the smallest hint of relief.

Rhysand, too. She caught him peeking around a corner, muddy boots on a rather nice ivory floor runner she’d need to wash later.

“Is she gone?” he asked, as if Elain were some terrible creature and not just chatty and maybe a little nosy.

“For now,” Feyre agreed. “She’s putting together your dream wedding, you know.”

“Ours,” he amended.

“No matter how many times you say that, it will never be true.”

He stared her down, straightening to his full height. Feyre’s heart leapt into her throat. “Will ye tell me tae truth about one thing?”

“I doubt it, but you can ask,” she replied primly, wedging her way past his obnoxious body.

“In yer letters, ye said I was tae most beautiful man ye’d ever seen. Is that true?”

Feyre froze. If she turned, he’d see her answer written all over her face. “Everything I imagined about you in my letters was a fiction, Mr. Campbell—”

“For fucks sake, Feyre, call me Rhys,” he snapped. “I cannae stand hearing ye call me Mr. Campbell.”

Feyre forgot she wasn’t supposed to look at him, turning to argue only to find him so close she could smell him. Eyes wide, she backed up only for him to slam his palm against the stone wall behind her, trapping her with his body.

“Tae truth, lass.”

“Why does it matter?” she whispered, hating herself for wanting him and hating herself for not being able to send him away.

His fingers brushed her cheek. “It matters.”

“You can’t have it all, Rhys,” she hissed. He winced as she spat his name, saying it as though it were a curse. “You can’t have your secrets, this marriage and my affection.”

“Why not?”

“Because you can’t!” she shouted, shoving him away from her. Rhys let her, though she knew if he’d wanted to keep her where she was, there was little she could have done to stop him. “I’m guessing you’re the kind of man who just snaps his fingers and gets exactly what he wants. You could have asked me on a date! You could have been honest and told me who you were, that you got my letters! I would have said yes, you know. If you’d just asked. And if you told me the truth, I would have helped you. You want your secrets, fine. Here I am, playing along. Whatever else you want from me, though? Forget it. For the rest of your life, just forget it.”

“Feyre!” he called as she stormed off. “Feyre, come back!”

She didn’t turn, her heart pounding so hard in her chest she was certain she was going to explode. Feyre didn’t pay attention to the direction she went, running through the halls as fast as she could, just in case he was following her.

He wasn’t. She heard a door slam somewhere in the distance, and if she had to bet, Feyre would have guessed he was headed to the stables. It slowed her just enough to make a decision. He wanted secrets? Well, Feyre didn’t. She’d been too wrapped up in her own misery that past week to bother thinking rationally, but she’d seen him drag in all his things.

Surely there was some answer to the Rhysand question up in his room.

Feyre didn’t feel even a little badly flinging open that door. Where she was messy, Rhysand was immaculate. His bed was made for the morning, draped in silken black that was just like him.

He’d tucked his suitcase beneath the bed, and when she opened his drawers to the dresser, everything was neatly folded and in its place. Feyre rifled a bit, feeling like a creep as she shoved aside his underwear and socks.

The curtains to the windows were pulled open, allowing gloomy gray light to filter through. Outside, she was certain a storm was brewing. If it rained, Rhysand would retreat indoors and she’d have to try again another day.

She didn’t know what she was looking for when she dropped to her knees, sitting on the plush, circular sand rug she’d put in all the rooms. Feyre pulled out his suitcase, unzipping thinking she’d find a passport with his real name, or maybe a criminal record that would explain this whole thing. And then she could call the police and be free of him.

Her stomach clenched when all she found was a large manilla envelope, unsealed.

Feyre.

With trembling fingers, Feyre pulled out a stack of letters. They were stapled individually before he’d folded them into quarters. She reached for the one on top, surprised to see it was the very first letter she’d ever sent him, highlighted and starred with a blue pen.

And beneath, was the letter she’d said he should have sent her.

Dear Feyre Archeron,

Don’t be embarrassed, but I have received your letter. I am curious—do you possess the gift of sight? It seems too much a coincidence that you would mail a letter addressed to Mr. Rhysand Campbell to my home in Dornoch. I’ve decided it’s fate, or at least luck. Tell me, though, this one thing: is your birthday on Christmas? I received this at the new year, and I have been trying to figure out when, exactly, you were born.

I guess it doesn’t matter, though it would be nice to send you a birthday gift next year. If you’re wondering, my birthday is in August. Not that you have to send me a gift. It just seemed fair, since I was asking, to tell you my birthday, too.

And, if it makes you feel better (I’m guessing it won’t, but it did make me feel better), my father also forgot my birthday this year. He was working, and I think he expects my mother to handle those things. I shouldn’t care because I’m an adult, and adults don’t need birthdays (or, that’s what I tell myself at least), but it stings every time he looks me in the eye and asks how old I am.

I think he thinks I’m disappointing. Maybe I am.

Anyway. I am happy to be your pretend boyfriend if it keeps you from having to date wankers. If you decide you’d like to write me back, send it to my address in Edinburgh. My mother lives in Dornoch, and I visit when she’s ill (which, to be fair, is pretty often), but I don’t want to miss one.

That is, assuming you don’t find this horribly creepy.

Yours in pretend,

Rhysand Campbell

P.S. I think Nesta deserved to have her hair pulled, just between you and I.

My silly Feyre,

You keep sending letters (that I devour), but I can’t make myself send one back. I’m starting to suspect I’m a coward, which is a terrible quality in a boyfriend. Maybe you should end things with me and date the beige paint (don’t do that). You’re so honest, and I’m so jealous because without my secrets, who am I? The thought of stripping myself bare makes me feel sick, and so I fold these letters up and pretend you read them and they didn’t disgust you.

In truth, I think you’d stop writing if you knew the truth about me. I’m back in Dornoch and mother is ill and father is working and I am just here. Barely existing, both in Edinburgh where I’m trying to be diligent and finish my education, and in Dornoch, where everyone thinks I’m a good son.

Am I? Can I tell you something?

My sister died when she was nine. It was no one’s fault—except, I suppose, the man driving the car who hit her. We were out together and Ainsley darted out of reach. Father was closest. He lunged, but he wasn’t fast enough, and by the time mother and I could react, it was all over.

I was eleven.

I think we tried to rally together for a while, but the days following Ainsley’s death all blur together. Mother cried all the time and father began yelling. Everyone blamed themselves because we couldn’t blame each other, until we were just festering. Father stayed in Edinburgh, and mother went home and I was in-between.

It’s like she’s lost in a fog, and I’m so angry sometimes because I needed her, too. I needed them both, and it was like, if they couldn’t have Ainsley they didn’t want me. Or anyone—I think mother wishes she’d died, too. And I think father is too busy punishing himself—and by extension, me—to take care of mother.

I wonder what will happen to him when she dies. He loved her better than he ever loved either of us. And deep down, I think he’s ashamed he failed her by letting Ainsley die, and it’s better to yell at her, to stay away, to pretend none of it matters to him.

I can’t send this to you, but I like to pretend you’re reading it anyway. That you’d understand, because you feel forgotten, too. That’s how I feel.

Anyway. Tell Tamlin to stay away. I’m fond of you, pretend girlfriend or not.

Your mess,

Rhysand

Feyre, my darling,

Engaged? I admit, I laughed out loud when I saw what you’d done. I knew the English were awful, but surely there must be one tolerable man among the lot of them. I’m tempted to drive all the way up there and rescue you, if only to spare you the embarrassment from when this falls apart. I’m also curious to see the ring I got you.

I’d like to have it, if only so I can get on one knee and ask you to marry me myself. It’s strange how much affection I feel for you. How often I think about you, how I miss you without knowing you. I feel as if I do (maybe I’m crazy, too).

I graduated last week. Father wasn’t there, though he did call in the after to ask me what my plans were. I nearly told him I planned to marry an English lass–but I have no plans for that yet, and no idea how to announce myself to you. It’s been almost three years, and I think I should have been less of a coward back then and just said hello.

I think, sometimes, you would have liked me. More than that other bloke (Ian? I remember his name, but it makes me feel better to pretend I don’t.), at any rate. And maybe my plans wouldn’t seem so far-fetched, and you wouldn’t have to keep lying to your family because I would be asking you to marry me.

For now, things seem possible. I feel like my own man for once, even if I don’t know what I’m doing with myself. Only that whatever it is will bring me closer to you. Of that, I’m certain. I am looking forward to hearing of our fake marriage, though—I hope you tell me exactly how you imagine it, so when we do meet, I can impress you.

Is that charming, or does it make me creepy? It’s a question I keep asking, and I think I’m walking a very fine line when it comes to you. Perhaps this will all be charming to you—or maybe you’ll have me locked up. I look forward to finding out. I’m certain I will never live it down, regardless.

For now, just know that I find you endearing.

Yours,

Rhys

Feyre,

Your ability to tell the future is unnerving. Our relationship is over because my mother is ill—and though you don’t know it, you were right. I don’t think it would give you solace to hear she finally passed, but in a way, it gave me peace thinking you’d written me to say goodbye. That you understood, even if you didn’t know it, why you and I were just a foolish dream.

Father and I stood in the rain to bury her. I didn’t think he’d come and it would be just me, watching them set her beside my sister. Reunited, at last, just like she’d always wanted. And for one moment, he and I stood there, shoulder to shoulder, silently weeping for all we’d lost and all the things we’d never have again. Ainsley should be here and so should mother.

Her heart failed. I didn’t think you could die of a broken heart, and today I think I could, too. I thought I’d prepared myself better for this moment. As I so often am, I was wrong. Father left, and I don’t know if I’ll ever see him again. Or if I even want to. Maybe that moment was enough. Maybe enough passed between us to call it even, to start over.

I think I’ve been trying so hard to forget when I should have been trying to remember. And I think you were just another way to pretend I was someone else, at least for a little while. You don’t know me—you don’t know Rhysand Campbell and neither do I. Not your once betrothed, anyway. That man was a fantasy, someone I wanted so badly to be.

I would have disappointed you. I’m not a good man, Feyre. I don’t think you would have liked the real Rhysand Campbell, and I would have loved you. That’s the tragedy of us, at least to me. You are witty and funny and charming and I am…I am this. I am not the sort of man you fall in love with, but you.

Oh, you, Feyre. I don’t know how everyone isn’t in love with you. How you don’t walk onto the street and have everyone at your feet, wishing they knew your name. Begging for a second of your time. And even though I know you’ll never see this, and so it doesn’t matter what I think or what I say, I feel as though I’ve been drowning in endless night, and you were the first bright thing that came along.

It would be wrong to go looking for you, no matter how strong the impulse is. You’ve said goodbye, and I am saying it, too. I need to figure myself out and maybe that will take forever. I know one thing, though. I will always be thinking about you. Always be wondering about you.

It’s your birthday (I think), today. That’s what started this whole thing.

Happy birthday Feyre.

Yours, eternally,

Rhys

A crack of thunder sent the letters flying from Feyre’s hands. Was she crying? For one wild moment she twisted to look up at the ceiling, certain there must be a leak. Only, no, it was just her, dripping salt onto the elegant penmanship of Rhys’s unsent letters.

“So,” a dark, masculine voice from the doorway intoned. Feyre’s head snapped to the side, drinking him in. His expression was carefully blank, fingertips holding the frame as he leaned forward. Ferye had been caught, had been so engrossed in the parallel lives they’d been living that she hadn’t realized the rain had started or that he’d retreated indoors.

His wet shirt clung to the contours of his chest, slicking that dark ebony hair to his forehead.

“So,” she agreed, her voice trembling.

Feyre held his gaze. Waiting for his ire.

“Now you know.”

#feysand #feyre archeron x rhysand #feysand fic #yeah i did this #it started off as a joke #now it has spin-offs #and 13k words #smut tomorrow!

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reigenkills · 1 year

Text

girl why is there plot

You keep an ear out for news of the old man and his cursed son Elrick. Being a cursed creature yourself, you've have some sense of solidarity for your fellow unfortunate bastards. And while you don't trust yourself not to go into a depression nap if you try only to fail to save this kid, you still hold on to some hope that he's somehow gonna pull through with this.

A day and a half after the incident at the bar, you hear from local gossip that Elrick is still holding on. Somehow. Whatever's going on with him, ol' Wolfie himself hasn't come to collect yet.

Maybe it's not his time. Death had said something about not meddling with the affairs of life unless it concerned him, and for all that you've bit him, he's refrained from hurting you too badly even though you know full well he could. You don't know all the rules and regulations of being death incarnate, but there must be some line in the sand he can't cross.

You crack the Evil Witch's spellbook and start hunting down whatever you can find that can counter a sleeping spell.

By the afternoon, you've got little scraps of notes bookmarking possible answers. There's, of course, the classic cure-all - True Love's Kiss; there's the Fountain of Youth, where someone gives a part of their lifespan to someone else, but it won't break the sleeping spell, only buy time until you find another solution; there's a Crossroads Deal, where for a price, any spell can be broken; and there's, of course, finding the original spell caster and having them break the curse.

Things aren't promising, but at least you've got something.

You ask Muffet for directions to Elrick's house. She draws you a map on a napkin and tells you to mind the potholes on the way.

The boy's family lives in a farmhouse in the outskirts of Poisonapple. According to Muffet, the father is a farmer, Elrick's older brother is a Huntsman, and Elrick himself is a shepherd boy. Less than ideal for whatever his beau's family's status is. You can see why he'd get screwed over.

You trudge down the pathway to the farmhouse, pulling your hood up as a cold breeze blows by. The sky is heavy with clouds tonight, and you can hear the rumble of thunder in the distance. Hopefully you won't get caught in the storm on your way back to your inn.

The lamps hanging from the farmhouse creak and rattle in the wind. You eye them warily, stepping away from them, and raise your fist to knock on the front door.

A tall, burly, man with tired eyes opens it for you. He looks like he hasn't slept in days, and it shows in his voice when he croaks out: "Yes?"

"I don't have a clear cut answer for how to wake your brother up, but I might have some things that can help," you say.

The Huntsman narrows his eyes at you, studying you from head to foot. "You don't look like no witch."

"I'm not, I just know some magic." Just like you know how to hit a drum. No training and no intricate knowledge of tips and tricks, but you know you have to hit it in order to make a noise. It's not the best method for magic, but as long as you follow the instructions, you should be fine. It's worked for you so far.

The Huntsman grunts. After a moment, he steps aside and lets you in.

You pull your hood off and let out a sigh of relief, realizing you'd been freezing in the cold outside once the warmth of the house hits you.

"What do we do?" The Huntsman asks.

"I was told you live with your father," you say. "I think we should discuss this with him."

The Huntsman grunts again, but he leads you to the living room and ushers you to sit. He disappears into a hallway right after, and you hear a door open; he's in the backyard, probably. As you wait, you pull out your spellbook from your satchel, arranging the notes you've pinned between the pages on the table.

The Hunstman returns with his father a few minutes later. The old man's eyes widen as he recognizes you.

"Witch," he says.

"I'm a mercenary, not a witch," you say. "I just have some knowledge from dealing with witches."

"You can help us?"

"I have some terms, first."

The old man nods, quickly moving to sit down while his eldest son eyes you with suspicion and remains standing.

"When you address me, please say can you, or may you, or please," you say. "I am not a dog. Don't tell me what to do so flippantly."

"...and?" the Huntsman asks.

"That's it. Overstep and I'm out the door." You smile thinly. "All I ask is some politeness."

"Huh." The man lets out a huff and takes the seat beside his father. "Okay, can you help us?"

You nod, and present to them your notes, turning the papers around so they can read it, as they're both sitting across you. "Obviously, there's True Love's Kiss, but we have no idea how we can contact your son's beloved, and we might not have enough time to save him if we kidnap her. The Fountain of Youth can buy us some time, but it swaps a portion of someone's lifespan for someone else's."

"That wouldn't wake my brother up, would it?" the Huntsman asks.

"No, it's a transference spell. Nothing to do with breaking curses, but it'll reset our clock." You push a sheet of paper towards them. "This one isn't the most optimal, but I've worked many a job concerning Crossroads Deals. As long as you pay up, you can just about ask for anything you want."

"How much is the payment?" the old man asks, wringing his hands together.

You glance to the Huntsman with some pity. He, at least, seems to know what a Crossroads Deal entails. "It's a what. It's demon magic. They ask for your soul."

The old man sags back in his seat. Alarmingly, a deep look of thought passes over his face. The Huntsman flips the page over to hide the instructions on a Deal away. "You got anything else?"

"We can find the original spellcaster and get them to undo the curse," you say.

The Huntsman's face falls. There are barely any witches in the area, so if the aristocratic family that's cursed his brother got a spell from one, they probably live miles from here. Maybe they're from a completely different island, even.

"Could you find the spellcaster?" he asks.

"I could try, but your brother doesn't have enough time," you say. He nods jerkily, frowning down at the table in silence. You lean back in your seat and turn your attention to the window, watching the storm and giving the father and son some privacy.

The Huntsman clears his throat. "Can you…give us some space?"

"Of course." You rise from your seat, taking your spellbook and your notes and tucking them under your arm. "I'll be outside."

Outside is cold and windy, and half of the lamps have already blown out from the chilly draft around you. You draw your hood up over your head again and stuff your spellbook back in your satchel, drawing the rest of your cloak closer to yourself.

A gust of wind snuffs the rest of the lamps at the front of the house out. In the dim light, you can barely see anything.

There's a flash of lightning to your left. You turn, attention instinctively caught by light, and find yourself looking up at the tall shadow that looms over you.

Twin pinpricks of red stare down at you. In the cold and the dark, you remember exactly how menacing Death can be when he wants.

"Mercenary," he greets.

"Señor Muerte," you say, because you've got manners and he's probably on duty and not in the mood to mess with you, if he's so serious. "So the boy dies, then, after all?"

He chuckles, a low throaty sound that comes out more intimidating than mirthful. "We'll see. His brother's still thinking things over."

"So you're…waiting to see if he does?" you ask. "And then you're scaring the dad into a heart attack?"

"They can't see me, Mercenary. You only can because I want you to." he says. "And Death is patient. I always wait."

"I thought that was supposed to be Love is patient." You snort. "So the kid's either gonna live or die tonight depending on what his brother decides?"

"Yep," he says. "Would have been a straightforward visit if you hadn't come here telling them about the Fountain of Youth, but, look at you. Altruistic little thing that you are."

Ah, shit, is he here to kick your ass for meddling with death or something?

"At ease, Mercenary," he says, laughing slightly. "I'm not going to collect your soul just yet. You didn't completely overturn the balance of nature, don't flatter yourself like that."

"I thought you just, like, knew when it's people's time."

"I do. Every action has its equal opposite reaction, and when people make certain choices, they shape and change their paths," Death says. "Sometimes those paths get them killed, sometimes they don't. When they're on track to kick the bucket, I come fetch them."

"So is Fate, like, bullshit?"

"No, my sister's very real. She's a lot less complicated than you people think she is, though."

You hum, nodding. That…makes sense, you suppose. And it's somewhat comforting to know free will does exist, to some extent.

There's a clatter behind you. You look up just in time as the breeze bangs a lamp against the underside of the overhang. Ugh. It'll be a strong storm tonight.

"Don't suppose I can hitch a ride for when you do your whole disappearing act," you say.

"Hah, tough shit," Death says. "Walk in the rain on your own; maybe then I can snatch you off this mortal coil a little earlier."

"Pipe dream if I've ever heard one, lobo." You chuckle. "You're not getting my soul until I wring every ounce of misery from it by my own damn hands."

"Eh, your lifespans are barely anything to me."

"Yeah, yeah, flex being the grim reaper or whatever." You turn around to glance in the house, and smile as you spot the Huntsman by the window. You know he probably can't hear you over the wind, but you ask anyway: "Well?"

The man blinks, like he's waking from a trance. He moves away from the window and opens the door, beckoning you back inside. Behind you, you can hear Death move, but just as he's said, the Huntsman doesn't appear to notice him.

He steps in with you, ducking under the doorway carefully. You have half a mind to ask if it's possible for him to bump into it if he's somewhat incorporeal, but you'd probably look like you're talking to thin air in front of the Huntsman.

"So?" you ask the Huntsman instead.

"Uh - my dad and I talked," he says, motioning to where his father was still sitting on the couch, his hands wrung together and a concerned, but resigned look on his face. "We want to buy some time for Elrick first."

"Fountain of Youth, then?"

"Yes," he says. "I'll swap a week of my life for Elrick."

"And after?"

"We want you to find the one who made his curse," he says. "But - we probably can't pay you in money, but we can give you our harvest - "

You raise a hand, motioning for him to stop. He does.

"Even I don't know if I can find this spellcaster on time. Think about that if I'm successful," you say.

Death leans over to you and says: "Not really selling your services as a mercenary there."

"My skills are more suited for clean-up," you say, both as an answer and a clarification for Elrick's family. "Not detective work."

"That's fine," the old man by the couch says. "Please just help us."

"I'll do what I can." You turn to the Huntsman. "Now, the Fountain of Youth?"

He nods. "Tell me what to do."

You've packed spell ingredients in your satchel just in case they chose to do the Fountain of Youth. You wouldn't have brought it up if you didn't think there was a possibility they wouldn't bite. So you spend the next few minutes throwing yarrow, lavender, and dragonfly wings into a bowl and mashing it all into a poultice. Afterwards, you pull out a dagger from your boot and motion for the Huntsman's hand.

"I need you and your brother's blood," you say. He warily offers you his palm, and you pull it closer so you can get to his lower arm, cutting a thin line near the elbow and catching the dribble of blood in the bowl. You do the same to the unconscious Elrick, mix everything again, and pour the mixture into two different glasses.

The blood-mash-potion is barely a few centimeters from the bottom of the glasses. The Huntsman looks at you skeptically.

"You said a week," you say. "You underestimate how human lifespans can be."

Behind you, leaning on the wall, though nobody else can see him, Death chuckles.

The father lifts the glass up to his unconscious son's lips while the Huntsman, though grimacing, knocks the whole thing back. A flash of cold sneaks up behind you, and the candles in the room flicker. You look up just in time as Death approaches and reaches a claw out.

As both Elrick and the Huntsman drink, a faint, thin line of gold loops around their necks. Your eyes widen, though neither the Huntsman nor his father seem to see the glowing string. Death slowly, carefully, grazes it with the tip of a sharp nail, and the color melts into bright, searing red, before it vanishes from existence.

"I honor this exchange," he declares. The candles in the room die out, and in the next instance, spring back into brightness, strong and steady.

Oh. Oh. That's why he stuck around. Because an exchange of lifespans means someone's trading in death for that missing life.

"There," you say. "It's done."

"And…Elrick's got a week?"

You glance towards Death as discreetly as you can.

"About a week and two days, you flubbed the amount of blood," he says.

"About a week and two days, made sure to give us a bit of wiggle room," you say.

Death lets out a bark of laughter. "Hack."

"I'll get to looking for that spellcaster as soon as I can," you say. "I'll try to get correspondence sent in a few days."

"Thank you," the father says, the most relieved you've seen him. "Thank you so much."

"Don't thank me yet," you say, eyeing Elrick's sleeping form. He looks way better, less starved, but it'll only be for nine days.

You have to work fast.

#puss in boots death x reader #puss in boots the last wish #muerte x reader #fic #fanfiction

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invinciblerodent · 15 days

Text

roughly 650-700 hours in, and I just went through Gale's resurrection protocol for the very first time, on my tactician playthrough, and man....

...... it'll be incredibly difficult to make Mara's a Karlach romance.

not because I wouldn't actually want to romance her (GOD I wanna do it so bad), but my girl, she just.... has a mind of her own. and that mind, it's so, so very conflicted. and full of so many holes. her brain? not even like Swiss cheese, but moreso like some sort of weird fizzy drink, just... bubbling away in there.

everyone is so mean to her. even though she's trying so hard to be nice, everyone seems to either treat her like a curiosity ("oh, we rarely see your kind up here!") or spit the word "drow" as if it was a slur (even though she's only kind of aware of what that even really means), when trying to share her concerns most just dismiss her off the cuff, and Gale... god, Gale is just so icredibly NICE to her in comparison.

He explains everything so patiently. His approval of her is by far the highest, he says things like "excellent question! :D", even praises her, shares little personal anecdotes without prompting (it's not like he holds information behind a paywall of favors, or like you have to pull each and every word from between his teeth with pliers like some others), and even though he didn't understand why and/or grasp the magnitude of the compulsion, he seemed to kind of... at least understand that she's concerned???? instead of blowing her off completely and handwaving it away???? And, and, when he can't answer a question (because it's about a secret, or personal, or whatever), he doesn't get angry, or disapprove, or make her feel like she violated his privacy by simply asking, only says "sorry, can't tell you that right now, but in due time. :)".

he's just.... head in my fucking hands, of course she'd feel incredibly drawn to him from the first goddamn moment, he's like basically the first person who's been genuinely kind to- and understanding of her (even before the tadpole, tbqh), and all that without ulterior motives, or assuming that she's dangerous, stupid, or evil. (even if he probably should have assumed that, on that latter part.)

how and why do i keep making characters who all fall at least a little bit in love with Gale Fucking Dekarios of Waterdeep

(I swear to fucking god nobody dare answer that :c)

(side note, frankly I'm baffled on how many dialogue options there are that let you say shit that amounts more or less to “uuuughhh bringing you back to life was SUUUCH a chore. be glad i didn't sell your stupid scroll, dick”, but none where you can say something like “Gale!!!! Gods, are you alright!!!! You died!!!!!! You're back!!!!!! I was so worried for you!!!!!!!! Of course I brought you back, wtf!!!!!!!!”.

I'd also have liked one to just.... start crying, tbqh.

it would have made sense for Mara specifically, to go through the instructions and the protocols with as intense a panicked focus as she can manage [no easy task, with a thick blueberry shake for brains], and as he's thanking her, and tapping himself to reconfirm that he's corporeal, to just.... start bawling. and to crumple into his arms. Like, he's her friend!!!! her good friend Gale, whom she had known all of three days!!!!!!! he died!!!! and now he's alive!!!!! omg that was so scary; don't do that again you silly man!!!!!!)

(babygirl was so rattled, she even got the mephit's name wrong like twice. no it wasn't me being a dumbass, i was in character, shush.)

#squirrel plays bg3 #oc: mara #poor girl had a rough time of it with the harpies #first time ever that Shadowheart was the mvp frankly #this party's ultimate weakness is a dc 13 wisdom roll i swear to god

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blackjackkent · 2 days

Text

Hells, Rakha thinks, unconsciously imitating Wyll's most commonly-used oath. It's *hot* down here.

The center of Grymforge seems to be built in the middle of an enormous lava pit. The air is stiff with brutal, dry heat; the skin on Rakha's face prickles and draws tight and sweat immediately starts to pool at the base of her neck and her lower back.

"Did we fall into Avernus by accident?" Wyll mutters dryly. "Can't be far off."

The rockslide that apparently claimed True Soul Nere lines one wall of the place. A team of gnome slaves are battering it with pickaxes, overseen by an agitated-sounding woman bellowing orders at them.

"Didn't you do that to that goblin back aboveground?" Shadowheart says with a flash of humor. "Perhaps you and she'd get along."

Rakha ignores her. "That'll be the sergeant, then. Thrinn." They've heard a bit about her from the surrounding dwarves; Thrinn, it seems, is caught up in the Absolutist cause, even if all her subordinates aren't.

"I wonder if she'll notice you're wearing her boots," Lae'zel says sardonically.

-----

"Heat up some rocks!" Thrinn bellows as they approach. "Let's see how the little pricks do when we strap fire to their legs!"

Rakha shivers in spite of herself, in spite of the heat around them. The beast purrs at the mental image. She remembers the iron pulled from the fire in the goblin camp, the way she drew it along the prisoner's leg and listened to him scream...

"Hmph," Shadowheart mutters. "Not the most sophisticated way of getting what you want from someone, is it?" She looks at Rakha sidelong. Perhaps she knows where Rakha's thoughts have gone - though whether she approves is more difficult to read.

"Move, hoon!" Thrinn barks before Rakha can consider a response. "I don't have time for drugnin' outsiders!"

Rakha at once decides she doesn't like this woman, which is good, because she didn't want to like her anyway - an Absolutist and a slaver both. "You better make time for a True Soul," she says coldly, and flexes her branded hand.

Narrator: The parasite stirs, but it's a mere tickle. You hear no thoughts or memories, just an echo of scars that never healed.

"A True Soul, eh?" Thrinn mutters. "Useless rakkah of a lookout could have told me."

Rakkah - the word makes her jump. For a brief moment, she hears it as her own name, and Thrinn calling her useless, and she very nearly abandons any sense of subtlety and sinks her fist directly into the small woman's nose. Only just in time does she realize it's a duergar oath, and stay her hand, and steady her balance back on her heels.

She hears Wyll muffle a soft laugh. Shadowheart snickers. Even Lae'zel cracks the hint of a smile.

"Glad you're here to take responsibility," Thrinn goes on, unaware of the brief havoc she's caused. "Tunnel's collapsed, trapped True Soul Nere. He's stuck in there with poisoned geysers. We don't get him out soon, it's both our heads."

No new information there, particularly. Nere is the only reason they're here - and not for his benefit. They need the rocks out of the way so they can kill him, which is probably not what Thrinn has in mind. So likely everything will become chaos once the wall comes down.

Well, she's been expecting the chaos since they arrived - it's rather a moment of personal victory that it took this long to start.

"I've got some explosive powder," she says matter-of-factly. "That should do the trick."

"That so?" Thrinn says, with a sudden air of keen interest. "Set it near the rubble and ignite it. That'll blow the drow out."

-----

This, at least, is something Rakha feels very confident in accomplishing. Taking one of the smokepowder satchels she found in the ruins, she places it at the base of the rockpile. Then she steps back, and lets fly with a firebolt.

The explosion is immediate, tremendous, and satisfying - a thick BOOM that rattles Rakha's teeth. The already-considerable heat in the place spikes for a moment, then settles, and there's a rattling noise of bits of rock clattering down into the marble floor.

Several gnomes come barreling out of the revealed passageway beyond; their comrades shout with joy to see them alive. Rakha pays no attention - her point of interest is further in, a tall, lithe elven man with pale grey skin and brilliant red eyes.

"Finally," he says irritably. His voice is high and agitated, full of pride and anger. He rounds on the nearest of the gnomes and Rakha watches as the Weave surges around him in a bright prismatic haze.

"Worthless slaves!" It's like a whine and a snarl simultaneously. "Your incompetence has been my ruin! Nere. Does. Not. Fail!"

On the final word, that rising Weave energy lashes out like a whip and strikes one of the gnomes in the face. She flies backwards; before she can even cry out, her body has hit the lava and been swallowed up in the great hellish current.

The smell of cooking meat mixes with the sulfur scent of the lava. Rakha feels the beast in her head wake eagerly. Yes. More. Kill them all, fry them alive, and then the dwarves, and Nere last, take his head and hurl his body deep, deep--

(A/N: "Say nothing" feels like the actual Rakha-ish response here. The only one that saves the gnomes (which I want to do primarily bc I want Barcus around in Act 2/3 cos Hector didn't have him) is "Stop - no more innocents will die today, Nere" which is both more verbose and more attuned to innocent suffering than Rakha usually is. We're going to tweak the dialogue slightly for artistic license.)

"Stop," Rakha says coldly, shaking her head once sharply in an attempt to ignore the voice at the back of her mind.

Nere turns; his expression shows a hint of irritation at the interruption, but more surprise at its source. "You care for the weak, True Soul," he says, voice dripping with disdain. "Most curious."

Rakha shrugs. She doesn't care about the gnomes overmuch. She is here for her own reasons.

But we kill with purpose. The gnomes do not need to die.

"I came on the myconid sovereign's behalf," she says flatly. "It demands revenge."

The drow sneers in visible disbelief. "You heed an overgrown toadstool, yet defy a True Soul?" he says. He snaps out one hand towards the duergar sergeant, gesturing her forward. "Thrinn - carve out her heart and serve it to the rothe. If she indeed is a True Soul... let the Absolute save her."

They're on the very edge of it now, the violence Rakha has held herself back from since their arrival in Grymforge. She feels her breath quicken eagerly; her eyes dilate and she takes a step in Nere's direction. "You so much as touch me," she growls, "and I'll tear you limb to limb."

Nere can sense it too, and his eyes brighten in answering eagerness. "The Absolute guides my hand!" he says. His voice drops abruptly in pitch, growing thick with fervent energy. "You've chosen a battle you cannot win."

He throws his head back and shouts. "Duergar! This True Soul has betrayed us! Let her blood prove your devotion!"

A bolt of fire from Rakha's palm crashes into his face.

#bjk plays bg3 durge #rakha the dark urge #wheeeee #time to find out if i'm better at this fight this time around #i have learned some things XD

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di-writes-stuff · 10 months

Text

Evermore

Joel Miller x fem!Reader

Part 5

TW: Nightmares, suggested ptsd, death, familial loss, suggested sewerslide. Sad stuff in general.

Joel’s POV:

Joel’s entire world was this moment. The one he couldn’t stop repeating. His ears ring from the sound of gunfire, the smell of smoke fills the air, and he can hear screaming somewhere far away. His arms are filled with a weight, a weight he’s carried ever since this moment.

His daughter.

His sweet, innocent, precious daughter.

Sarah was gone. Laying limp in his arms as he sobbed, trying to will her back to life. But she was gone. His world. The one thing that kept him going. His purpose was to take care of her. And now, she’s gone.

A scream rips from his throat, but he can barely hear it, the sound is almost murky as it exits him. But despite that, it’s raw, animalistic, the kind of sound only grief can create.

His breathing quickens as he stares at her. He can’t do this. He needs her. He needs something. She’s slipping from his grasp and there’s nothing he can do to stop it.

“Joel?”

Your POV:

You wake up, stumbling to your feet when you realize how late it is. You guys should have been up at least an hour ago, but you’ve had a long week.

You groan, rubbing your head when you feel a sharp pain stab through it. You’re hungover. Not a lot, but enough to feel like shit. You and Joel clearly got a bit carried away with the drinking last night.

It’s become your usual routine ever since you’re talk about the infamous “this”. You set up camp, Ellie falls asleep, and you two drink. Sometimes in silence, but usually you talk, swap stories, never anything too deep though. It’s relaxing, nice. Feels like something you would’ve done before the world fell apart.

You trudge over to Joel, kneeling down to wake him up.

“Joel.” You say, knowing he probably won’t wake up right away. If there’s anything you’ve learned about him, it’s that the man knows how to sleep.

You sigh, repeating his name a bit louder this time.

Nothing.

“Joel!” You’re practically yelling at this point, and it’s starting to get worrisome.

You grab his shoulder, shaking him a bit while you repeat his name.

His eyes flash open like a rabid animal, and before you can move he has your wrist in an iron hard grip, his fist wrapped tight around it.

“Joel! What the hell are you doing?!” You shout, tugging away from him, but his hand stays right where it is.

You haven’t been scared of Joel since you met him, but right now? There’s not an ounce of recognition in his eyes, he just looks empty.

You begin to guess what this might be in the midst of your struggle when he finally wakes up fully, his hand loosening around your wrist.

You pull back, sitting a bit further away from him than you usually would. You try to contain the fear in your eyes, but it’s clear.

You turn around when you hear Ellie walk up behind you.

“Y/N?” She sounds scared, and it kills Joel to hear it. That coupled with the look in your eyes terrifies him.

“Give us a minute. Everything’s fine, we just need to talk, okay?” You reply, trying not to scare her. She nods and starts to walk away, but not before glancing down at your quickly bruising arm.

You turn back to him. He’s sat up now, staring at your arm in clear distress.

He would never hurt you.

Ever.

But he just did.

“Y/N I swear I-“

You cut him off, placing your hand on his shoulder.

“You weren’t all there. You didn’t know it was me, I know you wouldn’t. It’s okay.” You start to stand up, hoping to just brush this off.

Joel quickly stands, gently, so very gently, touching your shoulder, stopping you.

You turn around to find him staring at your arm, it’s red and angry looking, and there’s some darker spots forming in the vague shape of his hand.

His eyebrows furrow and he runs a hand through his hair, rattled by his own behavior.

He hurt you.

The thought keeps running through his head over and over. How could he have not realized it was you. What if it had been Ellie? How would he have explained this to her. At the very least you understand. You know he wasn’t trying to hurt you.

“Joel. Stop it. You didn’t mean to, and I’m fine.”

You look up and him, not knowing what to do. He looks horrified, and his eyes haven’t left your arm since he stopped you.

“You’re not fine. I hurt you.”

You sigh, rubbing your nose as you try to fix the situation. He’s gonna hold this against himself for a long time if you don’t clean it up. That’s another thing you’ve learned that about him. Joel Miller does not grant himself forgiveness.

“It was an accident, Joel. You weren’t even fully awake. You can’t blame yourself for it.”

You’re being reasonable, deep down he knows that. But that doesn’t mean he’s going to be.

“Then who do I blame?” He questions, finally looking you in the eyes, searching for any hint of the fear he saw earlier. But there’s none.

He just finds sympathy.

Kindness.

Warmth.

You trust him. You whole heartedly believe he didn’t mean to hurt you. And he didn’t, but the fact that you can look at him, a man you’ve seen kill mercilessly, and think that? Know that without a single doubt?

It knocks the wind out of him.

He touches your arm with the force of a fly, lifting it with a gentleness you wouldn’t have thought he was capable of.

“I’m sorry..I’m so sorry.”

He repeats it under his breath. It’s not even the injury itself, it’s not severe. It won’t last. In a week you’ll forget it ever happened.

It’s that he caused it.

He did this.

And you don’t even care.

He wishes you would be angry, that you would yell at him or something. Just so that he felt like he paid for it somehow.

But no.

You stand there, treating him with the same kindness you always do.

And it kills him to see it.

“There’s nobody to blame, Joel. You weren’t even really awake yet. So stop worrying, and stop apologizing. If you wanna repay me help me clean up this camp, okay?” You smile at him gently, trying anything you can to make him realize this isn’t as big of a deal as he thinks it is.

He’s been through a lot, it’s not shocking to think he’ll have some nightmares every once in a while.

He looks back up at you, forcing himself to smile a bit.

You squeeze his arm a bit before walking away to clean up. You roll up your bedroll and go to lift it before it’s scooped out of your hands by Joel. You shrug, you did tell him to help, after all.

“Thanks.” You say when he reattaches it to your backpack for you.

He just nods, a gruff noise exiting him, one that you assume is just him acknowledging that you spoke. You see Ellie watching and take her to the side, speaking quietly.

“Ellie, what happened back there wasn’t anybody’s fault, okay. Joel was still partially asleep, he had no idea it was me. I don’t want you acting weird with him, okay?” You speak to her gently, hoping to God she doesn’t think he was trying to hurt you.

“I know that. I think he’s the only one who’s gonna beat himself up over it.” She replies.

You sigh, looking back over at him, watching as he gets all your packs together.

“Yeah, I know.”

You walk away, slinging your backpack over your shoulders and starting the day.

……………………………………………………………………………………

It’s been a few hours since the incident, and you think your about to kill Joel.

It’s constant. You go to pick something up? Joel’s got it. You make a single noise? He in a tizzy asking if your okay. God forbid you try to step over something on your own? He’s practically carrying you over it.

It’s sweet, in a way. Or at least it was the first few times. But at this point, it’s getting exhausting.

You go to step over a fallen lamppost, you guys have found yourselves in a deserted little town on the outskirts of the woods, and then you feel it. Joel holds your arm like you’re just learning how to walk. You freeze, snapping your head towards him.

“Joel. You can stop.”

He stares up at you, the most confused look plastered on his face as you speak.

“What?”

You roll your eyes, and you hear Ellie laugh a tiny bit from ahead of you. She’s been keeping track, and hes done this about twenty times.

“Treating me like I’m glass. You squeezed my arm, Joel. I’m okay. I can walk, I can pick things up, get this, I can even step over something.” You make a big show of stepping over the lamp post by yourself, looking at him exasperatedly.

“Maybe you overestimate your strength, but I’m really okay. Just act normal for the love of God. Talk to me. Do what you always do.” You try to sound humorous, and the situation is starting to become a bit funny. You feel bad, you know he’s still feeling guilty, but watching him be this attentive, it’s like having a mother around.

Joel stands up a little straighter, putting his hands up in surrender.

“Alright alright. Sorry.” He says, starting to walk again, a bit embarrassed, but honestly, it made him feel a bit better.

You resume walking, wondering how far you can pry without making him clam up.

“…So, Joel.” You begin carefully. “What…what was going on earlier? I mean, the nightmare, or whatever.”

He stiffens up a bit, looking down at you. For a moment he instinctively ignores you, not saying a word, not allowing himself to open up to you.

But damn, do you have a way of cracking his walls.

“I-“ His voice shakes a bit, and he hates it. “It’s always the same. My uhm…my daughter. She…” He clenches and unclenches his fists as he speaks lowly “She was killed. When this all started. Officer shot at us, I was carrying her, she got hit. And I just…” Joel trails off, looking away from you when he feels tears brimming in his eyes.

You stare ahead, mulling over what he just told you.

It explains a lot.

The protectiveness.

How closed off he is.

Ellie.

“Joel…I’m so sorry.”

He breathes shakily as you speak. He would never do this, not with anybody else. But you.

You make him open up, and it’s like you don’t even have to try.

You exhale, feeling the obligation to share something as well, even the playing field.

“My father-“

Joel cuts you off.

“You don’t have to do this.”

You look up at him, his eyes. They’re still shining a bit from his tears, but they have never looked more beautiful.

“I know. I trust you.”

You trust him.

He could have guessed, but hearing you say it?

It means more than an I love you, in a way. Trust, in a world like this. A world where most strangers you meet will rob you blind, if not worse. A world where everybody is competing just to survive. Trust feels intimate.

Trust matters.

You continue, and stares at you as you speak.

“My father, I started out with him. We were just trying to get to a QZ, when uh, he got bit. It was bad. And he…” You such shakily, it’s been a long time since you told somebody this story. “He didn’t want to hurt me. Or anyone, for that matter. So he uhm, he ended it, before he could turn. Said he loved me, went behind a building, and that was the last time I saw him.”

You finish speaking and it’s silent for a moment, save for a couple birds chirping and the sound of footsteps.

“…Damn.” Joel’s voice sounds from next to you.

And you laugh.

You laugh harder than you have in a long time, and soon Joel’s joining in.

You two stand there, keeling over, laughing at your dead dad.

It’s morbid.

It’s probably horrible.

And you know there’s nobody else you could ever trust enough to do it with.

Nobody you would want to do this with.

Nobody else you would want to know. Know your past. Know you. Really, know you.

Nobody but Joel.

Ellie turns around, a small smile on her face. She got the gist of the conversation you two were having, and she’s confused to say the least.

“What the hell, guys?!” She asks, laughing too now.

You wave your hand, attempting and failing to calm down.

The three of you stand there, laughing like mad men in the streets, eventually calming down. Ellie starts walking again and so do you and Joel.

You’re still snickering a bit, quietly now, and you hear the occasional chuckle from Joel. You don’t even realize tears are slipping down your face until a rough, calloused hand wipes one away.

He looks a bit worried, but when you see him you mostly see understanding. There’s still a smile on his face, and God knows you need it. If he were being entirely serious about the situation, if you really had to face it for what it was.

You wouldn’t make it. You’ve shoved this memory away for so long, and if you’re forced to really think about it. Seriously think about it?

You couldn’t.

And Joel knows that.

He knows what you need. He knows you need him to be there, but he also knows you need him to laugh with you, to be morbid with you.

And he’s happy to do it.

“You okay?” He asks gently.

You nod, smiling down at the ground, still laughing a bit, but it’s wearing off. Reality is starting to hit you.

He’s gone.

You’re on the edge of slipping. Slipping into the memory of him. The crack of the gunshot, the moment you knew he was gone.

A hand slips into yours and holds it.

Joel’s hand.

You look up at him, tears brimming in your eyes. He looks straight ahead, not forcing either of you to acknowledge what’s happening.

“You wanna…talk about something else?”

His voice is like a rumble, low and quiet. It could be threatening, but to you?

It’s becoming the most comforting sound in the world.

“Yeah…yeah, that would be nice.” Your voice is shaky when you speak.

Construction work.

Joel starts telling you about construction work.

It’s all he can think to do. It feels stupid, he feels like he should just shut his mouth and stop while he’s ahead.

But he doesn’t.

Because he hears you stop sniffling. Your hand stops reaching up to wipe away tears.

It’s not the topic. You couldn’t care less about the topic.

It’s him. It’s Joel being there. There for you.

It’s all you need.

A/N: Okay ngl these last two chapters have kinda been filler. I’m just trying to build up Joel and readers relationship before shit hits the fan. for anybody reading tysm. Like seriously just knowing people are enjoying this is awesome.

-di

#fanfic #joel miller #joel miller x fem!reader #joel miller x reader #joel miller x y/n #joel miller x you #tlou #tlou game #tlou joel #tlou2 #fluff #angst #nightmares #writing #fanfiction #the last of us

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blu-joons · 2 years

Text

He Overhears Idols Being Rude About You ~ Kim Namjoon

You smiled weakly across at Namjoon as you excused yourself for a moment to get yourself a drink from the bar. He was reluctant to let you go on your own, but he trusted you, slowly allowing his hand to slip out of its grip that it had on you.

He watched you for as long as he could before you disappeared into the crowd, turning back around to look across the huge theatre once again.

Everywhere that he looked there were idols around, each year the end of year award ceremonies seemed to invite more and more. It was a place where Namjoon knew that you often felt out of place, having never been able to call yourself an idol, you usually walked around terrified that someone would end up saying something to him.

Being by Namjoon’s side didn’t always help your case either, you knew that just about everyone in the room liked to watch him, and when they watched him, they’d definitely watch you to.

“What does he see in her?” Namjoon suddenly overheard someone asking just across from him.

He didn’t quite know who they were talking about, keen to hear a little more of their conversation. He positioned himself behind a couple of other people so that he couldn’t be heard, leaning in to make sure that he didn’t miss out on anything.

“She’s a nobody, does anyone know what Y/N does for a living?” Another of them asked, “do you think she just sponges off of Namjoon?”

“I bet she lives off of his name, who would even want to hire a face like hers anyway?”

A lump ran down his throat as Namjoon listened to everything that they had to say, taken aback to find out that the people he wanted to get some gossip on, were you and himself. It rattled him to say the least, letting go of a deep breath as he tried to keep his composure.

They had no idea that Namjoon was there as they failed to see him around, continuing to moan about you. He had never heard people be as cruel, shaking his head repeatedly as he failed to agree on anything that they had to say.

Once they finally fell silent, Namjoon stepped to his left. After checking where the group were, he backed several times until he was stood so that he was in line with them.

The glare that Namjoon sent in their direction immediately had them all tensing up. None of them quite knew what to do or say as they noticed him so close to them, looking between themselves to decide what they wanted to do.

“RM, we’re big fans,” one of them spoke up.

His head nodded slowly, folding his arms across his chest as he continued to glare across at them. Their stature got smaller and smaller the longer that Namjoon watched them, wishing more than anything that they could just disappear.

After a few moments, he finally cleared his throat. “If you think that the way you conduct yourselves is how an idol should behave, you couldn’t be more wrong. Maybe you should worry more about yourselves rather than other people?”

Their eyes all looked in different directions, heart racing as their conversation seemed to capture the attention of several other idols who were stood around too.

“We were just saying that maybe Y/N shouldn’t really be here tonight.”

“Why?” He challenged, “because she’s already more successful than you guys? Or because the people in this room actually have an interest in Y/N?”

“We didn’t mean to.”

“I know exactly what you meant to do. You did what idols aren’t supposed to do, this is a professional event, maybe you should try and fit the code of conduct a little better from now on.”

With his suggestion on the table, Namjoon took a final moment to stare before turning back around. As he did, his body jolted back as he came face to face with you, drawn straight away to the shy smile that was on your face.

You weren’t quite sure as to what it was that you had walked into, but as you listened to Namjoon defend you, the smile on your face soon turned up, your heart getting excited too.

Your hand gripped tightly onto your drink as you tried to ignore the many eyes that were looking at you, each of them stunned by how Namjoon had defended you.

“I left you alone for two minutes,” you laughed across at Namjoon.

A chuckle came from him too as he began to relax, taking your free hand and leading you to somewhere around that was a little quieter for you both.

Once he had you somewhere quiet, Namjoon finally began to explain. “You should have heard the things that they were saying about you Y/N, I just couldn’t stand back and let them get away with saying what they said.”

“You could have got in trouble doing that.”

“I don’t care,” Namjoon immediately assured you, “they had no right to say what they said, I don’t really even know who they are anyway.”

Another laugh came from you as Namjoon’s shoulders shrugged, without any real idea as to who it was that he had confronted. It didn’t matter to him who it was anyway, regardless of who, he would have done the same thing to anyone.

He was fed up with hearing people question you or doubt the position that you had in his life. You had as much right to be there as anyone else did, especially when you had helped the group as much as you had done through the year.

“I don’t know what to say aside from thank you.”

“There’s no need to thank me, I never doubted for a moment that I needed to say something,” Namjoon smiled across at you. “I’m just glad that you weren’t there to hear the things that they were saying about you, some people can be so cruel.”

You didn’t even want to imagine what had been said, although you had a good idea, it was the same thing you heard from most people who weren’t fond of your relationship.

“I’ve always got your back; you know that don’t you?” Namjoon asked you, “I won’t ever let anyone speak about you like that.”

“Just be careful Namjoon, I don’t want for you defending me to ever end up causing trouble for you as well.”

“I’ll be careful,” he promised, “but that doesn’t mean that I’m ever going to stand back and do nothing. You take care of me, and so I’ll always take care of you.”

Your head nodded in agreement with him, although you were still a little worried, you knew that you had no hope of being able to change Namjoon’s mind.

“We need to go back in there soon,” you reminded Namjoon, “the last thing that needs to happen is you missing you guys winning an award because you’re with me, that’ll get everyone talking then Joon.”

His smile was soft as he began to lead you back into the busy part of the theatre. You could still feel eyes on you, but for once, it was people in awe, surprised by how Namjoon stood up for you and took care of you in front of so many others.

“Do you think anyone else will say anything tonight?” You asked Namjoon, trying your best to ignore all the stares.

“I don’t think that anyone would dare try now.”

---

Masterlist

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brooklynislandgirl · 1 month

Note

[FMK: Reimagined.] Three people, but no names. Someone you've stolen for. Someone you've hurt to help. And someone you'd murder yourself before letting anyone else do it. //Tall dark stranger with a bone condition not matching her vodka shots but probably enabling them... they need to stop meeting like this.//

Three of a Kind || Accepting {{ tagging: @riggsanity & @mynameisanakin & @lokitheliesmith for reasonsTM }}

The question is almost too softly spoken, and if Beth were inclined, she could have pretended not to have heard it. She doesn't do that often but it is something she's employed to distance herself in the past. This is not the first time she has met her mysterious friend, and likely it will not be the last. But what memories does her friend dredge up? "One of the people I miss most, mostly due to being cross country from one another. We used to play all kinds of board and card games. The goal wasn't to win or lose, but to make the other person laugh an' we used to cheat each other elaborately. I really should write or call him sometime. Maybe even give back those little plastic hotels I still have in my undergarment drawer. Not to mention the fact that I've eaten more than half of the fries he ever ordered, even when he got enough to share. And the shirts I took. And the beers he smuggled out of my fridge that I took back late at night while we watched the tide roll back out under the moonlight." She would swear on this mounting bar tab that her Texas still has at least one of her deeds tucked in his boot or in those curls. She wonders where Martin is. If he's found himself like he needed to so that he wouldn't be swallowed up by his own grief. Some of the light that she'd always held onto had dimmed the day he'd left and she's all the poorer for it. "One I've hurt to help is my..." apprentice. The waif of a youth that turned up on her doorstep those few years ago, rattling bones and death in every wet, congested breath. All she has to do is close her eyes and those blue eyes, the golden waves cutting across his sharp bones, he is alive and thriving and smiling at her shyly. It had taken every ounce of her will power to eventually let him go so he could find his place amongst the Traditions. Where she champions Life, he is the other side of the coin and she couldn't teach him how to be a Thanatoic. "Friend. He's a recovering addict, and he was really sick when he sought my help. There were days where death might have been a mercy, and the curses that rolled off his tongue in that bayou accent of his...I can't even begin to repeat. But I know that transformation was emotionally, physically, an' spiritually excruciating." She's quiet for a time. Maybe this friend was only going to have two memories from her before they hit last call. Maybe because the third answer is the hardest. For so long it would have been so easy to contemplate patricide. That she'd be the recipient of the Admiral's last undeserved breath. But that would be breaking her own kapu imposed by Teanoi; take no pleasure in killing. and if Beth were being honest? It might be the happiest moment of her existence.

But that puts her in mind of the other road she doesn't ever stop to consider. She'd once used all of her considerable talents and power to make the arduous journey to xer not-quite-native homeland in search for a bloom that would ease xer misery. She'd done it for love. And perhaps this is why she'd been turned back by that realm's all-seeing Guardian. If she could not heal xer one way, then Beth could only offer the second, perhaps lesser choice.

What was it that was said? Only you could kill your God? "The third...they say...has an adder's tongue, quicksilver and honey in xer lies. They say...Xe is the source of primordial chaos. Nets and spiders and wyrding. But I see xem as... fire and family, of ephemera and stories. Xe is a harbinger of change, of transformation." Of love, hers being enduring, asking nothing of xer but to be. "If xe has to die? Wishes it after everything? Then I can only resign myself to being xer handmaiden in that, too."

#Mahalo!Slinky <3 <3 <3 #Down til the Dark|Riggs and Beth #Like A Memory in Motion|Anakin and Beth #With a Tangled Skein|Loki and Beth #death tw #addiction tw #grief tw

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homielander · 2 years

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If you don't mind, can I ask why you thought Alicent's writing went downhill after episode 5?

yeah, of course! i talked about it in another post but that was mainly about rhaenyra so i'll elaborate

i think alicent's progression from eps 1-5 was very logical. episode 6 is where the first issues started for me. pre-time jump alicent was very politically astute and generally diplomatic, even to her husband and especially in the presence of other nobles. one of the coolest things about the green dress scene is that she didn't have to say anything outwardly antagonistic (she still greeted viserys and congratulated rhaenyra), but in interrupting the king's speech donning the colour of her house's beacon for war, she was able to signal to everyone where her allegiances lied. but in episode 6 she's openly scoffing and rolling her eyes at the heir to the throne during council meetings, or mouthing off to the king in earshot of his advisors. i would imagine book alicent delivering a line like "soon or late, you met get one who looks like you" to laenor the way we saw natalie dormer's margaery make passive-aggressive comments to cersei ("i wish we had wine, but it's still a bit early in the day for us"). it's easy enough to pass off as genuine to a spectator but the receiving party and the audience pick up on the undertones. to see alicent so openly aggressive after being very cognizant of all the courtesies expected of her for 5 episodes was..... jarring, to say the least.

episode 7 was the best of a bad bunch, i think. for the most part i really liked what we got in terms of alicent. the biggest complaint i have is the "now they see you as you are" line. like i said, alicent has been pretty open about her dislike of rhaenyra for over a decade now, so the moment doesn't actually feel like the epic unmasking that it should be. imagine how cool that scene and line would have been if alicent had actually maintained the facade of a perfect wife and stepmother for about a decade.

episode 8 was... eh :/. i like it if i abide by the interpretation that vaemond's execution really rattled alicent (which it should have done... fear for her children's lives is supposed to be her main motivation) and she did her best to play nice with rhaenyra for the remainder of the episode. but i don't believe that's what the writers intended, which is further reinforced by alicent misunderstanding viserys at the end of the episode.

episode 9 was ssjhksjkshs. i can't even talk about it without fuming. apparently alicent has never imagined herself on the iron throne even though vaemond literally said the words "it's a queen who sits the throne these days" (or something close to that, i'm paraphrasing) referring to her an episode prior (and in the show's timeline, that moment was just a day ago). apparently alicent's primary flaw in this story is not ambition, but serving men... even though she agreed to crown aegon based on the wishes of viserys, and everyone was fine and dandy with her following those wishes when she thought rhaenyra was his desired heir. it's just nonsensical because in this case, the man she is serving is viserys! which is the man whose wishes the opposing side is also fighting to fulfill! because he's the king!!! so how is alicent less "feminist" than the other side??? even in the show's canon, this theme of alicent being an enforcer of the patriarchy falls apart (especially considering she was supposedly totally cool with crowning rhaenyra an episode ago, and because the validity of rhaenyra's claim also rests on words from the mouth of the king). this one dumbass decision took away alicent's agency, alicent's primary motivator which was to fight for her children, the debate of legalism vs absolutism, and any possible thematic coherence lmao i hate that for her

(btw book alicent would be rolling in her grave over these changes lol. apart from letting viserys's dead body rot for days, she also never spoke his name during her addled last days, even though she mentioned king jaehaerys, whom she read to when she was a girl lmaooo. i appreciate they tried to add some nuance to their dynamic in the show but it's infuriating how show alicent's drive now rests on upholding this man's last words considering just how much book alicent seemed to despise him.)

(also, was book alicent an enforcer of the patriarchy if we consider that she defied the wishes of her husband? i mean yes she opposed rhaenyra but allowing rhaenyra's reign actually wouldn't have meant additional freedom for any woman but rhaenyra. much to think about...)

there's also just a difference in mannerisms that's a bit difficult to process. emily played alicent as a nervous wreck who directs all of her anxiety inwards, while olivia plays alicent as pretty openly neurotic. i think i prefer emily's portrayal purely because it actually aligns with the perfectly poised, shrewd, widely-beloved queen from the book (which we reallyyy needed in the second half of the season imo). don't get me wrong, i don't fault olivia, she's one of the most talented actors on this show -- she just needed better direction. it probably would have helped if she and emily could have spoken a bit about the way they were planning to play alicent.

one thing i will say is that the show is doing well with is alicent's relationship with her children (i hate the way they wrote aegon it's not even real to me anymore but i mean apart from that). it makes the greens so fun and fascinating. i don't think they actually meant to do them a favour there, considering the show shies away from any dysfunctionality in rhaenyra's children to paint her in a better light... but the result is that the green family is far more fleshed out and interesting, so you know. a win is a win.

#btw my inbox is always open for literally anything!#as long as it's not rude but i think that goes without saying lol #alicent hightower #house of the dragon #anti hotd #asks

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kyluxtrashpit · 2 months

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For a he WIP game, I’d like to hear about both Braids and Renben 7

Oooh of course! Thanks for asking!

So Braids is a renben fic that’s been rattling around for a long while (and people who’ve been my rubber ducks before probably remember it lmao). The concept of it is basically an attempt at a bit more of a “soft” dynamic for them, at least softer than I’ve written before. The idea is that Kylo, given his mom is Leia, probably has some experience braiding hair (both his own and Leia’s - I headcanon she taught him a lot of traditional hairstyles from Alderaan, which in this headcanon involve a lot of braids, with some being very intricate). Ren, as we know, does braid at least part of his hair. So what if Ren broke his hand in a fight? And his hair, braids included, is all fucked up from said fight? Well, normally he’d just wait for the expired bacta patches to take effect and deal with it later, but now he has a new recruit who is absolutely desperate for any sort of intimacy and approval (and may or may not be in over his head and seeking something familiar and calming). Anyway, that’s a lot of words to say that new recruit Kylo helps an injured Ren with his hair and there is ~emotions~ and ~intimacy~. Talking about it makes me think I should look at it again someday soon cause I do still love the idea

Now for Renben 7, that ones technically a misnomer as the active relationship is kylux and renben is in the past, but it’s about Ren and Kylo with Hux not even appearing so lmao, I still called it Renben 7 (even though I have far more than 7 renben fics posted). To give full context, for anyone who doesn’t know, the first 8 parts to my Renben series on ao3 are intended to tell a story together (though they each stand alone too). That’s Know Your Shadow through to Distraction, with the other 6 being just one offs. The idea here was to tell the story of how renben became kylux in a largely canon-compliant way, with Ren being alive as the key difference. Unfortunately, that proved too ambitious and the other missing pieces are probably not happening but it is what it is

(For full info, there was supposed to be at least one between Test Run and Distraction, about kylux finally getting it on but not becoming emotionally attached yet, just a casual thing. Then Distraction shifts more to a kylux dynamic, and then there probably would’ve been one more after that locking in the kylux before we get to Renben 7, which was supposed to be the final piece. Though more one shots, such as Braids, could’ve been added too)

So Renben 7 itself is basically a time skip happening and Ren comes to visit Kylo on the Finalizer after they haven’t seen each other for a while. As such, there’s some catching up to do, Ren commenting on how Kylo is getting stronger, looking more grown up, but Ren’s still gonna call him ‘kid’ and stuff. Ren’s a little older too, but he’s still the same as he always was. It’s sort of like. A bonding moment for them. They talk about how Kylo is firmly committed to Hux now (so no more casual rolls for him and Ren) and there’s some teasing and stuff. This is basically the closing, where Ren moves to more of like. A mentor figure rather than a sex partner kind of thing. I guess it’s soft too, but in a different way lmao. I’d still really like to write this one too, cause even without the in between bits, I think it closes off the continuous part of the series quite well. It’s closure, the kind of closure with Ren that neither Kylo nor we, the audience, got in canon

But yeah, those are the two! I still hope one day to get them done. I’ll have to take a look at them someday soon cause maybe talking about them will make the words juice happen lmao

#thanks so much for asking!#I always love to talk about fics #pls anyone feel free to talk to me about my fics anytime #ask tag #sariastrategos #renben #kylux #text #long post

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shapeshyft · 5 months

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Consider it a New Year's resolution, in the months following Irene's grand, clever resurrection. The trusty hand-crossbow was a favorite, sure, but it had more visual appeal than use. She was simply more used to it.

"Yes, I'll admit you're right. I think now is the time for me to get good at guns."

So, here is the moment: A blind woman with a laser pistol cocked, facing her wife across a field of Krakoan wildflowers. They can do some very involved training these days.

She yells, "Are you ready?!" And then: "Now!"

Irene begins shooting, chasing the aim of her mind's eye on Raven.

Thirty paces separate. A red sun carving the sky up above her, a cool wind whipping around her heels. She's reminded of her days in the west, carrying a peacemaker on her hip, cackling at the poor aim of shooters eagerly trying to drill her through.

❝ Ready! ❞

And she is, even if she's yet to move until after the first trigger pull. She hoped, if only for the first shot, that Irene's aim would be true. That she'd look down to her chest, find a smoking crater divvying up her lungs, and be able to praise Irene with her dying breath.

She's not allowed to be so uselessly poetic today. The shot misses the mark just enough to send Raven running.

Serpentine patterns saw her dancing through the laser rain. Running, ducking, rolling between the wildflowers and the space between her and 'her target'.

❝ You lead too much! Casters fire much faster than conventional weapons. ❞

The shots reached where she would be before she got there, giving her just time enough to adjust. To roll through and close the gap. Rapidly, rapidly, closing that gap. Her prize awaited her at zero range, after all. The target of her vicious affections, the little death she intended to inflict.

Kicking off of the ground, she rolled through one last tumble onto her hands and feet and pounced. Something animalistic, accentuated by the knife she held in her hands and the cackle that left her as warm, flowing life splashed across her tongue.

❝ For as long as we've got Death tamed, we should take advantage. There's a catharsis to killing the ones you love that I'd like to share with you. Only when you're ready. ❞

Raven smiled down at Irene. Caught beneath her body weight, pinned to the island, being fed the same splash of blood that Raven was offered a moment ago.

❝ You took too long, love. The next target might not be so kind as t-... thhh- ❞ There they went. Lungs fully emptied, that 'smoking crater' of hers whittling down to faint wisps filling her nose & mouth with ash. It was a good shot, she'll admit. Maybe after The Five brought her back, she'd let Irene know that.

For now, the soft rattle of an apology past her lips will have to suffice. At least until-

#dusktrip #answers tbt.#this is toxic love right? is this it? shooting your wife point blank so you can level up your marksmanship?#i haven't read the 'Of X' books yet is there a resurrection queue or do council members just jump the line cause...

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loliwrites · 2 years

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What would Addi and Alex do when they have an heated argument and their kiddos witness and think their parents gonna have a break-up/divorce because of that?

GAWDDAMNNNNN Nony. Freakin' coming for me like this.

Ugggggh I am a product of a loud, noisy household. And let me tell you, being a product of that sort of household is brutal. Lord knows the hours my therapist has spent trying to get me to work through the fact that my childhood was loud and noisy. And the bad sort of the loud and noisy. It’s not loud and noisy with laughter and giggles and love. It’s loud and noisy with yelling and anger and outbursts.

I’ve written before that Alex and Addi take pride in the fact that they don’t have that sort of home. Their home is only noisy when it’s from laughter. There’s not a lot of raised voices or (passive) aggressive tones. But we also know those fics where the lovebirds have fought. And partners do fight. It’s okay to argue as long as you’re arguing in a healthy and productive way. If there was any inclination towards yelling before kiddos, I think that’s the first thing they’re adamant about abolishing once the kiddos are born. It’s not something that happens overnight. Sometimes something happens that just rattles one of them and the first instinct is to get a little worked up -- and perhaps a bit louder than they ought too. But because it’s something that Addi doesn’t want her kids to grow up around as she did (and that Alex didn’t grow up around that), it’s something they try to be conscious of all the time.

It would have to be about work, right? The thing that sets off the argument. Something like Alex said yes to a job and he’s beyond excited about it. It’s the type of project that comes around once in a blue moon and makes you happy to be alive and part of it. As soon as the offer came in, he gave an immediate -- albeit tentative -- yes. It’s made worse that Addi finds out about it by someone other than him. Maybe Alex had left his agent’s office and wasn’t picking up his cell phone, so his agent called the apartment (let’s live in a realm where they still have a landline). Addi’s been half-battling the kiddos all day. Maybe they’re on a break from pre-school/kindergarten, so they’re particularly rowdy because of all their free time. So when she hears the voicemail his agent leaves... something about what the shooting schedule will look like. A couple months in Lithuania. And another couple in Croatia. And just the thought that he’s going to jet off for at least four months and leave her to single-handedly parent two kids under the age of five -- without so much as a conversation -- sets her off. With the kids distracted by some arts and crafts that’ll be a nightmare for her to clean up later, and Alex not answering her calls either, she’s got some time to stew.

About two hours worth of stewing before he walks through the door a little inebriated... a little too lax for her liking right now. The kids run for him the moment he passes through the threshold. They’re ready for bed, acting like little angels now after Addi basically exorcised the demons from them in the bathtub. She can straight up tell he’s working with a nice little buzz and that sets her off a little more. He was out having fun, carefree, and she was winning the golden belt buckle for kiddo wrangling rodeo. Maybe she didn’t even think she’d bring it up tonight. She knows she’s worked up about it, and conversation now probably won’t be the most productive. But she tells the boys it’s time for bed, and they groan and ignore her because their papa just walked through the door. And instead of backing her up on it, Alex kind of ignores it too. So suddenly, the thing she had no intention of bringing up tonight, is halfway out her mouth.

One stern mention about bedtime later that finally clicks in Alex’s brain that he should give them a pat to get going, and the boys are stomping off. Just as they’re alone, but not quite out of earshot from the kiddos, Addi starts -- and it’s just a bit louder than she wants it to be.

“Lithuania! Croatia! Four months?! What a nice vacation for you. Sure, fuck my work, I’ll just stay home and take care of the offspring.”

“Sweetheart,”

Normally she loves hearing that term of endearment come out of his mouth, but right now it’s like all those times on set when some older man says it and it drips condescension. “Don’t sweetheart me! I’m so fucking done with you carelessly jetting off all over creation. You’re not thirty anymore. You have responsibilities. I need help, and you just seem content to leave.”

Now, because of the liquor, Alex is looking to match the fire and spice she’s coming at him with. “I’m not leaving, I’m--”

“What do you mean you’re not leaving! Does this look like Lithuania to you?! You don’t have to take these action blockbusters that whisk you off to some random country for a tax break.”

“But I want to!“

And if Addi wasn’t seeing red before, that just about does it. “And I want to be able to follow my productions to location too! But guess what, I stay here. I don’t leave you alone to parent singlehandedly. I give you ultimate consideration and you give me none!”

Though it’s been brief, it’s been a loud argument. She’s sure the neighbors below have gotten an ear-full. It’s then that she and Alex both catch a little movement in their periphery and find that their two little kiddos have been eavesdropping and witnessed the whole thing. As soon as they find themselves in their parents’ direct line of sight, they scurry off to their bedroom as quick as their little legs can take them. Now on top of being pissed at Alex, Addi’s pissed at herself for lashing out like she has. She scrubs her hands over her face to try and stave off any tears.

“I can’t do it,” she mumbles and stares at the floor, “it’s too hard.”

With that, she turns and heads off for the kiddos’ room to try and remedy any harm their argument created. To her dismay, they look shell-shocked. Curled up together in one bed, their eyes wide with the blankets pulled up to their noses. They’re still too young to really comprehend fully, but what they do know is that they just saw mama and papa explode, and they never see that. Alex steps into the room too, just as the older kiddo asks, “are you and papa breaking up?”

She doesn’t want to act like that’s an idea that’s terrible. It’s not great, but even within their own extended family there’s a lot of disjointed and separate parents, and the kids are just as happy. But the notion of that happening to their own little family unit breaks her heart a little bit. In her hesitation, Alex sits next to her on the side of the bed and rests his hand on her back.

“Sometimes mamas and papas argue. We’re not breaking up, buddy.”

The little nugget pushes the blankets down a little bit. “Then kiss and say I love you.”

Maybe Alex feels Addi stiffen a little bit and interprets it as her not wanting affection right now. He understands. “Buddy, you know we don’t touch other people’s bodies without permission,”

“But it’s mama!”

Just like he had to do with Addi when they began dating, Alex reiterates. “We don’t touch anyone’s body without their permission, right?

The older kiddo nods, and mimicking his older brother, the younger one does too. “Mama, kiss and say I love you,“

“Bud,”

But Addi twists her body to face Alex. They’ve both calmed down, they’re both seeing the other’s perspective a little clearer now. She nods, “I love you,”

A fleeting grin passes over Alex’s face. He cups his hands over Addi’s cheeks and kisses her. It’s not anything too much, and is quickly parted when the boys spring up and hang over their parents. Alex rests his forehead against Addi’s. “I love you, too.”

They don’t talk about it for the rest of the night, deferring to leave it for the morning when truly clearer heads prevail. Alex beat her awake the next morning and made the kiddos breakfast to allow her some time to sleep in. When she awakes and grabs her first cup of coffee that morning, Alex lets her know that he’s already called his agent and backed out of the deal.

#asked #anonymous #alex skarsgard drabble #alex skarsgard #alex skarsgard imagine #angsty al #hurricane addi #papa al #also putting this under #more alex and addi

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worldismyne · 2 years

Text

Emergence

Summary: Finn swore he'd never use magic again; and yet here he was.

Pairing: Harv x Finn

Rating: T

We got an Ao3 tag now people!!!

Ao3 Link

Finn wasn't good with things involving blood, or death; or anything involving pain really. Usually, this aversion applied strictly to himself and his wellbeing. After all, most people generally deserved the wrath they received from his mother and maintaining a terrifying front was for their own protection. He'd seen the way the townspeople lashed out at the unfamiliar; at him when they thought him defenseless. It was easy to turn a blind eye to his mother's chaos and rewrite it as just punishment in his mind.

That was harder to do once Harv landed in her crosshairs. Naive Harv, whose instinct was too save those in danger first and ask questions later. A young warrior, who in hindsight, protected their main source of income from plummeting to her death. There was nothing poetic or just in forcing Harv into an illusion where he embodied the reflection of who he had saved. And certainly nothing just in letting him suffocate in an iron corset. This was just being cruel to someone for cruelty's sake. Someone who had saved Finn's life.

You can get new friends she had said, as Harv slipped out of consciousness on the floor.

It wasn't fair.

"How do I take it off?" Finn watched as the chain that laced the corset tightened. Even if he had a knife, he wouldn't be able to rip apart the magical device. "Mother, please." As she walked up, she sighed and pushed a button on the clockface at the front of the corset. She pushed the hands of the clock backwards and the metal loosened enough to let the iron plating fall back into the dirt. She dusted off her hands and pat Finn on the head.

"See, he's still breathing." Harv lay in the dirt in front of their home, his chest barely rising and the color hesitant to return to his cheeks. "Now wash up. Those cheapskates in the palace should have a better spread by now if they know what's good for them." Finn hesitated; he couldn't just leave him there.

"I think I'll take a bath first..."

"Good idea." Leenan turned and entered the house. "My illusions may be good, but you have been rolling around in the dirt." Finn looked down at his beaten-up green suit that protected his thin arms. It seemed both of them would be sore tomorrow morning.

-----

By the time Finn had dragged Harv's body to the tub room, large purple and black bruises had bloomed against the lower half of his torso. He had never really paid attention when people prattled on about the four humors or herbology; but he knew soaking in hot water should help somewhat. At the very least, it would keep him from getting goat smell in the house. He had plenty of mint and citrus scented things he'd received as gifts. He never liked the smell on him and supposedly they helped with fatigue; so, it couldn't hurt to throw in a whole bottle of the stuff.

By some miracle Finn had got him into the tub, but when the hot water hit Harv's skin, he didn't wake. His breathing was still incredibly shallow, even unconscious it was too painful for him to breathe. Finn worried his lip between his teeth as he dug through the rows of bottle. What else helped breathing; maybe lavender, but that wouldn't help him wake up.

He yelped when he turned and saw Harv had slipped below the surface of the water. Finn rushed to his side and pulled him back up from under the shoulders. It was easier to move him in the water, but when Finn held him tight Harv's ribs caved against the pressure. Finn froze for a moment, his friend limp in his arms. No amount of bath oils would help with broken bones. He wasn't coughing up the water either, it was just rattling in his nose and throat.

"Finn, are you alright darling?" His mother knocked at the door.

"Uhh, yeah-" Finn groaned internally, he didn't have the most convincing tone at the moment, caught between panicking and crying.

"Oh, well," his mother's voice softened from the other side of the door, "your little warrior friend went home so there's nothing to worry about." Harv's skin was cold above the water. "If you need anything..." She trailed off and Finn let out a sigh of relief when he heard his mother walk away from the door. There was something he needed, but he honestly wasn't sure he'd be able to have it. At this point, it was better to ask for forgiveness than permission. He let himself linger with his arms around Harv's shoulders a little longer as he gathered his strength to pull the dead-weight out of the bath. There had to be some way to sneak the boy upstairs.

-----

Mother's study was a winding labyrinth of hastily stacked piles of things, from half-finished spells to stray potion ingredients. None of it was remotely organized, however the most rare objects generally had a way of being stowed in a safe place. So it really wasn't the tracking down of the ingredients that had made turning to magic Finn's last resort, rather...

Magic was incredibly unpredictable.

Even spells made with good intentions could act up if the caster wasn't focused enough or pure enough or unable to combat the temperament of nature. The chances of unintended results heightened if one's intentions deviated from the purpose of the spell. And considering Finn had to pick apart the phoenix feather with tongs, lest it scald him, he had doubts that the healing salve would even work. His only consolation is he knew exactly how it worked.

The small fibers of the phoenix feather were mixed with sea salt and honey, then heated over the flame of a white candle until the mixture turned into a thick slurry. Lavender incense hung heavy in the air as Finn pulled the potion off the flame and mixed in the clove oil and waited for it to cool.

Harv lay nestled in Finn's bed, and Finn eyed the unnatural curve of his ribs with concern. If he just dumped it on him, the broken bones could mend at an improper angle and worsen the problem. The only way to be certain the bones were set correctly would be by feel. Finn looked at the bowl of golden goo and muttered a small string of curses under his breath before dipping his fingers into the salve.

The healing properties kept his skin from blistering, but the potion burned, like placing a hand on needles fresh from a kiln. His stomach turned. He really didn't want to experience moving and setting bones, let alone inflict something so painful onto Harv when he was in this state, but it was the only thing he could do to help.

Gently he worked from the bottom up, humming a stuttered song to distract himself from the sensations and the fact that Harv still wasn't really responding. With the last rib set, Finn spread the salve across Harv's chest and nearly cried when the warrior finally took a deep breath and sputtered out a few weak and wet coughs.

It was actually working.

He carefully rubbed another layer of the potion into the skin. Really, it would work best if Harv drank it, but it was such a vile tasting thing. The bruises melted away and at long last color returned to Harv's lips and fingertips.

"...Are you real?" Finn's nameless tune died in his throat at the sound of Harv's voice. Before he could think of a response, Harv had threaded his fingers through Finn's bangs. Finn looked up, Harv's expression betraying confusion, and something Finn couldn't put his finger on. Whatever it was, it was soft and hopeful. Finn took Harv's hand away from the path it was tracing down his face and gave it back to him.

"Yeah, this is real."

"Man..." Harv relaxed a little into the pillows, "I guess I did something right." His words were a little clumsy and he was still rattled with fatigue, but he was awake. He'd be okay.

"You really should be more careful. Do you know how worried I was?" Finn got up from the bed to grab the decimated bowl, "It wouldn't kill you to think before you act." He handed to the bowl to Harv, "I'm sorry, but you really should drink some of this." Harv didn't even spare the bowl a second glance.

"A little late for that, don't you think?" Harv said. Finn blinked slowly and again had to pull Harv's hand away from his hair.

"Harvey, what are you-"

"I mean, they don't send angels to collect the living." Finn started to laugh, of all times for Harv to find a sense of humor. It was quite funny, comparing him to an angel, but Harv wasn't laughing.

"Goodness, you're serious." Finn placed the back of his hand to Harv's forehead. No fever, and the illusion spell was already broken, so maybe he was just a little disoriented. "You're not dead, just a little worse for wares."

"...but you're so pretty." Okay, very disoriented, though sincere nonetheless, and very insistent on about pushing Finn's hair out of his face. "And I'm sitting on a pink cloud."

"It's just my bed Harvey." Finn sighed. Harv looked down at the fleece covers and back at Finn, his face now flushed.

"I- wow." Harv shook his head. "Wait..." The wheels in his head were turning slowly as Harv tried to chase down whatever thought had briefly come to him. "Are your eyes purple? They're the same color as wildflowers."

"Yes Harv." Finn watched as the warrior, completely enthralled, tried to sit up only to hiss with pain. "It wouldn't hurt as bad if you just drank this..." Well, he really couldn't call it magic or a potion, then Harv would never drink it. "Just, come on and drink." He cupped his hands around Harv's to get him to hold the bowl and coached him to bring the bowl toward his face.

"You sure you're not an angel?"

"Positive." Finn said with a laugh. Harv finally took a sip. He didn't seem put off by the salt and honey, which was surprising, but Finn wasn't about to say anything to deter Harv from drinking the potion.

"Then why are you here?" Harv couldn't tear his eyes away from Finn. The unflinching softness in Harv's face, it made Finn feel a little giddy. Maybe it was an adrenaline rush caused by going from so worried to so relieved in a short amount of time. The joy of knowing that despite his mother causing Harv so much pain, the boy didn't seem to hate him.

"I'm your friend Harv."

"You're my friend?" Harv tried to set the bowl back into his lap, deeply distracted and in awe. "How'd I do that?" Finn guided Harv's hand to lift the bowl again. "Do we see each other a lot?"

"Everyday." Finn agreed with a smile, it was like trying to redirect a child.

"Everyday?"

"Yes Harv, come on, you have to finish the bowl."

"Everyday." Harv repeated in awe before finally taking another drink.

"You should get some rest. Healing can be exhausting." And more aptly, he didn't trust Harv to walk himself home in this state.

"Is that really, okay?" Harv asked, his head and eyelids were already growing heavy. "I don't want to..."

"It's fine Harv, you can stay as long as you need." In which case, he really should own up to his mother that he'd snuck Harv up here. The last thing he wanted was for Harv to get blamed for something he had no control over. Finn went to get up, but Harv gently held his wrist. Harv was tired, and the magic needed more time to settle in and do its work. Still, Harv looked at him like he had hung the moon and the stars in the sky.

"Don't go, please?" Finn sat back down on the bed. Harv's thumb traced small circles on the back on of Finn's hand.

"I'll be the first thing you see when you wake up." Finn said with a smile.

"Good."

#warrior u #harvfinn #little finnharv things #WU fanfic archive

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ninjacat1515 · 1 year

Text

Eimear ferociously hugged her father, comforted by his powerful presence. He was going to be ok, she was going to be ok! Breathing in and out, she chanced a look at the two humans and Villager, who were preparing to fight for their lives.

They had been planning to take her father's mind away, along with her own, and countless other Illagers. Still....should she just let them go all the same? Choose peace? It seemed so foolish and that she would regret giving mercy. They had been fully on board with giving her the chemical, and hadn't even paused at the fact she was barely 13.

Alex and Steve could see Eimear's thought process. She was unsure about what should happen to them, and it rattled their brains. Frederick was hoping she would grant them mercy, and thus give him time to perfect his original plans. He had been so close, had Matias of all Illagers in his grasp, and this was such an unfortunate barrier.

He put on the act of regret and shame. Eimear was a dumb kid and he could persuade her far more easily than her parents.

"Father....mother...I just want to go home. Leave them be."

Alex gasped and Steve felt his heart leap. Frederick kept his face relieved and his smile of future victory hidden. Good girl, good foolish girl...I want your father, your mother, you...all of you will be rendered docile as farm animals.

Matias and Fiadh along with their fighters snarled at Eimear's ridiculous request.

"You cannot be serious child! Please tell me you are only joking..."

"What an empty headed-"

"Let them all go. Illagers have been living our lives this way and look where it landed us! Where it landed me!! If I don't at least TRY nothing will ever change!"

Frederick jolted at her little speech and felt his desire to go forth with his plans falter. Alex and Steve shared a glance and the grip on their weapons lessened. They kept a close eye on the reactions of the others, who radiated frustration and bloodthirst..

"My dear child, this is a mistake." Matias rumbled, keeping her close to him.

"The only mistake would be to do things how we've always done them! Let them go. We can burn this place to the ground and destroy the formulas, but let them live."

Fiadh ground her teeth, chomping the bit for destruction and death.

"Take your rage out on this building, mother. Leave nothing standing. All I ask is that you spare the three of them."

"Alright Eimear...but should they attempt this again I will slaughter them."

Matias threw one of the tables into the far wall with a roar and pointed at the Heroes and Villager.

"Get out of my sight..." he hissed, eyes blazing.

The Pillager was fully prepared for the three to create trouble later, and was writing the longest speech in his head to lecture his daughter with when they got home. She had so much to learn, and this was likely her first real mistake, one that he would allow her to make for a teachable moment.

Steve and Alex flew out of the building with Frederick in tow, racing off into the dark woods. Never had they been spared by Illagers before, but the Heroes had gratitude in their hearts. Frederick was silent and contemplative. The chemical enticed him but this event weakened his resolve. For now, and possibly for the future too, he would let his plans go.

#minecraft alex #illager oc

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petraforgedyke · 2 years

Text

Clash

first | next

The rest of the band left an hour ago, maybe more, claiming all kinds of excuses to get going. If it weren't for the fact that she's livid, Sialuk wouldn't blame them. She'd be home by now. But instead it's just her and Ranee on opposite sides of the space they rent for rehearsals, occasionally looking up to glower at each other.

After what feels like forever, she's had enough.

"You." She can hear her own voice echo in her ear, sharp, cutting. Ranee looks up from their laptop, they've been furiously typing something on it for a good fifteen minutes. They narrow their eyes at her, and Sialuk can see their nostrils flare as they take a breath, the minute curl of their lip into almost a sneer.

Good. At least that means she's not the only one who's angry.

She gets up slowly, and Ranee follows her with their eyes, watches her pace the space. She can feel their eyes on her.

Tonight should have been a good show. It had been, for the most part, up until a couple of kids had gotten a little bit too drunk, and had gotten rowdy. Somebody had thought that was a good enough reason to call the cops on them, and things had escalated from there on out.

Ranee's eyes are cool when she meets them, as if they are above it all, as if they hadn't gotten already into it three times before the rest of the band had slowly trickled home.

"Do you have any fucking idea..." She can't quite frame her thoughts in the right words, and she huffs a breath. She doesn't have to say anything, Ranee knows what she's about to say anyway, and they shrug, eyes cool as their voice.

"I don't see the issue." They look back to their laptop screen, a rattle of the keys echoing in Sialuk's ears. "If they had wanted to keep things pleasant, they should have behaved pleasantly."

SIaluk can feel everything in her scream at her to do something, shake them, or... Instead of doing something she might regret later, she aims a kick at an empty box that's in her way. It thuds against the wall, and Sialuk can hear Ranee get off their spot behind her.

"I think we can both agree..."

"We can not." She knows she's yelling. "What kind of fucking place do we make our shows if we allow pigs?" The question is rhetorical. This is a point where the two of them have butt heads before.

Ranee tilts their head. They're just looking at her, gaze analytical, though Sialuk in her less charitable moments calls that look calculating. They finally shrug, and Sialuk can feel her bones itch for action, for anything. Ranee takes two steps forward, into her space, and there's always the little thrill when they have to look up to look her in the eye. "Without law enforcement, things would have gotten out of hand." They seem to be punctuating every word, and Sialuk has had enough, and shoves.

Ranee doesn't stumble, catches themself instead. For a moment they lock eyes, and Sialuk can see them narrow their eyes.

Good.

Sialuk expects the first push back, braces herself, one leg back, arms raised.

Things devolve from there until she's got Ranee pinned against the wall, Sialuk's forearm crossing over their chest, holding them there.

Cool grey eyes meet her own. Both of them are breathing hard, and Sialuk can hear the more rational part of her brain engage, get a word in edgewise for just a moment.

Another moment passes, and Sialuk pushes away, turns to stomp away.

Before she can get very far, one of her arms is grabbed, and she's the one being pinned, Ranee's slender hands twisted into her shirt as they just about snarl at her.

"You do not get to walk away from this now."

They stare at each other.

It's not quite clear who moves first.

Ranee's mouth is hard against her own, thin lips and sharp teeth. She knows she's sharp too.

Ranee's hands are still twisted into her shirt, and she reaches for the front of Ranee's shirt when they pull back, leans her forehead against theirs for a moment.

Both of them are breathing fast, and Sialuk can't help but grin, despite everything.

#numberoneteam #seg writes #diimre au

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