#that is why he is so bloodstained. i feel like in his free time he would be freelancing detective work for other vampires maybe to gather u | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

pursuitseternal · 2 months

Text

“Dark Kissing:” 🫦 nsfw, making a Vampire Bride in “Our Blood is Thicker:”

(Ascended) Astarion x Cordehlia (Tav) | E | 2.6K of the Nsfw Dark Kiss

Art by co-creator and illustrator @marimosalad , NSFW version on X

Summary: Cordehelia rouses herself to feed, but the Dark Kiss is far more dangerous than merely awakening. She must be checked, subdued, brought under control by her love and creator by any means necessary

CW: Rough Sex turns Romantic, blood kink, hair pulling, Feral Vampires getting freaky, The Knee™️, (lovingly) Dom!Ascended Astarion, my interpretation of Van Richten’s “Guide to Vampires” 2e, heartbeat kink, nothing like feral sex followed by soft cuddling aftercare

Previous Ch | ao3 Link | Masterlist

Chapter 19: Dark Kissing…

🫦💞🫦💞🫦💞🫦💞🫦💞🫦💞🫦💞🫦💞🫦

“Astarion…” she purred, voice thickened with his blood, a bit strange on her tongue, as if she savored every letter in his name.

But that strangeness hardly registered, his body winding tight with lust as he looked into her own crimson eyes, as her lips drank him down for the first time. He could feel himself inside her, coursing in her veins, pumping in her whole body, not just that sweet, slick channel he longed to fuck into once more. Something deep inside him unlocked, robust and powerful and all consuming.

Blood ran down her chin, a sight that made his every breath race from his slack-mouthed, fang-licking grin. Her lips were cool on his wrist, warming hotter the more of him she drank. “Oh, my love,” he groaned, slinking to straddle her prone body between his thighs. “I could watch you swallow me down for hours…”

“You have, my love,” she chuckled, thick and deep in her chest as she hardly broke from his flesh.

A flash filled his mind, stronger than their tadpoles, their bodies and minds and souls as one. It was as if he relived every time she had sucked his cock, tasting himself on her tongue, feeling the way her throat closed with all the cum he spewed countless times over countless years. Instantly, his cock strained again against his leathers, that claustrophobic feeling of clothing suffocating his ever-growing desire.

His need to have her.

And yet she drank more. Until his skin began to tear, his head growing slightly light. “Enough, Cordehlia,” he whispered, a grind of his hips above her, his wrist freeing from her mouth.

Only to be ripped back by her fiercely strong grip once more. “But you taste so good, my love,” she crooned, “and I am just so hungry.”

Astarion recalled all that reading, gritting his teeth as he pulled against her, fought against the way both her hands clawed into his arm. “You will listen to me,” he ordered. Louder. “You must stop, or else you will die.”

Her voice made him shiver, unnatural and dark. “I think that’s already happened, hasn’t it?” One last musical laugh from her bloodstained lips, and she sank her newborn fangs into his forearm to feed all the more.

A growl on his lips, Astarion dug deep into whatever new well of power, of strength lay inside him. Never mind the way his heart actually began to rap harder in his chest, in lust and in fear. “You will listen to me, Cordehlia,” he hissed through clenched fangs. Wrestling his arm from her mouth, he felt every muscle in her body move to attack, ready to spring. Wanting more. “Ah, ah,” he smiled, darkly, determinedly. Catching her hands, he pinned them over her head, staying them with all the strength he could find, even as she thrashed and kicked and snapped her teeth. “Little Raven, I promised you I would save you, now you have to trust me just a little further. You are still being remade, turning into something so beautiful, so fierce I can hardly believe it. Why don’t we try a little something else to busy your lips and tongue with, hmm?”

A roar from her mouth, she bucked him off, sending him clean off the bed. Astarion braced himself against the wall, feeling less dizzy and stronger the less she drank. Somehow, his body knew what to do, more than that which was just between lovers. He knew he had to subdue her, keep her safe, lest she endanger herself.

A duck of his head, and he dove out of her tackle. Wild and crazed with bloodlust, she might be, but all that grace was yet to come back to her. He gripped her by the back of her shirt, his fingers easily tearing through that linen, baring her even paler flesh for him to see at last. “Come on, Cordehlia,” he laughed as she turned, eyes narrowed and breasts heaving with her pants, “you used to put up a better fight as a girl.”

Yes…. She took the bait, racing for him blindly, only to be shoved from behind and laid flat out on the floor at the foot of the bed. She froze for that moment, wind knocked out of her, even though her undead lungs required none of that now. He needed to finish this, needed to subdue her in more than one way. His hands ran down her back, lightly tracing over the bumps of her spine. “I’m going to strip you, my darling, going to take your mind off that pit in your stomach. You hunger, and I can sense how painful it is, my love. Let me ease that pain.”

“Want me… to say please?” She panted, breathless as she gasped for air.

“If you’d like, my darling…” he wasted no second of his advantage, shimmying down her trousers, ripping them like paper with such ease in his new and powerful hands.

“Fuck you, Astarion,” she grunted trying to get up, but he just covered her backside with his whole body and grabbed for her hands again to capture them against the floor.

“That is the idea, my love,” he tried to chuckle, the same jibe as they had made many times before. But never like this. Never with every instinct in his ascendant brain screaming at him to claim her and finish the task at hand. He settled heavily on her back, pushing her as hard as he could into the ground to keep her steady, her two cold hands in one of his, he tugged off his shirt and freeded the laces of his breeches.

But for all the pounding drumming in his head that could have blinded him, he looked down at her. Pinned, subdued, ready and panting and sweating.

He didn’t see some creation half-made. Didn’t see a servant or slave for his use.

It was her, addled and unsure and newborn. Lusty and scared. And he tried to slow that reborn and foreign beating in his chest.

“Cordehlia,” he leaned forward, tracing the pad of his tongue up her chilled, pointed ear. “My sweet, I’ve got you.”

Still she fought, twitching and jerking under his hold, but his hands rested on each of hers to slide them next to that mess of fiery red hair. He could see her breathing so hard as her skin pulled between her ribs. She needed calming, claiming… he suckled on that cool right ear, forcing the urge to bite into her flesh again back into his stomach. Something inside her purred, her voice maybe, her soul perhaps. But whatever it was, he did it again. And again. Suckling on the edges of her ear as it twitched. Feeling her flesh mildly warm now with his blood flooding her and her lust taking command.

Her breathing grew softer, steadier and less frantic, he sensed her rising heat, smelled the way slick began to gather between her folds. His cock jolted to feel her begin to buck beneath him, almost grinding against the floor as her hunger traveled below her belly to simmer lower and stronger. Shifting carefully if quickly, his knees spread her wider, his sharp ears hearing her arousal dripping to the wood beneath them.

The way she raised her hips ever so slightly as he slipped between her thighs drew some kind of noise from his throat. Feral. Hungry. He loved it, laying his whole length down to cover her head to toe. Her skin was cold, a strange shiver raced down his spine as he pressed her into the floor. As he pushed her apart, letting his cock slip in so naturally, so slowly, finding that wet and tight warmth he craved more than air.

A low purr seemed to sound from her, her back arching against his chest. She hissed, a little roll of her hips, pleading for more of him. raising herself against him, she wriggled his cock deeper, bracing for his thrusts to begin. “Please, Astarion,” she breathed, voice honey-thick in her throat, “you wouldn’t leave your Bride unsatisfied, would you?”

Bride. At the word, he groaned loudly, fangs wet as he smiled, shoving his cock deeper inside as he buried his face into the crook of her neck. “Never, my darling,” he rasped. Another guttural noise, and he released one hand from hers, wrapping that length of bright fiery hair around his hand once… twice, and yanking her head back slightly. “You are mine forever now, my love until the stars fall down.”

Warm lips pressed against the cool ivory of her neck, careful to keep his teeth covered, lest he stir awake her bloodlust again. But Cordehlia wasted no time, slamming and wriggling her cunt against his cock, easing forward to easy back again.

A hiss rushed from his mouth against her skin each time she dared to move. Finally, he rocked into her ever so slightly, letting his cock sink all the way into her, letting that aching, pulsing head brush against that edge of her channel. Curling, she snapped her hips hard against him, stealing his breath.

Another snap, and he groaned, that insatiable hunger for her growing unbearable. That reality of his freedom, his power starting to course in his veins as she bucked back against him with even more fervor. “You’re an eager little thing,” he sighed, running his tongue over the scars on her neck, taking her ear into the warm, wet of his mouth once more. “I like you this eager,” whispering, he savored the way she shuddered beneath him.

“Then give me some of your own eagerness back, won’t you? I would hate to do all the work for you… my lord…”

Enough of coyness and carefulness he decided as he grasped her head, pulling her mouth to his to assume control. He needed her on his tongue again, needed to devour and consume and dance with her lips as they had a thousand times. “I love you,” his words breathed between her lips as he sucked more of her with each kiss. “I never want to do this with anyone but you ever again.”

A wish he had made once, so long ago under the elven forest and stars.

He could almost smell the woods near their homes, almost hear that babbling stream and feel the moss beneath them as every sinew sought the release they both craved. Thrust after thrust, he could feel her pressure rising, the way her thighs began to shake, her mouth panting and sighing heavily against his open lips. He could taste himself on her tongue yet, that rich iron, that tingling sensation of power, the same that raced down his nerves… and just like that, he knew she was about to seek more of him.

Drink more of him.

A yank of her hair in that fist, and he pulled her off his flesh just as her own razor-fangs snapped shut. “Tch, naughty, my bride,” he teased. A trail of caresses down her spine, and he raised himself. One hand rested on her shoulders, hair tugged just tight enough, he slipped his warming touch around her hips. Her clit was hard, aching and easy to find, and it was so simple to circle it. To make her moan for him, to raise her ass up just that little bit higher and take him all the deeper. To angle himself as he slammed into that spot inside that he knew better than she did herself.

He chewed into his own lip, clenching hard but not to draw blood. No, he needed her sated. Pleasured. Flooded with the bliss they shared now.

Lord and Bride.

Maker and beautiful creation.

Her pleasure tore into him, every muscle that clenched around him pounded as if his own. Her voice cried his name, that she loved him… her sweet words panted over and over again as she crumbled to the floor, boneless, bloodless, hot, and writhing.

Slowly, he pulled out, turning her on her back, longing more than anything to see her smile. Radiant, breathtaking, her breasts heaved as she caught her wind, her hair streaked over her damp and sweating face, and most beautifully, she smiled at him through her bliss. Her little fangs peeked beneath her rosy lips, her tongue wetting her mouth as she pulled those fiery, loose strands from her cheeks and chin.

Reverently, his own hands helped to clear her forehead, strand by precious strand. Laying his body atop hers, a groan slipped from his lips as she raised her hips to slot his cock back into her seeping, wet folds. He breathed her name, believing for the first time that she was with him again, saved.

Now made of one flesh.

Sharing one blood.

A blood that ran hot and thick forever between them.

He couldn’t hold her close enough, couldn’t thrust into her smoothly or deeply enough. He couldn’t taste enough of her on his tongue or feel her slightly chilled breath sweep into his own lung in any amount that would satisfy. His fingers gripped against the back of her head, weaving tightly again into that mess of her locks, the other wrapped firmly around her breast, the hard, cool nipple pressing into his palm like stone as he gripped it, as it swayed in time with his taking of her.

That tether between their bodies, that bond between their minds, something within them snapped taut, his heart beating in her chest, his very essence hers too. Every sensation between their bodies doubled, coursing harder as he drove her to the edge of her climax, thrown there himself as her side. She clawed at his back of ancient scars, body arching and trembling as she groaned her love for him again.

And this time, he followed, pouring every last bit of himself into her, making and remaking her anew. His cock shuddered, jolt after jolt of pleasure bursting from his core into hers. Seed seeped, hot and slick and mixed into one as he lowered himself into her arms.

Nestled into that bloodied crook of her neck, he could do nothing but breathe, forcing his eyes to remain open, to assure himself that this was it. That it was done.

That every little bit of trust she had put in him was replaced tenfold. And would be repaid again for the rest of their immortal lives.

Touch ghosting up and down his back, she smiled against his forehead, lips pressing their strange, cool kiss just beneath the edge of his curls. “I love you…” she whispered, almost imperceptible. Almost inside her own mind.

With a grunt of effort, he slipped from inside her, a tender kiss on her lips before he reached up and over the top of the bed to grab for the blood red covers. The heavy fabric fluttered as he draped it over them both, as his hands tucked it around her shoulders, her back. “I love you, my darling…” he kissed her cheek, “my consort…” he kissed her forehead before staring softly into those searching, crimson eyes, “…my bride.”

Astarion pulled her into his chest, rolling her to rest against his warm flesh and racing heart. “Rest, my love, we have eternity to make up for lost time now.”

His hands traced through the softness of the blanket, and his warmth seeped into her skin. She wouldn’t let it out from her lips just yet, how strange it was now to be the one corpse-cold, to be the lover to seek the warmth of her love. But as she nuzzled closer into that perfect dip in the muscles of his chest, she smiled.

A tear leaked from her eye.

To hear that ancient pattern of his heart beating beneath her ear again.

182 notes · View notes

shuttershocky · 6 months

Note

how do you feel about iori/saber so far by the way, whether as a ship or just their dynamic in general

I really like their dynamic!

While Iori and Saber themselves are full of callbacks to the original Shirou and Saber, their relationship dynamic is something that's all their own.

Usually a servant like FSR Saber would have belonged to a more emotional master. Saber starts the game out as an arrogant, destructive force and a bit of a bully, constantly going "Good grief my master's so weak! How did I get such a weak master when I can solo this whole thing? I should just kill everybody that gets in my way."

Rather than get upset or insecure however, Iori's humility and martial discipline ends up making a wall for Saber's arrogance to repeatedly bounce off of. When told he's weak, he goes "You are right. I don't fight because I'm strong, but because I should." When Saber talks down to him saying his presence doesn't change the outcome of a fight whatsoever, he just goes "I know. I'm doing the best I can."

This doesn't just eventually warm Saber up to him, but it also ends up creating the soul of their dynamic for the rest of the game. Saber's powerful, impulsive, and free in all their aspects, while Iori is measured, disciplined, and tied down (he's poor, he's an orphan, he's a warrior in an age of peace). This leads to fun gags like Saber having that classic Saber gluttony which wreaks havoc on Iori as a poor ronin living hand to mouth every day, but where this really shines is in how it makes its own twist in the original dynamic of Shirou and Saber.

Underneath Shirou and Saber's relationship was the recognition of themselves in the other. Both were willing to give up their entire lives for the greater good without once thinking of themselves, and seeing it in the other person horrified them because that was someone they cared about, while making a special exception for their own self-sacrifice.

In Samurai Remnant, Saber wonders how could such a weak human have summoned a servant as powerful as them, but the answer slowly becomes obvious as their relationship grows. Hiding underneath Saber's smug nature is a legend known for brutally killing anything and everything that stood in their way, whether that be armies, kings, monsters, or even gods. Why? What could compel a human to put a god to the sword just because they were ordered to? How broken and terrible inside must you be to see an aspect of divine power and feel no fear, only the desire to fight and to kill something that should be untouchable by a human?

The most delicious part of Iori and Saber's developing relationship is Saber slowly realizing that the bravery in Iori's eyes when he (literally) locks blades with a Servant is not bravery, but something much more familiar.

It should also be said that FSR Saber is one of the extremely few servants (if not the first even) to cry about the thought of leaving their Master after the ritual has ended.

Bittersweet goodbyes have been a mainstay of the series since Fate/Stay Night, but FSR is the first time in my memory that we see a Servant look back at the short, second life they've been given and actually break into tears about not wanting to go.

Going back to the throne of heroes would mean returning to legend. They'd be the bloodstained killer and godslayer. Unparalleled, feared, revered, and alone. Meanwhile in this incarnation, they run around doing odd jobs every day to afford rice, assumed by the neighbors to be the new fiance of the poor ronin that lives in a shack, destined to be forgotten by history like everyone around them living humble and ordinary lives. And now that they've tasted it, they don't want to go back. They've fallen in love with this life, and have to live out the rest of the Waxing Moon Ritual knowing they don't have a choice about going back.

It's soooooo good. Such a perfect capture of that vintage Type-Moon feeling, I'd almost forgotten this wasn't even written by TM themselves but by the Fire Emblem Three Houses team.

#FSR spoilers #Fate Samurai Remnant

285 notes · View notes

sleepingnova · 11 months

Note

Hello! Could you do a female!reader that's a spider woman and tends to Miles Morales wounds when he comes back home?

Feel free to ignore this, I hope you are having a beautiful day!!

of course, hope you like it :) it took me a minute, but I really liked how it turned out.

SUNFLOWER 🌻

Pairing: miles morales x spider-woman reader, implied female reader.

Summary : being the significant other of miles morales aka spiderman, you never know what could happen, but he knows he can always trust you'll be there.

word count : 1.8k

“I hate Quantum Mechanics.” You mumbled to yourself as you rolled around your floor in your rolly chair with your knees tucked to your chest as you pushed yourself around.

Your soundproof walls in your room catching your music on your speakers and pushing it back out, creating a comfy, safe environment. Your phone started ringing, its vibrations slowly being muffled by your thick comforter on your lofted bed.

“I’m going to get water, you stay put, professor fat cat.” You pointed at your slightly chubby cat as he stretched and rolled over on your carpet under your desk. He meowed softly at you as you smiled and walked out of your room.

As you went to get water, you couldn’t shake the feeling something was wrong. Everything was off, nothing was burning, so why was your anxiety pooling in your stomach and why were your spider senses going off so violently right now?

In actuality, your phone ringing was none other than your boyfriend, miles. He was calling because he was badly injured and needed a place to lay low and rest.

You shrugged it off and concluded that it was time for you to take your anxiety medication again. As you walked back into the room with a bottle of water and a pack of chocolate pretzels, your chubby kitty brushed against your legs as the door shut behind you.

Your parents were out of town for the month and you were happy because, let’s be honest, your parents stressed you out. Like hair pulling, want to scream at them every chance you get because of how they talk to you stressed out. It was just bad, and Miles’ parents definitely knew that.

When you started coming over regularly, Miles’ mom, Rio, started to get concerned when you didn’t want to go home and when she would pop into his room to say good night when she would see you curled into a ball, on the hardwood floor, shivering as miles would be working at his desk, completely oblivious.

You hated taking your medicine because it was really gross. As you were taking it, you heard some glass breaking in the living room, to which you and your cat jumped. You quickly put your spidersuit on and swiftly crawled across the room to switch the light off. You shushed your kitty as he followed you into the dimly lit hall where heavy, jagged breathing could be heard in your living room.

Meanwhile, Miles had been trying to contact you, but you were not answering the phone at all. He finally got to your living room window, and saw a light on.

“Here goes nothing, please forgive me darling.” He whispered, as he venom-struck the window, wincing when he heard the shards fall to the floor and climbed into it and rested on the couch, clutching his sides, breathing turning ragged and harsh. His hands were cold and clammy, and he started feeling light headed.

As you silently walked into the living room, you identified the unknown person to be none other than your boyfriend, miles. He’s struggling to catch his breath, as he slides off your couch and onto the hardwood floor, his blood slowly seeping out and onto the floor. You inch over and within a few seconds, you’re hovering over him. Your hands have a mind of their own as they inch closer and closer to his face, his mask’s bloodstains coating your fingertips as you finally pull the mask off.

There you are met with your boyfriend’s brown eyes, clouded in darkness. He groans as you remove his mask, cupping his face as he coughs. His eyes softened in sorrow when he saw your look of terror and fear when you saw his face.

“Oh, miles. Darling boy, what happened to you. Who’s done this to my boy?” You gasped as you removed your suit. He lightly chuckled before groaning in pain.

“Come on, take off the suit, baby. It’s a good thing I’m super smart, graduated college at 15, and graduated med school early with a doctorate, because you’re bleeding all over my floor.” You lightly laughed while tugging at his arms to get him to stand up, him still clutching his sides. You shot a couple webs at whatever his injury was on his side to plug up the blood so he could undress.

“I don’t have anything on under here. You still want me to take the suit off?” He gasps, in between breaths.

“Yes, I’m not focused on how your body looks, miles. You know me better than that. I need to make sure you don’t die on my couch.” You rolled your eyes before turning around to grab the first aid kit.

He nodded, before slowly pulling his suit, which was heavily stained with blood, off and tossing it on the floor. “Sorry about the window, by the way. You weren’t answering the phone, and I couldn’t go to the hospital, it was too far.” He mumbled in embarrassment, partly because he broke your window, and also because he didn’t have anything on except his boxers, to which, you weren’t in that part of your relationship yet. Sure you both were sophomores in college, and you both have had your experiences with one another, but you both were in love with each other. You were his first everything, he just didn’t know if you were ready to go that far with him yet. He didn’t know if you even wanted to go that far with him.

You walked back in after grabbing the first aid kit and sat down on the couch.

“Alright, show me. I have to patch a couple things, will you let me do that, my love?” You say, while setting down your equipment. He nods and you gently push him back into the arm of the couch.

“Is that a needle? Wha– why do you have that?” He asks, his heart beating faster as his eyes follow the syringe needle that is in your hand.

“Yes, I have to use this. Alright, this is lidocaine, don’t think about it.” You ask, and when he starts squirming as the needle slowly pierces his abdomen skin, you grasp his hand, shifting his attention.

“Hey, I said not to think about it. Almost done, you’re doing great. Alright, done with that, how do you feel? Does anything hurt?” You ask, slowly letting go of his hand, as you hear your boyfriend exhale deeply, almost as if he was holding his breath. He shook his head, and indicated he couldn’t feel anything on his abdomen. With that, you got started.

“What's that bucket for? Wha— what are ya doin’?” He asks, his eyes following your every move.

“It’s okay, just some disinfectant for your wounds. Don't worry, you’ll be alright.” You coo at him, trying to reassure him after seeing the fear settle in his eyes.

He watches as you dab the cotton ball into the disinfectant and slowly wipe the area around his wound. The dark crimson blood starts to pool again around him. You work quickly and steadily, your hands never wavering. Fortunately, it was only wounds around his abdomen, which only one of them went deep enough to need stitches.

“Okay, I have to put this on your wound to clean it, okay? It’s going to burn, but bear with me. I’ll have you as good as new in no time, baby. In the meantime, you can’t be spiderman for a while. At least a couple months. Which means I need your suit. I’m not asking you to hang up the suit entirely, but to give yourself time to recover.” You explain, while slowly removing the webs you put in place onto his deeper wound as he stares at you in disbelief, confusion, and anger.

“Wha–? No, I gotta do this, I’m okay.” He countered at you.

Shaking your head, you offered to take his position for a bit, arguing that no one knew who was under the mask, so it wouldn’t be too much of a difference. He sighed after some convincing from your side, and finally agreed. Time feels like it stopped and the silence became uncomfortable. Your mind was just in another world, while your hands moved on their own.

His words sounded like mumblings but you were brought back to the same living room you were currently in by your cat brushing up against you, and then suddenly jumping onto you. You blinked and looked around.

“Your hands are so steady, are you not nervous?” He questioned you.

“Not really, but I’ve had a lot of practice to get my hands this steady. Years of sewing, crocheting, playing the guitar, a lot of things that play into my ability to keep my hands steady. My first intern job was to fix old clothes for a fashion designer’s store.” You responded, looking up into his eyes. You both locked eyes for what felt like an eternity, before continuing to finish the stitching.

“Alright, I’m done with the stitches. All I have to do now is bandage your stomach and clean your face. So, can you sit up, sweetheart?” You coo at him, watching him nod and slowly sit up against the couch. He felt your soft hands cup his face, and he sighed contently, thinking what did he do to deserve someone as wonderful as you. You smiled lovingly at him as you bandaged his stomach and grabbed a face cloth to wipe his face. The cloth absorbed the water from the bucket as you wringed it out and wiped the dried blood off of his face and knuckles on his hands. You announced you were finished as you stood up to stretch.

“Here, let me help you clean up. At least let me clean the glass off the couch.” He pleaded, feeling a little guilty because of him technically breaking and entering but also you did all that work while, in his mind, he just sat and did nothing.

You cleaned everything, and started to follow your chubby cat back down the hallway as it stumbled on its thick legs back into your room. You gestured for him to come in with you, and he did.

Miles plopped onto your bed, and pulled the blanket over him. You laughed quietly as you put your quantum mechanic homework away, and then tidied up your room. When you finished, he couldn’t help but ask, “Are you sure you can take over being spiderman until I come back?” You could sense the uncertainty in his voice.

You chuckled as you kissed the top of his forehead, then replied, “Yeah, trust me, I got it. After all, anyone can wear the mask.”

hope you liked it!! should I make a part two of the reader going out and daily shenanigans of her being spiderman while miles is recovering? Likes, comments, and reblogs are always appreciated :]

#miles morales #into the spider verse #miles morales x reader #across the spiderverse #beyond the spiderverse

217 notes · View notes

allineedisonedream · 2 months

Note

omg i stumbled across your blog recently and your art is gorgeous!!! i love the style and the way you draw dick in particular so much!

also i couldn’t stop thinking about your tangled au it’s so clever! it got me thinking of an au of your au (if that’s presumptuous or annoying feel free to ignore this ask lol). but it always bugged me slightly in the original tangled that rapunzel could remember stuff from when she was a baby bc babies can’t do that lol (obv she also has magic glowing hair so suspension of disbelief and all). but what if dick was actually older when slade (or court of owls tbh take your pick) kidnapped him? like he came under bruce’s care just like in canon after his parents died, and was around long enough to become brothers with jason, and tim had just been adopted when dick and bruce have a fight and dick storms off. not as bad as comics and bruce doesn’t kick him out bc he’s not an ass lol, but maybe dick wants to do more with his powers and bruce is overprotective, so dick storms out fully intending to come back, but slade has been watching him and takes this chance to kidnap him. and when bruce goes looking for him all he finds is a bloodstain and no dick.

and obviously dick is very keen on escaping the creepy dude who’s kidnapped him, but slade brings him to the basement of the tower and begins to torture/brainwash him sort of like the apprentice arc. and over time bc slade sucks and is good at the whole brainwashing thing, dick slowly looses his memories and eventually can’t remember a life outside of the tower at all. and he continues to grow up in the tower with slade as his “father” and he always has this sense that something isn’t quite right, but he can’t put his finger on it. like he has all these weird torture-like scars that he can’t remember getting, but slade tells him that it was from when he was young and before slade rescued him, and that’s why the world is so scary and dangerous and he has to stay in the tower where slade can protect him. and ofc he does bc slade loves him and wouldn’t lie to him right? and he doesn’t know why the name richard doesn’t fit him quite right, or why his heart races when slade appears unexpectedly (that’s how love works right?). but he stays in the tower like he’s supposed to until wally and roy show up.

and slowly after traveling with them he begins to get weird flashes of both painful and good memories, and strange sensations of deja vue. while meanwhile bruce is still all brooding and mourning bc it was his fight that led dick to run away. and added angst is that jason and tim actually remember and miss dick, even though tim had just started to get to know him. and damian is angsty bc he’s the only one never to have met dick (handwavy on the ages just like dc lol). meanwhile the kingdom still remembers and mourns the charismatic adorable prince that they lost.

and then when slade eventually catches up to and captures wally and roy, dick offers to give himself up and promises never to escape if slade spares them. and it’s extra sad bc he finally remembers what he’d be giving up. he remembers bruce and alfred and his brothers, and he remembers all the trauma slade put him through, and he’s willing to go through it all again to save wally and roy (bc is it really dick grayson if he isn’t super self sacrificing lol). and ofc it eventually ends happily and dick is delighted to go back to his family with his new friends and see his old brothers and meet his new brother all with a new haircut.

but yeah overall your au wormed its way into my brain and i couldn’t stop thinking about it lol, it’s so good!!!!

Ahjajfk thank youuuu<3

And OMG, this is amazing! Beautifully written, yes, absolutely love all the details, especially Slade's and Dick's relationship in all this. I've actually thought about him being taken later on so Tim and Jason would also remember Dick. But I think I started overthinking everything and made it way too complicated (I think I wrote about 20 pages of notes and stuff, I kinda got lost in them. I was/am pretty obsessed with this AU), so I just reeled back a bit and stayed close to the plot. It also simplifies things; I don’t have to rewrite the whole story, which, with my overthinking skills, would take forever. 💀

And that part with Slade making Dick forget who he was is great. I kept the whole AU pretty open with some stuff for imagination. My running idea at the moment is that he got sick when he was 8, so Bruce found the flower, and later Slade kidnapped him, making him forget everything and thinking Slade is his father.

But yeah, OMG, this is awesome. I totally love it. I tried to make it as detailed as possible story-wise, but at the same time, I really needed to limit myself to finish fast because I was scared I would lose interest or don’t have the patience haha But Now I’m kinda even more excited about how people will react to the next chapters. 👀

#ask me anything #tangeld dc au

49 notes · View notes

fanby-fckry · 26 days

Text

It’s not Wednesday, but UH3 brainrot has once again consumed me.

I’m supposed to be catching up on Ace Alastor Week, and instead I’m writing ahead in the Season 1 fic.

Sneak peek below, heed the tags.

Content Warning: self harm*, blood, references to canon-typical violence, implied/referenced child abuse, inconsistent terminology regarding sex and gender**

*Whether or not this is self harm could probably be up for debate, but I, personally, consider it to be a form of self harm. Please put your own health and safety first; read with caution of feel free to keep scrolling. Stay safe, readers.

**Alastor sometimes conflates sex and gender because he just doesn’t think about or care what people have in their pants. He grew up in a time where the two were considered interchangeable; while he knows neither sex nor gender are static/that not everyone matches up with the gender they were assigned and will call a trans person by their chosen name/pronouns, gender them correctly, and treat them exactly like he’d treat anyone else, he still gets the terms a little mixed up from time to time. He wouldn’t gatekeep someone based on their transition status, because the physical state of someone else’s body isn’t his concern unless he’s actively in the process of killing them. And even then, he’s not focused on sex characteristics of any kind.

…

“And all this time, I thought it was mere population control!” Alastor ranted ino the private connection. He was pacing across his meticulously sound-proofed hotel room while his shadow flew from wall to wall.

“Well,” Lucifer began, but Alastor wasn’t done speaking and didn’t care for being interrupted.

“Ha!” Alastor laughed, threading a hand through his own hair. “Can you blame me?” he asked.

A rhetorical question, but Lucifer gave his best attempt at answering. “It is p-”

“They’ve got no style, no finesse! And barely any skill!” Alastor’s shadow curled its claws into fists, and Alastor removed his hand from his hair to keep himself from pulling it or digging his claws into his scalp as he felt the urge to do the same.

“Year after year, decade after decade, it’s nothing but artless, soulless slaughter!” Alastor laughed again, manic, hysterical, and lacking any and all joy. “Is it any wonder I assumed it was simply a mindless masacre?”

“Alastor-”

“Entertainment…” Alastor dug his claws into the inside of his palm, attempting to ground himself with the pain.

“If killing Sinners for one’s own entertainment is so damned Holy, then why is he in Heaven while I’m down here?” Alastor demanded, static rising in his voice. “Why, one could argue that he’s worse than I am!”

“He’s certainly killed more Sinners than I have by now, considering how long the Exterminations have been in effect.” Hell’s history books were patchy at best, and Lucifer only talked about his – and by extension, Hell’s – past in vague, non-specific terms, often while drunk or sentimental. Or both.

Alastor’s claws began to draw blood. “And from the combination of what Charlie and Lilith and you have all told me, he’s a vulgar, disrespectful chauvinist!”

The pain no longer felt like an anchor. It was fuel on the fire that was the rage burning within him, the wrath he felt at the injustice of it all.

“My mother raised me to be a gentleman,” Alastor said. “Any disrespect I show is based on a woman's actions, not her sex. But Adam expected Lilith to bend to his whims simply on the basis of her gender! He talked down to Charlie, likely on the same logic!”

“And yes, I kill because I enjoy it, but I’m selective with my victims! I enact vengeance on behalf of the weak and vulnerable! In life, I corrected the injustices of a corrupt system, and in death I punish those already Damned by their sins!”

Blood was seeping through Alastor’s knuckles. He pushed his claws deeper, sinking them into the meat of his palms.

“So why…?” There were bloodstains on the carpet. Niffty would be quite upset if she learned that the blood was Alastor’s rather than one of his meals’.

“Why?” Alastor repeated, barely audible above his own feedback. His cheeks were wet. He must have gotten blood on them at some point.

Everything was silent for a moment, save for the static Alastor couldn’t reign in.

Then, Lucifer spoke. “It’s complicated,” he said, quietly.

Alastor made an animalistic sound deep in the back of his throat, something between a growl and a whimper. But he let the Devil speak.

“I don’t know the particulars, but murder and vengeance are both Damnable sins.”

“Then why isn’t he Damned,” Alastor said through gritted teeth. “Why hasn’t Adam Fallen?”

Lucifer sighed. “Nepotism?”

Alastor laughed. “Oh, that’s rich coming from you!”

“What the fuck do you mean by that?” Lucifer asked, his volume increasing. “My Father kicked me out of Heaven for falling in love with Lilith and for daring to dream of a world where humanity wasn’t bound by eternal ignorance.”

“And he gave you a kingdom!” Alastor swung his arms, flinging blood across the room with the sheer force of the movement. “He let you and Lilith elope when he could’ve smited you both! Do you think he’d give the same courtesy to his other angelic children, or do the rumors of you being his favorite son hold true, hm, Lightbringer?”

The radio began to smoke and glow with a faint golden light.

“Get that name out of your fucking mouth, Alastor.”

Alastor ignored him, ignored the projections of his power.

“My father never would’ve shown me such benevolence if I’d disobeyed him the way you did yours.” Alastor moved to inspect the bloodstains on the walls. “And the best thing he ever gave me was a lesson in the inherent cruelty of man.”

#self harm cw #implied abuse cw #fanby’s fuckery #fanby’s fic snippets #fanby: uhverse #fanby: uh3 #fanby: an age of upheaval #not tagging fandoms and shit because i don’t want this breeching containment #uh: alastor #uh: lucifer #uh: radioapple

17 notes · View notes

rriavian · 7 months

Text

For a prompt from @windsweptinred for the flower prompts we're doing with @bobbole. Still unfinished but I already had a short wip that the prompt worked really well with, and it was the kick I needed to get going with it a little more. Still very very rough but thought I'd share :) Hope you like it! <3

The Corinthian and Calliope: Rose, yellow, A murderer's confession, Prompt Jealousy—

After his failure to persuade Ethel Cripps to work with him the Corinthian seeks out another who might have cause to seek revenge against Dream.

Calliope surprises him.

Calliope knows the Corinthian, of course.

She had met Dream’s masterpiece while she was married.

She had heard of him long before, an impression built by Dream’s soft smile, the excitement glittering subtle in his eyes as he told her of his latest creation, a design he traced in sand as if proud to show off even an outline. Calliope has not seen the Corinthian since—to be expected, given both how she’d parted ways with Morpheus and the reality of her current situation—a surprise when she hears the door to her room open, sees a bloodstained knife glitter in the light. Next it catches in golden blond hair, scatters from the gleam of teeth; a memory in that too, of Oneiros and his painstaking hunt for exactly the right shades, his dedication to it, unwilling to give anything less than his very best to every single thing he made.

Calliope must admit she still admires him for that.

Then her eyes find the changes, the additions, the soft cream of the Corinthian’s coat, the dark opaque sunglasses hiding biting mouths. There is a deliberate slowness in how he now cleans the bloodied knife, how he wants her to watch it, to think about what must have happened to the only other occupant in Richard Madoc’s house. Calliope can feel that her captor isn’t dead, can feel it in the chains that keep her trapped here, knows exactly why this nightmare has approached her like this.

The Corinthian is a story stood close enough that she can read her former husband’s writing in the blurb, a compliment to the Corinthian’s own script when she reads further to find his finely printed prose.

He wants leverage.

“Corinthian.” Calliope greets calmly. “It has been some time.”

“Fancy finding you here.” The Corinthian replies with a sharp, mocking grin, not even bothering to pretend this wasn’t planned. “An oddly poetic coincidence, given what’s happened to Dream.”

He thinks to lure her into asking.

Calliope won’t.

“Do not speak to me of poetry.”

The Corinthian pauses. “You already know, don’t you?”

“That Oneiros has been captured? Yes.”

It amuses her that the Corinthian thought to tell her, thought to begin the game with the upper hand. The Fates had filled in more details, had gloated when she’d called for help, but even before that Calliope had known that Morpheus was missing. Of course she’d known, how could she not?, how could any immortal remain unawares to the disappearance of Dream of the Endless?

"He's free now." The Corinthian replies, leans against the door frame as if a slouch will make the words less targeted, throws hope at her and watches for a flinch. "Do you think he'll come for you?"

Calliope must admit that makes her stiffen.

"Do you think he will if I call him?"

A shrug.

There's tension though.

There's a minute grimace trying to twist the Corinthian's lips, a page torn out before Calliope can read it. The grin remains. He stays smug, grounds himself to it, more than a little overconfident because he’s gloating far too soon.

“I did it, you know. Strengthened the trap.” The Corinthian says slyly, watches her from where he's still leaning in the doorway, watches how Calliope sits on this bed in Richard Madoc's house while a few feet a way a door has long since stood unlocked. “It’s my fault he was there for so long.”

Now it's Calliope's turn to shrug. “So?”

The Corinthian seems entertained by her tone, even as it confuses him, even as he tries to get his teeth around it. “I want to ensure he’ll be gone a lot longer.”

“Then I wish you well in finding the luck you are hoping for, because you will certainly be needing it.” Calliope replies coolly.

“C’mon,” The Corinthian has been lazily circling his point like a vulture, like a wolf guiding prey towards a favoured terrain, now still as he prepares to lunge. “Aren’t you the least bit tempted?”

“By what?”

“Revenge.”

He’s said it because the Corinthian thinks it's something of what she wants. He thinks it’s bait that isn’t possible to resist, thinks it because there is a similar desire in him, sitting unrealised in his chest like a stone. Calliope wonders what her former husband did, wonders if it even matters, because she also knows that revenge is a second, a flicker, a blink in response to a blinding. It’s too fast, too instant to really register for someone as long lived as her; she cannot feast on something so small.

“Is that what this is to you? Revenge?”

He laughs. “Well, not only.”

“Tell me what else.” Calliope commands. “If you want my help then tell me why.”

The Corinthian thinks faster than hesitation can register.

He switches plans at the same smooth speed, and it’s a truth he’d not wanted to lead with, bait he was saving only for a moment suited to the greater power of its sting. “I won’t go back to the Dreaming. I quite like it here, and so it’s not just about revenge. It’s about freedom.”

How like a nightmare to dream of a concept even humanity longs for.

How like a nightmare to think the guarantee of it can be found in their world.

“If you can only be so when Morpheus is trapped,” Calliope says; sat there on this bed in a thin nightdress, chained to a mortal by the laws of her own kind, chained to a man who ‘needs’ her gifts to give him the life he thinks he deserves. “If your own freedom relies on the imprisonment of another—"

She shrugs.

“Then can you really say you’re free at all?”

#dream of the endless #the Corinthian #Calliope #flower prompt #Calliope and the Corinthian #the sandman #fic progress

40 notes · View notes

blackbat09 · 4 months

Note

Hullo :>

Mayhaps can i request something something moss etho arctic bdubs something? They are so dear to me

an interesting challenge! let's set it in Last Life, shall we?

“What the heck a'ya starin' at?” Etho blinks out of his stupor, eyes dropping to Bdubs' face as the red name glowers at him from across the divide of their base. There's a growl in his voice that means - less than nothing, frankly, and he tilts his head slightly to try and see the curve of his base partner's tail, hoping for the U shape of their boogeyman taunting. As much as he'd like to say he knows Bdubs well enough to not need those little hacks and shortcuts, well - Last Life is proving itself challenging in a lot of ways. Etho can cut himself some slack. Bdubs' tail is not in that playful curl, the white fluff lashing as it seems to realize it's being observed. “What, Etho?” Bdubs demands again, drawing his eyes back to his face, the glint of his canines all the more menacing with one simple piece of context. “Spit it out!” “I was looking at your hair,” he admits quickly - not that he's scared of Bdubs, not even as a Red, but he's cautious. Reasonably cautious, really. Anyone would be, splitting a base with someone slavering for blood the way Bdubs is. He'd call him rabid as a joke if it didn't feel like it'd start a fight. “It's, uh - it's been a little while. Since you went your winter color. That because of the fort?” The way Bdubs blinks, reaching up to touch his hair, tells Etho he'd probably forgotten - or maybe not paid any attention to his own hair or fur in the chaos of the game in the first place. It makes sense - Etho doesn't expect him to keep perfect track or anything - but it's still kinda funny, watching Bdubs duck his head beneath his own arm to check that his tail is, in fact, snowy white. “Well, of course!” Bdubs confirms as he straightens up, puffing out his chest and lifting his chin, that fluffy tail held high. “It's a - advantageous! I'm a predator amongst the snow, I need camouflage.” Etho hums in assent, nodding slightly as his eyes move from the tall point of Bdubs' ears to the downright scruffy white shirt he's wearing, bloodstained and torn impressively for the relatively short time Bdubs has been Red. “That why you got rid of your hoodie?” It's a low blow and Etho knows it, from the way Bdubs' mouth drops open slightly, tail falling towards the floor as his eyes dart towards the chest on his side of the base - good to know he still has the hoodie, then. Etho had worried, a little, and he's not really supernaturally connected to free-floating moss, or any other plant, no matter what crap he tries to feed people or lets them just assume. Maybe after more than a few months with the stuff, but, at the moment, he's just a little green around the edges, prefers the company of other plants simply because an environment where they thrive is also probably one good for him. “I mean - yeah? Yeah, a little, but I, uh - ” Bdubs' jaw works a little, mouth still hanging open slightly as he drops from his proud height to a crouch, tilting his head down. “I didn't wanna get it messed up, see? I gotta - I'm Red, Etho. I gotta fight. I can't go - worryin' about screwin' up my hoodie. It's been through enough crap already, an' I like it!” “I could just make you another, back on Hermitcraft,” Etho offers, but Bdubs, ever-stubborn, shakes his head. “No! No, no, I like that one, an' I'm takin' good care of it,” he insists, looking up to search Etho's face for a moment before flashing him a smile. “Besides - I gotta show off this bee-you-teeful winter coat. Can't do that all bundled up in moss.” His body says thank you and I'm sorry in ways his words don't, or maybe can't, with the Red haze over him, and Etho chuckles softly, shaking his head. “Maybe you can't. I can do it all.” You're welcome. It's okay. “Oh, yeah, RIGHT, Etho, as if!”

swap requests are open! (x)

#ethoslab #bdoubleo100 #bdoubleo #last life smp #fanon swap #hermit fanon swap #hc fanon swap #cass answers #my fics #kiwi-smug-silvalina

24 notes · View notes

ms0milk · 2 years

Text

just one day at the wisteria mansion

| tanjiro x reader

a/n: thank you so much for your request! even though i made tweaks, i hope i still made it fluffy enough for ya :)

Tanjiro’s known you long enough to know you can be gentle

of course he knows

you’ve worked together long enough that he knows for sure it’s one of his favorite things about you

tough in a fight and kind to the innocent

it's so intentional

you’re so reliable

but his first day of recovery with you is just so.. so domestic

“Nekuzo no! You’ll get my hair wet–ah!” you squeal in the bathroom and he knows that it's just because his sister is splashing you while she washes your back. He’s not going to go inside or anything, he reasons as he tries to come up with an excuse for listening in at the door. He just likes to hear you laugh after a mission. To know you’re okay physically and emotionally.

“N-nezuko- ahk ahaha! Oh now who’s got soap in their eyes!”

And he’s taken aback when he hears a familiarly bubbly giggle. Tanjiro kneels in the hallway outside of your washroom and leans his head against the warm wooden door. Had you gotten Nezuko to laugh?

you’re grunting outside when he’s finally finished his turn washing up

and he’s nervous enough to race into the mansion’s large living room to find what exactly you’re struggling against!

that is

until he sees Nezuko asleep under to kotatsu in the middle of the room

where are you?

she would never sleep while you were being attacked

“Y/n!”

“Tanjiro?” Your voice comes from outside and he’s throwing open the sliding doors to the veranda faster than he can realize he might rip them off their tracks like that.

You’re standing in the snow beside the house, ax in hand, crow on your free arm. You smile, “You’re in a towel Tanjiro, it’s too cold for you out here.”

“Why is your crow here Y/n?” His heart falls with his body temperature in the January air, “Another mission already?”

But you just look from the messenger to your panicking Kamado and laugh loudly enough to wake Nezuko inside, “She brought me a gift– it’s shiney see?” You approach the poor boy and drop the twisted little piece of metal in his outstretched hand. “I just need to chop firewood for dinner out here. She's not taking me away from you yet.” And you wrap his towel tightly around his shoulders before pushing him back inside and closing the door.

“Go on, don’t let all the hot air out Kamado!”

and just when he thinks he can’t possibly lose you again, you’ve vanished into some room deep inside the mansion

along with his clothes

and his sister

the lady of the house delivers clean robes to him but if there’s one thing Tanjiro Kamado is terrible at, it’s alone time

He can track the sweet smell of you clearly enough to follow you to a washroom near the mansion’s central fireplace.

“Oi! Tanjiro good timing!” You and Nezuko look up from the water basin in the center of the floor, and for a second he mistakes the back of Nezuko’s head for his mother’s. She doing laundry with you. And you’re smiling together. Bandages dot your face, neck and hands, but Nezuko is treating you just the same as she would any day. Tossing you clothes she’s scrubbed to wring out and pin near the furnace.

Tanjiro’s squatting beside the two of you before he can even ask his legs to move politely, and plunging his hands into the icy water.

“Everyone gets clothes dirty, so everyone helps clean!”

You cackle at that and hand him your haori to see if he might be able to get the bloodstains out.

it’s peaceful like this

you are okay

he knows you’re safe

he doesn’t need to be so on edge

it just doesn’t feel right relaxing around you

if something..

if something dangerous came and he wasn’t–

“Oh oh! And Nezuko, I can’t believe you kicked him so hard his whole damn head flew off!” You had nearly risen out of your seat with excitement, recounting the mission from last night. Nezuko too was throwing wild punches into the air and generally rumbling the dinner table enough to shake your dishes.

watching you was joy

eating with you was love

You laughed with Nezuko when she mimed a strike from your sword and smiled wide enough for food to spill out of your cheeks. The two of you were rolling around gleefully again when you had to cover your mouth to keep from making a mess.

he loved this

he loved you

what if he..

what if one day he wasn’t here to–

“Woah, Tanjiro,” you caught his cheek in your warm hand before it slipped from his own and splashed right into the bowl of soup under him. You were stretched across the table to reach him, lighting fast as always.

Huh?

“Too tired for dinner, eh?”

Nezuko sat across from him, looking slightly confused behind her mouthpiece, and more than a bit worried.

“C’mon Tanjiro, we’ll meet you upstairs after we finish cleaning up. I’ve never seen you too tired to eat before.”

Tanjiro was barely processing what you said. You held his face in your hands so gently all he wanted was to go back to sleep.

“Tan.”

God he didn’t want to go. But you pulled your hands back and dragged his plates in front of you to collect for the kitchen. Sent Nekuzo upstairs before you to pull out the futons for the night, and stood with full arms to clean up the mess dinner made.

Tanjiro was alone at the table as quickly as he’d been woken up just a second ago. It wasn’t any colder with you gone but he wasn’t sure an empty living room would ever feel comfortable to him again.

“Kamado?” Your back was turned to him when he ducked into the kitchen, “Go on upstairs, I’ll be up–.”

He didn’t stop moving once he found you. Walked straight into your back and wrapped two strong arms around you.

He took the dishes from your hands and set them on the counter so he could lace his fingers between yours. So he could have one arm around your chest and the other around your waist and just feel you.

“Are you..okay?”

“I’m not, Y/n come to bed.”

so you did

and those dishes would be hellish to clean in the morning

and the coals under the kotatsu might burn a hole through the table before they went out on their own

and the firewood you had left over wouldn’t last all night

and your clothes might catch fire hanging to dry by the furnace

and

Nezuko played outside in the snow with your sweet crow to pass the time until dawn. You were wrapped up in Tanjiro’s sheets. He draped another one over your back when you so much as shivered while he changed your bandages.

“How’d you get this one?” He tapped your index finger.

“My hand was caught behind me when I got tossed downhill the first time.”

He lowered his head to kiss the bandage softly,

“And this one here?”

You had to look in any direction but right at him with your fingers hovering so close to his face, “H-hangnail.”

He brought your hand to his lips again.

“And here?” He traced his fingers across a scratch on your cheek this time and you shuddered. You were so close your knees could touch where you sat.

“Demon’s claws..are sharp.”

There was no stifling his laughter at that and he finished rewrapping the friction burn on your arm while he chuckled to himself.

It was nice to see him smile today. It was even nicer thinking about finally being able to sleep through one night without anticipating a fist fight.

“Y/n, thank you.”

You looked up just in time to watch the last of Tanjiro’s smile lace across his lips. He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand before looking back at you tucked under a monstrous pile of futon covers. You almost looked like a bride.

“Thank you for what?”

You almost looked like a bride.

“Thank you for being my family.”

You weren’t in your haori, you weren’t armed. Just under his warm blankets, in a pretty patterned komon, sitting with your hands in his.

“..thank you for playing house with me for just one day.”

You weren’t bleeding anymore. Just crying– crying–

“Y/n?”

Your hands retreated to your cheeks where they fought against your suddenly spilling tears and Tanjiro tried to scoot closer to comfort you. You wiped your runny nose in his sheets and grappled with your tears in the palm of your hand, “What the fuck Tanjiro..”

He didn’t know where to start backtracking– hell, he didn’t even know what it was he said wrong! He offered you his hands to use instead of your own and tried to gather more blankets–

“Don’t say that like we're not gonna survive!”

“Y/n I didn’t–”

“It’s not just one day! It’s the first day!”

And he would’ve kicked himself for being such an idiot of he wasn’t already leaning over your laps and kissing you gently. Just a press of his lips to yours to wet his face with your tears. You pulled the mass of blankets over both your bodies and he gasped into you under the force of being flattened between you and the floor.

“You're right..”

He smiled in the sudden dark until he felt your lips match his, and kissed you again– all teeth and giggles and tears.

“Thank you for wanting a family with me.”

#sfw #just a lil req fluff for ya sickos #tanjiro x reader #kny #kny x reader

352 notes · View notes

tizzyizzy · 2 years

Text

Izzy Hands: Wife Coded

Across the tumblrsphere and elsewhere, Izzy is often jokingly associated with femininity. There’s a cute comic where everyone is asking for him to do their laundry because he knows how to get bloodstains out. Someone referred to him as Ed’s “work wife”. Saw a recent post call him a mom friend. One true genius called Izzy woman coded and wanted him subjected to sexism.

But why? On the surface, Izzy doesn’t seem particularly feminine. He curses and spits. He got facial hair. He shouts and stabs and flips people off.

Tell me if you’ve heard this one before: A man is growing discontent with his boring office job. He’s realized he wants more out of life. His spirit is too big to be confined. And after work, he gets home to his wife, and all she has is complaints. The old ball and chain. He can’t talk about his dreams with her. “If you quit your job to become a musician, how can we put food on the table? We need that money to buy school supplies for little Fang and Ivan; you can’t spend it on a guitar! Why haven’t you gotten around to fixing the shelving yet?” Nag, nag, nag. The only time he gets some peace is when he’s venting about her at the bar after work, putting off going home to deal with her judgmental looks.

Then he meets someone new. A free spirited woman with a lust for adventure, who is different from every woman he’s ever met...

Of course, even if the husband is dissatisfied, all of the “nagging” wife’s complaints are legitimate. Just because the husband has no interest in something doesn’t mean it doesn’t have to get done. If he doesn’t have time to clean because he’s off practicing that weekend, then it’s her that need pick up the slack.

When Ed and Izzy first enter the story, they kind of fall into this pattern. Ed misses the times when the raids were exciting battles and ships didn’t surrender at the sight of his flag. Izzy wants to know why crew members died antagonizing a Spanish warship just so Ed could talk to some weird guy. Ed wants to look at clouds and the model ship; Izzy wants to deal with the fact an attack by the Spanish is imminent. Ed gets to be the fun dad, impressing the crew of the Revenge with his joviality and charisma. Izzy’s the one that has to be the mean mom and actually force them to repair the ship.

The scene in episode 10 where they argue is Izzy more or less putting divorce on the table. All the issues that Izzy has been complaining about, that Ed has been tuning out, boil over. “You’re not the man I married. We’re through.” And like many men in this position, he finally realizes that he needs to shape up or his wife is going to leave him. He cuts off his bandmates. He blocks Stede’s number. He sells his guitar. He sets up a romantic night together to show his dedication (via eroticized dismemberment).

Of course, this isn’t going to last. While Izzy is a comforting, stable pillar of support in Ed’s life, he can’t love Izzy, not really. He needs to let Izzy go to truly find happiness. And Izzy should have just let Ed moved on, but he was also too afraid of being alone. He’s too afraid of losing what he has to find the love he actually deserves.

The only hope of saving their relationship is a fantastic couple’s counselor, and I don’t think those exist yet.

(Episode idea: they capture a person who is the equivalent of a couple’s counselor and talk about their feelings.)

#izzy hands meta #edward teach meta #ofmd meta #izzy hands #edward teach #ofmd #blackbeard

439 notes · View notes

blogberthday · 9 months

Text

Chapter 2 - The Hands of a Healer

To read the first chapter in this fic, click here! -> Chapter 1: Blood on the Shrine

. . . . . . .

She had been working for thirty minutes to stabilize him. The clouds had rolled in, and it looked like it would rain at any moment. Still she pressed on, diligently casting until her magicka reserves were nearly depleted. Meeko remained beside her, keeping watch for passersby and wild skeevers. As she worked over him, the Justiciar's breathing became deeper, stronger. Colour started to return to his face, his pale cheeks regaining their golden complexion.

The mer stirred beneath her, moving his head.

"Easy, easy," she put a bloodstained hand on his cheek, holding his face with a touch that was gentle, yet firm. "You're going to be alright, just keep still."

Someone long ago had told her that she had the hands of a healer. She tried to remember who, to put a face or a name to the voice that she remembered, the words that had meant so much to her - but she was met with the usual mental block. Nothing. She sighed, reaching back with her free hand to brush the loose strands of hair behind her ear.

She swore that at one point, she had known stronger healing spells than this, but if she couldn't remember how to cast them now, what good were they?

Feeling the Justiciar come to, she returned her focus to his face.

If she couldn't find the answers to her questions about her past, she might as well get some answers to her questions about him.

He opened his eyes with a jolt, reaching immediately for whatever was touching him. There was a woman, a Breton, crouched over him, her hand resting on his face. Or was she a Breton? Maybe she was a Nord..? She was human for sure. They all looked the same, with their round cheeks and ears, their small eyes.

"Shhh, shhhhh," she held him more firmly, steadying him. "You're okay. Deep breaths."

Gods. In his final moments, and his dying fantasy was of a human? Not an Altmer, or a mer of any kind? His father was right to have been ashamed of him.

Another bark. He couldn't possibly be dreaming.

"I've done the best I can for now, but I'll need to take a break before I can do much more for you. Can you speak? Do you know where you are?"

The Justiciar coughed, blood leaking from the side of his lip. This human... She was... healing him? He took a ragged breath in, removing his hand from hers and clutching the wound at the side of his chest. "You... You're helping me? For gods' sakes, why?"

"Because you're a person. And you're hurting. Why shouldn't I?"

"You do realize you're aiding a member of the Thalmor, right? No doubt the people of Skyrim would prefer to see us all dead."

"A member of the Thalmor?" She replied sardonically. "Really?! I never would have guessed, with you wearing those oh-so subtle Justiciar's robes."

Offended and delirious from blood loss, he responded in kind. "Sarcastic, aren't we? You have a strange definition of decent attire. With a drab outfit like that, you must have pieced it together by looting the bodies you've slain! No decency, no decency at all!" He coughed again, this time spitting out a chunk of bloody tissue. Urgh.

She softened. "Fair enough. But you can critique my outfit later." Reaching over with the long end of the mer's robes, she wiped the blood off his face. "Who are you?"

He hesitated before answering.

"... Taliesin."

Author's note: fic updated 2023/08/02 with in-fic date and location, along with link to previous chapter. Some minor changes to wording and punctuation. Thanks for reading! 💕

#skyrim #skyrim taliesin #skyrim fanfiction #skyrim fic

38 notes · View notes

cutthroatcarnival · 5 months

Text

What Happens When The Light Leaves?

Important tags: main character death, slight descriptions of a wound (mild gore?)

Do be warned, this is relatively heavy angst.

It had gone wrong. It had all gone horribly wrong. It wasn’t supposed to go this way. The monsters had been cleared out, 7 heroes fueled with vengeance after one of theirs had been struck down made for a quick clean-up. The field was littered with their enemies’ remains, the grass wet with blood of red and black varieties. It seemed like a cruel joke, a now peaceful field surrounded them when their minds were torrential.

Warriors barked out orders as he kept pressure steady on the wound, his hands already slicked and tacky with red, the blood seeping through the spare tunic.

He could see bone beneath it all.

“Don’t you dare die on me, soldier.” The blood kept coming.

“Captain...” His head snapped up from where he had zoned in on the free-flowing red that trickled between his fingers, meeting the equally determined yet grim gaze of Sky, who had been instructed to keep the kid’s airway clear, whose lips were stained with blood.

The whistling breaths grew weaker.

Warriors had no options left. They had no potions, no fairies, no bandages. Stitches were useless, he had no more sterile needles or thread. Nothing he could put over to seal it. The harsh pressure he was applying wasn’t enough.

The struggling breaths stopped, so did the spurts of blood. Slowly drawing his hands away, Sky followed suit, gently lowering the kid’s head to the ground. With a gentle hand, he rested his fingers against his pulse point.

Nothing.

“…I’m sorry.”

A scream tore through the field and a multicolor blur rushed in front of them.

“No, no, no! Fuck, c’mon Rulie, you can’t leave us!” The veteran was near hysteric, sobbing and pleading as he held Hyrule’s wrists in a tight grip.

Time’s heavy hand rested on his shoulder, with a trembling and bloodstained hand, Warriors held onto his forearm with a tight grip. Around them, the others looked on, too in their own grief to speak.

Four and Wind had plastered themselves to a sniffling Twilight’s side, wrapped up in the rancher’s arms, their faces wet with tears. Wild’s face was buried in the wolf pelt, body racking with barely audible sobs. Hiccuping gasps escaped Sky as the tears he had been holding back flowed freely.

The captain’s hand slid from Time’s arm, leaving a macabre trail of red smears on the older hero, and he stared. Stared at his hands as they trembled. Stared at the blood of his brother coating them. Stared at still-dripping rivulets as they danced down his palms. Stared as Legend wailed.

A seasoned veteran who had seen so much from such a young age. Forced again and again into adventures that left him just a little more raw and a little more hardened than he was before.

Legend is tougher than I am.

He had seen war, he had seen carnage. As a captain and the hero, he had seen bloodshed, he had seen gore. Warriors has had people die in his arms, under his watch, had witnessed grieving families.

But this…

How can I take it?

“Why can I take it when Legend can’t?” He wasn’t present enough to register speaking aloud, eyes and brain trained on his brother’s lifeforce staining his hands. His fingers. His wrists. His forearms. Warriors could feel no tears rolling down his cheeks. Time’s other hand clasped his other shoulder, a gentle pressure that squeezed tighter with every hiccup and word from the vet, the old man’s breathing heavy with repressed sobs.

Legend begged and pleaded, shaking violently above Hyrule’s prone form. Words fell from his lips, repeated over and over like a mantra. He had seen this before…

Then it clicked. Warriors knew.

Hyrule was the only thing Legend loved… And now Hyrule was gone

14 notes · View notes

starr-fall-knight-rise · 1 year

Text

Mind Games

https://www.patreon.com/empyreaniris?fan_landing=true

https://starr-fall-knight-rise.tumblr.com/post/182501791735/master-post

https://docs.google.com/document/d/1jzEIdDAB4omdO2JcQVMObfrhLJ5kX4ONmSsLypM1ks0/edit?usp=sharing

“This ends here,” Renegade said, the words lost immediately to the swelling roar of battle.

Before her, standing strong against the swarm of bodies, Angel Ramirez stood, feet planted hard against the churned red earth. His body was entirely obscured by armor, vaguely reminiscent of SE armor worn by Admiral Vir, but not quite so intimidating. Either way, she didn’t need his face to know him. A part of her could have picked him from a crowd simply by his walk: long strides leaned lazily back into his hips, languorous but confident.

She hated it.

She hated how well she knew him.

She hated that she knew him well enough to make it clear she had once cared about him.

“Care.” The voice in her head corrected

Renegade snarled, gritting her teeth together hard. She hated THAT even more: she hated the construct part of her: the part of her she could not accept, the part of her that had betrayed herself to make merry with the very people she had loathed so much, the people she bowed to.

“And that right there is your problem. I didn’t bow to them. You don’t BOW to friends.” Renegade bristled, and the hair on the back of her neck stood on end. Her back ached where the spidery limbs of the creature protruded from her body. The void creature, mostly silent these days, clung to her body like a wet shroud, and though it was not visible, she could feel the way it wrapped itself around her.

She hated it.

She hated who she was, who she had been, and what she was now. She hated having three voices in her head, three habitations in her body.

She hated it.

But she took a deep breath. Now was the time to get rid of them, take control, and finally be at peace.

She turned her head back to the marine, standing still as stone upon the battlefield before her. His weapon was raised, but he was weak, and his prior knowledge of her body and the sentience therein was too much.

He couldn’t shoot her.

It would make killing him almost laughably easy -- even with his weapon.

“Then why haven’t you done it yet?” There was that infernal voice again, nagging at the back of her head, the thing that called itself Maverick, the thing that wanted more than anything to return to a life of pointless servitude to people who didn’t even appreciate her, the thing holding her back.

All these thoughts ran through her head in a matter of milliseconds as she made her decision. Maverick was right, she hadn’t killed him yet. Angel Ramirez was the last and greatest representation of her weakness, and once he was gone, she would be free.

And in a moment of rage, she acted, racing forward over the cracked and bloodstained earth to where the marine waited silently for his death.

Her feet did not touch the ground dangling some feet above the earth as the spidery protrusions bore her across the open field. It was they who would deal the final blow.

It would be easier that way.

Easier not to do it with her own hands.

Easier to rely on the void creature than to rely on her treacherous self.

She towered over him now, silhouetted against a rust-orange sky as artillery rockets whistled overhead, impacting the ground with great and trembling eruptions that rattled up through her body, and into her bones.

She raised one spiked leg against the sky.

All his other friends were occupied with the fight.

There would be no one to come to save him.

The spike began to fall, aimed at the junction in his armor that separated his neck from his shoulder.

“That’s where you’re wrong.”

Something inside her jerked violently, and for one horrible moment, she felt like she was being torn in half as Maverick forced her way into the shared forefront of their consciousness. Pain, terrible and incredible, blossomed behind her eyes as maverick clawed her way into a space that was only ever meant to hold one. The result was a body split in half; renegade was forced to the right side of the brain, and Maverick was forced to the left side of the brain: the left side of the brain where the language center of their brain resided.

This is what having a stroke must have felt like.

One side of her body collapsed, while the other side attempted to hold itself upright. One side of her face pulled up into a snarl, while the other side of her face tried to speak.

The spiked protrusion on her right side collapsed sending them reeling into the churned and blood-stained dirt. Ramirez flung himself to the side and out of range from her flailing limbs.

Renegade tried to shout but found herself silent, and unable to vocalize.

It was Maverick’s turn.

“RAMIREZ RUN!” Her voice was garbled and partially stunted as she tried to make words with a mouth that was only partially cooperating.

Ramirez crawled to his knees face plate of his armored helmet drawn back to reveal his face. His amber eyes were wide with shock and confusion but also…. Hope.

“Maverick!?”

“I said RUN, you dipshit!”

Hope blossomed into relief, but she could only just note the expression before the renegade made a lunge for the controls again. The battle was entirely mental, but Maverick experienced it in an almost physical way, the only way her mind could even remotely interpret the violence that was happening inside her head.

Her body jerked and convulsed on the ground as wild signals tore across the two hemispheres of her brain, sending up uncontrolled and inaccurate electrical signals across both regions of her motor cortex.

The void spines retracted, leaving her flat on her back in the dirt.

Her back arched violently, and one of her legs shot out.

Her nose was filled with the smell of blood and dirt.

“Get out of my way!” Renegade howled.

“Over our dead body! Maverick shouted, the words not just inside her head, but breaking out into the open air even as her cheeks and jaw constricted and relaxed. Her fingers bent into claws, and her spine flexed in the other direction, curling her into the fetal position.

The body was unlikely to last much longer under these conditions.

Either one of them would win.

Or both would die.

Either option was better than the alternative of letting Renegade Kill Ramirez without a fight.

But she had to get away.

If Renegade managed to win this fight, Maverick needed to be as far away from Ramirez as possible to give him a chance to escape.

If this was her last stand, then she was not going to let it be in vain.

She shouted, and tore to her feet, somehow managing to fight past the wild impulses making her body spasm. If these had been real convulsions, none of this would have been possible, but she would take what she could get.

Renegade howled, trying to force half of their body towards Ramirez, who was retreating too slowly over the cracked and barren earth. His eyes were fixed upon her, wide and wild, unsure of what to do. She needed him to run, but she could tell by the posture of his body that he wanted to help her far more than he wanted to run.

She wanted to shout at him, but even as she tried, the words died in her throat morphing into a choked gargle as she lurched forward her momentary distraction giving up some ground to renegade.

“This isn’t what you want!” She screamed, inside her head

“You know nothing!” Renegade shouted.

Ramirez’s distraction didn’t go unnoticed. A void Drev had sensed an opportunity, was sneaking its way over the rusty ground and towards Ramirez’s back. Maverick tried to shout again, but still; nothing came out other than a gargled wheeze. “You want respect!” Maverick snarled, allowing Renegade to take control of the body, but only for a moment and in the wrong direction.

They barreled forward, tripping awkwardly over the uneven ground and straight into the path of the lunging Drev.

Sharp pain blossomed through her body as the Drev’s spear took her high in the shoulder chewing through the muscle of her shoulder and ripping out a sizable chunk as it was drawn back. The void Drev took a step back, an expression somewhere between alarm and confusion on its face as it turned to look down at her.

Renegade snarled, and so did Maverick, their rage turning abruptly upon the creature that had caused them pain.

Together they lunged forward, tearing into the creature's neck with their bare hands, and the bone shards, which punched their way through the skin of her knuckles.

The Drev fell to the dirt convulsing.

Maverick kept their momentum, lurching into the crowd and away from Ramirez, as fast and hard as she could.

“You always wanted to be needed!” She said sprinting past a wall of churning spear blades.

An artillery round hit the ground not so far to her right, causing her to stagger as dirt, dust, and bodies erupted upwards.

“You want to be needed; you want to be acknowledged.”

She understood that.

She understood all of that because Renegade and she were the same person. They weren’t simply two separate beings trapped inside one body. They were the same. Maverick didn’t want to admit it. It was easier for her to believe that they were simply two different people but at the end of the day that wasn’t true and trying to deny it wasn’t helping anyone.

“You’ve always wanted to be needed, to be a part of something, to be relied on and praised for your actions…. So why are you pushing away the one group of people that has always given that to us? You are ruining everything that we could have had.” She sensed the pain those words caused, and not just in Maverick, but in Renegade as well, in HER as a whole person.

“They aren’t the ones that I wanted….” Renegade said, and this time her voice was small. Maverick vaulted into the air. If she could get them up, and out of the atmosphere maybe….

And that is when the artillery round detonated, the shock wave ripping itself through the air and past her body sending them violently crashing back to earth.

And that is where they stayed.

In a broken heap upon the blood-stained ground.

“We had what we wanted,” Maverick said as her mind faded into blackness.

49 notes · View notes

justalazywriter · 2 years

Text

Hcs | Tobirama | relationship headcannons| mostly Gn!reader

Warning: none

Requests are open

➢Masterlist

A/n: idk why but I think this is written so bad;-; but I'm a professional at self criticism anyways lol

At first he isn't much into physical love language or verbal instead you'll make up to breakfast in bed when he has a free day or little notes even with a flower if he's feeling like it

He's just not used to verbally or physically expressing love so you'll have to slowly ease him into it

Start in private when you're both sitting together , holding hands or leaning on his shoulder .

After some time he'll initiate holding hands and hugs by himself. With cuddles ? He's akward at first not knowing where to place his hands or stuff but after you help him and he sees you're enjoying it (Wich means he's doing it right) it'll be much more common

Even to the point where you bring food into this overworking man's office and you'll end up sitting on his lap and fall asleep while he does his paperwork

Coming to the next point , tobirama appreciates if you bring him food when he's working knowing he forgets to eat and take a break (he only takes them when you come around and he'll talk with you for some minutes )

On free days and after he is used to cuddling expect to be pulled back into bed just because he wants to chill with you there for a bit longer

He won't go back to sleep then but yeah , he'll just lay there and enjoy your presence

Something tells me he gets more open to giving verbal love when he is really tired out and he might be convincible to be the little spoon in cuddling then

Can he cook? Yes , perfectly even . On free days you'll sometimes find him cooking for you both

After some times tobirama gets an extremely soft spot for you and he'll be completely different from the cold self he shows others

Initiating cuddles , coming home for dinner (brings his work with him) , getting more free days to spend with you and even saying I love yous more than before (it's still rare but not as super rare as before)

Nightwalks? You'll have to convince him since you could run into danger and get hurt but he'll say yes if he's coming with you and you're not going to wander off the village far

Now if you're friends with any Uchiha or worse Madara , tobirama will be jealous and so on but you seem to enjoy being friends with them so he'll keep it low . He just doesn't want you to get hurt by them

If they dare to hurt you ... Yeah let's just say they'll be gone missing

Tobirama is overprotective but he knows to control it and not act like it everytime (is this even a thing? Idk)

He is more of a cat person but he would get along with dogs too if they are calm enough. But he doesn't necessarily want a pet still if you want one , he'll allow it and care for it too

As for kids , it'll take long till he would be ready to get one or 2 and if you don't want one he would accept it

Dates with him are always fancy and impressive if he's feeling like making you go "wow"

But if you aren't a fan of it tobirama will enjoy sitting under a tree and eating takeout with you too . Or a nice picnic even tho it has to be a place where people don't go often

Imagine seeing the mighty tobirama doing such "childish thing" yeah he thinks it would ruin his reputation

For the female fellows he knows what period is and what you need , he won't be grossed out at the normal bloodstains and stuff but he'll be confused and helpless about the moodswings for the first few times

In public he is acting more subtle in lovelanguage depending on how many people are around and paying attention to the both of you

This will change if someone is trying to hit on you. The person must be extremely drunk or dumb to hit on his lover. As soon as he sees you're clearly uncomfortable and they won't stop hell be at your side and a hand at your waist pulling you closer to him while giving them a deathglare

Now imagine if an Uchiha hit on you like that? While you're passing by next to them tobirama will casually whisper a threat like "next time you try it you'll be dead" and then act like he didn't just threaten them and buy you something you cheer you up if they made you feel down

Anyways , i hate it but hope you like it?

If you got tips to improve drop them in the comments and leave a like if you enjoyed it

#anime naruto #naruto #anime naruto x reader #tobirama #tobirama x you #tobirama x reader #naruto tobirama #tobirama x gn!reader #senju x reader #tobirama senju #tobirama senju x reader #founders x reader

136 notes · View notes

septembersghost · 1 year

Note

thinking about the quote from the end of Elvis, "

I’ll tell you what killed him. It was love. His love for all of you.

That voice rang out, and he sang with all his life."

and the reblogged ask about Taylor, and I know people don't want to hear this because we loved interacting with her and miss her, but I'm glad she has distance, im glad she's not killing herself for that love anymore.

i've touched on this a bit in comments with my friend @joons, who wrote really lovely meta about this here, and i'm going to quote her: "elvis, as a man, had such a generous spirit that no one—not his wife or manager or friends or fans—could stop him from digging deep and giving, even when it cost him everything. when his body was failing, his friends would ask him to postpone tours, to rest, to heal. and all he would do is gently smile and say, “it’ll be all right. don’t worry about it.” we may think the colonel is treating love lightly by bringing it up as a factor in elvis’ death, but this pivot in focus actually brings us the closest we ever get to knowing who elvis really was (something elvis himself promised he would reveal to his audience early in the film). his generosity is why he was so loved, and the colonel suggests it was his fatal flaw, that he cared so much about sharing his wealth, his talents, and himself with others that he did not care how much it hurt him. or rather, he did care, but he did not know how to stop sharing whatever he could to make other people happy, instead of attending to his own happiness. he gave people his trust and continued giving it long after they had stopped deserving it. and maybe wishing it had been different would be to wish elvis weren’t elvis."

the movie by default made me think about taylor quite a bit, despite the many clear differences, there are unavoidable similarities when it comes to the types of artists they are, who bare so much of themselves and are constantly giving and shimmering and trying and working to connect to their audiences. it's something taylor has addressed several times now, the rippling whisper of that anxiety and the clear slashed wound of it has been appearing in her work for years, and has crystallized further in her most recent music. i mentioned to chelsea how elvis made me think of dear reader (if it feels like a trap, you're already in one is so "suspicious minds" in the way it was utilized in the film, and never take advice from someone who's falling apart/so i wander through these nights, i prefer hiding in plain sight/my fourth drink in my hand/these desperate prayers of a cursed man/spilling out to you for free/but darling, darling, please/you wouldn't take my word for it if you knew who was talking viscerally made me think of him the first time i heard it after seeing the film). her fears about others seeing right through her, drunk as we watch her shattered edges glisten, that she doesn't do enough, that it's exhausting to root for her, that she desperately has tried her best and wanted to be loved (and make it seem effortless), that she shines so bright but that in itself is a kind of curse, that her desire to succeed is also an irredeemable quality, "your kindness is fake. your pain is manipulative,"...will you still want me when i'm nothing new?...it's splashed like a bloodstain all over her music and is such a sad, distressing facet of what she's gone through, but i also think there's an inherent quality in this that certain artists have - this wellspring of humanity, this boundless love that has nowhere else to go and springs forth from the music, the act of creating art, the euphoric feeling of performing, the intensity of love they feel from fans that, we have to acknowledge, can never be fully balanced or reciprocal because of the necessary and natural boundaries between us. i think taylor gave so much of herself when she was younger that it was corrosive to her person. she was struggling in such a way personally and still striving without end to be respected and embraced, and she gave a lot of that unfailingly to fans, maybe because she felt she had to as an extension of gratitude, maybe because she didn't feel loved and safe elsewhere, and also because she does feel a real sense of love in that way. but i think it was very hard on her too, and untenable. you can never reach everyone. you can never make everyone happy. you can never help everyone who needs help. you can never give all the love you wish you could give. it's a beautiful and admirable and even spiritual thing to share, but when does the line need to be drawn when you have to attend to your own needs and humanity first before collapsing under the weight of it?

all this said, i too am glad she's got a much healthier balance now, is very steadily loved in her daily life by a partner who gives her a sense of stability and quiet, and that she doesn't feel the need to give so much of herself away, outside of all the vulnerability within her art. it doesn't mean she doesn't care for us, i believe she means it whenever she thanks us, whenever she says she owes her career to us or she creates things for fun with us in mind (the easter eggs in the bejeweled video, as a recent example. she took a song about her feeling hurt and unappreciated, sadness became my whole sky, and wanting to sparkle again, and reinterpreted it visually to include her fans as a positive aspect), but i also think she's learned what she doesn't have to sacrifice.

there's an unerring empathy in the tragedy of elvis not knowing when to stop, how sincere that love he had was, how that itself was a type of defiance. "he loved and he gave, and he couldn’t do otherwise no matter how much people tried to stop him. and that simple truth is one last great gift." i do believe this endures and is a connective gift.

still, there's a strength in learning how to stopper that outpouring of oneself, one's heart and soul and love, too, and i do find that i'm thankful she's learned that, even when we miss her engaging as much, knowing she has a better sense of peace takes precedence. that love doesn't have to be fatal anymore. she's learned how to let it have its respite instead.

#anonymous #letterbox #it's like making parallels between she and marilyn too of which there are quite a few even though it's acting vs. musicianship #marilyn also suffered from never being able to turn her intense sensitivity and her love off and the burdens that brought with it #it's really fascinating to me bc it speaks to a certain kind of humanity and a certain need to connect that i think is really raw #anyway i could talk about the elvis comparisons here at length aksdflgk but yeah #i worried about her for so long and she very clearly saw tragedy unfolding ahead of her #she made a conscious decision not to drive off the cliff and that is its own act of bravery #thrown out speeches #taylor swift #elvis presley #i was a dreamer

17 notes · View notes

you-heard-what-i-meant · 1 year

Text

All Fall Down - Moon Knight

Summary: Marc and Steven are free from Khonshu and no longer have the suit. This is one time they really needed it.

Warnings: graphic descriptions of injury, blood, description of dying, major character death. Happy ending, I promise.

Note: not beta’d. Probably [definitely] inaccurate descriptions of Dissociative Identity Disorder and injury / death. I apologise in advance for any offense caused!

Posted on AO3 HERE!

Do not edit or repost my fics to other sites / apps, or claim as your own! Thank you!

Initially the pain is only the tip of the blade as it pierces his stomach. After that, the sensation is more… obstructive. The steel blade pushed in where it shouldn’t be, getting in the way of his organs, like having a band-aid on a joint makes you feel like there’s something stopping it from moving properly. The pain really hits when his assailant rips the blade free - slicing at a wide angle across his body, tearing its way through his abdomen from hip-to-hip as it leaves.

Marc staggers backwards, his hands automatically flying to the gaping wound in his middle. The man is leering at him, bloodstained linen shirt and pale, loose jeans almost flapping in the wind. Marc has a moment to register the man’s discoloured, rotting smile before it’s gone - replaced by a look of shock that remains frozen there as he hits the ground face first. The blade in his back is removed by an angel with golden wings and glowing brown skin. Her abundant ebony curls bounce as she rights herself, the blade disappearing somewhere in the elaborate armour that encases her athletic form. Her satisfied look vanishes instantly as she gets her first real look at him.

“Marc!” his name shouldn’t sound like that when it comes from his angel’s lips - choked, horrified. He realises he can no longer feel his legs, that the pain has become a raging inferno throughout his torso, and the ground rushes up to meet him.

His descent is halted by strong arms, which manoeuvre him onto his back and cradle him against the golden breastplate. Her small features are pinched in terror and fear as she gazes down upon him, her face already beginning to blur. He’s starting to feel hollow, his heart squeezing and thudding erratically. His lungs have become too full to breathe, as counterintuitive as that seems, but he understands why when the bubbling, gurgling sensation starts deep in his chest and hot, metallic wetness flows out onto his lips with the gasp of her name.

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

Layla POV

She knows when she sees the wound. But somehow her mind still screams a denial… until he chokes out her name. His impossibly dark eyes are dominated by fear and pain as they lock onto her face, the bright crimson bubbling and spurting out onto his lips a stark contrast to his dark olive-toned skin. Her hand flies to his face, resting flat against his cheek as she tries desperately to bring some comfort to her husband.

“Marc, Marc, it’s okay, you’re going to be okay. Tawaret! We need help, now!”

Her panicked call is answered swiftly. The enormous Hippo Goddess materialises beside them, towering over their prone forms.

“Oh my goodness, oh no!” Her hands flap anxiously as she kneels beside them.

“Tawaret, help him, please, heal him!” Layla begs. She knows it sounds more like a command than a request, and any other Deity would have torn her apart for it. Tawaret’s face falls, and Layla already knows what she’s going to hear before the Goddess speaks.

“He’s no longer in the service of Khonshu, he can’t use the healing powers of the suit anymore. And I - I don’t have the power to heal him. It’s not something I can access. I’m so sorry, Layla, I really am.”

Layla can see that she means it. The Hippo Goddess is on the verge of tears as she lays a gentle hand on Marc’s head. “May your journey be swift and the field of reeds greet you like the war-hero you are.” Then she’s gone. Layla’s blood runs cold.

Marc’s body is quaking now. The pool of blood surrounding them has spread so far that Layla can no longer see its edge in her peripheral vision. The shallow, rattling breaths are becoming quieter. A shudder runs through him - then it’s no longer Marc she’s holding.

“Lay-la-” Steven chokes out, and it’s suddenly much harder to hold in her tears at the sight of his innocent face contorted in terror and agony. She desperately tries to soothe him.

“Hey, hey Steven. It’s okay-”

“-m - ‘m s-scared-”

Her heart shatters. His dark eyes are wide and bloodshot.

“Shhh - shhh Steven, it’s going to be okay. You’re going to be okay -” She sees him acknowledge the lie, fear wiping out the last dregs of hope in his eyes. He tries to speak again - only short, helpless noises escape.

“Shhh - I’m sorry, Steven, I’m so sorry -” Her tears finally break free, and she holds him tighter. In that moment he locks his gaze with hers, his face spasming as he fights for breath, as the terror overwhelms him-

Then his face goes blank, his whole form falling still.

The sob that punches out of her jolts the still body in her arms. Gone. The realisation that Steven died in her arms hits her like a truck, and she feels a belt tighten around her chest.

She barely has time to feel the shock and grief start to set in when the body jolts again, the eyelids spasming over glassy eyes. She can’t fight the flare of hope that sparks to life inside her. It gutters out instantly.

Marc struggles to speak. The weak, choking noises he manages to make eventually form a word “Ste.. Ste-ven-” and his face portrays his crushing grief through his pain “-Can’t-”.

Layla fights down a sob. Her head bobs in an approximation of a nod, her own grief contorting her face. “I’m so sorry Marc - He - I was with him when - when he-” Marc’s eyes bore into hers, he tries to speak again, but now no words escape at all. A strange rattling whine emits from his throat, and Layla feels the panic grip her again - she knows that sound.

She rushes to speak while he can still hear her.

“- I love you! It’s okay, baby, I love - “

She’s still chanting her mantra as with a sigh he has no control over, Marc sinks into her arms, his eyes glazing over and his face going slack. He’s suddenly heavy, his weight no longer being held at all. His chest’s shuddering, desperate movements cease.

This time is somehow different - before, it had been like his face had paused, awaiting his return from the headspace. Now it didn’t even look like him. Nor like Steven. The features are just… empty.

Layla’s world freezes. It’s only when her chest starts to burn and her heart screams in her ears that she realises her breath stopped with her husband’s. Her whole body is numb, yet tingling painfully. It’s like she’s holding this moment in the palm of her hand, an inanimate object of a thing that she’s detached from.

With a roar, reality crashes back in and she’s aware of the screaming sobs wrenching themselves from her throat. She curls herself tightly around the body in her arms, fighting her mind’s desperate attempts to look for signs of life, anything to deny reality and divert the truth. She wonders if it’s possible to tear muscles or fracture bones with the force of her sobs, the quakes of her body, as she shudders through the shock and grief.

Then the coldness sets in.

Her shudders and sobs halt. She takes one, two, three breaths. Then she sits back on her heels to drink in the sight of her soulmate’s face one last time. She could swear there’s something behind his glassy eyes, a strange vibration running through his body like an electric current. She smiles for him, one last sight for his eyes to see before she gently smooths her fingers over them, closing the lids and putting him at peace. She begins to utter a prayer, to ask the Gods to take his and Steven’s souls to the glorious afterlife where they can live in peace and joy for eternity. Where they’ll wait for her.

As she recites her prayers, she watches the throes of a body’s settling process after death with an almost detached gaze - or maybe it’s her grief stricken mind giving one last ditch attempt to deny reality.

There’s the tiniest twitch under the golden-brown eyelids she’s just closed. Then the almost imperceptible spasm of the muscles on the right side of Marc’s greying lips.

She only just registers the weak shudder that runs through her husband’s entire form before an undeniable convulsion hits.

Marc’s chest jolts upward, his limbs tensing as his mouth opens in a silent gasp. Rigour Mortis she tells herself - the nerves dissipating their last impulses-

She doesn’t finish the thought.

An explosion of white engulfs Marc’s body. Pale bindings wrap themselves onto his upper torso and shoulders, a hood forming around a mask of dark strips of fabric - the same fabric that wraps itself snugly around each arm and leg. A bundle of white cloak pools around him, piling up on her lap and trailing into the crimson pool surrounding them.

Layla barely has time to acknowledge her terrified thoughts - Oh God, has something evil taken over his body?- when an audible, desperate choking sound accompanies a sudden, jolting rise of his chest. He twists in her arms, and she sees barely a flash of his skin as the mask pulls away and he turns his face to the ground. With deep, guttural coughing, watery crimson sprays and drips into the existing pool of red as his lungs work to clear themselves.

Time seems to stretch eternally until his coughing finally eases. As she helps him to lay back in the safety of her arms, she just catches the last slither of his cheekbone as his face vanishes beneath the dark mask again.

Every muscle in his body is pulled so tight he’s practically suspended, arched in her arms. A violent shudder runs through him, before he begins to relax incrementally, a tiny amount at a time, until he’s resting in her arms again.

Under the black mask she can hear the great chugs of air he’s pulling in, matching the deep, sharp expansion and deflation of his ribcage. She’s frozen in shock, adrenaline coursing through her bloodstream as she struggles to process - what just happened? What’s happening? What do I do?

Layla can’t tell if he’s staring at her, or just staring. The glowing white eyes give zero indication of the actual focus of his gaze, or the intention behind it. “-Marc?” she finally ventures. After a second’s pause, he gives a tiny shake of his head. “Steven?” He doesn’t reply.

She’s still trying to decide if she should speak to him again, or whether the head shake was meant to communicate that he couldn’t answer her, when the mask and hood recede to leave his head exposed. He looks… different. Well he was dead a few seconds ago. But something doesn’t sit right.

“I - I thought you didn’t have the suit any more?” Her voice quakes in the cold of her body.

Dark eyes lock onto hers. His mouth works for a few seconds, his throat bobbing with an audible clicking sound as he clears the residual blood clogging it.

“They don’t.”

His statement and voice unnerve her. Her adrenaline spikes again, ready to defend herself if she needs to, when something begins to form at the back of her mind. A vague memory, a suspicion. That night in Cairo - Harrow - Marc savagely beaten into the ground - and then -

“Who are you?” She doesn’t mean it to sound as abrupt as it does.

He blinks at her, his expression wary. He’s still fighting for breath.

“Jake.” He finally huffs out.

She nods her head jerkily. They thought there was a third… “Where -?” She doesn’t need to finish her question. Jake knows.

“I've got them.” His voice has a gravelly quality that she suspects isn’t all from taking his last breath a few minutes before.

“-You’ve ‘got them’?” Hope and fear war in Layla’s chest. She searches the oh-so-familiar eyes, finding fear, pain, and a hint of relief in their dark depths.

“Yeah. They’re safe. They’re still… ‘unconscious’, they took the brunt of the - of it.” The effort of speaking seems to wear Jake out, he’s still breathless, but Layla can’t help herself.

They’re safe. “-They’re ‘safe’? Safe where? Are they okay?” Layla is err-ing on the side of caution with this stranger.

To his credit, the look of impatience and irritation passes as fast as it appears. Something unreadable but somehow soft replaces it.

“- Yeah, they’re safe. In here -” he weakly gestures to his head “- like I said, they took the worst of it… I couldn’t break through their shock to take control.” he pauses for a moment, and she recognises the look that both Marc and Steven get when they’re looking inside or communicating in their headspace. “They’re gonna be fine. They need time to heal.” He finishes softly, almost affectionately.

Relief floods her system. They’re going to be alright. And he clearly cares about them.

But the reprieve is short lived - they have to move.

“Ok Jake, we need to get out of here. Tell me as soon as you can walk and I’ll help you as much as I can.”

He nods. “Just need a minute… Let the suit give me enough juice to get moving.”

She nods in response, her eyes scanning their surroundings before settling back on this semi-stranger’s face.

“So… I don’t think we’ve really met before.” She ventures.

The man wearing her husband’s face blinks at her, then a slow smile spreads across his features. It’s both slightly unnerving and sweet at the same time.

“Oh, we’ve met. I’m the one that saves our asses.”

#moon knight #moon knight fanfic #moon knight fanfiction #moon knight fan fic #moon knight fan fiction #marc spector #steven grant #layla el faouly #jake lockley #marc spector angst #steven grant angst #jake lockley angst #layla el faouly angst #marc spector whump #steven grant whump #jake lockley whump #layla el faouly whump #oscar isaac #oscar isaac characters

19 notes · View notes