#wraps this au up in a blanket and WEEPS | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

starlitmark · 1 year

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Summary: You’re beyond excited to have your second baby… until… Pairing: San x fem!reader Trope: married life au, parent au, non-idol au Genre: angst, fluff Rating: PG Warnings: stillbirth, high-risk pregnancy (placental rupture), hurt… a lot of hurt, hospitals, implications of surgery, mentions of childbirth Word Count: 3,034 Note: for the Meet Me Under the Cherry Tree event by @cultofdionysusnet Note 2: THE ENDING IS HAPPY I WON’T TORTURE YALL LIKE THAT!!! ( @songmingisthighs made me do it)

Listen to: married life from Up || Next Right Thing from Frozen 2

When you first moved to this property with your husband, you knew it would be where you wanted to be for the rest of your life. There’s a rather sizable backyard. A large weeping cherry tree sits atop a small hill off to the right corner of the yard. The dilapidated wooden fence adds to the homey feel of the whole place.

You sat under that blossoming cherry tree when you told San you were pregnant for the first time. He was so excited he tackled you to the ground and nearly sent you rolling down the hill. He, of course, checked that you were okay and he didn’t hurt you. Your pregnancy with Hyunwoo was so smooth. Not a single thing went off course with your health or his. Through summer and fall, until the weather turned cold and the bite of winter came, you sat under that same tree, fantasized, and imagined your future there with your husband.

December rolled around, and you were still happy despite the exhaustion your later pregnancy months caused. Then, finally, the day came, and you and San both were panicked, unsure of how ready you were to be parents. But, of course, the moment you laid eyes on your son, nothing else mattered. You know what your parents mean when they say you grew up too fast. Watching Hyunwoo grow right in front of your eyes made you so proud of him, yet you also worried about him simultaneously.

“Pic- pick-un-ic, momma?”

You chuckle, “It’s picnic, baby, but I’m ready! Why don’t you go get Daddy.”

You pack the basket and grab the blanket to be taken outside. You hear your one-year-old stomping through the home, followed by squealing giggles and your husband’s teasing voice. Placing a hand on your belly, you smile. San came down the hall with a giggling Hyunwoo tossed over his shoulder. He places a soft kiss against your cheek before opening the back door. You step outside and make your way right to that same blossoming tree. Hyunwoo doesn’t stay in San’s arms for very long. Finally, the toddler is off, running up the hill before collapsing on his back.

You follow shortly after and lean down, tickling the boy before picking him up and brushing the fallen petals off his clothes. San has always been the one to set things up since you typically prepped the food. You’re still baffled you managed to get Hyunwoo to eat a whole plate before he’s off and to roll down the hill for fun. You reach into the basket, intending to grab a napkin, though you know your husband. You know he’ll ask for one as well.

“Could I have one too? I have cherry juice all over my fingers.” he chuckles.

You hand him the napkin. San’s eyebrows furrow together, feeling something hard wrapped inside the paper. Your heart is pounding out of your chest. Then, in hopes of calming yourself, you start to watch Hyunwoo. He’s giggling and standing up. He wobbles a few times from dizziness but eventually walks back up the hill. As he does so, a breeze comes through, and the weeping branches swing gently around him. The tree had just started growing its blossoms, with slight hints of pink and white hardly peeking off the dark wood. You wish you could print memories when moments like this happen. Your little boy looks like an angel with the petals falling on him. His smile is so bright, and you can’t imagine a more beautiful sight.

“Sweetheart.” you hear San call, “Is this real? Are you really-”

“I am,” you smile, “Hyunwoo’s going to be a big brother.”

Everything feels normal and happy, just like it did with Hyunwoo. Your son is over the moon excited to meet his sister. It’s not until one of your routine checks that your doctor notices something off. There’s nothing critically concerning, but they still ask you to visit bi-weekly rather than monthly, just in case. The thought that your baby isn’t perfectly healthy worries you.

That night after Hyunwoo is peacefully sleeping, you let San know. You tell him it’s nothing especially concerning but that you want him to keep an extra pair of eyes out for anything that seems off externally from his perspective. As always, he’s extremely understanding and ready to do anything to help you.

A few weeks later, Yunho came over with his wife and son, Jinsik. The two toddlers have been close since they could comprehend human interaction. Of course, your son requested your weekly picnic to be moved to today, and you had no issue with that. Both boys barrel out the door, ready to make petal angels out of the fallen pink blossoms. You’re the last to exit the door, and you pull it shut behind you. San is walking ahead with Yunho chatting about who knows what. Yunho’s wife follows just ahead of you with the large picnic blanket.

Something feels a little off, though. You pause for a moment. San seems to sense it; he turns around and calls your name. You don’t even get a chance to make eye contact with him. You wince, dropping the basket. You double over in pain and fall to the ground shortly after the basket, holding your swollen belly right where the pain emanates. It’s a flurry around you. You know that Yunho has Hyunwoo and that your son is safe. San speeds his way to the hospital, holding your hand the whole way. You can’t remember much past when San tells you that everything will be okay.

When you wake up, you’re in a hospital bed, and your belly is far less swollen than it was a short while ago. You try to move but whimper in pain. San startles awake and squeezes your hand; he’s been crying. His eyes are brimmed with red and look glassy. Something isn’t right. You don’t say anything. Neither does San. He just holds your hand tightly and sniffles. The silence consumes you.

“H-Hyunwoo is spending the night with Yun.” his voice comes out cracking and meek.

“Where’s our daughter?” you ask, dreading the answer.

“She-” he takes a deep breath, “She was beautiful.”

“Was? San, what’s happening? Please tell me.”

“She didn’t make it. The doctor said the placenta detached from you, and she lost too much oxygen and blood before they could get you into the surgery, let alone get her out of you.”

You don’t know how to react. You go limp in his hold. You hear him sniffle back tears again. Tears start rolling down your cheeks, and you can only focus on the fact that you can’t do anything to save your baby. You wouldn’t have been able to save her if you could. You were only at the 20 weeks. Just hit the 4-month mark. She wouldn’t be able to survive without the weight and strength the rest of the pregnancy would provide.

“They asked me to name her so they could- so they-” he lets out another shaky breath, “so they could fill out the death certificate.”

“What did you tell them?” you deadpan.

“Hyunjoo, just like we agreed on.”

You just nod

The following months are brutal. You try your best to be the mom that Hyunwoo deserves. It’s so tough, though. Dealing with post-partum and grieving your daughter’s loss before you could even meet her makes everything seem impossible. More often than not, you find yourself sitting under the cherry tree silently by yourself. Yet, San has been so supportive throughout the entire situation. You know he’s grieving, too, but he never uses that to make you feel any less or frame things differently. Instead, he lets you feel what you feel. Let’s you cry endlessly on him. All while dealing with the grief in his way.

You don’t feel that you get your life back until Hyunwoo’s second birthday. He’s made leaps and bounds in his growth since the spring. He’s speaking complete sentences and starting to recognize different letters, shapes, and colors without assistance from you or San. The day starts a little shaky. You were on the verge of a breakdown when you held Yujun while Yeosang.

San was hyperaware of how you were feeling throughout the day. Several of your mutual friends had babies this year. Mingi had his second, Seeun, in August. You didn’t attend the baby shower or the get-together after his birth. They respected your choice, knowing it was all still challenging for you. Then, in October, Wooyoung had Hunter, and Yeosang had Yujun on the same day. The thought made you chuckle, but still, you were hurting a bit. You hardly made it through the visit to meet the two babies that day. They’ve all been extremely understanding and patient with your grieving process. They’ve mentioned that they could never imagine being in your position and that you could take as much time as you needed.

“Do you want me to take him?”

You shake your head, “I kinda miss this phase. I’ll hold him a bit longer.”

“Mind if I join you then?”

“Not at all.” you smile.

From then, you felt your life slowly rebuilding itself around you. Hyunwoo was even happier and bouncier than before. You and San fall back into a rhythm with each other and with your own personal endeavors. You hardly process the thought that you may get pregnant again. It crosses your mind once in a blue moon, and when it does, it fills your stomach with anxiety. You didn’t mention this worry to San, not explicitly, at least. Hyunwoo would ask on occasion where Hyunjoo went, and it breaks your heart a little, but he’s too young to understand otherwise. Winter turns to Spring, and slowly Summer starts to invade. That’s when reality had a different plan for you than you wanted.

“Hey, could you watch Hyunwoo for a bit?”

“What’s wrong? Is everything okay?” Seonghwa asks over the phone with a very concerned tone.

“Yeah, yeah, I just want to talk with San without Hyunwoo around. I know he hears more than we want him to sometimes.” you chuckle airily.

“I’ll be over with Junmin in about fifteen. Is that okay?”

“Perfect.” you reassure.

Just as promised, Seonghwa and Junmin are there in fifteen minutes. Hyunwoo couldn’t care less that he was leaving. He was getting to go to his friend’s house and play. After a few quick goodbyes, the boys are contently buckled into their car seats.

“I know something’s up with you.” Seonghwa states after the car door is securely shut, “You don’t have to tell me. I know you’re about to tell San whatever it is. But you have us to lean on, too, okay?”

You nod, “Okay, thank you again, Seonghwa.”

When you walk back inside, San’s already waiting by the backdoor. Sometimes it’s crazy how well your husband knows you when you want to tell him something important or have a heart-to-heart with him. You sit under that cherry tree. That tree has heard many things of your lives together, the good, the bad, and the ugly. Now it’s about to hear one new thing. You interlock your hand with his and go up that small hill again. You know he’s worried about you. You are worried. A million and one things are swirling around your mind right now. Now, you’re seated with your back against the tree, tucked under San’s arm.

“So,” he sighs, “what life-changing thing are you going to tell me this time?” he teases.

“I’m pregnant again.”

“When did you find out?”

“Last week,” you admit, “I had to come to terms with it on my own first. How do you feel about it?”

He shakes his head, “This isn’t about me. You’re the one carrying the baby. How are you feeling about it?” he asks softly, wrapping his arm around you tighter.

“Scared, in all honesty. What if-” you stop yourself.

“Are you worried this baby will have the same complications as Hyunjoo?” you nod, and he wraps you fully in a hug, “Listen to me, sweetheart. You are strong, so fucking strong. We had to part ways with our daughter far too early, but that doesn’t mean this baby is guaranteed to be that way too. Honestly, I’m a bit worried too. I think it’s only natural after what happened. But I’m right by your side every step of the way. I know life was hell for us last year, but guess what? There’s always sun after the storm.”

“I love you.” you sniffle. You hadn’t even noticed you were crying.

“I love you too.”

You spend the rest of the afternoon sitting under the tree, talking about everything with him, just like when you told him about Hyunwoo and when you told him about Hyunjoo. That lingering fear sits in your belly still, but it slowly dissolves into hope for what could be.

Of course, after your last pregnancy, your doctor has you come in for bi-weekly visits from the beginning. Luckily, this baby is completely healthy. This baby is following the trends that Hyunwoo had rather than your daughter. She’s also a girl. You can’t tell if it’s a twisted joke or a blessing from some higher power. One night, you express your worries to San, lying in bed this time. Hyunwoo is fast asleep in his bed, and the baby in your belly is sleeping too. You tell him the lingering thoughts that this daughter may also pass away before birth simply based on your previous experience.

You half expect San to call you crazy. He doesn’t, though. Instead, he leans on his forearm and presses a kiss to your forehead, then leans down and presses a kiss to your baby bump. He tells you that he understands your worry and that you shouldn’t let those negative thoughts consume you even though you are scared. You know he’s right.

You roll through months of your pregnancy, and she’s still healthy, and you are too. Again, Hyunwoo is about to explode with excitement to meet his baby sister. He sat with you as you thought up name options for her. Hyunwoo insisted that she should be named Pumpkin, and neither you nor San had the heart to tell him no. He’s fully convinced she’ll be named Pumpkin now.

By the time Hyunwoo’s third birthday comes around, you’re in your third trimester and entirely over being pregnant again. As much as you’re happy that she’s healthy, she also wiggles like a menace more often than not. She’s recently made a habit of rubbing her foot into your ribs to try to get comfortable. San’s teased you many times for hitting your belly lightly to get her to stop, to no avail. Hyunwoo is somewhat up set his sister didn’t come early as a birthday present for him. If that were the case, though, they would’ve hated having the same birthday when they got older.

In January, Jongho announces that his girlfriend is pregnant. Finally, after years of being the designated babysitter, he could stop doing that and have one of his own. Many of your friends insist he’s pranking them, unwilling to believe their youngest friend was also about to be a dad. It was very real, though. His girlfriend had that glow that all the others had, and you’re sure you have it now too.

It’s the middle of a February snowstorm when you go into labor. Your daughter’s timing is impeccable. Luckily, Jongho wasn’t entirely ripped to shreds by his raging pregnant girlfriend (she was livid that he ate her crackers) and happily took Hyunwoo while San carefully but quickly navigated his way to the hospital. Your heart is pounding, and you’re terrified. Not to have her, but that she would be unhealthy somehow. You’ve been reassured by your husband and, more importantly, your doctor on countless occasions that she’s healthy. Still, the fear is at the forefront of your mind.

You make it there despite the storm and the fear lingering in your mind, and the delivery goes smoothly. Her delivery was actually shorter than Hyunwoo’s by a long shot too. After being cleaned up and you’re given the birth aftercare, your daughter is happily resting on your chest, sleeping after nursing for the first time. They keep you overnight for recovery and observation, just in case. You’re discharged the following day. Your daughter is safely in her carrier. You choose to sit in the back seat with her, keeping a watchful eye on your newborn.

“When will momma and daddy be home?” you hear Hyunwoo on the other side of the door.

“They’ll be home soon, bud. Just wait for a little-” you hear Jongho start to reason with him.

San swings the door open, “We’re right here, baby.” you say sweetly.

Hyunwoo comes barreling toward him and latches onto his leg. The three-year-old immediately peers into the carrier and sees his sister sleeping peacefully. You watch how his eyes light up with stars looking at her.

“That’s Pumpkin?” he asks dreamily.

“Do you want to meet your sister officially?” San asks.

He nods and runs back to sit on the couch. Jongho is seated beside him with a soft smile growing on his lips. You bring the carrier over and carefully take her out of the seat. You sit beside your toddler and let him see her properly. Hyunwoo slides closer and reaches out his finger to touch her tiny hands. San is watching the interaction; you’ve never seen him so in love with anything before.

“What did you name her?” Jongho asks.

“Soohyun.” you reply softly, keeping your eyes on your two children.

“Her name is Pumpkin!” Hyunwoo exclaims.

“Sorry, Hyunnie,” San chuckles, “Momma and I call her that, but you can keep calling her Pumpkin if you’d like to.”

“Her name is Pumpkin.” he pouts.

You became stronger throughout life’s trials in the past few years. And just as San told you, under that cherry tree, there’s always sun after a storm. This storm gave you a rainbow after, and her name is Soohyun.

Networks: @cultofdionysusnet @kwritersworld @k-vanity

Tag List strikethrough = unable to tag: @jaehunnyy @roseforseonghwa @spiderrenjunfics @umbralhelwolf @ericssmile @honeyhuii @tarutarumilk

#san x reader #MeetMeAtTheCherryTree23 #cultofdionysusnet #kwritersworldnet #kvanity #ateez fanfic #ateez x reader #ateez angst #ateez fluff #san fanfic #san fluff #san angst

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tripthlightfantastic · 2 years

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MAJOR VOL 2 SPOILERS!!

Nightmare || Eddie Munson/Reader

In light of vol 2, i feel the need to ignore what i just watched and make a comfort fic for all my fellow broken hearted eddie fans. So here is an AU where it was all a bad dream.

Also sorry this is shitty (not proofread or edited), I wrote this in about 30 minutes in my phone right after finishing the finale. (i’ll add a cut later)

———

“I didn’t run away this time, right?” Eddie gurgled, blood splattering across his teeth and chin. Tears poured down your cheeks as you watched Dustin cradle Eddie’s broken body, tears of his own streaking down his cheeks as he reassured Eddie.

“No. No. No. No” Dustin stammered. “You didn’t run.”. Eddie’s smile was haunting as he struggled for breath. “You’re gonna have to look after those little sheep for me, okay?”. Eddie became serious, and Dustin desperately protested.

You couldn’t hear. You couldn’t breathe. You couldn’t think. You couldn’t do anything but watch as the love of your life took his final rattling breaths and went still in Dustin’s arms.

You screamed then, a broken, inhuman sound bubbled from deep within your chest and you pounded you fists into the ground. The pain just barely distracting you from the excruciating pain of your shattering heart. You felt like someone wrapped their hands around your lungs and squeezed as tight as they could.

You couldn’t breathe.

You couldn’t think.

You couldn’t—

“Y/N! Y/N wake up!”

You gasped as you shot up. You frantically scanned you surroundings and let out a ragged sob as you realized you were in your bedroom. Well, in Eddie’s bedroom. Eddie’s hands were gripping your upper arms as he desperately searched your eyes.

You cried out and wrapped your arms around him, weeping into his chest and running your hands all over his warm body. Real. This was real.

Eddie’s arms banded tightly around you and he pressed gentle kisses on your hair and wherever else he could reach. “What happened, Sweetheart?” he murmured into your ratted hair. You sniffled and pulled back to look at him.

He was real. He was alive. You ran your fingers across his face, over the curve of his nose, the flush of his cheeks, the roughness of his stubble. And finally the plush of his lips. You took in a jolting breathe and met his concerned eyes.

“I watched you die.” You whispered, still transfixed by him, the lack of blood staining his teeth and face. The absence of those awful haunting breathes that rattled his dying lungs.

Eddie’s eyebrows furrowed and he pressed his lips to yours. As he kisses you, his hands reached for yours, and he placed them against this chest. Over his heart.

He pulled away from your lips and leaned his forehead against yours, and you opened your eyes to find his boring into you. “Feel that?” he asked, and you closed your eyes, focusing on his heart beating steadily in his chest. You nodded and he leaned into to kiss you nose.

“I’m here. And i promise Im not going anywhere anytime soon. Okay baby?”. You whimpered, unable to string together a sentence. Eddie guided you back down to the bed and guided your head to lay over his heart. He pulled the blankets up around you and pressed kiss after gentle kiss to your forehead and hair.

“Go back to sleep, Sweetheart.” he muttered, fingertips running up and down your arms, “I’ll be here when you wake up. It was just a nightmare.”.

#eddie munson x y/n #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson #stranger things #stranger things volume 2 #stranger things season 4 #steve harrington #steve harrington x reader #hurt/comfort #eddie munson fanfic #stranger things fanfiction #stranger things spoilers #stranger things season 4 spoilers

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shelby-fangirl00 · 1 year

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Hi darl, I'm so happy to see a new writer for the fandom! I'm Lee and I write for most Peaky characters. I esp adore Tommy tho and I'm curious to know what you'd do with this prompt: "Sing for me." "What would you like to hear?"

Hello! XD I'm so sorry for the late reply, I just had a bit of trouble with this one for some reason! But I had a fun time writing! I'm a little unsure of this but I hope you can enjoy it! Thank you so much for the request, you're the best :)

Word Count: 2359

The song below is incorporated into this story, just for reference.

youtube

Sing For Me

The sun poured in through the large windows, creeping through the thin sheets I used to cover my face. I woke up to loud car engines coming through the circular driveway. Being an au pair here at the Arrow House was, of course an absolute gift. It was unlike any place I had ever worked before. But it was also very empty here. The only sounds that floated through the halls are from the maids and Charlie.

I was hired in a few months after the passing of Mrs. Shelby. I like to imagine that when she was here, the house was lively, something I had never seen before. This mansion felt like an empty museum. I wondered often what life was like around here for Mr. Shelby and Charlie before I was needed. It would bring me comfort to know that they were both truly happy at one time.

As I walked out of my room and into the hallway, I could hear Charlie rustling around in his bed in the next room over. His door was cracked open slightly. As I peered in to greet him, I saw that he was still sleeping, tossing and turning.

Suddenly, he started to weep. He was in some sort of distress it seemed like.

‘Charlie…Charlie love, wake up.’ I whispered while I gently shook his arms.

When he finally opened his eyes to look at me, he started to cry even harder.

‘Shhhh shhh Charlie…it’s alright dear. It’s just a scary dream.’ I consoled. He often woke up like this. Frances warned me about it when I first got here. He has these night terrors often, ever since his mother died. He was barely two years old at this point.

Charlie continued to cry harder, becoming louder. It was still quite early, so I worried that I’d wake Mr. Shelby, who was next door.

Now that I’ve come to understand Charlie, I had a few tricks up my sleeve that I knew to calm him down. He seemed to like when I sang to him. I sang him some of my favorite songs or a song that was stuck in my head. Other times, I would just hum to him and he would drift back to sleep.

Charlie extended his small, puffy arms in an attempt for me to hold him. I reached out, placing him on my lap. He wrapped himself around me, squeezing around my neck as he clung to me, lying his soft head on my shoulder.

I began to rock, rubbing his back in an attempt to sooth him. I quietly began to sing a song that he usually responded well to.

‘I am dreaming dear of you, day by day

Dreaming when the skies are blue, When they're gray

When the silv'ry moonlight gleams, Still I wander on in dreams In a land of love, it seems, Just with you Let me call you "Sweetheart," I'm in love with you.’

Before I could even finish the song, Charlie’s sniffles stopped and his body became limp, drifting back to sleep.

I held him there a few moments longer, enjoying the embrace of the child I had grown to love and care for. As the minutes passed, there was a small creak from Charlie’s door.

I looked up expecting to see Frances, but instead, a disheveled Mr. Shelby stood in his night clothes. His billowy white shirt and boxers.

I immediately averted my gaze from him, feeling like I was intruding on his privacy, even though he was the one who barged in.

‘Everything alright? I heard Charlie crying again.’ He said so quietly, as to not wake him.

I very quickly and carefully placed Charlie back into his small bed, covering him with a blanket before standing up.

‘I apologize if we woke you, Mr. Shelby. Charlie just had another bad dream I believe. He’s settled in now sir.’ I said as I stood in front of him, eyes doing their best to avoid him. He was a very intimidating man to be around.

‘No need for an apology dear. Would you mind leaving me with him for a little while?’ He questioned.

I couldn’t help but to look at him and smile before answering. I liked seeing him spend time with his son. He needed his father more than he needed me.

‘Of course, sir. I’ll be downstairs in the library if you need me.’

------

Charlie and I spent most of the day in the stables. He loved being outside more than the empty house, so I usually had a picnic made up for us out on the large property. He was the only person I really ever saw or spoke to these days, but I don’t mind, he is great company and always keeps me entertained. I just hope I do the same for him. I can tell that he misses his father.

It was winding down towards the end of the night. Charlie had been asleep for well over an hour by now. I had just finished helping Frances clean up in the kitchen. With nothing else to do, I decided to head upstairs to my bedroom.

As I headed down the long hall towards the stairs, I passed Mr. Shelby’s large office. The tall and dark door was wide open, which was out of ordinary. A low light crept out of the doors and on the hallway walls. As I walked by, I glued my eyes on the wooden floor.

Just as I passed the door frame, I heard his deep voice call my name from inside the room. My stomach tightened as I realized I had never been alone with Mr. Shelby and I was petrified for it to happen.

‘What can I do for you, Mr. Shelby?’ I practically mumbled out as I stood in the doorway, too scared to enter.

He was sitting casually on the edge of his desk with a glass of whiskey in hand. His sleeves were rolled up his arms sloppily. His expression didn’t give away what he wanted from me. He was expressionless.

‘Shut the door please.’ He commanded.

I did as he asked, fear creeping up my stomach, into my chest.

‘I heard you and Charlie this morning. I heard you singing to him.’

Was he offended by my practice? Did I cross a line?

Your cheeks flushed red as the embarrassment set in.

‘Oh…yes, it’s just something I do when he has his nightmares. If…if you want me to stop-

‘Does he like it when you sing?’ He questioned, his voice becoming a bit softer when talking about his son.

‘I believe it does. It stops his crying, at least. But it mostly puts him to sleep.’ I giggled out, smiling in his direction while talking about Charlie.

Thomas studied my face a few seconds, chuckling to himself. A small smile crossed his face too, which was new. His dimples peaked out from each cheek. I liked seeing him smile.

‘Well then, please don’t stop. I’m happy that it brings him some comfort.’

There was an awkward silence for a few seconds before he spoke again.

‘You drink whiskey?’ Asking as he strutted over to a cart full of liquor by his desk.

‘If you’re offering, thank you.’

I studied his broad shoulders and back as he poured out the drink, then headed towards me.

I had never been so close to him before as he stood a foot away from me, extending the glass out for me to take.

He blue eyes never left my face as I threw back the glass, the dark liquid warming up my insides.

‘So, you like to sing?’ he asked, leaning back on his desk again. I inhaled deeply and took a few steps closer to him, closing the now awkwardly large gap between us.

‘Well, I suppose. Me mum always forced me to sing for her and her friends when I was a little girl. I prefer singing to Charlie over them though. He doesn’t expect much out of me.’ I chuckled while thinking again about Charlie.

‘I can tell that you care deeply for my son. I called you in here to thank you. He’s been through too much for his age. I am happy to see him happy again.’ He spoke like he was reading off of a piece of paper. Still, I appreciated the recognition.

‘Of course. I really do love being here with him, even if it is a bit…lonely here sometimes.’

It was easy to see how lonely he was too, without his wife. It broke my heart to know he was hurting. I cared so much for his son that it was hard not to care about him too.

His eyes looked up from his glass, a surprised expression on his face.

‘I think I know what you mean. It can eat away at ya if you’re not careful though.’ He warned me.

‘You know from experience, I assume?’ I asked sheepishly, prying a little more.

‘Well, of course. I’ve lived in this loneliness for a while now, love.’ He said lowly and plainly as he sipped on his drink.

‘Right well,’ he declared as he walked around his desk to sit back in his chair, leaving me stranded, feeling exposed in the middle of this large room.

‘I need to hear more of this voice of yours, since Charlie loves it so much.’

My heart sank with dread.

‘Sorry?’ I chuckled out with a confused expression covering my face.

‘Sing for me.’ He affirmed, smiling devilishly, knowing that putting me on the spot like this would make me fluster.

A few moments passed in complete silence. I shot back the rest of my whiskey before placing the glass on his desk. I cleared my throat obnoxiously before placing my hands behind my back.

‘What would you like to hear?’

His eyes scanned the length of my body before answering. I became over aware of my most-likely underwhelming appearance.

‘What did you sing to the boy today that put him to bed?’

‘Uhm… It’s called ‘Let Me Call You Sweetheart.’ Ya know it?’

‘Yes, perfect. Go on then, I insist.’

I smiled at him before taking a deep breath. I opened my mouth to repeat the same song from this morning, wanting to get this over with:

‘I am dreaming dear of you, day by day

Dreaming when the skies are blue, When they're gray

When the silv'ry moonlight gleams, Still I wander on in dreams In a land of love, it seems, Just with you Let me call you "Sweetheart," I'm in love with you.’

I looked back up at Thomas who was already staring at me, a glimmer in his eyes.

‘Charlie is right. You’ve got quite a lovely voice, dear.’ He stood up and made his way to stand in front of me again.

I grinned up at him as to say thank you.

And a pretty smile as well. You’re very beautiful.’

I nearly froze from his words, my breath quickening.

‘Oh, please. Thank you, but you’re so beautiful, it’s almost annoying, Mr. Shelby.’ I giggled out nervously, hoping I wasn’t being too forward. But he was, so what was the harm?

He cocked an eyebrow at me.

‘Please call me Tommy, love.’ He muttered out.

Without saying another word, Tommy began to push my long and frizzy hair behind my ear. I inhaled sharply as his hand made contact with me. He was definitely coming onto me. Was this appropriate? It was hard to say no to a man like Thomas Shelby. Everything about him was intoxicating.

“Are you going to kiss me, Tommy?’ I whispered, batting my eyes sensually at him as I wetted my lips, pushing my lips passed my teeth.

His hand made its way to lightly tilt my chin up to him before he leaned down to press his warm lips onto mine. I was basically trembling with excitement and a bit of fear. The fear fell off of me as he deepened his kiss. He wrapped his hands around my cheeks and pulled me further into his body. I could feel his muscular chest pressed against mine as he sank into my mouth. I opened the kiss to allow his tongue access inside. He greedily accepted the invitation with more force. The kiss was became so needy.

Without thinking, I threw my hands into his hair and gripped lightly onto his loose brown strands. He moaned softly into my mouth, sending vibrations through my body.

“Mommy! Mommy!’ Charlie cried out from behind us. My eyes shot wide open as both Tommy and I practically sprung off of each other.

Charlie ran up to me with tears in his eyes, clinging to my legs and squeezing.

Completely flushed and still trying to recover what just happened, I picked up Charlie instinctively, bouncing him up and down to calm him down.

I turned around to see Tommy was who holding back a giggle.

‘Tommy, I try to correct him when he says this, I swear.’ I worryingly assured him. I hoped it hadn’t offended him.

‘No, no, please don’t apologize. He doesn’t know any better…it’s quite adorable, actually.’ He said jokingly while giggling.

I rolled my eyes and shook my head at him before turning to face the door.

“I should try to put him back to bed.’ I exclaimed as I headed towards the door.

‘I’ll join you, then. I wouldn’t mind hearing you sing again, either.’ He said teasingly, coming up on my side and placing his large warm hand on the small of my back as to lead me out of the doorway with him.

‘You will? Oh Tommy, I think Charlie would love that!’ I beamed up at him as he smiled down at me. For the night, I felt as though I saw a side of Tommy that he hides away from others. To the outside world, Tommy Shelby was a ruthless gangster and business man. Here at the Arrow House tonight, he was just Thomas. He was just a man.

#thomas shelby #tommy shelby x reader #peaky blinders #tommy shelby #tommy shelby fanfic #peaky blinder fanfic #tommy shelby one shot #peaky blinders x reader

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ctitan98official · 3 months

Text

Larissa Weems gets pregnant by Y/N: Drabble - Larissa’s midnight cravings

Okay, so this is not the official continuation of this AU. But, I wanted to write this as sort of a character study for Larissa. I’m still figuring out how to write for her so this was really just practice lol. Read the first part of this AU here! And the second part here! Let’s get into it!

You’re sleeping soundly and having the most pleasant of dreams. But suddenly, you can hear a soft voice calling your name and breaking through your slumber. You groan and pull the blanket up over your head, hoping to stop whoever is trying to wake you up… But that doesn’t work very well.

The very same person now begins shaking you roughly. Damn it. You eventually open your eyes, peaking your head out of the covers… Only to be met with a rather annoyed Larissa. You take one look at the glare she’s giving you and sit up immediately, nervously scratching your head. “Um, is everything-”

“No, Y/N, everything is not okay! I’ve been trying to wake you up for the last 5 minutes!” She huffs and crosses her arms.

You feel your heart rate jump at this. “Are you hurting or something?! Do I need to take you to the hospit-”

Larissa’s eyes widen at your panic. She didn’t mean to scare you. She quickly shakes her head, realizing that maybe she didn’t do the best job of conveying her needs. “No, no, darling. Nothing like that,” She clarifies, now looking down and gently caressing her growing tummy.

You quirk an eyebrow in confusion. “Oh, okay. What’s up?” You ask and sleepily lie your head on her shoulder.

Larissa sighs and runs her fingers through your hair. “It’s just that… I’m… Hungry,” She says, cheeks burning in embarrassment.

You perk up at this. “Oh, I get it! A craving? I just read about those in the baby book!” You say. “The baby wants something special, right?” You ask.

Larissa can’t help but giggle at how excited you look. “Yes, darling. Exactly,” She says and gives you a kiss, happy you don’t seem pissed for having been woken up.

“I can go to the kitchen and make something! What do they want?” You ask and place your hand on her stomach.

Larissa smiles timidly at you. “Well… Actually, I would love a hamburger…” She says, looking away.

“A hamburger? Hmm… I don’t know if we have all the stuff to make one,” You say, trying to remember what’s in the fridge.

Larissa sighs and clears her throat. “We don’t, darling…” She says, trying to hint that you will need to actually go out to get her a burger. She feels guilty about making you run to get her something in the middle of the night, but she will most definitely not deprive her child of what they want.

You finally realize what she means. “Oh! Yeah, yeah! No worries, I can go get one!” You tell her, pressing a kiss to her lips and jumping out of bed. “Alright, let’s see. Keys, wallet, phone,” You say, grabbing what you need. “Okay, I’ll be back, babe!” You say, bounding out of the room.

Larissa, however, is greatly alarmed. “Y/N! You’re in your underwear!” She calls frantically.

You stop running and look down at yourself. You laugh goofily from the hallway. “Haha, I’m naked!”

Larissa rolls her eyes and settles back down in the bed. “I worry about your parent sometimes, little one,” She murmurs to the baby.

Once the clothing issue is dealt with, you set out to go get Larissa’s food. You even have a genius idea. You return with quite a few burgers and a couple orders of fries. Knowing how hungry Larissa has been lately, one burger isn’t going to cut it.

Larissa weeps at your thoughtfulness… Before inhaling literally all of it.

You had also gotten yourself a milkshake… But Larissa drinks that too. You don’t mind. It’s really funny to see your refined and sophisticated girlfriend tearing into a bunch of greasy fast food.

After Larissa finishes eating, you snuggle into her side and she wraps a comforting arm around you.

You rub your hand along her belly. “I wonder what the baby’s gonna be like,” You say, trying to picture your future child.

Larissa looks down at you and smiles. “I bet they’ll be just as kind as you, Y/N,” She says, placing her hand on top of yours.

You look up at her. “Really?” You ask, suddenly a little bashful.

Larissa giggles. “Yes, darling. I’m sure of it.”

“I bet they’ll be beautiful like you, babe!” You tell her.

Larissa smirks. “That goes without saying,” She laughs. “Have you seen me?” She teases.

You crack up at this. “Yeah! And they’ll be smart too! We’ll have the best kid ever. I just know it!” You say.

Larissa hums contentedly and begins to stroke your cheek. “I think you’re right, Y/N,” She grins.

At Larissa’s gentle ministrations, you begin to yawn. She’s so warm and soft. You bury your face into the silky pajama top she’s wearing and start to drift off. “I love you. Good night, babe,” You whisper quietly.

“Good night, my darling. The baby and I both love you very much,” She says and kisses your head.

You smile and fall asleep, happy to have your entire family in your arms.

Note: Canonically, we know Larissa likes hamburgers so I wanted to throw that in XD I hope you enjoyed!

Masterlist

#larissa weems #larissa weems x reader #larissa weems x y/n #larissa weems x you #wednesday netflix #wednesday addams #principal weems #larissa x reader #larissa x y/n #netflix wednesday

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inkykeiji · 11 months

Note

may i please request (8) bunny for twin touya + dabi? 👀

prompt: bunny series: twins AU warnings: an injured/hurt animal, use of the word Daddy, female reader, the twins + reader are in a poly relationship words: 1k

of course u can anon!!! thank you so much for this, it’s such a joy to write something for the twins again <3

It’s wounded; something wrong with its leg, tiny bones all twisted and gnarled. Its little tummy rises and falls with its erratic breaths, pink nose twitching rapidly, big brown eyes wide and alert as they dart around its surroundings—a small clearing beneath an overgrown bush.

Honestly, you wouldn’t have even known it was there, had it not been making soft, wheezy little squeaks, exhaled on harsh breaths.

With gentle hands you push some branches out of the way, an attempt to get a better look at the poor animal, the bunny flinching violently at the rustle of leaves.

“Oh, no, no, no,” you’re whimpering quietly, a stab of guilt penetrating your stomach. “No, lil guy, I’m so sorry, I—I didn’t mean to startle you.”

“What are you doing over here, playin’ in the bushes?” Dabi teases as he jogs up to you. “You’re gonna get poison ivy or oak or whatever the fuck it is, and I’m not gonna help you rub ointment on it. Touya isn’t, either, y’know. Can already hear him—”

“There’s a bunny—a baby rabbit. I think it’s hurt, badly,” wrapping your arms around your folded knees and hugging them tightly to your chest, you glance up at Dabi with glassy eyes, vision thick with tears, rendering him nothing more than a wavering figure of black.

“What?”

Dabi crouches next to you, elbows resting on his thighs, and peers through the mess of leaves, lips tugging down into a deep frown.

“Ah, fuck.” He reaches forward, large hands clumsy and cumbersome, and the bunny startles again, a yelp of terror shuddering its form. The cracked sound has Dabi wincing harshly, hands recoiling into his chest in one quick jerk. “I—I can’t touch it,” he’s shaking his head, already stumbling to his feet, backing up a little. “I’ll just—It might get hurt more. I’ll go get Touya.”

Yes, you’re nodding. Touya will know what to do, Touya will know how to handle this, just like he always does.

“A bunny?” you hear Touya ask a few moments later, voice faint but growing in volume as he advances towards you. “You can’t be serious—”

Low murmurs cut him off—no doubt Dabi’s—their tone testy and panicked.

“Alright, alright,” Touya’s chuckling, easygoing and dismissive. “I’ll take a look.”

“Daddy,” you whine as Touya’s shadow crawls over you.

“What do we have here?” Touya asks as he bends, body blanketing your back, thighs cushioning your own, chin hooked over your shoulder.

“A little baby rabbit. It looks—I think there’s something wrong with its leg. If we—If we don’t help it, I don’t think it’ll survive.”

“That’s just the circle of life, baby,” Touya responds with a solemn shrug.

“Nii-san,” Dabi hisses, eyes narrowed. “We can’t just leave it.”

“We can’t?”

“No!” you and Dabi cry in unison.

Twisting in Touya’s grasp, you break free easily, rising to stand over him and look at him properly, a hand vaguely gesturing the bush.

“Look at it, Daddy, it’s suffering. We can’t just—” a hiccup cuts you off, vicious and abrupt, and Dabi draws you into his arms with a clicked tongue and a coo, biceps wound around yours, hands rubbing your arms in comfort.

His touch, characteristically just a hint too rough, his grip just a hint too tight, causes something inside you to snap—an emotional dam that begins to fracture deep behind your ribs, weeped out little sobs oozing from the cracks—and you bury your face in his chest, body quivering slightly with half-stifled sniffles.

“We can’t just leave it to die,” Dabi finishes your sentence. “Not when we know we can help.”

Sapphire eyes sweep between your faces, slow and assessing as the gears of his mind whir and click, weighing all his options and considering the most optimal outcome.

“Fine,” Touya sighs after a moment of contemplation, turning back to peer at the injured animal, squinting a little in evaluation. “Get me a popsicle stick, gauze, and some tape.”

Despite Touya’s apparent apathy, he is surprisingly sweet, tender hands exceptionally careful, his movements purposeful and meticulous, just like everything else he does in life.

It’s as though Touya’s innate caregiving instincts have snapped into action, the shift in his demeanour almost immediate, a shift you and Dabi have experienced more than once—though it’s difficult to tell if such a shift was triggered by you and Dabi, or by the small, wounded animal itself.

You can’t watch—Dabi can’t, either, the two of you clinging to one another, faces hidden in shoulders and hair, fingers curling in denim and linen as Touya works.

“Okay, little buddy, I’ve got you,” Touya murmurs softly as he scoops the ball of fur, now with a makeshift splint, up with one palm, cupping his other hand over it gently. “We’re going to get you some help.”

In the end, the three of you keep the bunny, you and Dabi loving the stupid thing way too much for Touya to say no. And although he doesn’t care for the thing a whole lot, fairly indifferent to its entire existence, it reminds him of the both of you in separate ways; cute and sweet and fluffy like you, mistrusting and cautious and jumpy like Dabi.

He thinks that, maybe, caring for it might be beneficial for the two of you, that having something to look after and tend to and protect just like he does for the both of you might bring you each a shred of the validation and satisfaction he gets from nurturing each of you.

It isn’t unusual to find the two of you flat on your backs, on the floor of Dabi’s studio, stained with paint in the shape of bunny footprints as the fluffy little thing hops around, across your skin and over your bodies and onto canvases, creating little pieces of art, your twined laughter ringing throughout the house. It’s a nice sound, a welcomed sound, a warm sound that fills him with something buzzing and bubbly, and, most recently, Touya’s favourite sound to come home to.

#dabi x reader #todoroki touya x reader #thank u anon!!!!! pls enjoy!!!#and also heed the warnings on this one #i know animal injury can be super triggering to some #and this piece literally starts with an injured bunny #so be careful!!!#pls have a fab wednesday and stay safe!!!#inky.bb #clari gets mail #inky.twins

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horrors-at-night · 5 months

Text

Thinking about Briar waking up in her bedroom and finding the King there. Her sitting up, surprised, the covers falling from her body to expose her bare breasts. He does not react, his empty face shows no emotion, standing in regal silence in the darkness. And yet she feels his gaze fall upon her body.

Without a thought she pulls back the blankets, revealing the rest of her form. She wants to approach him, ask what he's doing here, what he wants. But he is there before she can react, one massive hand placed upon her stomach. He pushes her back upon the bed and even before she feels his body settling between her thighs, she understands what he wants.

She isn't afraid. Intimidated, perhaps, already thinking about how on earth his cock will fit within her. But the hands that explore her are gentle and cool, and her body is warm and sensitive. Maybe it's because she's not fully awake that she lets him do as he wants. Maybe it's just a dream. But when his fingers find her clit, swirling stroking teasing her aching nub, she forgets any protest she could've had.

Her hips lift off the bed with her release, her head falling back. His majesty's fingers trace over her twitching petals, ghost over her entrance. And then they return to her clit. And she doesn't have the breath to beg for mercy. Like he's making up for lost time, like her body is his toy, he plays with her. Her mind spins. Her fists grip his coat. She can't hear what she's saying but she's begging, begging-

"please please please please please please please, Cabadath, please-"

When she finally falls quiet, limp and submissive on the bed, he takes her. He leans over her body. Something larger than anything she's ever felt grazes her swollen cunt. Briar whimpers, and that's all she can do. He teases her at his leisure, dragging the tip between her folds, kissing her sore little clit with it.

And when it presses into her body, finally, she feels every inch of it. She shudders, eyes wide and weeping, and so, so full. The King moans above her.

His thrusts are slow, steady, smooth. He's savoring her. Enjoying her cunt as he wraps his arms around her and holds her tiny frame close to his torso. Rumbling purrs fill the air and mumbling words she can't understand, some language she's never heard. Her legs wrap around him.

His control frays. His thrusts quicken, his claws dig in. His purrs become growls. He pants. Her name joins his mumbled words. When his control snaps she's barely ready for the powerful thrusts, for the animalistic pace of it. And she doesn't know what she says to him, her coherence is gone, lost in the pleasure, but he snaps.

Maybe it was that moment, maybe it was hours later, when he cums. She couldn't miss it, when he does. The heat of his seed, the howl above her, the pulse of his length as he fills her.

It occurs to her then, her exhausted, sleepy mind, that the same cock, the same cum, that created their worst enemy now rests deep within her. And sure, she is infertile. Nothing will come from this. But as he settles next to her, his fingers tracing over her womb, she wonders, she wonders...

His fingers drag down, his index finger stroking her clit again. Briar moans in willing protest. The King chuckles.

"One more, my dearest," he whispers. "Just one more."

-- THINGS THAT REALLY REALLY REALLY GOT AWAY FROM ME OMFG. This is set in my Horrors au universe in case you're finding this for the first time. You can see more info over at @world-of-horrors-au. (The slenderkin in this is Slender's dad btw.)

#creepypasta lemon #creepypasta smut #creepypasta nsft #nsft creepypasta

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marrowthefairy · 1 year

Text

kitsune tails aus where he outlives sonic are good but you know what else is good? sonic with a bittersweet smile on his face asking shadow to please, please take care of his little brother when he's gone. shadows the only one who could understand what tails is about to go through. sonic leaves to save the world and this time he does not come back. shadow is now the big brother to the heartbroken grieving child he once was.

tails won't accept this at first. sonic is going to come back bc he always comes back. slowly, though, his own logical mind forces him through the stages of grief: sonic is not coming back. there is no way he could have survived that. he's angry at first, but no matter how much he screams, cries, kicks, shadow doesnt leave. he's too stubborn for that.

shadow is there whenever tails is desperately searching for ways to bring him back. through ths long nights of running simulations and tests, when he falls asleep at his keyboard, shadow carefully wraps a blanket around him. idiot, shadow thinks. no wonder he wanted me to take care of you so badly.

nothing is working. every simulation fails. the emeralds refuse to give up their powers for this. with each passing failure tails cant even bring himself to get out of bed. amy comes over for a few days to help clean up and make food- but eventually she just shows shadow the basics of how to use a stove and has to leave to take care of herself. shes grieving too, after all. shadow makes boxed mac and cheese and hamburger helper meals. he decides to throw out the canned chilli in the cabinet

tails takes the help bc he feels so numb, this might as well happen. this goes on for longer than either of them are proud of. shadow comes in to clean tail's room one day (shadow can't bear it when things become too dirty) but he's too fast about it. he only gets halfway through before tails breaks down in tears, wrapping himself in a blanket, weeping

through sobs, tails asks him. "when does it stop hurting?"

shadow is silent for too long. what would sonic have done? what would maria say? then he slowly sits on the bed beside him. he puts a hand awkwardly on tails back. he speaks, quietly. "it doesnt. i am sorry"

tails misses affection so much he leans into shadow, who hugs him, and eventually hes weeping and shivvering in shadows lap, just like he did when he was small in sonics. when he calms down, he thanks shadow for staying with him, through hiccups.

shadow thinks about how pathetic this is. he knows exactly how it feels. "i promised him i would be here." he says. he doesnt want tails to end up like he is.

things do get better, but it takes a long time. at least now they have each other.

#and theyre brothers now. thank you for coming to my ted talk.#eternal brothers btw bc tails is a kitsune now also #this ended up being much longer than i wanted it to be and i still have more to say #someone ask me about this au please.#sonic the hedgehog #sth #sonic #tails the fox #shadow the hedgehog #surviving siblings au #thats what im calling it i think #i will be posting more. and yes i am writing a fic and also drawing art.

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inkwell-and-dagger · 5 months

Note

I would love to see more of the living weapon au with rayan and carmen 👀

OF COURSE BRO!!!!!! here's some comfort to feed y'all <333

Watching Rayan getting tortured was like Carmen's own little torture session. Every scream rang in Carmen's ears, and as much as he wanted to even look away, Foster's warning glare kept him from averting his gaze every time.

And at the end of each and every session, like some sick cycle both him and the immortal could never get out of, Rayan would sob and cry in the corner and the only way to get him to calm down was if either Zayn — if he visited them, that was — or Carmen himself comforted him. Over time, both of them grew into this habit, and genuinely enjoyed each other's company, and Carmen began showing more of himself with time.

Like now. As Rayan lay weeping in his corner, clutching a rather large wound at his side — Foster had been particularly rough this time — Carmen draped the immortal's blanket over his shoulders. The thing was small and drenched in blood, dried and damp, old and new, and yet Rayan was always comforted by the object. His sobs quietened to whimpers once he felt Carmen's strong arms wrap around him, letting his empty evergreen eyes close.

"You're okay, Rayan," Carmen mumbled in a detached voice, smoothing his hand down Rayan's back, claws barely grazing his skin. "I'm here. I'm sorry, I'm so sorry."

To Carmen's surprise, the man chuckled hoarsely. "You sound like Maddie..."

"...Who- Who's Maddie?"

Rayan paused. He hadn't taken into consideration that the two hardly knew each other's personal lives outside the basement. "Oh, my sister. She's uh- a photographer. Used to work in fitness, but, you know."

"Is she nice?"

A chuckle. "Of course she is, Carmen. I think she'd love you. She helped me get my prosthetic leg, along with.. one of my partners."

Carmen couldn't help crack a tiny smile. Tracing small, winding patterns across the immortal's binder, he rested his chin against Rayan's matted hair. "Do you think she misses you?"

"...Yeah, I think so. She's always been pretty protective of me. Kinda like you."

It was Carmen's turn to laugh softly, despite the sound being raspy, lifting the frail man into his lap. "Really?"

"Mhm. Aside from the ears and tail, of course."

Carmen hummed simply in response, but the two fell into silence again. Rayan's breathing evened, relaxing in the living weapon's warm embrace. With a tired voice and a gaze flickering with faint hope, he glanced up at Carmen. "If we ever get out of here, do you wanna meet her...?"

"Of course, Rayan."

#rayan hyacinth #carmen atkinson #How To Kill An Immortal #whump #oc whump #whump oc #whump writing #writing #oc writing #immortal whumpee #living weapon whumpee #multiple whumpees #this is totally off the hook i dont know what im doing #nonhuman whumpee #kiratheperson

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imagineitdearies-old · 1 year

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I'm a lurker on this site but i wanted to drop by and say that the dynamic you've created with Aemond and Luke is sooooo impressively complex and layered- and so drenched in miscommunication and blockages and issues. I just read on Twitter (lol) about emotionally damaged people wanting their partners to prove their love to them because they feel they do not deserve it- and how that can be soo harmful. Obvs in the context of GOT and D+S and all of the twisted stuff aemond had gone through and heard its a lot more serious (he is so crazy love it). But yeah.

Wonderful wonderful job! I'm excited to see where this goes and if they can talk for real and sort this out because while I AMMM not gonna lie I'm a little upset with luke (I'm an emotional person swayed by aemonds pov.. i know rhae and luke will sort this out i believe it with myy tender heart) I feel as if this has a lot more to it than just aemond kind of dooming it from the start with his insecurities.

By that I mean, he seemed to always be waiting for something terrible to happen, looking for evidence to feed his insecurity and his anxiety and post-trauma. And this is just.. gasoline to those flames in his mind. He's like: Luke has just confirmed everything I've been saying in my own head.

Where are the westerosi therapists? These mfs need COUNSELLING! Hahaha. And alicent of course. I love her so much I could weep for her! It's like 4am and I have really bad insomnia so I re read the entirety of D+S and while I am a little glad that rhaenyra can comfort and help alicent my girl, I know it is also a big trauma in itself to have your secrets in the open like that in such a tense and emotional context too. I hope she's okay.

Anyways thanks for reading (?) This novel length ask you're doing sooooo amazing- love love love it. And love the fight in the comments LOL!

Hey, this was all so kind and sweet!! I feel ya on the insomnia--I have a 7:30am job so I basically just live off anxiety and bursts of mania until I can sleep through the weekend, lol.

Yes, 'prove your love by doing xx' is a really toxic thing to ask for. And ineffective--Aemond's not thinking very clearly (lol), but IF Luke gave him what he wanted I think he'd feel momentary satisfaction at best. He told himself in that scene that he wasn't blackmailing Luke like he could have, but it was still emotional blackmail and they wouldn't have walked away closer. In fact, I can't see them recovering from it.

Then there's Luke who HAD the knife in case Aemond really couldn't forgive/move forward without using it, so he was very ready to feed into this toxic idea himself--until Aemond completely blindsided him of course by taking it a step farther/worse 😂 If this was a modern!AU you can BETCHA the happy ending would involve therapy, lol.

As I've told others, you are very welcome to take Aemond's side. He's got the least power in their dynamic and the most emotional baggage, and readers have all the context for the choices he's made right now. AND Luke hasn't been entirely forthcoming about his family (even if it was in the name of protecting them), so this situation acting like gasoline is an apt metaphor to Aemond's short fuse personality, lol.

Alicent deserves all the soft, good things, I just want to wrap her up in a blanket next to a cozy fire, make her some relaxing tea and stroke her hair 🥺 not saying that's exactly what Rhaenyra is up to off screen right now, haha, but she's certainly not yelling at her I promise. The gals are better off than the guys atm, haha.

I'm loving reading everyone's thoughts here and in the comments (for the most part lol), while you've been busy rereading D&S I've been busy rereading those!!

#fic: duty & sacrifice #lucemond #ask me shit

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scattered-winter · 2 years

Text

remember that jaykyle single parent AU I was going on about earlier? well I wrote some of that angst I was planning hehe :]

tw for blood and injury

Kyle saw the column of smoke the moment he entered Gotham's airspace. It plumed toward the sky like spilled ink seeping into the white of a page, choking and thick.

The fear in his gut doubled.

He didn't know what was happening. The distress signal on his ring--the one he'd entrusted to Jason--had gone off, and he hadn't even stopped to excuse himself from Oa. He would deal with the Guardians later; right now, he had a crisis.

Kyle was touching down beside the column of smoke bare seconds later; a group of dirt-smudged teenagers and kids were assembled beside the flaming ruins of their home, in various states of disarray. Some were in pajamas. Some were half-dressed, hastily wrapped in blankets. Most were weeping openly as the piles and mountains of rubble smoldered and burned.

Jason was nowhere in sight.

Kyle pushed through the crowd until a familiar shock of electric blue dreadlocks caught his eye.

"Tanya!"

The girl turned, saw Kyle, and promptly burst into tears. Kyle wrapped an arm around her, craning his neck for any sign of gleaming red metal.

Finding none, Kyle forced the climbing terror aside and ducked his head to meet the teen's eyes.

"T, where's Jay?"

Tanya just shook her head.

Kyle felt something break, deep inside him.

"We can't find him," she whispered. "He went back in to...to find Gracie."

"Where's Gracie, then?"

Tanya shook her head again, fresh tears cascading over her cheeks.

"She's over here!" Someone called, and Kyle whipped around.

Gracie knelt by the rubble, hugging her knees to her chest. Her chubby cheeks were smeared with soot, clean streaks carving through the grime from her tears.

Kyle dropped beside her, feeling something loosen in his chest at the sight of the youngest of his kids, safe and unharmed.

"Gracie," he said, gently but firmly. "Are you hurt?"

Gracie shook her head, chin wobbling. "He...he threw me," she whispered, voice tremulous. "Out the window. Before the boom."

Horror crept up Kyle's throat. "Where is he?" His voice was barely staying steady; Kyle felt untethered, like he had the power of a god again, moments away from snapping.

With a shaking hand, Gracie pointed toward the mountain of rubble directly in front of them.

Kyle was on his feet in a breath, gently scooping Gracie up with a glowing green net and depositing her in Riku's arms.

"Get Tanya. Tell her to head to the safe house on 31st," Kyle said, barely able to hear his own voice over the roar of blood in his ears.

Riku nodded and took off, leading the bedraggled teens behind him and Tanya.

Kyle thrust his hands into the rubble, hissing at the heat, at the sting of splinters and shards of metal. He didn't care how much it burned. Jason was in there somewhere. Fuck, he was in there somewhere.

Constructs bloomed on all sides, construction equipment and giant claws and bulldozers, helping clear rubble away. Kyle barely paid any mind; his breath wheezed in and out, gasps of horror and terror in between coughs.

There. Color. Red.

A splash of blood, bright against the dark ashes.

Something twisted, deep in Kyle's gut. He kept digging. A hand. An arm. Clothed in dark brown leather, coated in ashes and soot and blood.

Kyle felt like something wild. His vision blurred as he dug, desperately, tirelessly.

Jason had been pinned beneath two beams forming an X over his back. He wasn't crushed, but he couldn't move. He was covered in blood. He wasn't moving.

The beams had to go. Kyle pushed against one, but it didn't budge.

At his feet, Jason made a soft, pained sound; a whimper, barely audible above the crackling flames.

Kyle gritted his teeth and shoved against the beam, pressing his entire body weight against it, tugging at it with constructs. A wild scream, primal and desperate, ripped from his throat. The beam shifted aside, off of Jason's back. The second beam was even easier to move.

Kyle fell to his knees beside Jason, gently rolled him over, gathered him in his arms. He pressed the release for his helmet, heard the hiss of air, gently pulled the helmet off, cradled Jason's head in his lap.

Blood trickled from a cut on Jason's forehead. His eyes were open, but glassy and distant; his skin was white as a sheet.

Kyle swept his eyes down Jason's body and felt his heart plummet into his gut. Blood. So much blood. Soaking Jason's clothes, spilling onto the ashy ground below them.

Jason coughed, his whole body jerking from the force, and red speckled his lips. He shuddered in pain, a high-pitched whine rising from his chest.

God. He was in so much pain, Kyle realized. He swept his fingers through Jason's hair, trying to ignore how they trembled, trying to ignore how each of Jason's breaths wheezed and rattled in his chest like something inside him was broken.

"Shh, it's okay," he murmured, sweeping Jason's hair away from his eyes and tucking it behind his ears. "You--you're gonna be okay." His voice broke on the last word, and Kyle dropped his forehead to Jason's, squeezing his eyes shut. Tears slipped from the corners of his eyes, dripping onto Jason's cheeks and carving clean trails through the soot and ash.

Jason's lips moved, his eyes wide as he tried to sit up. A harsh hiss of pain accompanied his movement, and Kyle pressed him to the ground.

"Hold still, Jay, you need to hold still."

Jason shook his head, eyes wide and desperate. "G--Gracie," he croaked.

Kyle brushed his fingers over Jason's cheeks. "She's fine," he whispered, the tears flowing freely now. "Everyone's safe."

Jason went limp, another choked whimper escaping as his wounds were jostled again. His eyes fluttered closed.

That was enough to jolt Kyle into action. He leapt to his feet, Jason's listless body in his arms. He had to find help before it was too late.

#winter writes #jaykyle #jk single parent au #jason todd #kyle rayner

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anatidae-dragonage · 2 years

Note

Welcome to dadwc!! "I’ve no language left to say it. All I do is quake to her," from the song lyric prompts really intrigued me. Feel free to write for a pairing of your choosing!

Three months later I'm getting around to a welcome prompt! Thank you asgkghjgf. Lyrics are from “Foreigner’s God” by Hozier, which I now have spent 5 hours listening to today.

I went OC rarepair, my Delilah Surana x Magdalena Trevelyan, and then it got a little out of hand.

Set in an AU where Surana was transferred to the Ostwick Circle after the uprising and Trevelyan is now Inquisitor, successor to this piece I wrote for an exchange.

Word Count: ~1800

Rating: E for brief sexual content near the end

(More plot than porn, but it’s there.)

Pairing: f!Surana/f!Trevelyan

Warnings: Explicit/NSFW, religious themes, angst

@dadrunkwriting

The night is dark and moonless as Magdalena slips from camp, heartbeat fast in her throat. Meet me, the note had said, and nothing else. Meet me. She knows where on instinct--the fields south of the Crossroads, the last place they’d brushed lives before slipping away.

They were always meant to slip away.

She’d waited until the guards’ shift change, fleeing through the Hinterlands on silent feet. You can leave when you want now, a voice whispers in her head, the one that’s always sounded like Hers. The issue isn’t the when. It’s the where. It’s the who. She prays that Cassandra and Dorian sleep through the night. She prays that Varric, who pretends not to see, doesn’t tell. She prays she’ll make it back before sunrise.

She shivers as she finds the path that parts the trees. Somehow, it had been hard to imagine the chill in the daylight. They’d collected coats and blankets for refugees, but now Magdalena wishes she had kept one for herself. Back in Haven she has furs, a cloak hardly fit for battle, but warm and her own. She imagines Surana’s face if she’d shown up wrapped in ermine and has to smile. She doesn’t risk magic though as she shivers, nothing to warm or shield, nothing that will glow as she stumbles in the dark. Too many dangers. It’s stupid enough to be out here alone, but she just has to see her.

She just has to see her.

Silhouetted in meager starlight, Surana waits for her in the center of the field. She’s coatless too, thin robes torn and patched, frays clear even from a distance. Magdalena had pointed her to a cache, but six blankets wouldn’t have gone far through the forces she knows Surana has.

Forces. Surana would scowl to know she thinks it. There are children in their midst, Magdalena knows, and tranquil, elderly, weak. Forces. Is it the Inquisition’s influence, or what her own mind had shaped of the rebellion?

She fights the urge to run to her, fists clenched at her sides to keep from waving as she walks steady. She has hopes and dreams, and none match the tone of this meeting. Surana smiles, though, when they’re close enough to see the outlines of each other’s faces in the dark.

“You came,” Magdalena breathes, as if Surana hadn’t been the one to send the invitation.

“Have I ever lied to you?” The question hangs heavy in the air. She hasn’t. The implication is clear. Can Magdalena say the same?

“Why?” she brings herself to ask. Surana shakes her head.

I had to see you again, Magdalena wants her to say.

“I had to know if you were okay.”

She almost laughs. Okay doesn’t exist in the same realm as this world they live in. Her eyes scan the shadow of furrows in the dark. They weren’t left by plows or hoofprints. The land is bloody, scarred by magic, grenades, and untold sorrows. Okay doesn’t exist in Haven or in her friends’ eyes. There’s hope. There’s hunger. There are stolen moments of joy. Okay takes a neutrality Magdalena doesn’t know if she’s ever known.

She knows Surana hasn’t.

“Mag.” The voice cuts into her thoughts.

“I’m okay,” she says. More okay than the nightmares Surana has likely spun for her. She’s not held captive or at a Templar’s sword. She doesn’t stay up weeping, longing for home.

“Mag.”

She dosen’t want to cry tonight. Doesn’t want Surana to see her the way Delilah always had. Delilah, a name no one else had ever been allowed to use. No one but Magdalena—Mag, then, now. No one but her until the night on the hill they’d finished the job of twisting each other’s heart out and gone their separate ways.

What is this now?

They’d kissed in this field, in the full sight of Cassandra.

“Are you safe?” she asks instead of answering. Surana’s smile is wry.

“I’m safe.” Get what you give, the message is clear. She’d always been like that, a narrow and burning sense of justice. Eye for an eye, heart for a heart. They’ve both grown in the months since they’d parted, Mag knows, in the years since they’d first met, but something about the look in the other’s eyes always brings them back here.

I’d get on my knees for you, Delilah had said once, eyes wide and somehow terrified. She wouldn’t now, Mag knows, and that thought brings her something close to comfort. So many would, for the Herald of Andraste. Had those years in Ostwick’s chapel granted her blessing or curse?

Delilah had never kneeled before the Maker. She doubts Surana would start now.

Mag shakes her head to clear it, and the anchor crackles.

“It isn’t safe here,” she tells Surana as she briefly glows green, and then regrets it, not ready to be sent away.

“I know a place,” she responds though, and when she offers a hand Mag has to swallow hard. Her voice dips somewhere close to a teasing tone. “And I’ll protect you.”

Her go to phrase, but in their years in Ostwick’s Circle, who had been protecting whom?

Surana’s hand is familiar in hers, but she can feel the criss-crossing of scars left by her magic.

Your friend is a blood mage, Cassandra had said. Friend, lover, enemy. They’d never quite found a word for it.

Which would they be tonight?

Surana leads her across a sunken bridge and over a series of boulders, and Mag can hear rushing water ahead with a crisp echo. They walk upstream, silent as they balance on flat river rocks, and Mag thinks of what she’ll say.

She thought they’d said goodbye already. She thought they’d spoken their piece in the daylight.

“Here,” Surana breathes. They come to a pool, hidden behind rocks and shrouded in a waterfall. Surana drops to all fours to crawl behind it and then offers her a hand. Equal ground, Mag thinks as she too drops to her knees.

They sit on the stone and just watch. Mag wonders if Surana can hear her heartbeat, see the way her eyes fall to her lips in the dark. Let me show you, a part of her whispers. Show her what? she argues back. The feeling is unnamable and overwhelming, makes her stomach drop and her hands itch.

“You’re doing it again,” Surana says. Mag’s eyes snap back to hers—It’s dark, but she imagines them as warm and brown, in this moment the same as ever.

“Doing what?”

“Overthinking. Arguing with yourself. Arguing with your Maker.”

“That’s your job,” she answers on instinct, but Surana only shakes her head. She looks then doesn’t. She almost reaches out. “Surana….”

“Don’t call me that tonight.”

That’s all it takes to break her—the part that knows this ends one way, the part she’d tried to build stony against heartbreak. Surana—Delilah sees the pain in her eyes and moves in to kiss it away. Mag lets her tip her backward against the damp sandstone, leg swung over hers, curtain of tangled hair shielding them from the night.

“Delilah,” she whispers instead, and Delilah laughs against her lips, pulling back just enough to breathe:

“I hate it.” She kisses her. “Say it again.”

“Delilah.”

Mag knows she wants the upper hand, knows from the hunger of the kisses she presses to her lips and then her neck, knows from the tension in the arms that frame her face. She knows everything that Delilah has to say and every move she’ll say it with. And Delilah has the words Mag has never been good with, has never been brave enough for. She pushes herself up on her elbows, because this is all she can give her. This is the only way she has to say it. The only reprieve she can offer.

With gentle hands, she urges Delilah up and backwards, and through the palm on the center of her chest she can feel her heartbeat. She risks a magelight, blue and flickering, to see Delilah’s eyes. There’s none of the uncertainty she fears she’ll find there. Delilah grins, gaze flicking to the light and back to Mag again. One hand reaches up to stroke her face, but it doesn’t push her away. Down they go, Mag on top, Delilah’s hair fanned beneath them, and in a different time Mag would have washed it and combed it and braided it away. Tonight she kisses her, slow and sweet, real and unyielding.

Tonight she makes love her apology.

Tonight she lifts Delilah to the Golden City that she doesn’t believe in, before it was black and broken.

One hand cups her cheek, holds her close, holds her steady. The other moves down Delilah’s body, slipping under seams and undoing buttons. She wears the same robes she’s always worn, no surprise. Mag knows how to move them up, leave them fanned like angel’s wings, and she smiles as her fingers release the final loop. Delilah’s body is muscled now, scarred. It’s still warm and thrumming with the magic she’d never quite wanted to control.

“Ah,” Delilah gasps against her lips as her fingers squeeze her hips. “Magdalena.”

“Mag,” she insists. She is Magdalena to the Inquisition. Let her be Mag here tonight. Slowly she slips down Delilah’s body, apologetic kisses to her jawline when she leaves her lips, gentle ones that skim her throat and move down her front, over her stained robes and to where they’re parted. When she licks a trail below her navel, Delilah shivers and weaves a hand through her hair.

“Delilah,” she whispers again before dropping down. Delilah and Mag, the people they can’t afford to be.

It’s easy, returning here. As practiced as prayer. Dark and hot and honeyed, electric and raw. Delilah gasps when she comes, shaking under her lips and hands, fingers scratching against the rock instead of knotting in her hair. She pants but doesn’t make another sound.

There are tears in both of their eyes when she resurfaces.

And they don’t speak. Delilah kisses her, more gently than she ever has, and when she lays her down on the rocks she knows this is the only conversation they’ll have. The only thing that won’t drag on the hurt.

When Mag hears a bird’s song she knows it’s time to leave. Delilah seems to sense it.

“Thank you for coming,” is all she says, and when Mag stands she climbs to her feet beside her. There’s no witty comment that follows. There’s nothing sappy in reply.

Tomorrow, Mag leaves for Redcliffe, and then she leaves the Hinterlands behind. They’d already said their good lucks and goodbyes. This was extra. Salt in the wound. Honey in the pot.

“Yeah,” she says ineloquently. Their walk back down the stream is on wobbly legs. They split back near the field, Magdalena to her camp and Surana to hers.

“Wait,” Surana whispers before Magdalena turns her back. “Andraste light your path.”

Magdalena breathes deep.

“And you light yours.”

#my fic #dadwc #been thinking about Them all week #f!surana/f!trevelyan #delilah surana #magdalena trevelyan #rated e

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ezilo · 2 years

Text

TUC week, Day 5!

Okay, missed a few days, but here I am. The prompt today was Code/Claw, but I mostly focused on the last book in general.

So here's an AU where Gregor actually dies in battle. You have been warned!

By the time her cell door opens, Luxa is a little less angry at Gregor. Aurora pointed out many a time in the last days that Luxa may have done the same in other circumstances, and Luxa just wants to see Gregor again, even though she may not. Will not.

It is Mareth who opens the door, and after one look at his face, she falls to her knees. She barely has enough strength to raise her arms and reach for Aurora, who wraps her in her golden wings. Her bat chokes out “Ares?” and Mareth shakes his head. Luxa weeps, like she had a year before in Vikus’s arms, losing her best friend. She sobs, shameless, for this boy and this love and a lifetime she will never have. She cries for his sacrifice, his bravery, his delicate smile. The clip-clop of Mareth’s footsteps comes closer, but she shakes her head. This is a time for no one but her and Aurora. They stay entangled for a while longer, until Luxa remembers who she is, a queen, a leader, and gets up. Her grief is dragging her down, as it has for years, but still she takes a few steps toward Mareth, toward the stairs, the light, the rest of her life.

“Wait.” Mareth says, grabbing her wrist. “It is not just Gregor.” Her heart hammers, and she leans against the wall, closes her eyes. “Tell me.”

“Solovet.” Her first sword lesson. Holding her hand at her parents’ funeral. Bright, blinding force passed down to her. She breathes in. “Who else?” “Vikus had a heart failure. He is in the hospital, between life and death.” Luxa buries her face in Aurora’s fur, smells the warm scent of her bond, and hopes it will be enough to bring her back together. “We have reason to believe Ripred is gone as well.” The sharp pain in her, she had not expected. Ripred could not die, could he? Luxa had thought she would build back the Underland hand in paw with him. No, she had not expected this.

“And the Bane?” Mareth gives a tired smile. “Gregor and Ares killed him.” Luxa smiles, too, and climbs out.

In the days to come, Luxa is whisked from meeting to meeting, held upright by Aurora and Howard and Mareth. She finds the time to read Gregor’s last letter to her, sitting in the museum one night, and whispers “I love you too”, indulges in the pain for a moment, as during the rest of the day, she has no place for it. She carves out a half-hour here or there to sit with Hazard and the orphaned nibbler pups and wash them, and look at Boots play with them. She doesn’t know, yet. And who is there to tell her? Lizzie is in shatters, Grace is at the Fount, the rest of the family in the Overland somewhere. No, this task is also Luxa’s. But she does not have the time, or the heart, to tell her.

Sometimes, she has dinner with Vikus, leaning on the bed, feeding him bits of mashed food. He holds her hand, and she relaxes a fraction, lets go of the tension in her shoulders. She even falls asleep once, wakes up snuggled up to her Grandpapa like she did as a little girl. It is dark, the hospital has turned off almost all torches. She buries herself further under the blankets and falls back asleep.

In the morning, she gets the first reliable numbers of the victims. She crumples the paper in her hand. A third of her city is gone, most of the nibblers left with no home. She had asked her advisors to find out the numbers of the gnawer victims as well, which had surprised them. She stares at the number at the bottom of the list, and wonders if that is enough paid. Gregor’s bright brown eyes appear in her mind and she thinks nothing will ever be enough.

Luxa is crossed-legged in the code room, staring at a map of the human territory, wracking her brain for a solution to the water supply problem, when they enter.

“Luxa?” Lizzie’s small voice echoes in the room. Her parents stand behind her, arms on her shoulders, Grace leaning heavily on her husband. Boots is standing next to them, her little face flooded with tears, her lower lip wobbling. Luxa opens her arms, and the girl stomps all over the map as she rushes to her, messing up her plans. “Gregor is dead, yes?” Her little voice asks in Luxa’s ear. She opens another arm for Lizzie to fall into, and has to say “Yes, Boots.” And then, because it’s what he would have wanted, she adds “You said his name, sweetie. Good job.” Lizzie is sobbing in earnest now, finally looking her own age. And then, something amazing happens. Grace and Jonathan join them, fall to their knees, and suddenly Luxa is the one wrapped in someone’s arms, Luxa is allowed to cry into someone’s chest. She squeezes the girls closer, and leans into Grace. “It will be okay, sweetie. I promise.” And Luxa enjoys a mother’s hand passing through her hair, and dreams about those words ringing true, one day.

“I keep him here?” Boots asks, pointing at her chest.

“Yes, Boots. I keep him here too.” Luxa folds her fist on her heartbeat. “We all do.” Jonathan adds. Boots still looks scared and confused. Luxa feels a pang of melancholy at how little Boots will remember of Gregor. She thinks about how he had always put her first, pushed her onto Ares as he inhaled poisonous fumes, asked Ares to break his vow and save her first, cried in desperation as he searched for her in the Swag. Gregor sacrificing his food for Boots, reaching for her, turning into a rager just to protect her. A million other moments none of them knew about because they had only happened between them, a brother and a sister. Luxa did not grow up with siblings. But she’d learned everything about it from him, and it had given her the courage to take Hazard in.

They stay, hugging close, a little while longer. And then Luxa has to get up, has to compose herself, and head into a council meeting. Just as she crosses the threshold of the door, Grace catches up with her, wheezing slightly from the effort. She reaches for the crown on Luxa’s head, and rearranges it neatly. “There.”. Luxa’s eyes almost fill up with tears again – it has been so long since a mother’s touch. Instead, she asks, “Will you have dinner with me? All of you?” and Grace smiles.

And so the family practically moves into her quarters. Sometimes, when she’s passing through between meetings and obituaries, she sees Jonathan explaining things to Hazard: the functioning of an exoskeleton, the hierarchy visible in anthills, the mating rituals of worms. Hazard hangs on to his every word, Boots dutifully by his side, playing with Temp. She still plays, still sings, still eats and smiles. But sometimes she catches herself turning around and looking for her brother, and then she will burst into hot angry tears. Lizzie mostly sits at Luxa’s old desk and writes, using the tree of transmission, the code of claw, or her own invented ones. She writes out all the prophecies neatly, and asks Luxa for stories about her brother completing them. Luxa tells her all she knows, all she can bear to tell, and then sends for Mareth, Dulcet, Howard or Temp. Some of the anecdotes even make Lizzie smile, however briefly.

Every night, Grace comes pounding at the Council door and says she has come to retrieve Luxa for dinner. No one in the Council dares object, because she is the Mother of Light, and because, frankly, Grace is a little bit scary. Luxa appreciates the protection, more than she thought she would.

She asks them, one night, what they want to do with Gregor’s body, once Lizzie and Boots are asleep, curled up with Hazard in his room. Grace and Jonathan both still, look at each other. It is an entirely different kind of love than Vikus and Solovet had, than even her parents had. Unburdened by royal blood and diverging ideals, there is a sense of friendship to them, of being a team through it all, that Luxa so admires. And a little part of her thinks that perhaps, she and Gregor might have had that, given time. Of course, it is foolish; if Gregor had lived, he would have returned home. But still, her heart is treacherous enough to imagine.

“We would like to take him home, and bury him with our family.” Luxa nods. “Then we shall do that.” But they share a look, and Luxa braces herself. “Luxa… no one has made any plans to take us home. There has been no talk of it. We are starting to get worried.”

Of course, there has been talk of it. Almost every day in the Council, Luxa is battling the same arguments: the usefulness of Boots to rally the Crawlers; Lizzie’s sharp, young mind against codes to come. These extraordinary children, given away to the Underland, Gregor laying down his life for them. Every day, Luxa has been fighting them off, but there is little she can say, despite a weak it would not be right. “This is not what Gregor died for” she whispers to Vikus over and over, and he agrees. If it comes to it, Luxa will fly them out herself, if she can find a way out of the palace. Surely she could enlist Temp’s help. She so wishes Ripred were here.

“I will get you home. Do not worry. But perhaps after the surrender, if that is alright? The warrior’s family should be here.” Grace looks uncomfortable. “And I shall like to have you by my side. It will be a little like…” She cannot say the words. But Grace covers her hand with her dark one and nods. “Okay, Luxa. We’ll be there.” And it is so like Gregor, the shortening of syllables, the intonation of okay, that Luxa really does feel like a part of him is here with her.

The day of the surrender, Luxa carefully fills the deep pockets of her dress. She takes the two photographs of her and Gregor, a drawing Hazard made of her and Hamnet together, the blue fish stone, and Vikus’s ring in her right pocket. In her left, she rests Solovet’s ring, a stone from her father’s coronation crown, and the crown the nibblers had used as their signal to her. The Council tells her to fly out with Aurora, but she walks through the city. She fills her eyes and her heart with her destructed home, promises justice to all who ask.

In the arena, everyone turns to her. She wishes Vikus were here. She wishes a lot of people were here.

But she holds her head high, sidestepping the holes on the ground. Her eyes sweep over the bleachers: Gregor’s family is huddled with the Crawlers, though Lapblood is near them, her tail wrapped protectively around Lizzie; Hazard sits with them, and he gives an encouraging smile, as Aurora lands; Howard, York and Susannah, practically the last of her mother’s side of the family, are also there, looking at her expectantly; and Nerissa, tired and frail, does not look at her, and Luxa wonders what that means.

A part of her wants to run. Wants to say no, I am only twelve, hop on Aurora and run away to Ares’s cave, pretend that Gregor will round the corner in a minute and they can finally have their picnic. Instead, she calls upon the gnawer’s representative, expecting it to be Baereleg, who does open his mouth, but -

Of course, nothing in Luxa’s life has ever quite gone to plan.

She has no time to be happy that he is alive. As she watches Lizzie jump onto him, laughing for the first time in weeks, Luxa squares her shoulders, shares a look with York. The game has changed, with the Peacemaker appearing (she almost snorts – there is no doubt in her mind that this wound is self-inflicted). Luxa is weakened, and so she does what she has been taught to do: attack.

“Good. Then you should have no problem peacefully leading your fellow gnawers to the Uncharted lands.” She says icily.

“Yes, I do have a problem with that, Your Highness. And I am willing to bet I am not the only one. What have you done with my little warrior, huh? What does he think of this?”

Luxa grows cold. Even for Ripred, that is a low blow. To taunt her, to make her say what has been prophesied for so long. What she has known since the first time she laid eyes on Gregor: he would be taken from her.

“What do you think, Ripred? Gregor’s light has faded.” She watches the smallest glimmer of hope faint from Ripred, watches a flicker of genuine sadness be replaced quickly. Right there, in the moment Ripred has waited for his entire life, the moment he has worked and bled and killed for, he crouches next to Lizzie and abandons all negotiations in order to care for her. Luxa is stunned, staring at the huge rat, oozing blood, wrapping his paws around the girl. She can guess where this is going, if she stands her ground and he stands his: such moments will not happen again. Such genuine friendships between human and rat, Killer and Gnawer, will not come around again. She thinks about Gregor crying over Tick, Hazard being the first of his kind to learn another language. She thinks about Boots feeding the stingers, earning the title of Princess because of her kindness, not her blood. She thinks about Gregor sparing the Bane, and is sure, in that moment, that even if he had known the future, that foolish, idealistic, wonderful boy would not have killed it. Suddenly, she is very, very tired.

The gnawer is back to negotiation mode, rambling about justice and guarantees, cutters at the border and treaties, but Luxa interrupts him.

“Ripred.” Her voice is not queenly, or controlled. It is hoarse, and human, and grief-stricken. It is genuine.

He turns to her, snarls, “I will give you a war if it is one you want, your Highness.”.

Luxa thinks about One of us has to live, and steps toward the gnawer with a raised hand.

“This is what I offer. A bond between all humans and gnawers. A vow, to defend one another. To fight side by side, to learn about and from each other. To teach our pups differently. No treaties, no promises – but bonds.” Luxa smiles at the stunned crowd, and then turns back to Ripred. “Do you dare take it?”

Ripred’s smile is genuinely proud. He presses his claw against her palm, and so Luxa gains a new bond.

Aurora, Hazard, and Howard launch themselves at her, showering her in congratulations and expressions of pride. “Grandmama is rolling around in her grave.” She tells Howard. He laughs. “But Gregor would be so proud.” A shadow of sadness falls over Luxa, but she smiles. “You know what, I think you’re right.”

Lizzie’s solution is ingenious, and the compromise is sure to be a success, but Luxa is anxiously watching the Council members, their carnivorous smiles at Lizzie. Oh, how useful she and her little mind would be. She wraps an arm around the girl, and shares a look with Ripred.

They feast, and Luxa points out the shrimp in cream sauce to the rat. But he shakes his head. “Nah, I don’t think I can bear it quite yet.” She frowns. Hazard takes a spoonful of it, and says “Oh, this is what Gregor brough to the jungle for you, is it not?” And Ripred nods. “Yes. Yes it is.” But he does not elaborate. Instead, he launches into a conversation with Hazard about echolocation lessons, and Luxa makes herself a sandwich.

They get them out that very night, secretly. Lizzie clings to the rat until the very last minute, and Temp weeps as Boots says “See you soon!”. Aurora flies them all out, even though they’re heavy on her back, but it was the only way. She orders them to lay on their bellies, hidden from guards, and places trusted soldiers at the gates.

She hugs Boots close, and Lizzie too. “Thank you.” The girl says. “For what?” Lizzie smiles, looking beyond her age. “You made him happy. A lot.” And then she’s stepping out, into the mysterious Overland. Luxa pokes her head out, just to see Gregor’s world for a second. The moon curves elegantly in the sky. Jonathan kisses her cheek, Grace hugs her close. “Sweetie, you will make such a wonderful queen.” Luxa buries her face in the woman’s shoulder.

She’s crying by the time they land back at the docks. Ripred, Mareth, Temp, Lapblood and Hazard are still there. She catches the last bit of dialogue, Lapblood saying “Shame, I would have been proud to bond with the warrior.” and smiles. Hazard takes her hand, asks her if she is alright. “I will be.” And she brings him close to her side.

“Now, we have work to do.”

Ripred narrows his eyes. “We do?”

“Oh, have I not told you? You are all part of my new Council. I am getting rid of Solovet’s lieutenants.” There’s silence, and then Lapblood is whooping loudly, Ripred and Mareth already deep in negotiation.

“Me, in the Council, me?” Temp asks, bewildered. Luxa crouches next to the creature that had welcomed Gregor here, that had taught her so much, and smiles.

“You, in the Council, you.”

#tucweek #underland chronicles #yes I will use any excuse to put Lapblood in my stories #and Temp

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munsons-maiden · 3 years

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𝐎𝐟 𝐒𝐢𝐧𝐧𝐞𝐫𝐬 𝐀𝐧𝐝 𝐒𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐬

This is the first soulmate au I've ever written and I just love this trope so much. I hope you enjoy it! - Love, Kiki 🖤

𝐏𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 | Loki x female reader (the reader is Asgardian as well)

𝐑𝐞𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐭 | by @ravennevermorewitch , here ♡

𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 | “Never leave the convent’s sacred ground - for there is a monster hunting for you.” This warning is the one thing your mother left you, written in a letter left with you on the steps of the convent’s chapel when you were an infant. The sacred grounds are all you’ve known, the rules of the church that throttle you like a corset laced too tight. And the strange dreams gracing your sleep ever since you entered adulthood - of a stranger with sapphire eyes and raven hair. Nothing but dreams filling you with a longing you cannot put into words - until one night during midnight mass, you encounter the new priest, a beautiful stranger with sapphire eyes and raven hair. And he seems to recognize you as well.

𝐖𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐭𝐨 𝐞𝐱𝐩𝐞𝐜𝐭 | a soulmate au with fairy tale vibes, Loki disguising himself as a priest, lots of smut and romance

𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐂𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 | 10 k

𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 | SMUT (ONLY READ IF YOU’RE 18+ YEARS OLD!), unprotected sex (please be safe in real life and wear a condom!), masturbation, slight voyeurism, reader calling Loki Father once because she thinks he’s a priest, sex in a church. It’s getting blasphemous, lovelies, so buckle up and have your holy water at the ready.

If Hell exists, this fic is my ticket down there, and I'll be getting a crown and champagne as they welcome me in 😂

𝐅𝐨𝐫 𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐋𝐨𝐤𝐢 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭, 𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐜𝐤 𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐦𝐲 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 ♡

𝐀𝐬 𝐚𝐥𝐰𝐚𝐲𝐬, 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞𝐬, 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐫𝐞𝐛𝐥𝐨𝐠𝐬 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐜𝐢𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐚𝐠𝐞𝐝🖤

𝐀/𝐍: 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫'𝐬 𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐯𝐞 𝐢𝐬, 𝐚𝐬 𝐚𝐥𝐰𝐚𝐲𝐬, 𝐰𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐧 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 "𝐲𝐨𝐮" 𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐦. 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐜𝐮𝐫𝐬𝐢𝐯𝐞 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐬 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐚 𝐟𝐥𝐚𝐬𝐡𝐛𝐚𝐜𝐤 𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐚𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐩.𝐨.𝐯.

Branches whip her cheeks as she stumbles through the woods, the path ahead winding like a snake through the thicket, barely lit by the patches of moonlight which filter through the canopy of leaves forming the roof of the forest. Thorns tear at her cloak, and the fabric is ripped apart as she stumbles, her grip around the infant in her arms tightening – yet still, she doesn’t slow down. She can’t slow down. Not when she’s so close.

Safety. She needs to get her to safety.

The new-born in her arms is still, as if she can sense the danger creeping through the tranquil night, the monstrous creature which will start hunting for her soon enough, with black magic curling through every crevice of the Nine Realms in search for what belongs to him, belongs with him, his mind as twisted and sharp like the tree branches jutting into the path to slash the fabric of her cloak and tear cuts into the skin of her cheeks.

Through the web of branches, she can see the lights in the distance, like benevolent faerie guiding her through the darkness of the forest as her tired legs carry her further and further through the thicket. A noise rips from the back of her throat, an outcry of relief mingling with a sob.

So close.

The forest gives way to a graveyard, the jagged wooden crosses and tombstones like silent onlookers as she stumbles along the gravelly path that leads up to the church which looms ahead like a silent guardian. The building is old. Ivy climbs up the northern wall like snakes, hacking roots into the cracks between the withered stones as if the forest were slowly reclaiming what has been stolen from it centuries ago.

Frost laces the air with every ragged breath she takes, and the tears which run down her face freeze in the cold air of the winter night.

And still, these tears keep running.

With a weep that rips through her chest, as if her heart is tearing apart, she places the infant on the front step of the church, the tiny creature wrapped in blankets to keep her warm until she’ll be found in the morning.

It tears her apart, and yet…she needs to protect her new-born daughter. She can’t let him get to her. She can’t let him have her.

For now, the skin at the new-born girl’s left wrist is unmarred. But the words of the priestess she consulted as to her daughter’s fate with such high hopes were unequivocal, a warning shattering her heart. When she enters adulthood, there will be a mark etching itself into the skin of her wrist, the essence of her soul, a name binding her to that monster locked beneath the golden walls of the palace.

Usually, such a mark is reason for happiness, a blessing. The name to appear on her daughter’s wrist one day, though…it’ll be a curse. She must save her as long as she still can.

“I’m sorry, my sweet,” she whispers into the night, letting her fingers trace the baby’s soft cheek for one last time. “There is no other way.”

The little one stares up at her mother, the stars reflecting in her eyes, as if she understands.

“They’ll keep you safe. He won’t get to you here. He’ll never lay a hand on you.”

She clambers back to her feet on trembling legs to vanish back into the night and the thicket of the woods, her last goodbye hanging in the air like the whisper of the icy wind.

She can only hope that these words were the truth.

That he never finds the poor girl damned to be his mate.

***

It’s always the same dream.

Every night. Ever since you turned eighteen.

A dream of eyes as vibrant and blue as the sapphires adorning the golden goblet which is brought out for mass at Christmas and Easter.

Of hair as dark as the feathers of the crows which sit on the wooden crosses and withered tombstones in the graveyard outside, their caws filling the air like a requiem for the dead.

Of fingertips wandering over your skin, the sweetest caresses trailing over every inch of your body like shivers, the touches like a fever dream.

Of a voice, silken as the night, whispering to you. I’ll find you. There’s no crevice in the Nine Realms where I won’t find you, norðurstjarna. The words are always the same. A promise – or a threat.

As always when you’re torn from the tangles of this dream, you wake up drenched in sweat, the bedsheet tangled around your legs, the sound of your ragged breaths filling the silence of your bedchamber as you wait for your fluttering heartbeat to calm like the sea after a storm, your mind a ship thrown by the merciless waves that keep crashing down on you, trying to drown you and fill your lungs with their icy water as they pull you deeper and deeper. To depths where your mind is not allowed to wander.

Ever since these dreams started, there’s a sense of sadness curling around your heart upon waking, like mist in a field come dusk. It’s the lingering sense that something is amiss, accompanied by a longing so overwhelming that you can feel it tugging at your chest like a string pulled taut – and an echo of this longing settling at the apex of your legs when you think about the beautiful stranger’s caresses.

The other nuns would shrink back in horror if you told them about these recurring dreams, the sinful things the man with the sapphire eyes and the raven hair is doing with you. Some of them would probably even think there’s a demon possessing your soul, the devil himself come to corrupt you.

You a neither believe in God nor the Devil, for that matter. Though monsters, you know…they’re very real.

That’s why you’re here, after all, and have been for the past century. Hidden away from the world, eyed with wariness and suspicion.

You’re a curiosity to ogle, a gossip to whisper behind raised hands. The girl who doesn’t age ever since she came of age. Half of them believe it’s a curse, the outcome of a deal with the Devil himself. The other half calls it a miracle, a girl touched by the blessing of God.

The warning to never leave the convent’s sacred grounds is the only thing left of your mother despite a tiny blanket, the fabric paled and scratchy with time. A parting letter to the nuns and her daughter containing a warning never to leave the sacred ground of the convent, never to venture out into the world, because there is a monster lurking outside, only waiting for you to leave the protection of the convent to suck the marrow from your bones and the life from your soul.

Your mother never gave an explanation as to why there is a monster hunting for you, and even as a child your imagination has always run wild to come up with stories to mend the holes in the story’s fabric. This monster is a fae, and your mother made a deal – a wish of hers coming true in exchange for her firstborn. Or it’s a demon, intent on whisking you away to take you as his bride.

There are more stories you conjured up over the turn of time, though all of them end with the handsome stranger from your dreams turning out as said monster, come to whisk you away.

But they’re stories, daydreams, and nothing more.

And thus, you stay in this life you despise despite never having known anything else; a life which consists of the restraints of your tiny bedchamber and the church at the end of the graveyard. Your world is like one of the snow globes some of the nuns like to collect. Safe and impossibly lonely.

If your soul is a garden, you can feel how each year spent in the shackles of this life is like a blanket of clouds covering the sky to steal the sunlight, the once vibrant colour of the petals fading away, the blossoms slowly wilting with each passing decade.

You’re scared that one day, the garden will be dead for good, nothing but patches of dried grass and withered leaves, like the graveyard in front of the church.

Sometimes, you can’t help but wonder if these walls are truly protecting you, if this way of fading away slowly and silently is a better alternative to what the monster lurking beyond the convent’s gates would do you. Though as of yet…you’re not desperate enough to find out.

Your fingertips brush over the mark adorning your wrist – a scar, probably, or a strange birthmark with its sharp lines crisscrossing like the paths at a crossroads. When your heartbeat has calmed and your breath steadied, your eyes find the display of the clock on your nightstand, and a sigh spills from your lips.

Time to get dressed for midnight mass.

***

When you step out of the dormitory building and onto the gravel path cutting through the graveyard which stretches between the main building and the chapel like the scaled body of a snake, the cold autumn air makes you shiver beneath the black fabric of your dress which is too thin to offer any real protection against the gust of wind which sweeps over the dried grass, making dead leaves dance with a rustle as it carries them across the path ahead. Somewhere in the forest surrounding the grounds, an owl hoots, its call echoing though the night like the lament of a widow.

Your steps quicken to escape the cold, and when you slip through the heavy wooden portal of the church, mass has already started. The old priest, a white-haired man with a cassock that’s too wide for his fragile body, has already started his sermon, and some of the nuns throw scolding glances at you over their shoulders as your footsteps echo from the naked stone walls of the chapel when you tiptoe to an empty pew at the back of the nave.

Despite it being nearly as cold inside the old murals as it’s outside and the tiredness which seeps through your bones, midnight mass has always been your favourite.

There’s a beauty in the way the pale moonlight filters through the stained-glass windows to paint faint patterns of red and blue light to the worn stone tiles of the chapel’s floor, a warmness in the dim glow of the candles which flicker around the altar, dripping white wax onto the stone floor like flakes of freshly fallen snow.

The organ starts to play, its notes booming through the chapel’s interior as the others start to sing, and it rips you from your thoughts which have been wandering to the memory of your dream again. Your lips move, your voice forming the words of the song as it mingles with the choir of the others, and your breath forms little clouds of white lace in the chill air.

It’s an automatism – stand, sit, kneel, your tongue forming the words of the songs and prayers while you fall into your daydreams of gathering your courage and leaving this life of loneliness and constricting rules behind. Of being whisked away by a stranger with sapphire eyes and raven hair, like the fae prince out of your fairy tales. You’d gladly let him steal you away, you think with a smirk, quickly bowing your head as if in rapt devotion to hide the smile, not sure if the shadows at the back of the church are enough to hide your expression.

Just then, a movement at the edge of your vision catches your attention, drawing your focus to the slim iron fence barring the chapel’s nave from the steps which lead down to the crypt.

At first, you only see the slight movement in the shadows, a dark silhouette prowling between the stone pillars that reach up to the high ceiling like the trunks of trees in a forest. Then, the figure steps into a beam of moonlight which spills through one of the stained-glass windows – and your heart seems to cease its beating.

Glittering sapphire eyes lock on yours, the blue light of the window paints a pale halo across hair as dark as the wings of a graveyard crow. A smile as devious as the ones of the demons painted to the pages of your Bible curves his lips as he holds your gaze and time seems to freeze, the world blurring.

It’s him. The stranger from your dreams – the stranger whose caresses you crave like sunlight on your skin, whose touches in your dreams conjure a want in your core that lasts until long after dusk, a want you don’t know how to quench.

It once more rouses the longing festering in the crevices of your soul, like a voice whispering for you to run, to search for this beautiful stranger outside of your dreams, beyond the stone walls of your little prison.

Well, you found him. Or rather, he found you.

There’s no crevice in the Nine Realms where I won’t find you, norðurstjarna.

The moment is fleeting, and when you blink…he’s gone again.

A chill races down your spine, talons of fear raking over your heart.

Your eyes scan the crowd of nuns in front of you, their heads bowed deeply in reverence while the priest drones on and on with his sermon, his voice weak and frail with age, thinned like ink in water as it floats through the chapel’s nave and barely reaches your ears. It’s strange, to have witnessed him age over all these decades, him and the nuns, while you stayed the same, your body frozen in time ever since you entered adulthood.

But the stranger is gone. If he even was there, if he was real, none of the others have seen him.

Your mind is going a mile a minute, scouring the myriad of possible explanations for the most reasonable one; but they all lead to conclusions one more frightening than the next.

That you’ve gone mad, your imagination spinning illusions, making you see things which aren’t there.

These walls might be able to protect you from the things which lurk outside…but there’s nothing to protect you from the things which lurk in your own mind, the devil which resides within, the demons he unleashes on your sanity.

Or…he was real. Which makes you wonder about his connection to your mother’s warning that set the path of your life.

The nuns rise to their feet and you’re quick to mirror the movement, torn from your panic-hazed thoughts just in time to register what the old priest has just announced.

“Please welcome our new priest, Father Laufeyson. May the Lord have blessed the path that led him to our little congregation, and may his service to the church be filled by light and blessings.”

The old priest waves an arm – and your mouth falls open in shock when the raven-haired stranger steps out of the shadows beside the altar, his pale complexion illuminated by the light of the dancing candleflames and the silver glow of moonlight spilling down on him through the stained-glass window behind the wooden altar; its colourful shards depicting the battle between Lucifer’s demons, leathery wings stretched and fangs bared, and the angels with their pearly white wings, their radiant halos and flaming swords, the scene forming a mural around the new priest when he comes to stand at the dais, letting his twinkling gaze roam over the congregation of nuns.

From your place at the back of the church, it’s too dark for you to see the colour of his eyes – though you don’t need to see them to know they’re as blue as sapphires.

When his eyes lock on yours once more, time seems to freeze for another heartbeat.

In your dreams, it’s always been like gazing at the reflection in the shards of a broken mirror. You’ve never really seen him – only bits and pieces of images and sensations. Ink-black hair tickling the skin on your collarbone, long, dark lashes fluttering against your cheek as he keeps whispering to you.

Though despite this, there’s not the shadow of a doubt. It’s him. He’s real, not a fantasy sprung from a lonely mind on its descent into madness, but a real man of flesh and blood.

Of course, you’ve heard stories of people able to see the future in their dreams, the prophets of the Old Testament as well as those who claim to have visions sent by the dead, the angels, the devil himself…though you highly doubt those dreams could ever compare to yours.

Because yours is always the same dream, and the things you’re doing with this beautiful stranger in the tangles of your sleep-hazed imagination…they’re most certainly not holy. And if he’s real…did he have the same dreams of you?

When you take him in, unable to tear your eyes away, you realize that reality is even more enrapturing than what your dreams have shown you.

His body, clad in the black priest’s suit, with only the stark white of his collar for contrast, looks firm and lean beneath the dark fabric, letting your imagination roam free as you wonder if his muscles are as defined as the snippets of your dreams have shown you. His hair, so solid black, brushes against his shoulders in luscious waves, streaks of blue and red colour painted into the dark strands in a crown of pale moonlight which spills through the stained-glass window behind the altar.

When he stretches his arms in a gesture of confident greeting, his demeanour is that of a king greeting his peasants rather than that of a humble priest welcoming the sheep of his parish to mass.

A subtle smirk plays on the corner of his lips – lips which, in your dreams, have traced the lines of your body countless times with searing kisses that made you squirm with pleasure, a trace of mischief hidden in the serenity of this smile.

You’ve seen beauty before – sunlight falling on freshly fallen snow, petals vibrant in the dusk as if they were aglow from within, shooting stars streaking across the night sky.

This stranger’s beauty, though, is a different one – a dark, haunting otherworldliness that steals your breath away makes the string around your heart tug with the longing to touch him, to feel the strands of his black hair as your fingers glide through them, trace the sharp lines of his cheekbones with your lips and feel the heat of his skin pressed against yours.

There’s no spark of recognition in his eyes as he holds your gaze as captive as your thoughts, his features an unreadable mask before he tears away and lets his eyes travel over the small congregation while he begins to speak the first words of his sermon.

When his voice fills the cold, incense-infused air, reverberating from the ancient stone walls and gothic pillars as it floats through the chapel’s nave, the tug on your heart intensifies, and recognition surges through you for a second time.

It’s his voice, the voice from your dreams. Smooth and dark like ribbons of the finest silk, wrapping around you, tighter and tighter as they hold you in place, like a dark caress on your bare skin, drawing you in with every word that leaves his soft lips.

You’re so focused on the sound of his voice that you realize, as his brief sermon ends, that you didn’t listen to a single one of the words he’s spoken.

When the notes of the organ fill the air once more to signal the end of midnight mass, and the other nuns rise from their pews with rustling skirts to venture out into the night and back to the warmth of their beds, you keep your head bowed as if deeply caught up in prayer, hands folded on the wood of the pew in front of you, eyes closed as your mind is racing like a horse in a frenzy.

You stay like this until the organ’s melody has died away and the heavy wooden door of the chapel’s entrance falls shut with groaning hinges, sealing you in the silence and solitude of the ancient chapel like the saints in the crypt beneath your feet.

The new priest is gone as well. You’re not sure if the tug at your heart you feel upon the realization is one of disappointment or relief.

I’ll find you. There’s no crevice in the Nine Realms where I won’t find you, norðurstjarna.

His voice, so gentle and dark, is laced with the warning words in your mother‘s letter.

There‘s evil in the world, hunting for you. Stay hidden. Never leave the sacred ground. It‘s the only place where you‘ll be safe. Stay away from strangers.

Could he be the evil you‘ve been warned about your whole life? You‘ve always assumed whatever threat she was referring to in her letter was connected to your magic, the way your body is frozen in time and shielded from age.

But what if you‘ve been wrong, if there‘s more to it than the strange miracle of your apparent immortality?

Nausea grips you as your head is spinning, the floor tilting precariously with your sudden vertigo, and you press your forehead against the hard, cold wood of the pew in front of you to anchor yourself. You’ve never felt such raw, unadulterated fear in your life. All your existence spent in hiding, only to realize that even here, cornered and shielded by the crumbling walls and sacred borders of the convent, you’re not safe anymore, and probably never were.

All for nothing. Every time you could feel another tiny part of you wilt away under the suffocating weight of all these rules.

Don’t sing a song but those in the hymn book. It’s sin.

Don’t dance. It’s sin.

Don’t let the dreams tempt you to follow the unproper thoughts they instil in you, neither in mind nor touch. It’s sin.

Each and every rule, you followed, because there never was a choice. Obey, or be sent away, outside where the monster lurks.

You inhale, the sharp tang of incense stinging in your throat, then rise to your feet, darting between the rows of pews with your every step echoing through the nave as your feet carry you to the confessional tucked into the small space between two of the pillars at the far wall, hidden in the shadow of the alcove.

It’s beautiful, with its walls of polished dark wood and the intricate carvings of miniature-pillars flanking the two doors, adorned with carved poison ivy. It’s the one truly beautiful thing in the worn-down, lacklustre scenery of the convent.

As soon as you’re inside the small space, you sit down on the wooden bench, resting your head against the wall and closing your eyes to wait until the panic subsides and your raging heartbeat calms down enough to have a clear thought.

With a hiss, you rip the white nun’s coif away from your head to free your hair. You hate that thing. You hate the scratchy black fabric of the formless dress, the way the collar always feels like throttling you.

The confessional has always been your favourite hiding place – always empty, for the next village is miles and miles away beyond the forest, with its own church and priest, and the nuns here don’t often have anything to confess.

Until tonight, you’ve always been certain that you don’t have anything to confess, either – no sins to atone for. Not even a little white lie to make amends for, because it’s difficult to tell a lie if people barely ever talk to you – one half because they think you’re touched by the devil, the other because they believe you’ve been blessed and too holy to be in their presence. And until tonight, despite always abiding the rules, you didn’t even believe in such things as sins.

Now, you’re not so sure anymore how much of the talk about damned souls and the pain of purgatory is the truth, because if strangers leave dreams to walk into reality, the line between truth and fiction is blurring precariously.

The sigh which leaves your lips fills the confessional’s half-dark, cutting through the silence like the whisper of the wind outside. The wind, though, is free.

“Is there something weighing on your heart, little lamb?”, a smooth, low voice purrs from the darkness of the opposite bench, making you start.

Has he been inside this confessional booth all this time – or did he never leave the chapel, watching you from the shadows before deciding to follow you? How did you not realize his presence, when it radiates a darkness so much more persistent than the night outside?

“No,” you reply, your voice barely more than a whisper, a susurration of dead leaves rustling in the autumn wind that dances over the graveyard.

If you’re the lamb – is this stranger who claims to be a priest the shepherd’s dog protecting the herd of his parish… or the wolf come to steal you away with teeth and claws?

“There is nothing weighing on my heart, Father.”

A low, dark chuckle rumbles through the air, and you squint into the half-light beyond the delicate latticework inlaid in the wooden panel which parts the priest’s side of the confessional from yours, trying and failing to get a glean at him before he drawls, “Are you aware that lying is a sin?”

Something in the way his voice lilts, the amusement it carries in its timbre, emboldens you enough to retort, “I don’t think a little white lie will bring me down to Hell.”

“Ah, but there is something that weighs down on your heart,” he concludes.

The tease in his tone is imminent, the quiet humour nothing like the usual patronising tone the other priests use to talk to everyone else.

“People don’t usually lounge in confessionals if they don’t have anything to confess,” he adds with a low purr, “So what is the sin you don’t dare voice, little lamb?”

“I don’t have anything to confess,” you repeat curtly, and your hand already settles on the handle to push open the confessional’s wooden door when his voice cuts through the darkness once more.

“No thoughts straying to forbidden territory? No improper…dreams?”

His voice has darkened a few shades, and there’s something else woven into the taunting of his tone, something predatory.

Heat creeps into your cheeks as the images from these dreams flit through your mind on black wings like the swarm of bats which live in the chapel’s belltower. Of his elegant hands pinning your waist to the mattress, your body, bare before him skin glistening with sweat as his voice, so smooth and dark, carries the most sinful promises. Fingertips raking through your hair. Hands caressing your most intimate parts with playful slowness. Kisses burning on your lips, every touch as consuming as the fires of purgatory.

And the need you feel each time upon waking from these dreams, the burning hunger in your core which perseveres long after the whisps of sleep have left your senses, the urge to let your hands stray to the apex of your thighs where you’ve felt his touch, wondering if the caress of your own fingertips could instil the same blissful sensations in your core.

You freeze midmovement, and your hand on the handle curls into a fist.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Father,” you whisper, and the tremor has crept back into your voice; fear rattling your bones as all the warnings come rushing back into your mind.

“Yet another lie,” he drawls, “And how easy they’re leaving your lips, little lamb. Quite impressive for such a god-fearing creature. Or…you’re not the good little Catholic you claim to be.”

His tone makes a shiver crawl through you like the frost lacing itself over the naked trees outside.

“I never claimed anything,” you shoot back, once again shocked by whatever misplaced sense of pride and courage are guiding you right now.

“Such blasphemy uttered in a confessional,” he mocks.

He might be the monster you’ve been running from your whole life, and yet, fear doesn’t drive you to flight. Instead, you’re drawn to him, the ribbons of his dark voice tightening their hold on your mind, his presence like a dark gravity that pulls you towards him, that draws you under his spell like a moth to the light of a candle in the dark of night.

And that might be the most dangerous thing of all.

“I will go back to bed,” you say, jumping up and reaching for the wooden handle with trembling fingers.

A part of you anticipates the priest to hold you back with his soothing voice – wishes for him to do so, even – but he doesn’t. Through the wooden lattice you feel his gaze resting on you as you stumble out of the confessional, steps reverberating through the still air of the chapel as you dart away from this beautiful stranger, your mind racing as fast as your heartbeat.

***

You dream of him that night. As you always do.

Though this time when you wake at the first weak light of dawn…you feel his presence like a dark aura which seeps through every crack and crevice in the ancient walls of the convent’s dormitory like tendrils of dark mist, beckoning you towards him like the gravity of a star. And with this presence, there it is again. The feeling of missing something you never had in the first place you’ve grown so used to.

It’s that morning that you realize what it is, this feeling haunting your heart ever since you can remember: homesickness. Not for a place, but someone.

When the sun rises and paints light over the frost-shrouded grass of the graveyard to make it glitter in the morning light like freshly fallen snow, the silhouettes of nearby trees stretching their naked branches towards the skies like parishioners lost in prayer, your panic has suffused to make room for curiosity.

It’s time to find out who the beautiful stranger is – and what he wants.

It doesn’t even matter if his intentions are good or evil. He’s here, either way. He found you, at last. And you refuse to hide away any longer.

***

The new priest is neither present at morning mass nor evening mass, and over the course of the day, your nerves start fluttering again, questioning whether the events of last night have been nothing but another dream. But you still feel him near, as if your instincts were reaching out with an aura of your own.

When supper has come and gone and everybody makes their way to their bedchambers, you can only hope to meet him again at mass tonight.

You don’t even try to fall asleep, pacing your room like a caged beast until the chapel’s bell chimes to announce midnight has arrived, beckoning the convent to mass.

When you enter the church, your gaze immediately sweeps over the rows of pews and to the altar, and your heart to clenches in your chest when you find him standing there, on the dais, clad in his black priest’s suit.

As his eyes lock on yours with an unreadable expression on his serene features, you feel it again – this tug at the very core of your soul, as if there was an invisible thread bound to your heart, connecting you with him in a way you cannot fathom yet.

And this time, you can feel his gaze gravitating towards you, resting on you during the whole of midnight mass, though his expression stays blank but for the glimmer in his eyes, twinkling like distant stars from the opposite end of the chapel while the old priest drones on with his sermon.

When mass finally ends and the others rise to walk back to their beds, you stay seated in your pew at the back, watching them step out into the darkness of the graveyard one by one before you slowly rise to your feet, gaze travelling to the altar, to the raven-haired priest still standing on the dais, his cerulean eyes resting on you with rapt attention.

Never breaking eye contact, you take a step backwards, into the shadows between the pillars at the edges of the nave, slowly parting ways with the other nuns as you make your way to the confessional.

Come talk to me, your own gaze is beckoning, and even in the shadows dancing on his features, you can see the whisper of a devious smirk that plays on his lips when he follows you.

***

“Have you been thinking about me, little lamb?”, the taunting voice curls around you as soon as the door to his side of the confessional has clicked shut. This time, though, you are prepared for the sensations the sound sparks in you.

“I’m no lamb,” you speak calmly, “And you’re not a priest.”

A low, dark chuckle rumbles through the air, and you squint into the half-light beyond the delicate wooden lattice which parts the false priest’s side of the confessional from yours.

The glow of the candles and the pale shine of the moon which weeps through the colourful windows barely reach the confines of this small wooden booth, though there are weak streaks of light filtering down from the openings in the ceiling, tiny particles of dust dancing in their dim glow as your eyes lock on the shadow opposite of you, the flashes of of glossy black hair you’re able to glean.

“No, I’m not a priest,” he confirms with this enchanting voice, the familiar ribbons of black silk wrapping around your mind to pull you under his spell once more.

“Then what are you?”, you demand.

“I’m a god. And so are you.”

A beat of silence, your eyes widening when you mutter, “You’re a madman.”

The quiet snicker which fills the half-dark seems confirmation enough that you should put as much distance between you and this beautiful stranger as possible – but you don’t. You stay rooted to the hard wooden seat, pinned in place by his luring voice, the spell of his presence, the curiosity and fascination he rouses in you.

“I am Loki of Asgard,” he says.

Not a fae king, then; not a demon, but something far more deadly.

You’ve heard of the old Norse Gods, of course, read about them in the mythology books you found in a corner of the small library of the convent.

“You didn’t cry out and accuse me of blasphemy,” he deadpans when silence settles over you as you decide whether he’s telling the truth or if you’ve probably gone as mad as he seems to be.

“Because I don’t believe in gods. In any god.”

And yet, you sense it deep in your soul that this stranger is telling the truth. Your apparent immortality, the dreams…you’ve always known that some kind of magic must exist in the world, that there are monsters – so why not deities as well?

He chuckles, clearly bemused by your words, before he quips, “You’ve chosen an interesting path of life, then. Or –“ his voice lowers, the tease dissipating like dew in the midday sun as he adds, “Was it a choice not made by you, but for you?”

“Why would you care?” Your own impatience surprises you, though instead of the snicker you’d anticipated from him, there is a beat of silence. Then, “Are you happy in this life?”

His question, the sudden seriousness of his tone, the traces of softness woven into it, catch you off guard.

“No,” you reply calmly. “I’ve never been.” But I didn’t have a choice, either. And the reason might be you. You say none of these things. Instead, you ask, “If you’re telling the truth…What would an ancient God want in a Catholic convent in the middle of the woods?”

“I think you know that already.”

The tease in his dark tone feels like talons tenderly stroking your spine, making you shudder.

When you don’t answer, the priest – the man claiming to be an ancient God – says quietly, “You know me. You’ve seen me in your dreams.”

You wait for your heart to stop dead with shock, for vertigo to make your head spin once more at his words – but you don’t feel any fear. Only curiosity, this longing for his silken voice to caress your senses once again.

“I know that you saw me in your dreams”, he rasps, and the timbre of his voice, like molten darkness drowning your mind, sends another shiver skittering along your spine – not of fear, but something else you can’t quite pinpoint yet. With a calm in his voice opposing the tune of your heart hammering against your ribs, Loki adds on a whisper, “Do you want to know how I know? Because I’ve seen you in my dreams, too.”

The silence which settles over the two of you as you let his words sink is so omnipotent that you’re sure he can hear the rush of your blood as loud as you hear it.

When you don’t utter a word of reply, he asks quietly, “Are you scared of me?”

You should be, you know that. And yet…

“Do I have a reason to be?”, you breathe, and it makes his dark chuckle rumble through the shadows of the confessional.

You hear him shift, and finally, his eyes lock on yours through the gaps in the lattice casting their pattern over his pale features. Eyes as blue as sapphires, framed by long, dark lashes, a flash of his white priest’s collar.

“That depends entirely on whether you believe in Hell,” he croons, his teeth flashing white in a devious smile that sends a tingle through your body, a rush of adrenaline-induced excitement.

“Tell me about your dreams,” you challenge, growing bolder with every passing second, but his eyes fill with a twinkle of mischief.

“Tell me about yours first, little lamb. Let’s see if there is a confession to make, after all.” The sultry drawl of his voice wraps around your senses, makes your pulse spike with the thrill of his proximity, the dark longing which blooms in your heart like black roses.

There is a choir of alarm bells ringing in your mind, screaming at you to run. But this longing pins you to the wooden seat of the confessional, a spell you cannot break. There is no fear in your heart anymore. Only this strange ache to be close to him, closer even than you already are. To feel him beneath your fingertips, to hear him whisper to you like he has in your dreams.

You might have grown up secluded, far away from real life and its temptations, but you’re not naïve.

“I told you I’m no lamb.”

He snickers. “I can see that, darling.”

Darling. Your blood thrums in your veins at the term of endearment, the sultriness in his voice as he weaves the words, lets them drag over your senses like talons over skin.

“I dreamed of you,” you whisper into the darkness, and heat burns on your cheeks as a string of inappropriate images fills your mind’s eye. You’re grateful for the privacy of the confessional, the delicate wooden lattice parting you from this stranger who seems to know you better than anyone ever has.

“What do I do, in these dreams?”, Loki coaxes, a croon as dark as the night outside, his voice a soothing caress against your soul as he is daring you to go on.

“You kiss me,” you breathe.

His voice is a rasp when he asks, “Where do I kiss you?”

You feel it, this craving so all-consuming, devouring every rational thought and sense of survival.

“Everywhere.”

You don’t even know if he can still hear you, your words barely even a whisper as they float through the air.

“And do you enjoy these kisses, darling?”

The pet name’s intimacy, the way his glittering eyes harbour such strange intensity when they hold your own gaze through the latticework tear your walls down one by one, make them crumble like the murals of this ancient chapel beneath the force of the poison ivy.

The truth slips from your tongue with as much ease as a snake gliding through water.

“Yes.” Your voice has darkened, too, you realize, sounding strange to your own ears.

“And how do you feel upon waking from these dreams?”

“I feel like something is missing,” you whisper. “And I feel…need.”

“And have you ever tried to satiate that need, darling?”, Loki croons, drawing out his words, letting the sultriness of his tone seep into the shadows to fill the confessional’s confines and accelerate your pulse.

Even in the half-light of the booth, the pattern of shadows the wooden latticework paints on his pale features with dim brushstrokes, you can see how his eyes have darkened, the blue of his irises eclipsed by the fathomless abysses of his dilated pupils as he watches you keenly, holds your wide-eyed gaze with his calm one; a hunger raging in these depths that makes your breath catch in your throat.

“No. Never.”

It’s not that you never wanted to. So often, you’ve let your hands stray beneath the hem of your nightgown, thinking about how it would feel with him – but you’ve never ventured further, too scared to be caught in a dormitory where there are no locks on the doors, scared by rules telling you that it’s a sin worthy to lock you in the deepest pit of Hell.

“Do you want to?” The question is spoken gently despite the hunger woven in his tone. It’s the tale as old as time – the snake tempting the innocent to take a bite of the forbidden fruit, to relish the sweetness of it, never getting enough once they’ve tasted it on their tongue.

You’ve been sick of these rules shackling you all your life for so long now.

“Yes,” you breathe without hesitation.

Upon your words, something shifts in the air between the two of you, like a door swinging shut – or being blown wide open.

“Then by all means, darling…go ahead,” Loki invites with a dark croon, his voice the epitome of seduction as you feel his gaze burning on your skin. “Let me hear all these lovely sounds you’ve been gracing me with in my dreams.”

A quivering exhale leaves your chest as you reach up with trembling hands, starting to unbutton the formless black nun’s dress wrapped around your body. The movement of your hands is deliberate and slow as you hold his cerulean gaze, emboldened to toy with him, to relish how his gaze is darkening with every tiny black button that comes undone beneath your fingertips.

You should be scared, frightened by the act of blatant blasphemy you’re in the process of committing, but this rule break…never has anything in your life felt so right. For the first time, you’re doing what you want to do instead of what’s expected of you.

This man could be the devil in disguise come to claim your body, steal your soul and corrupt your mind – and yet, you’ve never felt so free, so in charge of your own deeds and thoughts as you do as you continue to undress beneath his searing gaze that mirrors the hunger in your own soul, the ache that’s throbbing between your legs.

Biting your lip, the last of the buttons opens, and you let the garment fall to the confessional’s wooden floor where it pools around your ankles, shedding the fabric alongside everything you’ve been told, every warning word and throttling rule to leave you in the thin nightgown you’ve been wearing underneath; a whisp of thin white silk that hugs your body tightly before falling loosely to your knees. The nun’s headdress follows suit, discarded on the floor while your hair spills free.

There is barely anything left to the imagination beneath the slender fabric.

The cold air of the chapel brushes against your heated skin, but you’re too elated to feel the cold.

A whisp of insecurity creeps back into your heart as you glance up to meet Loki’s gaze through the wooden panel, shivering beneath the searing intensity in his gaze as he takes a moment to let his eyes roam over your form, the patches where the flickering glow of the candles seeps through the confessional’s ceiling to cast dancing light over your form and his beautiful features.

“What…what do I do now?”, you breathe, anticipation thrumming through your veins.

“Show me where you want me to touch you, darling. Let your hands roam wherever you want them to go but never dared to venture,” Loki murmurs with a smirk that’s gentle and devious at the same time, a smirk that turns your legs weak and makes this familiar heat pool between your legs.

His words embolden you further, guiding your movements on invisible strings as you slowly let them graze your collarbone, tracing the curve of your breasts, the peaks sensitive to the exploring touch of your fingertips, and a soft sigh tumbles from your parted lips, eyes fluttering close with the sensation of warmth dripping in your core.

“Like this?”, you utter on a breathless whisper.

“Does it feel good?” You can hear the strain of arousal in his voice, the way it grows rougher with every move of your hands over your body.

“It does,” you breathe, continuing to let your hands roam down, over the sides of your legs until you reach the hem of the nightgown, and making your movements freeze.

“You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to, darling.” Loki’s voice is as gentle as the softest blanket as he senses your hesitation.

“I want to.”

“Then what holds you back?”, he inquires softly.

“I’ve never…” you trail off once more, biting your lip. “I’ve never done that.”

“Well, we’re in a confessional,” Loki teases softly, “If you don’t have any sins to confess yet, we should commit one, don’t you think?”

It makes a smile curve your lips, chasing away the exposed feeling, the shame of your lack of any experience.

“Do you want me to guide you, darling?” Loki croons, and the seductive tone having crept back into his voice makes desire burn even brighter in your core.

Your tongue is heavy, the words stuck in your throat with the sudden urge to feel him all over you, doing what you dreamed of for so long. “Yes.”

As soon as the words have left your lips, his smile flashes again.

Green light ripples through the dark, like water dancing on the surface of a lake. When the light is gone, a gasp tumbles from your mouth.

He’s right behind you all of a sudden, the heat of his body so close seeping through his black suit to lick at your feverish skin, and you lean into him on instinct until your spine is pressed flush against his firm chest, thin white silk rustling against black fabric while his intoxicating scent wraps around you like an invisible embrace.

“How did you do this?”, you inquire with awe, and you feel him breath play over your hair when he laughs softly.

“I told you I’m a god. You can learn to do that, as well, darling.”

His hands settle over yours. A tingle of electricity zaps through your veins, every single one of your senses on alert to the contact of Loki’s skin on yours. The wind is knocked from your lungs in a sharp exhale at the sensation that makes the need in your core flare like the greedy flames of an Easter Bonfire, flames leaping high.

You feel Loki’s breath playing over the crook of your neck as he angles his head, feel the jagged pace of his heartbeat against the curve of your spine, and your eyes flutter close as his dark presence engulfs you, swallows you whole to leave you breathless with the hunger he instils in you.

A few heartbeats pass, the two of you savouring each other’s closeness, until you realize he’s waiting for your signal, to give him the consent to go further.

“Show me,” you whisper. This time, it’s a demand, spoken on a voice crushed with desire.

One of his hands trails down your waist, over the outside of your thigh to hike up the hem of your silken nightgown with torturing slowness, while his other hand, the one that’s still settled over yours, guides your hand downwards, to the waistband of your panties, dipping below the fabric to the slickness pooling between your legs.

The sensation of it crashes over you like a flood wave – his fingers gently leading yours between your legs, the arousal that drips between your legs coating your fingertips as he guides them to the spot at the apex of your thighs.

“I have dreamed of this for so long,” he croons, his breath hot as it trickles the shell of your ear, his long lashes whispering over your sensitive skin, “To have my hands all over your beautiful body and watch you come undone in every way possible.”

The heaviness of his voice, dripping like honeyed wine to cloud your senses and inebriate your mind with its intoxicating darkness, curls around you when he tenderly guides your fingertips over that swollen bundle of nerves, and you cry out at the bliss of the sensation the movement sends rippling through your body.

“Does that feel good?”, Loki croons, but the feeling of it is stealing the words from your tongue, replacing them with a moan to fill the half-light of the confessional, a sound as sinful as the things you’re letting him do.

If this is what paves your path to Hell, you’ll gladly walk that road. You’ll gladly burn in the eternal flames of purgatory as long as he continues to guide your fingertips over the slickness of your folds, holds you in his strong arms like he does now.

The noises conjured from your lips like the darkest of melodies as Loki guides your hand over that spot in slow, languid circles, mingle with the god’s own ragged breaths against the side of your neck, and when your hips roll against the caress of your fingertips, an instinct as ancient as life roused in your body, raw and hungry for more of these blissful sensations, you feel something hard press against your lower back and your eyes fly open at the realization what it is.

“What – what about you?”, you inquire timidly.

“Don’t worry about me,” he breathes, and his lips caress the sensitive skin at the back of your neck, making you shiver with want. “How does it feel, darling?”, he demands softly, “Is it what you hoped it would be like?”

Your fingertips dip into the wetness pooling between your legs, while Loki’s other hand leaves its place on your leg to wander up, following the curve of your waist and up to palm your left breast through the wisp of silk, the pad of his thumb playing with the hardened peak to draw more sounds of pleasure from your lips before he moves on to the other.

“Good,” you rasp, “Heavenly.”

There’s a smirk in your voice, and you bite your lips before another moan can rip free. If this is how he makes your own hands feel…how will it feel when he’s buried inside you?

Loki chuckles, his lips leaving hot trails of sparks on your skin wherever they graze, and he whispers, “I want to see you come undone beneath me. I want to hear these sinful sounds you’re still holding back echoing through this chapel for every other being, deity or human, to know that you’re mine and I’m yours.” His voice darkens like the fabric of the night sky outside when he adds on a fractured breath, “I want to worship you like the goddess you are, Y/N.”

It’s the first time he’s spoken your name, but your mind is too caught up in the blissful haze of pleasure as he guides your fingertips over your clit to help you build this sweet pleasure, to realize you’ve never told him your name.

“Please.” The reply falls from your lips in a soft plea.

“A goddess doesn’t plead,” Loki growls softly, “Only command.”

“Then worship me,” you moan, feeling him smile against your sweat-glazed skin before the air ripples with green light once more and you feel the world tilt beneath your feet as darkness engulfs the two of you.

When it dissipates, you’re not crammed up in the confessional any longer.

You’re standing atop the dais, right in front of the altar carved from dark oakwood, and you gasp when Loki’s hands let go of yours to spin you to face him with such mischief in his sapphire eyes, that your legs feel like giving in with the desire for him.

You don’t protest when he lifts you up and gently places you on the edge of the altar, cold wood digging into the back of your thighs to form a pleasant contrast to the heat of your skin, before Loki steps between your legs, one hand gliding down to free himself of the constraints of the black pants while the other hooks at the waistband of your panties, sliding them down your legs with a swift movement.

Anticipation makes your blood sing in your veins, anticipation for all the sinful things you’re about to do together.

“I want you.” The demand leaves your lips on a soft whisper, and Loki’s hands grab your rear to pull you closer to the altar’s edge, his nails digging into your skin with a pleasant sting.

“Then have me, darling. I’m all yours.”

With this, he pushes forward, and the world seems to freeze around you when he slides into you, torturingly slow, sheathing himself in the welcoming slick warmth of your core. The moans that spill from your lips tangle with his own as he fills you, a sinful symphony that echoes through the cold air of the chapel as every nerve in your body seems to sing a song only he can hear.

With the moonlight spilling through the stained-glass windows above the altar, painting streaks of light in silver and red over the two of you, you finally see him up close, and Loki’s beauty makes your throat constrict, steals the air from your lungs. His gaze holding yours, pupils dilated with lust, are brimming with emotions you’ve yet to name, mirroring the tangle of feelings ensnaring your own racing heart.

For a heartbeat, you stay like this, watching each other, bodies so beautifully joined. The feeling of his throbbing length inside of you brings a serenity, a sense of peace, of belonging, that you’ve never felt before, never believed yourself capable of feeling. Like the word finally snapping into place, the feeling of missing something is chased away by the knowledge that the homesickness is over because…you’ve found him. You found your home.

It’s the most beautiful thing you ever felt.

“I finally found you,” Loki whispers into the chill air.

Before you can ask what he means, he leans in and captures your lips in a kiss that’s sensual and greedy, sweet and sinful all at the same time, tongue coaxing your mouth open as he slowly pulls out of you, only to let his hips snap against yours and bury himself even deeper in your throbbing walls, a sting of pain mingling with the pleasure of him filling you so perfectly with every inch of his cock, stretching your walls around him.

Loki stills when he feels your muscles tense beneath his palm, but your hands come up to lock at the nape of his neck to hold him close, begging for him to drive himself deeper into your core. “It’s okay,” you breathe into the kiss, “It doesn’t hurt. Do it again. Please.”

His lips never leaving yours, he obeys your wish.

“You’re absolutely divine, my darling,” he croons into the fierce kiss, hips snapping against yours in slow thrusts, each one burrowing him deeper in your aching walls with slick, sinful sounds that tangle in the air with your breaths, moans carried through the chapel’s nave as Loki makes you his, marks your soul with his kisses and your body with his intoxicating scent of copper and herbs and leather.

Fire leaps at your nerve endings with every push that brings him closer to you, every time his tip grazes the throbbing spot deep inside of you to make you cry out with ecstasy.

Loki’s arms snake around you, palms settling on back of your head, his fingertips buried in your hair to hold you close against him as his pacing quickens. Never, not in your wildest dreams, would you have thought it would feel like this. This all-consuming, ravenous desire as he thrusts into you, the way you feel the thread around your heart glowing as bright as the need in your core. It feels right, like two stars colliding which have been separated by the fabric of the black skies for far too long, a radiant light which fills you to the tips of your fingers that weave through the silken strands of Loki’s hair as you swallow each other’s moans with bruising kisses under the moonlight spilling through the stained-glass windows and onto the altar like a silver-touched blessing.

All your life, you’ve been taught that this is wrong – yet never before has anything felt so utterly right.

There’s only the fire Loki builds in your core with every gentle thrust as he gives you his everything.

And just as you wonder how much more of this sweet bliss you’re able to take, you come undone.

Lights dance in the darkness beneath your closed eyes, travelling through your body in glowing currents as your cry of pleasure splinters in the still air, your walls clenching around him in the throes of your climax that makes him topple over the edge as well. Loki’s release spills into your heat with the loveliest groan ripping from his throat as he guides you through your climaxes, his grip on you tightening with the force of his orgasm when he lets his hands caress the sides of your neck, over the curve of your shoulders and down along the inside of your arms, his fingertips brushing gently over the mark adorning your wrist as he rides out your climaxes with faltering thrusts.

When his fingertips make contact with the strange symbol on your skin, it’s as if a wave of warm water immerses you in the aftermath of your orgasm. Your vision blurs, and memories rush through your mind that don’t belong to you, snippets of moments like the shards of a broken mirror.

A sense of loneliness.

Fireworks sparkling over a water as a woman with beautifully braided hair bends down to whisper, “You can do that, too, little raven. You can do whatever you set your mind on.”

The image is torn by another memory shard, a trembling hand, pale skin turning to an icy blue, red eyes glaring back from a mirror’s reflection.

Pain, sharp and deep, a pain that reaches to the depths of a soul and leaves a scar to never fully heal again.

Fire and screams.

The bare wall of a dungeon cell, tears streaming down sharp cheekbones.

Watching as something etches itself in the skin of his wrist, a rune with sharp lines spreading beneath his skin like the blackest ink.

It’s your name, written in the lines of a single symbol.

A sense of peace like he never felt before. The frenzied need to find you, find you, find you, find you…

A whisper in the dark, hoping you’ll hear it wherever you are. I’ll find you. There’s no crevice in the Nine Realms where I won’t find you, norðurstjarna.

A scream ripping from his throat when he thinks he can’t.

You resurface with a sharp gasp, tears streaming down your cheeks like droplets of rain as your eyes find his, his arms still locked around yours, his body still joined with yours as his chest rapidly rises and falls against yours.

Your eyes widen with the shock of what you just saw, your mind still hazy with the afterglow of your climax.

“I – I know you,” you stammer.

Loki’s expression is impossibly soft. Tears are glittering in the corners of his eyes beneath the beams of moonlight as he searches your gaze.

When he doesn’t answer, you breathe, voice heavy with the lump in your throat, “Are you the one I’ve been forced to hide from all my life?”

There is no accusation in your voice, no anger in your heart. How could there be, after everything you’ve just watched happening, all the things he went through and everything you feel for him in your heart as the missing pieces fall in place like the shards of a stained-glass window, the image completed in the most stunning colours.

“Yes,” Loki breathes softly, and silence settles over the two of you.

When he notices the goosebumps racing up your arms with the sudden intrusion of the cold night air, green light shimmers, and a soft, green blanket places itself over your shoulders. The gesture is so intimate, so loving, that you need to swallow back the tears threatening to spill at Loki’s obvious devotion for you.

“You’ve been searching for me,” you murmur.

“Ever since you reached adulthood and your name appeared on my wrist.”

“Why?” It’s a whisper, crumbling with the intensity of emotions churning in your chest.

“I think you know that already.” Loki’s voice is as soft as the caress of his fingertips on your cheek as he catches a stray tear you didn’t notice falling.

“I’m your soulmate,” you whisper, “And you’re mine.”

“There’s a monster living in my veins,” Loki whispers, and the sadness shadowing his eyes reverberates through your own heart when he continues, voice rough with emotions, with the desire that burned through him only minutes ago, “Your mother was a maid at the Asgardian palace when I was thrown into the dungeons. I believe she thought I would hurt you, that the mark that would etch itself into your soul –“ his thumbs gently brush over the symbol – the rune, his name inked on your skin and to the fabric of your soul just as yours on his, the most beautiful mark of all – and warmth travels through your very being at the touch like a pleasant shudder – “was a curse binding you to me. I’ve spent so many decades searching for you. Though it was never my intention to cause you any harm, Y/N. Never.”

You believe him. How could you not, gazing into the truths of his very soul, the good and evil residing there side by side like the most beautiful play of shadows and light.

It’s as if your whole life, you’ve seen only a fragment of a picture – to realize now that there is so much more, so many things making sense when you finally are able to gaze at the whole painting.

You’re a goddess. Asgardian. Separated from your soulmate for so long that you want to spill a myriad of tears over every second you’ve lost, weeping for what has been kept from you for so many decades.

“When I finally found you, I needed to make sure you wanted to be found. That you didn’t see me as the monster everyone else sees. That you were willing to throw away the only life you’d known.”

“What if I didn’t?”, you challenge softly, though the answer is as clear as day, shining in Loki’s desperate gaze.

“I would have left.”

Your heart bleeds at the pain laced in the truth of his words, at the thought of this sacrifice he would have made for you.

When you lean in to place the sweetest of kisses to Loki’s cheek, you still feel him – his body joined with yours, and his soul intertwined with your own, woven together after all these decades of searching for each other, longing for that piece that had been missing.

“I never want you to leave,” you breathe. “Never.”

“I never want to leave you,” Loki whispers.

“Will you take me with you?”, you smile, and the smile Loki gives you in return is as bright and blinding as the sun amidst the depth of freezing winter, immersing you with its gentle warmth until you feel like every piece of your soul is thrumming with happiness, every faded petal of the garden in your heart radiant with new life.

“Wherever you want, norðurstjarna.“

There it is again, the word he kept whispering to you in your dreams.

“What does that mean?”

“It means my Northern Star,” Loki says softly, his lips brushing over yours as he inches closer. “I was lost until I found you, so I deemed it fitting.”

You angle your head to graze your lips against his, savouring the sensation with every fibre of your soul. “I promise you’ll never be lost again, Loki.”

♡ 𝐈𝐟 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐞𝐧𝐣𝐨𝐲𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬, 𝐩𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐞 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐬𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐯𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐚 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐚𝐧𝐝/𝐨𝐫 𝐫𝐞𝐛𝐥𝐨𝐠𝐠𝐢𝐧𝐠 (𝐫𝐞𝐛𝐥𝐨𝐠𝐬 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐨𝐧𝐥𝐲 𝐰𝐚𝐲 𝐭𝐨 𝐡𝐞𝐥𝐩 𝐦𝐞 𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐦𝐲 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭)

♡ 𝐊𝐨-𝐅𝐢

𝐋𝐨𝐤𝐢 𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 (𝐥𝐞𝐭 𝐦𝐞 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰 𝐢𝐟 𝐲𝐨𝐮'𝐝 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐛𝐞 𝐚𝐝𝐝𝐞𝐝 𝐨𝐫 𝐫𝐞𝐦𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐝)🖤:

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