#— ◦ ∙ › words are coated in honey but do not be fooled by the bitter aftertaste ꞉ replies.

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Kiss prompts with two dialogue prompts!! For Reader x Jayce, please! 🩷 Thank youuu!

"i think this is the part where you're supposed to kiss me"

"shut up" (affectionately)

ask and ye shall receive!!! tysm for sending!!!

pairing: jayce talis x fem!reader word count: 1.1k tags: mdni! fluff, kissing, alcohol use, jayce gets flustered, notes: ok this was so fun omgggg hehehe. my asks are open for more with any char (i'll do my best to stretch my range, but of course i love jayce, hehe). i only have a few more to write which i will be doing tonight & tomorrow!!

“You’re a lightweight,” A smiled pulled across Jayce’s lips, his tanned cheeks were coated by a rosy colour as his hand wrapped around the half-full glass of beer. Honey eyes flickered over your face, noting the way your lips parted as you laughed, the smile reaching your eyes as you waved a hand in front of your face.

“Hardly,” you breathed out as your laugh settled, wobbly on the stool you sat on, “I can handle my liquor just as well as you can.”

“Wow,” he commented with a lift of his brows, “that is a very incorrect statement,” he guzzled the remainder of the dark beer that filled his stomach with heat and left his mind the perfect amount of fuzzy. Enough to make him relax and forget all about the stress of the research that weighed down his shoulders.

As if it were a competition, you finished the rest of yours, the taste bitter on your tongue as you forced it down and ignored the teasing remarks he threw your way.

“Enough,” he laughed, pulling the glass from your lips as some of the liquid dribbled down your chin, “I’m not carrying you home.”

The sound of his laughter caused your heart to ache, a devastating feeling you’d been trying to avoid for weeks. It was disrupting your day-to-day, stupid Jayce Talis and his stupidly beautiful smile and even stupider laugh gave you goosebumps.

“I’m fine!” You swatted at him, your hand smacking his chest playfully as you nearly toppled forward against him.

Jayce was quick to grab you steady at your shoulders, supporting you back to your seat as he dropped his head low enough to get to your level, “Fine? Okay, get up and stand without making a fool of yourself.” 

“What?” You scoffed, furrowing your brows together.

“You heard me, get up and prove you’re fine,” he smirked, letting go of you and resting an elbow on the bar top as his eyes analyzed your movements. His cheek pressed against his knuckles, relaxed, as he waited for you to topple so he could come to your rescue like the knight in shining armour he wanted so desperately to be for you.

You tilted your chin up, huffing as you slid off the stool with calculated ease. Your hand stayed against the stool for support, and it was immediate how the alcohol affected you. The world wasn’t spinning, but you were certainly unable to stand still.

“This is bullshit” you argued when you removed your hand from the stool and stumbled forward, catching yourself before Jayce had the chance to step in. You flashed your eyes at Jayce, “Bet you can’t either.”

He rose to his feet, several inches taller than you, as he crossed his arms over his chest. He quirked an eyebrow, staring down at you, and you rolled your eyes once again.

“You’re so annoying,” you murmured, shifting forward so you could lean against him. You were silent as you felt him drape your coat over your shoulders, knowing what was coming next, “take me home.”

This had become a common occurrence, two young scholars at the academy looking for ways to blow off steam on the weekends. Alcohol was your poison of choice for the past few weekends, indulging in any and all forms of liquor to forget about the upcoming academic week that would certainly leave you exhausted.

“You know,” you murmured, “this is the third weekend in a row we’ve found ourselves in this situation,” you said, arms wrapped around one of Jayce’s so you could steady yourself as you ventured through the quiet late-night streets of Piltover, “are we alcoholics?”

Jayce snorted, “You are.”

“Shut up,” you giggled affectionately, arms gripping tighter around his, and he was forced to clear his throat as he kept his eyes away, redness burning at his cheeks from your closeness, “I like it. I mean, uh, it’s been fun,” your voice was soft as to not echo too loudly off the surrounding buildings, the only other sounds being two pairs of shoes clacking against the pavement, “I don’t know… Sorry, I’m rambling. I don’t know what I’m saying.”

His eyes flickered to you, slowly blinking as he watched the way your eyes focused ahead and unaware of the way he admired you. To him, you were everything. An unrequited love.

“Why aren’t you saying anything?” You mumbled, looking up to catch his gaze before he was able to look away.

“I recall you being the one who told me to shut up,” he answered, lips pulled into a smile.

“You’re awfully annoying, has anyone told you that?” You rolled your eyes, tearing your gaze away as you approached the building of your apartment. 

Jayce watched as you pulled away from him, taking the first step up the brick staircase and turning around to face him. You were eye-to-eye now, rather close in proximity, but you hadn’t cared so much. You had enough liquid courage settled in your stomach to clear your mind and lose most of your inhibitions.

“Well,” he sighed after a few moments of awkward silence, eyes flickering away for a moment, “goodnight.”

You hadn’t returned farewell, your feet planted firmly where you stood. With a curiously raised eyebrow, you noted the way his eyes had flickered to your lips a few times, jaw clenching. He was horrible at being sly.

You smiled.

“You’re forgetting something,” you chimed, head tilting playfully as you bit onto your bottom lip.

“No, I’m not,” he returned the raised eyebrow, oblivious to your flirty tone.

“I think this is the part where you’re supposed to kiss me,” you said, a sickly sweet smile playing along your lips. You watched in delight as Jayce became frazzled, cheeks burning a deep red as his lips parted, struggling to say anything. 

“Uh, well–” he stuttered, swallowing a lump down his throat. A much different demeanour than the cocky attitude he had back at the bar.

“I’m kidding,” you laughed, patting his chest a few times, “goodnight, dork,” you hummed fondly, turning to take an unbalanced step toward your apartment.

You hardly moved away when you felt your body being tugged back, turning around just in time to feel Jayce’s lips press against yours. Your eyes widened, shocked that he’d actually done it, your stomach exploding into a mix of butterflies and fireworks.

He pulled away, but you chased, closing the distance once more as your hands lifted to the back of his head, brushing through the short strands of his hair. His hands wrapped around your waist, pulling your body close as your lips moved together in an electric kiss.

One that had been avoided for so long, desperate and sweet. Needy.

“Shit,” Jayce whispered through an anxious chuckle when you both pulled back for air, foreheads pressed together and noses bumping. Your breath mingled, the smell of alcohol tickling your nose. You stayed there for a few beats, quietly holding each other and watching the way his eyes dilated as he stared into yours.

“Took you long enough,” you teased, out of breath.

“Shut up,” he whispered, crashing his lips to yours.

[fanfics-with-coffee]

To be kind, To be a fool

This has only been proofread and edited by a sleep deprived me sooooo, I also wrote it in a daze from 1AM to 6AM. I'm back in my Baldurs Gate 3 hole and I've been so very inspired from so many other fanfic writers I got back on this blog

You did it, you saved the prisoners from Moonrise Towers and everybody is back, safe and sound at least for tonight. You and Astarion are holding back from the festivities, instead talking about your act of heroism and why you do it. You say you choose to be kind for who else will, he says you're choosing to be a fool for what else is kindness if not foolish.

Genre: Angst, hurt/comfort Pairing: Astarion x reader Words: 4400

Its doubtful if Last Light Inn had been quite so lively as when you returned in the raggedy old boat with the prisoners from Moonrise Towers. Once they had been cleared, everyone had ran to their loved ones or simply rejoiced in the warmth of the fire, ever burning away the darkness that threatened to creep inside any crevice it could get it's cold claws into. And of course they soothed their dry throats with the little wine and ale that was left behind when the shadow curse had blanketed the land. The two boys manning the bar were running around relentlessly, trying their best to fill every empty goblet and mug they could spot, leaving no one without a drink. It’d probably only be hours before Jaheira had to call it a night so they wouldn’t run out of the little liquid joy they had left. But until then, the celebrations were loud and proud.

For a moment, things were bright, despite the dark sky. 

“What a ruckus, you could almost think that Lathander himself had been in attendance.” Astarion mused, one hand gracefully swirling a glass of wine while the other rested on his upper arm. He was leaning against the wall beside you in a corner of the inn that hadn’t been filled with people. Not that it was difficult, even with the prisoners free it was barely enough to fill the tables and chairs. You smiled, watching the tieflings try to catch up after the devastating nights apart. 

“If Lathander was here, I think there’d be a lot more dancing on tables and a lot more wine.”

“True… And a lot more fucking.” Astarion replied with that signature cheeky smile he always pulls when he’s said something salacious or teasing. You couldn’t help but laugh at his comment, nodding along to his line of thought. He wasn’t wrong. 

“You’re probably right. Well at least we could let these people see another dawn, I think in a sense maybe Lathander really is here.” You pull your eyes from the happy faces and let them reflect in your mug of ale before downing another mouthful of it. The smooth, delicate taste of honey coats your tastebuds and leaves a pleasant warmth in your stomach.

“I didn’t take you for the god honoring type, you know? Besides, these people didn’t need Lathander, they had their own little ray of sunshine coming to their rescue anyways. Our own little goody-two-shoe altruist in shining armor.” He teases you, reminding you that there weren’t any gods in the belly of Moonrise Towers. Yet beneath the lighthearted tone you detected something else, a familiar bitterness and disapproval that he had given you before. That he gave you whenever you did something ‘too nice’, ‘too self sacrificing’ or ‘too cheaply’. You had long ago started ignoring it, instead taking it as a sign you probably did the right thing.

“Mmmh, mayhaps. I mean we were there anyways, and I wouldn’t have wanted to be left there to the Absolutists if I was stuck either.” You give him an answer you know he’ll hate and you made sure to slather some extra kindness in there as well just to really make a point. “And I find enough reward in watching these people.”

Astarion rolls his eyes hard enough you worry they’re gonna get stuck to the back of his head. You watch him, unable to hold in a laugh as he pretends to vomit from how ‘disgustingly sweet’ you are. You don’t say anything for a moment as he lets his eyes roam the room, the soft light of the torches reflecting upon his white locks of hair. You can see the disgust in his eyes as he watches them, and you could only guess as to why he felt so strongly about your acts of kindness. 

“I can’t wait to see the day you realize that none of these people would do the same for you… When someone betrays your kindness and I can stand there and laugh, telling you ‘I told you so’.”

He says it nonchalantly, as if it’s a fact. He let’s his own hatred for the world seep through every syllable yet he hides it behind a face that says he doesn’t care. You expected comments like this to come from him, you expected resistance to helping the helpless. Yet something about his words right now makes your chest tighten in anger, the notion that you were simply too stupid to realize that not everyone was kind. That he was maybe smarter and more experienced than you for seeing the cruelness in the world. You turn sharply to face him, slamming your mug down a little too harshly on a table close by. Astarions eyes meet yours, he never expected you to react like this, you had never before raised your voice at him. The air has grown tense. 

“Astarion, I am kind. I am not a fool, and you should do well to remember that there is a difference.” Your words are sharp yet you’re thankful no one else has seemed to notice you two. “I know that people will hurt me, and betray me. That people will not always do the same as I would’ve done. But if I don’t help, then who will? I have the power to make a change and I’ve chosen to use that power. You don’t have to agree, but you’re not allowed to tell me that I am wrong for deciding to be kind.”

He can see the hurt in your eyes as you correct him. That it’s not a question about your own navïte making you help others, but the fact you put conscious effort into being kind, despite the risk it has. Cold, uncomfortable embarrassment washes over him like ice water. A feeling he despises and so he sets it alight with anger instead, feeling himself burn with it as he finds himself again. His fingers clench around the half empty glass of wine he continues to hold onto. Thoughts swirl around in his head, trying to find the ones that will hurt the most, a painful payback for embarrassing him.

“And pray tell what is the difference? You waste not just your own time helping these idiots, but ours too. We were here to find a cure, yet all we’ve done is listen to sob stories and rescue people who will most likely die on the road to Baldurs Gate anyways. What kind of fool would waste so much energy and time on things that will lead to the exact same result anyways, I believe that’s actually what people call insanity.” He makes himself appear taller as he pushes himself off the wall and stands in front of you, scowling as he meets your gaze. 

How dare you tell him that he’s wrong? After 200 years of cruel torment and nights spent around people who could not give less of a shit about him, you’re telling him there’s people out there that care? And if so then it’s even worse, because that would mean no one simply knew he was in pain. Was Astarions own torment not enough for people to even notice?

No, he knows what he went through. No one cares about others' torment unless there’s something in it for them, even if just so they could feel a little better about themselves and comes at no expense of theirs. It’s always just about ourselves, Astarion just skips the other steps and puts himself first. Why could you just not do the same? Why did you have to go out of your way for anyone else?

“Fine, call me a fool. Insane, även. Say what you want about me, Astarion, but I will always choose to be kind. I’m sorry no one made that choice for you before, I am. B-”

“Do not tell me about kindness, y/n, there is no altruistic kindness like the one you speak of it’s a performance people put on for others.” His words are cold and sharp, they bite into your heart in much the same way his teeth pierce your skin. Painful. “We should all put ourselves first, it’s what everyone wants to do anyways! Skip the damn pleasantries and just be honest about it at the very least. I’m tired of having to look beyond the kindness just to see their true intentions.”

He’s rambling without thinking, remembering all the kind words and touches he’s received just because someone wanted to get in his pants. All the faux acts of kindness he watched Cazador perform so he could get what he wanted, or even just to make sure whatever cruel act he had in mind would hurt even more. All the nights in the beginning where he debated how he could save a victim, just to realize he’d get nothing but pain in return. The kind acts he himself performed in hopes of receiving something kind in return. 

The way he seduced you just to make sure he had safe passage to Baldurs Gate, to a cure. 

You were left speechless, caught off-guard by the outburst of emotions. You knew he was selfish but this was rooted deeper and maybe you should’ve realized when he had finally told you about Cazador and his ‘siblings’. You clenched your hands, trying to find something to refute his points. To prove him wrong. Yet you have nothing of worth to sooth his pain. He sees your hesitations and assumes he’s finally gotten through to you, he’s won. His red eyes leave yours to once again look at the others smiling faces, not wanting you to see the disappointment grow in him as he realizes he was right.

“So you’ve never been kind just to be kind?”

“No. Never.”

He rakes a hand through his hair, letting the motion tilt his head back as he finally raises his glass of wine, downing the rest of it. The sudden action makes the glass flow over the corners of his mouth and the deep red liquid coats his chin and drips down on his chest, staining the white fabric of his shirt. It bleeds into the criss-cross stitching and travels further down before he has time to react. 

You gasp and grab an old handkerchief stuffed in your pocket, quickly moving to try and save his favorite shirt. It's instinctual, thoughtless. Even when you’re mad at him and even though he’s furious at you, you try to help him. As soon as the cloth touches him, shame spreads like a disease through him, regret taking root in his chest somewhere where his beating heart should’ve been. 

He hates it.

“Don’t touch me.” He bites back, snatching the handkerchief from your hand to do the job himself. You instantly step back, putting your hands up to make sure you give him space.

“Tsk, I’m going to bed. Good night, y/n.” He’s aggressively dabbing at the stain as he starts walking away, trying to soak up as much as possible but it’s clear it's a useless endeavor, it will forever remain stained.

“Astarion!” You call out to him before he gets too far and he stops momentarily, turning to finally look at you. 

He’s met with pity reflecting off of your eyes in the lowly lit room. 

He hates it.

You say something else but suddenly the sounds of the celebrations drown out whatever it was. He doesn’t even try to listen and simply turns around to find the room that he had been given as a thank you from Jaheira. He didn’t need your pity, he didn’t tell you about his past because he wanted your pity, anyone would feel pity for him if he told them what had happened to him. He wanted you to… care. Foolishly, he wanted you to care about him, about what had happened to him. He wanted you to listen to his issues and maybe, just maybe, you’d want to help him like you helped everyone else around you. And maybe you’d do something without asking for anything in return. 

Yet tonight, he reminded himself that no such thing as true kindness existed. And to expect you to care about him despite who he was at his core was foolish itself. Your kindness came at a cost he hadn’t even thought about; You expected him to change in return for your kindness. He was mean, he was selfish and he wouldn’t let you change him for anything.

He turns to close the door to the room he was staying in, the feeling of his shirt clinging to his chest uncomfortable and wet. Astarions eyes find you in the same corner he left you, yet your eyes didn’t meet. Gale and Karlach had come up to you, pulling your attention to them. You had quickly started smiling and laughing again, one hand on Karlachs shoulder in a calming manner. 

Why had he even let himself hope that you would follow after him?

He closed the door.

The hours dragged on, the darkness in the Shadowlands making day and night nearly indistinguishable. The only thing that made time feel real was the ever waning torches, slowly burning out. And while you felt like it must’ve been a fortnight of drinking, laughing and talking, it can’t actually have been more than three hours based on how many torches had already burned out and been replaced. You had been convinced to join Karlach by the grill, Wyll telling stories of his time as the Blade of Frontiers in the soft glow. You listened and laughed, at points discussing the actual validity of these stories. But in the back of your mind, you couldn’t let the thought of Astarion go. He hadn’t left the room he was staying in, all alone in there, perhaps still trying to clean the shirt he always seemed to wear. 

As people finally sated themselves and found their companions, the celebrations died down to  a quiet mumble amongst those unable to sleep. The children had long ago been told to head to bed, only occasionally peeking their heads out from the dorm or coming out to ask for a late night snack. Jaheira herself had taken over the bartending but was now stuck pleasantly talking with some fists that had sat down after their patrol shift. Even most of your companions had headed to bed, either in the dorm or at camp depending on their preference, Astarion had specifically called dibs on the single private room. 

“Well, I think it’s best I call it a night as well!” Karlach stood up and stretched her muscular arms over her head. “You should do the same, soldier, can’t have our tactician getting sloppy!” She smiled at you, expectantly putting her hands on her hips as she waited for you to stand up and walk with her.

“Oh, I think I’m going to stay up just a little more. I’m sorta enjoying the quiet murmur in here, and I haven’t really had the time to speak with Jaheira since we came back.” You lied, trying to give her a convincing smile. But you couldn’t hold her eyes with yours, instead turning your head to watch the door to Astarions room, trying to make it look casual. 

“Riiight… You know, I don’t know what’s going on between you and fangs but I wouldn’t take anything he says to heart. He’s sorta dumber than he wants us to think, so whatever he told you… Eh well, I dunno, I’m not the smartest myself.” She laughs at herself, the alcohol having had an effect on her after quite a few bottles. “But I am the strongest! So if he needs  a good assbeating then I’m here for ya. I know he can say some pretty rude stuff at times even if he doesn’t mean it. What is it people say? Hurt people, hurt people?”

“You’re right Karlach...” You smile at her, she may say that she’s not smart but she knows people better than most. “But it’s fine between me and Astarion, we just had a disagreement but it’s nothing to worry about, I don’t think. Though I know an assbeating wouldn’t help, but I appreciate the offer.”

“Well if you say so, soldier! I’ll see you in the morning then I guess.” She gives you a hard pat on your back before leaving, yawning loudly as she walks towards the dorm room, softly ‘shoo’-ing another tiefling child back into the room.

You spend some time just watching the embers of the firepit burn, feeling the heat hitting your face in waves and drying out your lips. You drink the last of the wine in your cup and lick your lips, standing from the stool to leave the empty cup at the bar. Your eyes find the wooden door again and you spend a long moment debating if it’s a good idea. Facing Astarion right now would be awkward and draining, it would even risk you two blowing up at each other again. Yet you know he was hurt, that much was obvious.

The knock is soft and you’re uncertain if he could even hear it over the sound of the fireplace in the room. You consider that maybe he had gone to bed in the end, it had been hours since you saw him after all. 

“Astarion? Can I come in?” You call out softly, afraid to wake him if he was in trance but wanting to give it at least one more shot before you give up. It takes a moment but suddenly the door opens ever so slightly, just enough to let you know it was open but not enough to see him in the doorway. You take that as a ‘yes’ and carefully push it open further. You hadn’t even heard his footsteps come to the door nor leave, yet when you slip through the crack of the door he’s sitting on the bed. The room is dark, long shadows being cast from the dying fire. The moon lights up his pale skin and even paler hair, reflecting off of him as a glow. His legs are crossed and he’s leaned back on his hands, his chest exposed. He looks as if he’s made of marble, his chest doesn’t even move with breaths as you watch him, a quirk of his vampirism you’ve realized. You make sure to close the door behind you, never turning away. 

Neither of you say anything. There’s a book open  next to him on the bed, it’s the sequel of some book he had picked up early on in your adventure. You had gotten the sequel for him after he expressed his enjoyment for the first one, it had cost you a gold but it was worth it. You stare at it, unwilling to meet his gaze directly. Yet his is firmly placed on you, indifferent and icy.

“Well? Were you just here to get your handkerchief back or did you want something?” He spoke first, raising an eyebrow.

“...Is it as good as the first book?” You ask, finally looking him in the eyes. He furrows his brows before he looks at the book next to him, realizing what you meant.

“It’s decent. I liked the twist in the first book so it has a lot to live up to, but it’s an enjoyable read. But I’m sure you’re not here for some midnight book club so out with it. What do you want?” He’s clearly pushing you away, but the fact that he opened the door when he heard it was you must mean he’s willing to listen.

“I wanted to come see how you were doing. Did you manage to get the stain out of your shirt?”

“I’m fine, thank you. And no, I did not, I will have to try to find someone who knows prestidigitation to get it out, I believe. Now if you excuse me, I’d quite like to get back to my bo-” He’s about to pick his book back up, clearly done with the conversation if you weren’t going to get to any point.

“I also wanted to apologize.” 

He raises an eyebrow and looks at you, giving you his full attention and newfound interest in the conversation.

“I snapped at you, and while I don’t think I was in the wrong for doing that-” He rolls his eyes, making it clear he disagrees with you but he lets you keep talking. “I shouldn’t have made it sound like being kind was an effortless choice and that you always can and should choose. It’s not easy every single time. So I’m sorry.” You try to gauge his reaction, see if he gives you any sort of response. He doesn’t at first, his face difficult to make out in the drastic lighting. The distance between you may only be a couple meters but right now you feel like there's kingdoms between you.

“...You say that yet you make it seem so damn easy. You never question why someone needs help, if it’s their own fault for getting themselves in that situation. You never assume people have any other intentions than what they tell you up front. You’re kind as effortlessly as some breathe.” He spits out the words as if they’re venom, once again speaking as if he believes you’re a fool. “Even to me, you’re kind. You ask me about my wounds, if I like the books I read, if I’m comfortable, where I learned to sew… I thought you were just trying to get in my bed at first, something I’m used to. I’ve given my body to countless ‘kind souls’, but now I’ve realized you just want me to be another victim you saved. Another person you’ve fixed. So you can play hero and get all the love and praise that entails. ‘Hero of Faerûn saves poor vampire spawn! Look at this poor sucker!’” He uses his hands to show off the fake headlines.

“Pun intended.” There's a sarcastic smile on his face as he stands up, grabbing your bloodied and wine stained handkerchief from the bed table before approaching you.

“That’s not why I did those things, Astarion, please. I care about you, just liste-”

“Well jokes on you, your kindness has been wasted on me. I’ve used you for my own gain, you know?” He throws your handkerchief against your chest, forcing you to clutch it so as to not let it fall. “I played with you just as easily as any other poor fool I’d find in Baldurs Gate’s whorehouses. You were ridiculously easy, just a few kind words and charming smiles and you were wrapped around my finger! Not that I blame you, have you seen me? I’m hard to resist. But it’s time to drop the pleasantries, the kindness, you’ve just been a tool for me to find a way to survive and I’ve just been another notch in your belt. But I am not another helpless pawn for you to feel good about ‘fixing’. I am pessimistic, I am selfish, I am merciless and I am cruel, and you won’t ever be able to change that.” He finally finishes his monologue, still forgetting to mimic the act of breathing as he stands before you in eerie silence. There’s a sense of vulnerability within his eyes despite his posture. Like a cornered animal lashing out in a desperate attempt to be left alone, to not be hurt.

You’re standing close to him now, mere decimeters away from each other's bodies. Yours heated and warm and his forever cold to the touch. You move slowly when you finally decide what you want to say, what you need him to realize. His eyes notice your hand raising and he tenses up even further, preparing him for what? He’s not sure. Then your hand reaches his face, softly cupping his cheek with your palm. Your heat exchanges with his, your hand slowly warming his skin while yours cools to the touch. He’s in shock, unable to say or do anything, just watching your face to try and read what your intentions are.

“I’ve tried to tell you, even before you went in here. I will always choose to be kind to you, Astarion, just as you are.”

He finally sucks in air, his lips parting to make sure his lungs fill fully and it’s as if it's his first breath since he died in that alley. That’s what you had tried to tell him before he left. You smile, moving your hand to brush a strand of his hair out of his face, observing his features. The dark, angry and nearly sadistic expression he carried before when he was trying to hurt you has washed away, leaving only the face of a lost young man standing before you. Eyes wide and mouth agape as you fully brushed off all the cruel things he said to you. Could he do nothing to scare you away, force you to back off? Keep you locked out of his heart?

He closes his mouth finally, eyes cast down to the floor as shame once again flowers in his chest, the thorns digging into every nerve.

“Even when I make it a difficult choice?” He asks quietly, shyly.

“Yes, even when it’s a difficult choice. But I don’t find it difficult to care for you Astarion. If you let me… I wouldn’t even find it difficult to love you.” You laugh a little, the question was silly to you after all. 

“You really are a fool.” A smile forms on his lips, the smile lines you’ve always adored finally showing themselves and his eyes as softening. He could never understand you, you’d never make sense to him. No matter how many times he thinks he has you pegged, you always go over and beyond his expectations. And once he thinks you’ve reached your limit on kindness, he finds a little more, even for a monster like him. His hands, which had consistently remained at his sides until now, moved up to find your hips. Astarion pulled you in closer to him, soaking in your heat and digging his head into the crook of your neck. You can’t help but laugh again, loud and happy, wrapping your arms around his neck and pulling him even closer to you.

“I will always be kind, even if it does make me a fool.”

[chim-aera]

be good to me

I feel heavy, tired. like dew laden grass wet and scraping stuck to the back of my ankles like plaster of paris, like paper mache dripping and course, glue running down my thighs making every step more and more difficult.

I want to be light. deer light, fawn fast. rabbit racing. I want to bolt and run and run and run. through meadows and glades, let me be Atalanta let me be free. but I sink knee deep into the earth and Gaia gently lifts me out of her mires, setting me carefully onto my own trembling two feet.

everyone is moving quicker then me. flitting like bejeweled little dragonflies into their next chapter, their next page, while I'm left stuttering, stammering in between inkwells trying to wipe the murky stains across my palms trying to force in my own meager scribbles to fit somewhere, anywhere, then my own fragile mindscape.

I'm tired of being a poet im tired of being pathetic

I haven't picked up the pen in months, ages. too long, yet not long enough. I try to hold them down, clench my teeth like stark white enamel shining sentries yet the melonchaly worms its way out of my throat until it's spat into my palm all convoluted and chipper like an owl hacking up a pellet and instead spitting out its own beak.

I'm so tired.

I want to be loved.

gods damn it.

I want to be loved.

I always figured I'd prefer a dear destruction, enjoyable and pleasurable, soak me in honey, bitter with aconite, smile and call me darling as you drown me alive. as hands, rough and tender, crush my windpipe, as it was nearly done oh so long ago.

pull me down by my hair, yank me up by my chin, hold me down. with force, with chains, push me into the floor, the earth, Gaia winces, for I'm no Daphne, be it may, but no bark, no wooden armor will grace this fragile form of mine. no, I'm out in the open as all the hounds' fair game.

call me pretty as you summon forth my destruction, yet put me back together with soft words and praises. I'm used to sewing needles and crimson thread. the seams crude and trying, like everything I ever do if you dare to look close enough.

gods. gods I dont think I want to be destroyed anymore.

I want to be held. I'm tired of this awful, putrid self induced purgatory, let me for once, be held gently, caress my face, cup my cheeks in warm or calloused palms, let me nuzzle into them, desperate, like a cat melting into a caress. let me need you. will I let myself need you?

I've spent a lifetime picking myself apart with embalment tools. scalpels and pliars, neatly dissecting my diversities my dualaties until they were lined up in pretty little jars. an emotional, egregious apothecary if you will. I don't want this anymore.

hold me.

be good to me.

I'm resourceful, yes. like a fox, like a scholar, like a poet, like a fool. I've survived this long on clever little lies and armor sewn from hellebore, ivy coating my skin as a second layer of poison yet it only weakens myself.

I will exist. I will persist.

but gods, I am fragile.

unwind my paper wings, my metal key, see how battered my skull is. my mind clouded and clogged up with words and screaming. insults and fears toxic and tiring. my hands shiver, my body creaks, I want to collapse, into the cool dark dirt. into pillows, down soft and cottony, into someone's arms. hold me gently, hold me firm..

gods, I want to be protected.

that's all I've ever longed for.

but I sheathe my own sword. I've always been my own knight, my own champion, as meager a job I do, i keep myself alive. perhaps this is how Joan of Arc felt, I am not righteous but I understand that madness we deem holy that drives you forward into myth or misery.

In the end, she didnt want to die. no prophecy can warn you of how it feels to be aware, conscious as your soul slips agonizingly slowly from a mortal shell into that shadowed little waiting room we call the afterlife.

I don't want to go out like that.

please.

please.

as much wildness as I still cling onto. the sharpness of my words, the bite in my voice, the curve to my jaw, my teeth, my hands. my fierceness, my sensuality, hides sensitivity. It's armor too, a mask of itself, all honeyed kisses and fae fake frivolity

I'm so scared

I've always been. fear sets into my skull like a second soul. but will I ever discover how to soothe it?

please, please I'd let you destroy me if you asked nicely enough. I'm so used to people wanting to, theres some sick joy in watching something already so broken shatter into nothingness just to pick itself back up on trembling, trivial tenacity isn't there?

kintsugi.

let me dip my scars in gold, glaze my fractured fragments in ichor.

but as pretty as it may be, no amount of metal changes the fact that vase is still broken.

that I'm still broken.

gods. please.

I want to be held gently, because they want to.

"be good to me, I beg of you."

I'm so good at begging.

so please, please.

be gentle, I break easily, and I'm so tired of forging myself back on Hephaestus's irons.

I just want to be held.

please, be good to me.

[cuckoo-among-beasts]

@battleguqin

Huaisang: Lan Sizhui is, in fact, a menace. Do not be fooled by his gentle demeanour, soft voice and pleasant voice. He's an instigator on many levels, with honey coated words and shy charm. He has even forced me, a sect leader, to swallow bitter-tasting medicine, Lan soup and taken wine away from me. He's a teasing, mischievous rascal!

Huaisang: He's my didi ♡

(Me: mixed signals much?)

[bluebunnyears-08]

Writing Prompt: After a series of events, Nine feels like Sonic betrayed him., and loses whatever goodness he had left. Now bitter he becomes a villain.

He left him.

He didn't care about him, he lied to him like all the others.

Nine understood now.

Sonic was only pretending.

Sonic was only pretending, so he could use him.

He's just like everyone else. A manipulative, hurtful, mocking liar who only used him because he was brilliant.

He should've known nobody wouldn't love a creep like him. He doesn't deserve companionship or anything good. He doesn't need those things anyway.

He got by just fine on his own, he didn't need anyone then, why did he become an idiot and let his guard down to the blue urchin?

Why was he so stupid?

Whatever.

He-he didn't need anyone, he was perfectly-IS! Is perfectly fine on his own. He isn't going to let himself be vulnerable like that. Never again. He opened his heart after years of keeping it in a locked safe, and it only got broken in the end.

Now the lock was put back in place, keeping the remnants of the broken heart before it could break his mind completely. Before the last thread can finally snap.

The goons that once were the amateur council lay on the floor groaning and begging for mercy, having been brutally defeated by the rage-filled fox. Nine paid the pathetic group no mind, walking over to the controls.

The council had multiple controls, ones to control the robots, and ones to control the entire city, but there was only one he was interested in: the one with the shard vault.

He was only there for the shard, after all, he could care less for the city.

He didn't need Sonic in his new world, he was alone, he was always alone, even when the hedgehog manipulated him into thinking that he actually wanted to be friends.

He was such a fool. Nobody had friends here, it was only a rule he started at first, but now, it was a cemented truth that applied only to him.

He understood.

He was nobody.

He at first began to laugh, snorting with pain, until tears began to fall. A chilling and ear-shattering mix of the sobbing of a now broken and lost fox and the cackling of a new and dangerous threat echoed within the halls of the tower.

He didn't need anyone, he couldn't have anyone.

He didn't have hope or happiness, and he finally finds it and can't ever grasp it.

He doesn't need it anyway.

He's fine with that, just fine...

If he can't have any happiness of his own, then he doesn't have anything to lose anymore.

This world brought him nothing but pain, but hurt and misery, he didn't need it. He could care less about what happens to it, he just wants the shard.

Nothing else mattered.

However, if he took the shard then there'd be no point to go to the grim anymore. That place was made for him and Sonic. Where they can be happy, just the two of them, forever.

It was useless now.

What could he do? He had nothing now. He couldn't go back to isolation, because if he wanted to remain unbothered he'd have to get rid of everyone that would pull him back out.

Pull him back out to hurt him even more. There wasn't anything good in this world. Even if there was, Nine can't have it.

Why bother keeping this world intact?

Why bother living?

There wasn't anything worth protecting anymore. The world has been cruel to him, the world showed him no mercy, Sonic showed him no mercy with his sugar-coated words and honey-sweet "affection" only to hurt him more than anyone ever has, even his bullies.

This world is horrible. It's not worth preserving. Nine smiled, his eyes glazed over, the light dimmed and gone, no longer sane.

The world was cruel, didn't think he was special...

well...

He's going to show the world just how special he is.

[quandaryqueen]

Signs that the Riddler's are in love

Hmmm, simp hours commencing in 3, 2, 1.

💚 Gotham

GCPD's residential simp Edward Nygma is a man who swoons as subtle as a jackhammer in the middle of construction. He looms over you, too close might I add. Not to mention, 💫 Riddles ™💫and gifts! With 💫Riddles💫

Okok he just doesn't really know how to approach you, he just does does whatever he has seen how his peers move around in the dating game— but dialed down and in his own way. What, do you think he'd pick you up with a vulgar invitation to his bedroom? No! Ok but that still doesn change the fact that some of you Y/N's might be uncomfortable with his attempt to flirt, something that is highly rational and reasonable.

But instead of making fun of him behind his back like say... Kristen and just talking to him, explain to him, make it known to him that you're uncomfortable with his advances and he'll stop. He's a reasonable man with a brain, he'd get it and back tf off.

💚 Young Justice

No, omg this boy can barely keep his composure around you. Like, blushing, stuttering, stammering, smiling like a fool, constant heart eyes around you, SWOONING, SCREAMING IN HIS PILLOW, CREAMING —

Making a move though? Nope! Would die in the spot if he even got within your radius.

But how will he make his love for you known? Well... There were a series of attempts of talking to you, in which he makes a last minute 180 because you know, nerves. Well that doesn't work, letters it is! He'd make the MOST detailed letter there is, spilling his heart out in cursive letters and flowery words. Shakespeare? No, it's just Eddie on a 3 AM spur of simpery.

Eddie being unsure about the letter because fuck. If you reject him, well that's all good cough not really you can just toss it in the trash and you won't know who tf it is. But then if you feel the same... Well what now? How wiyou find him? Oh shit you might think that it's a prank, he doesn't want to hurt you like that. Overthinking did him wrong and then he ended up just tossing it in the trash even if he wrote basically everything.

But then the next day... He wished that he tore and flushed it because someone fucking went through his trash, found it, read it and gave it to you. He fucken died.

💚 Arkhamverse

My, my, what a cheery little lad. Just the sunshine and rainbows of a bright skies and grassy horizons-- yeah no lemme just drop the sarcasm for a sec.

This man, is a bitter man. Pushed everyone away who dares impose his progress and delay his work, it would be an absolute travesty if he were to be distracted for the smallest gaps of seconds.... But he supposes having you around to 'pester' him motivates him that people in Gotham, represented by you, will have their brains turned to mush if he doesn't do anything about it. *Cough* yes, the man is an absolute delight of a tsundere. Crush? No! It's just fondness for the lower end of the IQ count. Well, fondness is quite the word, flexible, but at least you know that he certainly feels something towards you.

He asks for your thoughts on things. Not that he cares! Criticisms? Oh please, there is not a single critic that can ever give him hell, he's a genius! Your criticisms cannot touch him! But he does need to know what you think of this recent prototype—

💚 Batman the animated series

Another simp! But he's not a shy simp like some other Riddler iterations, he is a smooth fucker who shoots his shot in every gaps of opportunity he has, no matter how small it is. Look, I've seen the rehab episode thing where Eddie cannot handle being approached by girls, BUT I believe that him initiating the flirting does not bother him at all. Though if you wanna know, he mostly kept the screaming as internal screaming.

You need that thing on the shelf regardless if you can reach it or not? Ed's got you sweetheart. What's brilliant, beautiful and otherworldly? You, honey ���. Cold? Here comes his coat with his scent embedded on the fabric! Here's some of your favourite food and flowers! Need to get away with murder? Oh darling, he'd be happy to assist!

Needless to say, he is simp. He is over-the-top head over heels for you, he'd do anything for you. But at some degree, he'd know if you're abusing his love for you and will promptly call it out and stop it. So no, don't take advantage of it for your own benefit if you're not willing to do the same thing for him.

The person he lays his eyes on is in a constant observation, not in a stalker way by the way, he just loves making an analysis out of you and how much of a lovely person you are. He can get attached to certain things and that certain thing is you being your usual self. And he really does mean the affections for you.

So if you return his love well... He might just outsmile the Joker himself.

💚 Harley Quinn

"You know Y/N, you're the only one I tolerate in this goddamn city."

He keeps you close at most, away from harm's way and certainly provides extra protection from fellow rogue's who intends to fuck him over and hold you hostage. Because God, he'd be fucking torn if something were to happen to you because of him. You're the only one that keeps him somewhat stable in this damned city and someone who can understand him.

You really do mean to him and will do everything to keep you safe. For most of the time he is so done with the place, some idiots can be surprisingly surpass what he thought the maximum level of dumbassery, but at least he has someone who can understand him and help him through the times of frustration. No one can really solve his riddles the same way back in ye olde days, but oh well, at least he has you.

So, you're noticeably the only person who he talks to with a more calm, more casual and laid-back manner.

💚 The War of Jokes and Riddles

Silent sideline glances with a small smile lighting his lithe features. If anything, he plays it the coolest among the Riddlers. No pressure, he's just as cool as ever. Smooth as fuck that you'll be caught off-guard when what you thought was a riddle turned out to be a pick-up line. Not to mention, his constant compliments.

Then all of the sudden, he'd be more straightforward once he piques your interest and after he's tested the waters. Of course he wanted to see whether you were uncomfortable with his advances and that he'd gladly stop them. Straightforward is his way to go and he's confident about himself and what he truly feels about you.

He likes you. Your spirit, your brilliance, your beauty, everything. And how compatible you are with him, how equal you are.

[the-insomniac-emporium]

Wounded Love (Lady Dimitrescu/F!Reader)

Fandom: Resident Evil: Village Rating: M for mature. Blood, more blood, heavy language, seriously lots of blood. Literally the bloodiest/most detailed thing I've written. Genre: Super angst with some fluff to ease the pain. We're talking putting honey in your cup of poison to make it taste better. The ending is split, with both a happy and a sad ending. Warnings: Minor surgery (technically?) while the patient is fully awake (that's the reader, btws), blood loss, graphic depiction of a wound and how said wound is taken care of. Possible trigger for self-harm, as the reader is performing part of the surgery themselves. Also brief mention of cannibalism in the bad ending. This may very well be a Dead Dove: Do Not Eat sort of thing. Notes: While I have more medical knowledge than the average person, due to my Girl Scouts training + having a mother as a nurse, I am in no way shape or form a medical professional, and do not suggest that the methods of treatment used in this fic be taken seriously. If you find yourself seriously injured, do not attempt to replicate anything you read here. Only a portion of this is based on a real-ass incident I went through, the rest is based on a dream, and what I experienced was not what you want to do in an emergency.

{Wounded Love}

This was a mistake. Blood stains your leg, your fingers, and bruises start to form all over your exhausted body. And for what? Why had you, a tiny, fragile human, dared to pass through this damned, lycan-infested forest? Because a woman who didn’t even love you asked you to. Now you were going to die, body certain to get left out in the cold or reduced to a pile of gnawed bones. If you had more strength remaining, you might have slammed your hand into the ground in frustration, or screamed until your lungs burned from something other than frost.

But that wouldn’t get you anywhere. Wouldn’t help you get back to the castle, wouldn’t ease the racing of your heart. So you settle for the only thing that might do any good: One quick motion pulls the scarf from your neck, sending a chill down your spine that you promptly ignore. Even with shaky hands and numb fingers, your experience is enough to let you wrap the cloth around your leg, tying the ends in a knot to secure it. The pressure hurts, just not enough for you to prefer bleeding out. A test step reveals that walking is mildly more difficult now.

“I’m going to haunt her,” you muse, under your breath, tears starting to freeze at the corner of your eyes. Still, you are as quietly determined as ever, and so once more you limp down the path. Every time you put weight on your injured leg it protests harder. If not for the snow and ice covering the ground, you might have quickly searched for a walking stick. “What could be so important about this damn package? Couldn’t Doug or whatever-his-fucking-name-is deliver it? Man can practically teleport, and here I am, watching as blood loss and hypothermia race to see who can kill me first.”

Gods were you angry. Why had this happened so soon after you had settled in? Finally you had been comfortable in Castle Dimitrescu, no longer as frightened of the residents, even finding them… charming, in a way. Then the Lady of house called to you for what she claimed to be a simple errand. You had believed her, even when she explained that you would have to leave the relative safety of her home. What a fool you had been.

“What a fool she must be,” you murmur, “to think me safe here. To think I could outlast wolfmen prowling the village outskirts.” Would she even care if she saw you now? Would she be surprised, disappointed? Would she do something to change your fate? There was no reason for her to do so. It didn’t matter how much you had helped her, how much she claimed to appreciate what you did (heavy lifting, repair of clothing, massages). You were as replaceable as any other Maiden there was. And that, that was what made you have a double-take. It came to you in that moment, a thought so painful that you could not deny it was the truth. “She never thought I would survive.”

Bitterness coats your tongue, like blood in your throat, and your brain demands that you destroy your cargo, the very thing that got you sent here in the first place. You almost do it. Feet stopping, arms shrugging the carrying straps off, bloody hands taking hold of it. Tears fall, just two, and hit the package. At that moment your plan changed. This new idea would be far, far more satisfying… as long as you succeeded.

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

Spite was one hell of a drug. Enough of it and you could march your warm corpse right back to the castle, fist banging on the front door with everything you had. The path had been shorter than you thought, thankfully, but it had still taken so much out of you. Now you were leaning against the door, sliding down it, unable to support your own weight. Nothing inside the castle stirred. Were they ignoring you? Was Alcina really going to let you die inches from your “home”? Fuck that, you thought.

“Alcina!” You scream, loud as you can, startling the birds in the distant trees. The word echoes around you and rattles inside your ribs. It’s not enough. “Damn it, I am seconds away from dying, get out here now so I can look you in your fucking eyes!” Something tears a little in your throat, turning the last of your words into a hellish screech, leaving you to gasp and croak in the snow. You go to wipe your tear-filled eyes with your hands, only to remember just how much blood they’re covered in.

Sobs overtake you in just a few moments. You’re blinded by tears, deafened by sorrows, and numb from all the cold. In the aching seconds before you black out, you can only barely make out the silhouette of someone rushing to your side…

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

The first thing you feel when you wake up is mind searing pain. You try to jolt upwards, only to find a pair of strong, gloved hands holding you down. Someone shouts something, but you can’t make it out, and you feel another hand gently squeeze one of your own. Pained gasps escape your throat one after the other, but whatever is hurting you doesn’t stop. It takes a full minute for you to adjust enough to make sense of where you are. At last, you understand what’s being said.

“-it’s okay, shhh, please, we’re trying to help,” says none other than Lady Dimitrescu herself. She’s the one holding your hand, doing her best not to hurt you with her grip, trying desperately to calm you down. One the other side of you, Cassandra is positioned to hold you down. There’s a tight-lipped scowl on her face, and her brow is furrowed, but she’s not looking at your face, but rather eying somewhere in the opposite direction. Following her gaze, you find her older sister is sitting near your injured leg, and is undeniably the source of some of your pain. In one hand she holds a bottle of alcohol (notably not the wine her family produces), the other holding a wet cloth to your wound. No wonder it stings so much.

“Shit, shit, stop,” you growl, barely getting the words out. But all anyone does is look at you. Alcina’s mouth opens to speak, only for you to cut her off. “I’ve got medical training, for the love of Mother Miranda let me help! How long have I been unconscious?” This time Bela stops, glancing at her mother for direction. The grip on your torso grows looser, with Cassandra evidently heeding your words, and you take the chance to sit up, careful not to move your leg. At this point you realize that there’s a needle of sorts in your arm, attached to a tube, which trails up into a blood bag. It’s clearly been improvised with equipment from the “wine-making” part of the castle.

“Fifteen minutes at most,” a new voice chimes, from somewhere behind you. “I got that cloth you wanted, mother, but something tells me I’m not done fetching things.” Ah, Daniela Dimitrescu. Was the whole family helping you?... Why? As much as you wanted answers, there wasn’t (currently) time for questions. Not when one glance at your leg tells you that some of your flesh is rapidly decomposing. The wound was made only an hour ago, and already it was getting deadlier than you could even process.

“I need a sharp, clean knife, a needle with thread, a glass of water, and someone needs to put a metal tool, sterilized, on the stove, right now,” you said, finding it easier to talk now that no one was cleansing your wound. Without hesitation Daniela dispersed into a cloud of insects, heading towards the kitchen, while Cassandra stood up and moved towards the stairs.

“Guess I’ll get the needle,” she said, sounding rather unenthusiastic.

“What are you planning?” Alcina asks, more concerned than you had ever heard her before. Attempting to reassure her, you manage a small smile before explaining.

“Got scratched and slobbered on by a lycan. Whatever they have, it’s infectious. If I want to save my leg, or at least have a chance at surviving, I have to take measures to reduce the likelihood of an infection,” you say. Now Alcina is slowly stroking her thumb across your hand, eyes narrowed with concern. There’s a look on her face that you can’t quite parse, something she’s not saying. For now you ignore it and continue going over your plan. “The best thing would be to amputate. The tourniquet might have helped prevent the saliva from getting further into my body- and I do mean might- but I can’t keep it on forever. Problem is… I don’t want to lose it. God, I’m terrified of that, and with what we have in the castle I… I’d be more likely to die of shock than not. So, well, forget that idea.

“I’m just going to remove the wound. By making a bigger wound. It’s crazy, I know, but this will kill me if we do nothing. It will probably kill me if we do. The technical term is some shit like ‘de-bride-ing’?... No, debridement, I think. Except normally the poor fucker getting cut open is asleep for the procedure.” By the time you’re done, Lady Dimitrescu is looking at you with horror. Yeah, you had a feeling she wouldn’t appreciate the idea. “Look, if this is too much… if it’s not worth saving me, if you’d rather give me a quick death, I understand. If I were-”

“Don’t be foolish, dear. You will not die, not as long as something can be done about it,” Alcina replies, quickly, eager to stop hearing you talk about dying. It’s… strange to hear her sound so confident about saving you, even stranger to realize what she called you. As if reading your thoughts, she shifts in her seat, avoiding your gaze for a moment. Shyness didn’t suit her, and you imagined it was more about her finding the right words. When she speaks, she’s looking right at you again. “I have hesitated to tell you the truth, and now I find the world playing a cruel trick on me, trying to take that which I adore. But I don’t want to aggravate your stress right now. Please, think nothing of what I have said.”

Before you could reply, footsteps reached your ears, and soon enough Daniela returns. In one hand she holds a large pitcher of water. In the other? Several knives, of various sizes, one of which you’re pretty sure you’ve seen Cassandra playing with before. As soon as you see her your face lights up, glad to be able to start the procedure.

“Oh thank fuck- or, I mean, thank you, Lady Daniela,” you stutter, reaching out as she offers you the items. Thankfully Bela had already made room on the table at your side, where she had set the bottle of alcohol down. For a moment you had forgotten that she was there. Had she already known about her mother’s feelings? Based on her lack of reaction, you could only assume that she was well aware. “I’m gonna scream, B-T-dubs. Just, uh, cover your ears?” You offer, already holding your chosen knife (big enough to be effective, small enough to offer precision).

“So… you’re going to do this yourself? Didn’t think you had it in you, red. Try not to cut anything important. Wouldn’t want to have to clean that mess up,” Daniela teases. As soon as she’s finished she has to shift into a swarm, as Bela flat out throws a knife at her. For a moment you freeze, watching as Alcina rises to her full height, staring her eldest daughter down. Behind her, Daniela reforms, clearly using her mother as a shield. “I was just trying to relieve the tension, jeez. It’s like you think she’s already dead.”

“Don’t speak another word!” Alcina snaps, sending a frightening stare towards Daniela. You cough, awkwardly, not knowing what to do. Meanwhile Bela is pinching the bridge of her nose between two fingers, clearly tired of dealing with her sister’s sense of humor. “No one will speak a word until this is finished, unless my dear needs something, understood?” Both the girls nod at that, neither feeling a need to risk any further ire.

“I’m just going to start working now,” you awkwardly chime, taking a deep breath before leaning in towards your injured leg. On closer inspection you can see a strange, dark residue in the wound. They’re specks, scattered along the length of it, and they seem more common the closer you look to the gash’s center. Gross, you think. Half curious, half checking for legitimate reasons, you bring your other hand to the cut and gently spread both sides apart. It hurts like hell, and you have to bite down on your lip to stop yourself from screaming. But sure enough, the residue is practically solid at the deepest point of the wound. “Those lycans really should be on leashes.”

Out of the corner of your eye you can see Daniela exchange looks with Bela, but neither of them disobey their mother (yet). Shaking the thought away, you finally get to the brunt of the task at hand. Your hand moves slowly, reluctant to inflict such damage against its own body. As soon as the tip of the knife touches your skin, you start to doubt your ability to do this. It takes looking at Alcina, seeing the way she watches you with equal parts concern and tenderness, to remind you why you’re doing this. Death just wasn’t something you could accept right now; not after what she had said, what she had implied.

The knife is fantastically sharp. Hardly any pressure is needed before your flesh gives away, cells letting go of their neighbors like it was a casual affair. You start at the left side of your injury, digging down a little, trying to only go as deep as you needed to. Tears formed in your eyes but you quickly blinked them away. As the first of many screams leaves your mouth, you turn and twist the knife, cutting to the right, then up. Like scooping the seeds out of a pumpkin. Fresh blood springs from the wound, starting to fill up the crevice. Quickly you discard the skin you removed by tossing it into the same bowl that Bela had put a bloody towel in earlier.

“Yes,” you shudder through gritted teeth, “this hurts so fucking bad. No, I don’t need someone to take over yet.” At this point neither of the present sisters are looking at you, seeming oddly uncomfortable at the sight of you cut up like this. Hadn’t they done worse to your fellow Maidens?... Whatever, the thought couldn’t last long when you still had work to do.

Next you take a fresh, damp cloth and dab at your injury, ignoring how it throbbed beneath your touch. Then you resumed cutting, forced to press the knife deeper in order to remove the spreading residue. If you had been a scientist, this would have been utterly fascinating to observe. Whatever had been in the lycan’s saliva was slowly eating at your flesh, but not outright dissolving it. No, it simply left the skin where it was, but killed and rapidly broke it down. Yes, it would have been fascinating, if not for the fact that there was a chance you wouldn’t be able to outpace the bacteria.

With this in mind you force yourself to hold in your next scream, hoping to make it easier for you to focus. The knife continued to cut, going lower, setting nerves alight as it did. Your vision starts to blur, and for a few seconds you think you’re going to black out. Someone says something you don’t hear, and then suddenly there’s a hand on top of your own. When your vision clears you see Bela is responsible, her grip keeping you from dropping the knife. She doesn’t let go until you give her a clear nod. Even then, she seems reluctant to let you continue.

Around this time is when Cassandra returns. Her footsteps catch your attention (it’s your understanding that carrying objects is much harder in swarm mode), and you spare her a quick glance before getting back to work. A few moments later she’s placing a set of needles and a long spool of thread next to you. Ironically, they’re the same tools that you’ve used to repair and adjust Alcina’s dresses over the past year. Hopefully they work just as well on flesh, you think. Your next thoughts are canceled out by unbelievable pain. More cries leave your lips, and your hand starts shaking. Panic is settling in fast, your movements getting sharper, leading you to make a brash decision: Time to care less about precision and more about speed.

“Distract me, please,” you gasp between grunts. No one responds at first, and you know they need clarification. Speaking is getting harder by the second, but you do your best. “Brain can’t process many stimulants, same time. Just- fuck- trace skin around wound, touch hair, anything.” Somewhere between your semi-broken sentences and screams, Alcina gets the message. She’s moving closer, now, behind you, one arm wrapping around your waist, the other rubbing gentle circles on your undamaged leg. Across from you Daniela is too busy pacing to help, though you can hardly blame her.

“Should I get the metal thing from the stove?” Cassandra asks, silently hoping that Dani hadn’t assumed someone else was going to handle that part. You’re still in too much pain to talk, so you half nod half grunt in response. Not bothering to say anything, the middle child takes off, swarm moving at what might be a new speed record.

As much as your hands are shaking, you still manage to cut away another strip of flesh, tossing it aside with even less care than before. This time Bela wipes the wound for you, practically reading your mind. The moment her hands are completely out of the way you start cutting again, crying out, throat shredded to pieces from all your screaming. Alcina sounds like she might be close to sobbing, but she doesn’t stop her movements, doing her best to distract you just like you had asked. Even Bela helps, now, tracing spots around your injury whenever she knows she won’t be in your way. The effect is minor, in the end, hardly making a dent in how much pain you’re processing.

If you survive this, though, you’re hugging every daughter as tight as you can and showering them with affection… but only after you finish doing the same for their mother.

“You are so brave,” Alcina murmurs next to your ear. It’s even clearer now how close she is to crying, her voice seconds away from cracking. Hearing her like this almost hurts as bad as the initial lycan attack did. “You are so strong. No other mortal could ever be your match. Do you understand, my dear? You are blessed, divine, and I love you so much.”

In any other setting, her words would leave you melting in her arms, radiating affection so strongly that you might as well have been radioactive. Instead, you are unable to respond, or even look her way. All you can do is press the knife to your skin again, showing your own feelings by destroying yourself for her.

The blade is starting to find more resistance, and you’re having to pause more often, spots appearing in your vision. Going faster only makes things worse, your hand threatening to slip. You’re determined to finish this, no matter what, but your need to control the situation is gradually making things worse. Alcina notices this before you do, and acts before you have a chance to protest.

“Bela, the knife,” she says, then tightens her grip on your waist. Your confusion shifts to panic as your arm is carefully, but forcefully, pulled away from your wound. “Can you finish the job?” It takes you a few moments to realize that Alcina isn’t talking to you. No, she’s speaking to her eldest daughter, who doesn’t hesitate to take the knife away from you. It’s so easy for her, between her strength and your weakness. “Don’t struggle. Let us finish this.”

Protests rise from your throat and die in your mouth. Pain flares harder now that Bela isn’t distracting you. Once more your vision goes dark, but this time there’s no pause, no hesitation. You are suffering, horribly, and the Dimitrescu family refuses to make you hurt longer than necessary. It’ll be over soon, you think, not knowing whether you refer to your pain or your life itself.

Something wet drops onto the back of your neck, then darkness overtakes you…

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

“Damn those lycans, I should string Heisenberg up myself! They’re his responsibility, after all,” Lady Dimitrescu snarls, trying to ignore the tears in her eyes. Now that you’re unconscious, unable to hear what ails her, she feels free to voice her thoughts. “The damn things should never have come close to the path to the village.”

“What if she strayed from the path? Wouldn’t that explain it?” Bela suggests, even as her hands work to remove what seems to be the last piece of dead/infected flesh from your leg. She hates how the words feel in her mouth, hates suggesting that you of all people might have betrayed her mother’s trust. But it makes sense. After all, this whole mess, with you leaving the castle to retrieve a mysterious package, was all a test to see if you would try to run. It hadn’t been her idea, and Bela admitted to herself that she thought it was unnecessary.

“On the way back? Why would she bother getting the package if she intended to run?” Lady Dimitrescu asks, right as Cassandra returns. The middle child is practically juggling the metal spatula she’s carrying, irritated (not harmed) by the heat it produced. One of her brows perks up when she hears the conversation, but she keeps any thoughts she has to herself.

“Just a thought, mother, I didn’t quite believe it myself,” Bela chimes, after a pause. With that said she holds up her hand with pride, clutching between her fingers the last of the decaying flesh. The way the others react, one might have thought that a miracle had been performed. Daniela clapped her hands together, giggling a little, and finally stopped her pacing. “Don’t celebrate too much, now,” Bela reminded her, taking the spatula from Cassandra as she did. “There’s still plenty to do. It’s a good thing she’s not awake for this part.”

A good thing, indeed. She uses her fingers to spread the remaining skin a little, giving a quick examination, then deciding that she had successfully removed all remaining residue. Keeping her fingers where they were, she pressed the side of the spatula to your skin, putting the most pressure at the center of the wound. Three seconds passed, then she lifted her hand. A pause. She pressed it back into place, keeping a close eye on the affected area. This repeated several times, the gaps being necessary to prevent unintentional damage. Once the wound seemed properly closed she set the spatula aside.

“Is that it?... Did we save her?” Daniela asks, opting to finally sit down in a nearby chair. Something about her word choice makes both of her sisters scoff.

“I could sew it closed, as a precaution, but there’s no way I’d do it the way she had intended. It might be best to just give her time to rest, and see what she thinks when she gets back up,” Bela answers. For a moment her words hang in the air, but eventually Alcina gives a little nod and a hum.

“Very well. I shall carry her to my quarters, where she won’t be disturbed. Please, let one of the Maidens know to bring some food up this evening,” Alcina says, gently taking you into her arms as she does…

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

BAD ENDING: It’s been six hours, with no sign of you waking up. Your other wounds had been examined, cleaned, and bandaged. Food had been carefully prepared and brought up to you, though it now remained on the bedside table, untouched. Alcina has gone to call Mother Miranda, intending to speak to her about the growing unrest of the lycans, as Heisenberg hadn’t answered his phone. For the first time since you returned you are alone. It is now, of all times, that you awaken. A gasp sends you into a coughing spree, forcing you into a sitting position. The space around you feels like it's moving, and your vision blurs. Blood spills from your mouth as you finally regain the ability to breathe.

Seconds later your vision clears, but what you see is enough to make you wish you couldn’t. The blood that spilled onto the sheets is a dark red… with even darker spots scattered throughout it. All at once you know what happened: Residue had hidden from you, or gone deeper than your wound, infecting you before you ever stood a chance. Tears threaten to spill from your eyes, but something deeper starts calling to you. Something older. Darker. It drags you to your feet, ignores the pain of your wounds, and sends you out the bedroom door.

Your mind is racing, thoughts never quite clear enough for you to understand. It doesn’t feel like you’re in control of your own movements. Was something else in charge, or were you operating on an infection powered autopilot? Answers weren’t coming, just bloodshed.

“You’re not supposed to be out of bed yet!” A voice calls out to you, making you turn to investigate. On the other end of the hallway is a maiden, one you instantly recognize. You’ve worked with her before, plenty of times, tag-teaming more tasks than you could count. She was like a sister to you. When she sees the blood staining your clothes, she gasps, then moves to support you. “Please, Lady Dimitrescu will be so upset if you-” her words melt into a blood curdling scream. For a moment you don’t understand.

And then you swallow, a chunk of hot meat slipping down your throat, and the scream dies down.

“What?...” You whisper, finally tasting the blood in your mouth, watching as your friend’s body falls to the floor. There’s a chunk of flesh missing from her neck, and the dots connect themselves in your head. You did that. Every part of you wants to scream, wants to cry out and beg someone to come kill you. Instead you fall to your knees, hard, uncaring. Your hands move themselves, grasping at the still warm corpse. Something has made you stronger, or at the very least removed the mental limits that kept you from destroying yourself. Flesh gives under your touch, tearing like paper, and you start crying as it reaches your mouth.

Footsteps approach, thundering fast, and you want to warn whoever it is. When you turn to look, you feel your hands let go of your meal. Your gaze meets that of a stunned Cassandra Dimitrescu, then drifts to the sickle in her hand.

“Kill me,” you growl, voice distorted, practically echoing. “Kill me now!” Not needing to be told a third time, Cassandra moves lightning quick, swarm-jumping forward before manifesting behind you, sickle dragging across your throat in one smooth motion. But it’s not enough. She realizes this, though, and slams her foot into your back, sending you tumbling forward. It’s enough to prevent you from countering, which gives her time to advance again, this time pulling a knife from her boot and driving it into the center of your back. When you scream, it’s not with your own voice, but that of a monster.

“Fucking fuck, what the fuck, red?” Daniella asks as she rounds the corner, eyes immediately landing on your bloodsoaked mouth. She’s quick to take in the scene, drawing a conclusion easily, even if it breaks her heart a little. Your vision fades as she approaches, and you know that it’s finally over. If only you had expired a few seconds earlier… because the last thing you hear is the startled cry of your would-be lover.

“No! No, darling, what happened-” Alcina finishes her sentence, but you do not hear it. You do not hear anything, anymore. You do not know it… but there will be hell to pay for your death.

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

GOOD ENDING: When you awake, you find yourself in the softest sheets you’ve ever touched, a warm and familiar presence next to you. The first thing you see is Alcina’s sleeping face next to your own. She’s on her side, one arm around your waist, the covers pulled up to her hip. Warmth fills your chest as you take in the sight. For a few moments you just… appreciate this. Never before had you imagined that you would get to wake up next to the woman you loved so much. A sigh, one of bliss, leaves your lips. Slowly you move forward, gently placing a kiss to Alcina’s cheek. Seconds later her eyelids flutter open, and she tiredly takes you in.

“You’re… awake,” she murmurs, hardly awake herself. But her fatigue doesn’t last long. As soon as she’s fully processed the situation her eyes go wide. Then she’s pulling you closer, careful not to hurt you, and peppering little kisses over your face. “I’ve been so worried, dear. You scared us so much.” The hurt in her voice leaves you restless, making you curl up against her, desperate to soothe her worries. Moving hurts a little, but not enough to dissuade you from your goal.

“I’m sorry, love,” you say, tears pricking your eyes. “I’m okay, I’m alive, the plan worked out. You don’t have to fret for me anymore. I won’t leave you, I promise.” Slowly but surely, Alcina calms, exchanging kisses for softly running her fingers through your hair. There’s such love in her eyes that you can hardly believe you aren’t dreaming. “You’re amazing, Alcina. I could stay like this all day.”

“Maybe we should,” she offers, chuckling a little. Once again you give her a quick kiss, unable to resist the urge. “I should have never asked you to leave. I should have just trusted you.” The words give you pause, and you tilt your head in confusion. Realizing that you still didn’t know the full story, Alcina frowns. “The package is worthless, just a bundle of straw and a few rocks for weight. It was never what I cared about.”

Tension builds in your chest, and for a few seconds you have no idea how to react. It takes a minute for you to think, to connect the dots, but once you do it’s a tad bit easier to breathe. A scowl twists your lips as you think of what to say.

“If I had known that Heisenberg was forgoing his duties, I never would have sent you outside,” Alcina adds, the silence taking its toll on her.

“You shouldn’t have sent me either way,” you respond, bitterly, thinking of all that you had seen and heard on your journey. “I would have done anything to prove to you how I feel. There are other ways to show devotion- far less dangerous ways, at that.”

“I know, dear. You have every right to be angry… and watching you suffer has taught me all that I need to know,” Alcina says, still playing with your hair, trying to ease the tension. As upset as you about this recent revelation… it’s not enough to change how you feel about her, and you want her to understand that, fully and completely.

So you lean into her touch, let your eyes drift close for a moment, then softly place one of your arms around her as best as you can.

“We’ll need to talk about this more… just not right now. Right now, I need you, Alcina. I need to hold you, and be held by you, and just know that you’re here. That I’m here. That neither of us are going anywhere,” you say, resting your forehead against hers. “I need to feel safe, and your arms are the safest place I can imagine. Stay here with me?”

“It will be the easiest thing I have ever done.”

[msmarvelwrites]

Almost Is Never Enough

Summary: Ever since Steve had come out of the ice all those years ago, his only goal had been to get back to Peggy Carter. A home that was waiting and forgetting him all at once. But that doesn't make it any easier to watch him go.

Pairing: Steve x reader

Warnings: Angst, angst, just a little bit of angst, fluff, language. 

Word Count: 2.4k

Authors Note: Thank you to the wonderful @remmiesour for this request. It’s been a decade, but I finally got around to it! I’ve never written for Steve and honestly I didn't think I ever would but, famous last words I guess! Enjoy!

Ever since Steve had come out of the ice all those years ago, his only goal had been to get back to her. A home that was waiting and forgetting him all at once. She was there, and if it was the last thing he did, he would be too. 

So, when the opportunity presented itself, when he could actually find his long lost love, you already knew he had made the decision before the words fell from his lips. 

You knew. But god, that didn't make it any easier. 

You hadn’t meant for it to happen, falling in love with the world's most unavailable man. In every sense of the word, it was an accident. 

And yet, there you stood, eyes trained on his face as he laughed with his friends. The sound ripping through you like it always did. For the past week you had been trying to memorize the sound. The way it filled the room, pulling smiles from everyone who heard it. 

You hadn’t meant to fall in love with Steve Rogers, but that is exactly what you did. 

“Ya know,” Bucky’s gravely voice started behind you, pulling your attention away from Steve and towards his friend. “If you're planning on telling him, I’d do it now.” 

You furrowed your brow at the brunette, a false confusion clouding your eyes. You shook your head, only pulling a scoff from his stubble framed lips. 

“Don’t play that with me. I see the way you look at him.” He smiled softly, watching as your eyes flicked back to the godlike man. 

Bucky was only trying to help. But in your case, you were just too late. You had your moment. Several if you were being honest. Steve deserved someone who wasn't afraid to tell him how they felt. Someone strong and brave. 

Someone like Peggy Carter. 

“I missed my chance.” You hummed, taking a sip from the bottle of stale beer in your hand. You grimised at the bitterness, the liquid courage doing nothing for your spirit. Only serving as a half assed reminder of what a coward you really were. 

How many times had those three words almost fallen from your mouth? How many moments passed- longing stares and lingering touches? Surely too many to keep count. But it didn't change the truth. 

He didn't love you, and he was leaving. 

“I think that he deserves to know what he’s leaving behind.” Bucky whispers against your ear, the words pulling at your heart. 

Only you and he knew the truth. Today was not a celebration of wins… It was a send off. 

“He deserves to be happy.” You choked out, your eyes meeting Steves from across the room, his softening when he was your hollow form. You faked a smile, though it didn't fool the Captain as he began to make his way over to you. 

“And what about you?” You snapped your head to meet Bucky, your eyes serious and tone stern. 

“Stop it. Please.” 

Bucky raised his hands in surrender, taking a step back as Steve approached you. His voice calling your name melted over you like honey in tea. So sweet, but always ready to burn if not careful. 

You met his gaze, his blue eyes sparkling down at you, inviting you in. You could drown in the oceans of his iris, in fact, you had on many occasions. Tonight was no exception. 

“Could I steal you away for a moment?” He asked, his voice cutting through your thoughts, coated in kindness. 

The moment his eyes met yours, you were a goner. A mess from the second he said your name. It was pathetic, but then again, isn’t that what you were? Doomed from the first day he walked into your life, taking up every thought in your head.

“Of course.” You tried to smile, forcing it on your quivering lips. You hoped Steve didn’t notice, and of course, he didn’t. He never noticed. If he had, perhaps you wouldn’t be in this mess.

Steve pulled you along, hand in hand as he led your outside into the night. Darkness acting as a veil covering your hurt. Part of you wanted to scream. Needed it. Though, it wouldn’t do much now. 

“Do you remember when we first met?” His question echoed around you, pulling you to the memory of your first encounter. 

Of course you remembered. It replayed in your head like a broken record every night. A thousand ‘what if’s’ swirling around the memory. 

The day he asked you to dance at one of Tony’s elaborate fundraisers for charity. He was like something out of a dream, the way he walked across that dance floor to you. The way his voice asked that daunting question. The way you swooned the moment his hands touched yours, pulling you in and spinning you around the room. 

It all felt so distant now. As if you had made the entire thing up in your head. 

Sometimes you wish you had.

“I remember you being a terrible dancer.” You joked, worrying on your bottom lip as Steve's laugh echoed around you. 

“See, that's the problem. I don’t have much practice and I owe a dame a dance.” His words were sincere and yet dripped in venom. They cut you deep, poison darting straight to your heart. 

“You want me to help you… Dance?” You tried not to let your face show how truly hollow you felt. 

You had to force yourself not to cringe away when he took your hand, pulling you gently against his chest. You could have died right there, drowned in your own self loathing, overcome with jealousy for a woman who, at this very moment, was nothing more than a tombstone. She was gone, nothing but a memory and still- Steve picked her. 

With a broken breath, you rested your hand on his shoulder, shivering at his touch. You should pull away, save yourself from the ache. But the way he held you- gently and with a foreign love you would never feel from Steve, your body stayed.  You had wondered what it would be like. Wrapped up in his arms, your name on his mouth, his lips on your throat. You had imagined it more times than you cared to admit. 

One dance couldn't hurt. 

You let him take the lead, swaying you slowly into the night. His hand on your waist, guiding you to a silent melody. 

“Ya know, there was a moment that I thought it might be us.” His words whispered against your neck, freezing you in time. You swore your veins turned to ice at the cruelty of his remark. All you could do was gape. 

Steve pulled away to look at you, watching your face turn pale and eyes fill with tears. 

“How could you- This is a bad idea. I can’t do this, Steve.” You choked out, horrified at how little your voice sounded. You hated how he made you feel, small and broken. If you were, it was only because he made you that way. 

“I didn't mean to-”

“Didn't you? I respect myself too much to beg you to stay. But what the fuck, Steve? How can you stand there, one foot out the door and tell me that?” You were shattered, hand over your heart as if it might fall out at any moment. “I’ve followed you around like you were the sun. I’d do anything for you. But I won’t watch you walk away. Not when all that’s waiting for you is a ghost. I love you too much, and it breaks my heart that you can’t even consider that I could… That I might…” 

“Y/n, baby, I’m so sorry. I just-” Your name fell from his lips like a plea, but you couldn't stand there and listen to him try to mend what was already so irreversibly broken.

“No- Just stop.” You blurted, turning away and pulling yourself from his grasp. “I’ve been second to her my whole life. I’m numb to it now. But don’t make excuses for your shitty decision. If you want to go, go.” With that, you pushed away from him, heading back to the party and away from the man who, come tomorrow, would be forever out of reach. 

The next morning you woke up, eyes burning from the tears shed the night before and chest heavy with guilt. 

Part of you knew there was a better way to say the things you did, but another part reveled in your cruelty. Basked in how dumbstruck Steve looked standing on the lawn. Maybe it was mean, but so was he. 

It wouldn't matter for long. The afternoon sun was creeping in and soon he would be gone. Nothing but a distorted memory of a man you used to love. But at least he knew. At least when he laid beside his consolation prize he would remember you. Maybe he would hurt. You cringed at the idea. 

No matter how much you wanted to hate Steve, your heart simply wouldn't allow it. That was the worst joke of all. You despised the man you loved. 

Buck: He’s waiting for you… 

You looked down at your phone on the bedside table, wiping away the tear that rolled down your cheek. You knew it was time. This was the moment that you had prepared for. But you made a promise last night- one you were far too petty to fall back on now. 

Though even still, as the seconds lulled by, guilt began to eat away at your brain and before you knew it you were half way out the door. Your feet dragged you down the hall, forcing you to confront the horrible truth. 

You knew he was gone before Bucky even spoke the words. His eyes filled with a sadness only you could know. Shoulders slumped as he struggled to hold his gaze. He shook his head, affirming your worst fears as Sam’s panicked voice broke through the tension. 

“Get him back here!” He shouted, his tone filled with dread. It was torture to watch, unberable to feel.

A loud crackle erupted through the air almost knocking you off your feet. Through the piercing white flash, you saw a figure. If you didn't know any better you would have thought-

There, in all of his glory, was Steve Rogers. Perfect and untouched. Like a statue carved from marble. 

All you could do was gape, hand over mouth as he stepped down the tarmac, a smile that could instill world peace plastered on his pink lips. Your whole body vibrated with nerves. Somewhere between anger and hope.

Your name fell from his lips, but you couldn't hear it over the hammering of your heart, your feet already carrying you across the field.  

“What the hell are you-” 

“It’s you, doll.” He beamed, his words only fueling a rage that was threatening to boil over the closer you got. “It’s always been you. I can't believe I didn't see it until-”

Your fist colliding with his stoney jaw cut him off before he could finish. You pushed against his, palms thrashing at his chest as he tried to fend you off. Of course, he could if he truly wanted to, you knew this. 

“Y/n, just listen to me.” He begged, holding your wrists tight as you went to take another hit. You tried to yank yourself away from him, but it was no use. “I was stupid, doll. A complete idiot and I didnt see what was right in front of me. Tell me it’s not too late. Tell me I still have a chance.” Steve's eyes brimmed with tears as your heart thundered in your chest. 

You could only blink, your mind racing between a thousand reasons to walk away. To close the chapter on your love with Steve for good. So why did you stay? As if it wasn't torture enough. As if he hadn't beaten your heart black and blue with his carelessness. You wanted to run, but amidst the broken shards of your heart was a naive girl desperate with hope. And so, with a half step, you closed the distance, taking the deadly plunge as your lips collided with his. 

Steve drank you in, his mouth moulding to yours the instant you met. His hands wrapping around your waist and pulling you in until you arched back against him. Nothing in the world could have prepared you for how completely and irrevocably intoxicating he was. His presence over you melting you into a puddle before him. 

Steve's tongue gently ran across your bottom lip pulling a gutteral shutter to wrack through your body. The taste of him permanently cemented into your mouth. It was the soft moan that escaped the back of his throat that finally did you in, buckling your knees as you held onto the soldier for dear life. 

It wasn't until Sam’s voice echoed around you that you finally pulled away from Steve. Your body’s untwining as the rest of the world came back into focus. 

“Does anyone want to tell me what the hell is going on? What is she talking about?” Sam shouted, pointing his finger at you exasperatingly. 

“I- I… I don't…”  Your words fell to the back of your throat, the memory of Steve’s lips ingrained in your skin. You couldn't think, much less form a coherent sentence as he looked down at you, that boyish grin plastered on his mouth. The way his eyes sparkled, tears filled with a longing you had seen many times, but never from him. 

“Were you not coming back?!” Sam blurted abruptly causing Steve to snap his head in the falcons direction. 

“No.” Steve spoke simply, his gaze returning to you. Eyes filled with an answer you had been wracking your brain for.  “I could never leave my best girl.” 

You scoffed, your gaze only leaving Steve’s for a moment. His words were kind, his lips intoxicating. But there was a nagging in your heart, pulling you from your dreamstate and back to reality. 

“Best girl, huh?” You signed, leaning into him as you chased his touch. “I think I’m going to need you to prove that, Rogers.” 

Steve chuckled, the low rumble vibrating through your chest. His smile seemed brighter than you’d ever seen, reassuring you that this was the only place he wanted to be. “For as long as I can, darling.” 

[the-blind-assassin-12]

Asters

A/N: This is another teaser for Recall, and that’s really all I can say about that. Sorry I’m being so vague when it comes to this story, but hopefully when it’s finished you will understand why that had to be the case. Anywho- this also takes care of Day 10 from the September Prompt list. 

Catch up on the first teaser for Recall here- Classified. 

Prompt: Wildflowers

Warnings: discussion of injury, death, loss, trauma, pain, needles, this is angsty 😬

WC: 1.3k 

Like always, it started with an apology. 

“I’m sorry to have to do this to you, Jack.” 

Before he had time to ask what it was that called for preemptive contrition, the lab coated tech thrust an old polaroid photo into his hand, the top edge slightly bent. Who is… A beautiful young woman with long dark hair hanging over her shoulders in waves and big, bright eyes smiled up at him. “Who’s this pretty lady?” And where is she, ‘cause I’d like to- 

The tech swallowed hard and blurted out an answer, face still contorted in remorse. “She’s dead, Jack.”

Like always, it knocked the air from his lungs. 

Images spun through his mind like bullets in the chamber of his pistol, things clicking painfully into place in his memory. Click, click- A file full of classified documents. Click, click- A searing sensation at his temple and the deafening crack of a gunshot. Click- A solo mission gone sideways, a flash of wild electric blue and the feeling of being too late. Click, click, click- A female voice, familiar and soft. Click-  “Hi honey…” Click, click- A deep ache, shredding through his chest to leave him empty. Click, click, click- He sucked a breath in as the onslaught came to an end, eyes screwed so tightly shut he could see spots floating through the darkness. Click. 

My wife. My...she’s… Pressing a palm to his forehead, he steadied himself and opened his eyes, glancing down at the picture pinched between his shaking fingers. The love of my life. Bringing it to his lips, he pressed them against the glossy surface. She’s gone. When he looked back up at the tech, his confusion had cleared, though the hollowness in his heart remained. They killed her.        

“Welcome back, Agent Whiskey.” 

Like always, the tech would release a sigh of relief, glad to know that the process had worked.

Resets were never easy for anyone involved. Even though the Alpha-Gel was a revolutionary advancement in medicine, and the nanite technology used in the lab was essentially fool proof when it came to repairing brain damage, restoring memory- and therefore restoring an agent’s training, all of the classified information they had knowledge to, any enemy intelligence they may have secured- was never entirely guaranteed even if everything went the way it was supposed to. There was always the chance that a reset would take longer than expected to kickstart, always the chance that it wouldn’t take at all or that it would misfire, making the agent violent and unpredictable.  

Each operative had their own personal trigger, something that they could identify with so strongly that no matter how much brain damage they had incurred in the field, they would remember exactly who they were and all of the choices that they made and things that had happened to them leading up to the split second that their injury had occurred. For some agents it was something as simple as engaging them in a hobby or pastime that they were particularly fond of. For others it was a song or an article of clothing, something that only they would be able to use as an anchor in reality. 

For Agent Whiskey, it was the last photo he’d taken of his wife. His pregnant wife. 

There was nothing else even remotely as strong, nothing else that would serve as a better tether to his old life, a better reminder of why he had become a Statesman agent to begin with, than that photo- nothing stronger than his love for her. In the aftermath of her untimely death he had sunken to the absolute lowest point in his life. He had known the most pure and true love, had devoted himself to his family, and had suffered the most extreme loss that any man could endure when he’d had it all ripped from his hands. There was not a single thing, high or low, that had been more impactful in his life.  

“I’m sorry sir, she was just in the wrong place at the wrong time.” 

There had been an apology then, too, when the police officers who had arrived at the scene relayed the news to him. When they sat him down and explained to him that his wife had gone out to the store and that on her way, she’d become an unfortunate victim of a drug-related shooting. He was told that she was caught in the crossfire, that she’d been killed instantly; she and their unborn child. 

My little boy. 

Welcome back, indeed. Welcome back to reliving everything you’ve lost, Jack Daniels. Welcome back to all the hurt and the guilt, the hate and the rage, the heartache and the longing that will never, ever go away. Welcome back, Senior Agent Whiskey, time to do your job. 

Jack handed the photo back then, watching as the tech who had handed it to him slipped it back into the folder it had been pulled from. His stomach turned, a bitter taste coating his tongue as he got the distinct feeling that this had all happened before, and that it would happen again. But that’s what I signed up for with all’a this. He brought two fingers up to the side of his head where in his restored memory he’d felt the burning bite of a gunshot, feeling the cushion of an adhesively applied bandage. Headshots and all. He listened to the tech as they told him where to go for his debriefing, when to return for a checkup on his cognition, and how long protocol dictated he would be sidelined for. 

Two days. A bullet to the brain, his vital organs all forced into stasis, his memory entirely restored and his heart re-broken. All of that had bought him two days of rest, and almost immediately as he left the medical facility at headquarters, an idea formed in his mind that only grew more solid with every step he took. 

He wanted something other than the photo in his file to remember his wife by, something that he could carry with him at all times. Something that was as much a part of him as she was, she and the son he never got to meet.

Jack Daniels never pictured himself with tattoos, and he doubted that he would be adding any more after this one, but as he walked into the shop and laid down on the bench, he knew that he was making the right choice. In addition to the blitz of images that had rushed through his memory when he focused on his trigger photo, there had been a word repeated in the background. 

Aster. 

Her favorite flower. Wild and free. Symbolic of lifelong devotion. 

The needle buzzed as the artist brought her latex gloved hand to his chest. “Sorry if this hurts,” she said, pausing before she touched the device to his skin, “though you look pretty tough, cowboy.” 

“S’alright if it does, sugar,” he told her, resting one arm behind his head. “Let’r rip.” 

She nodded and within seconds Jack felt the scratch of the needle as it made contact, pushing black ink into his skin. A mirror had been set up so that he could watch the process, and Jack never took his eyes off of the place where she worked in silence until she finally swiped her cloth over it one more time, revealing a cluster of three asters- one for his wife, one for his son, and one for the man he never got to be for either of them. 

“So?” The artist sat back as he inspected her work. “What’da you think?” 

He tracked a single drop of blood as it mingled with excess ink, trickling down the black and gray stems of the flowers and cleared his throat. “S’perfect.” 

..  ..  ..  ..  

“Sorry, you don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to, Jack, that’s a really personal question and I-” 

He grabbed your hand and placed it over the long healed tattoo on his chest. “No,” he said, flattening your palm over the blossoms. “I...I do wanna tell you.” He licked his lips and sighed out your name as he felt your body relax into his own. “I wanna tell you everything.”  

.

.

.

Thank you for reading! Again, this is just a teaser for the Whiskey i’m distilling so if you have any questions or you would like to be tagged in this one, please let me know!

Tags: @something-tofightfor @alraedesigns @paracosmenthusiast @cannedsoupsucks @pheedraws @dihra-vesa @disgruntledspacedad @littlemisspascal  @hellovanessax

[nanasparadise]

“Losing my senses for you” Yan!Joseph (Part 3) x female reader

Hiya everyone! Here’s a little Yan! Joseph (Part 3) x female reader for y’all because apparently, I like to see Suzi suffer lol

Summary: You and your soulmate Joseph share a pleasant dream, as always. Though suddenly, the elderly wants to take your friendship to the next level...

TW: age gap, implied cheating, implied kidnapping, toxic relationship, MATURE AUDIENCE ONLY/MINORS DNI 

I do not condone any yandere behaviour in real life.

Word count: 2022

Joseph had always thought of himself as a sensible man. Sensible enough to fall in love with his current wife and have a child with her, disregarding the fact that Suzi Q wasn’t his soulmate. Why would he have denied himself love, a family? No, Joseph had been rational enough to not care about that ‘dreaming of your soulmate’ humbug. That had been the case until he’d met you.

The male would have never imagined seeing his soulmate in his dream, not after all these years being married and especially not as an elderly man. You were still so young, a blooming flower in your twenties, ready to conquer the world. How could Joseph be your soulmate? But there was no denying that the Brit was constantly dreaming of you. Nearly every morning he’d wake up, your face still lingering on his mind while his spouse slept peacefully next to him, knowing nothing about her husband’s dream invader. Sometimes, he’d even whisper your name. Joseph didn’t have the heart to tell her, after all, Suzi had been his love for most of his life. But apparently, not the one to spend the remainder of it with.

This night wasn’t an exception when it came to your nocturnal visits. This time, the two of you sat on the terrace of a café near Joseph’s flat in New York City. The crowding streets of the metropolis filled the air with a cacophony of sounds: honking taxi cars, chatting people, the occasional dog that barked loudly. Even though every tiny thing seemed to buzz with life, Joseph knew that none of this was real- all would cease to exist once he’d wake up, except for him and you. Politely, you smiled at the Brit. 

“Hello Mr. Joestar, how are you doing today?”, you greeted him, as you always did. Both of you had agreed that you wouldn’t refer to the elderly man with his first name, wanting to keep some distance between you. Just like Joseph, you had been more than surprised to notice that your soulmate wasn’t a person around your age. Though never having been openly said, you two knew you wouldn’t pursue any romantic advances towards each other. At some point, Joseph had even revealed to you that he was married and had a daughter and a grandson. But since you hadn’t found a way yet to end these dreams, you were behaving on an amicable basis. The male believed you’d probably see in him a grandfather figure. Though Joseph couldn’t tell anymore if he saw you as a granddaughter …

As per usual, the pair consisting of you chattered the whole time. You told him about your new job, how you were nervous to meet your colleagues, wondering if you’d get along well. While you were talking, you kept fiddling the napkin next to you, demonstrating your anxiety. During your countless encounters, Joseph had learnt to read your body language. Confidently, the man rested his real gloved hand on top of yours, stopping your tic. You stared into the male’s green eyes, astonishment written on your face. 

“Y/N,” Joseph said softly, “you don’t need to be nervous, dear. How could they not like such a ray of sunshine like you?” He flashed you a big grin at his final words. You averted his tender gaze. Oh, how Joseph loved this bashful expression on your face. You were so easy to tease. 

“Thank you, Mr. Joestar, though I think you’re exaggerating.” 

“Please, call me Joseph”, the elderly man blurted out. A big thumb idly drew circles on the back of your hand. He didn’t know what had driven him into saying this, into breaking the formal distance between you -  at least he didn’t know consciously. Deep inside, he was well aware that he loved you - more than just a friend, than a granddaughter, hell, even more than Suzi. In the end, you were his soulmate. Suddenly, all the previous talk about how any other kind of love paled compared to the love for your soulmate didn’t seem like humbug to Joseph anymore. No, the once reasonable man had been utterly struck by the arrow of a foolish love, a love he hadn’t experienced beforehand – not even with his wife. He had been struck by you. Your surprise only grew. 

“Are you sure? Wouldn’t that be awkward?”, you asked hesitantly, eyeing your hand. Joseph stayed persistent though. 

“Not at all, Y/N. It’s only natural to call me by my first name after all our dates, isn’t it?”, the man winked playfully at you. He really wanted to see how far he could go with his flirtatious banter until you’d retreat. Or maybe, just maybe, you wouldn’t. Maybe you’d feel the same as him, wanting more out of these encounters. Maybe… Hope blossomed in Joseph’s chest, making the elderly man feel like a lovesick teenager all over again. Only you held that much power over him. Your following words crushed that spark of hope fairly quickly though. 

“I don’t know, Mr. Joestar…,” you retorted, obviously refusing to address him as Joseph, “Don’t you think it would enable unwanted feelings between us? This is quite a hard situation anyway for us – you with your family, me with my young age – I don’t think we need to complicate things further.” At this statement, the light in Joseph’s green eyes extinguished like a flame. Of course. He might have lost his mind, but you didn’t. No, you remained rational, cool-headed. 

“Ah, I see”, Joseph simply replied, barely hiding the disappointment in his raspy voice. “This is for the best, you old fool,” the tiny voice whispered in Joseph’s head, “How could you keep up with her?” Bitter at his own thoughts, the man made a crestfallen grimace. 

“I’m sorry, I don’t intend to hurt your feelings in any way. I do enjoy the time we spend together and I appreciate you, Mr. Joestar”, you added remorsefully. The Brit’s heart warmed at your words of consideration. You cared for him, you must, he was convinced. The effects of the soulmate bond couldn’t just be ignored by you. Maybe, there was still a chance for him. Maybe…

“Y/N”, Joseph murmured your name ever so gently. Surprised by the softness of his tone, you looked up to him. He briefly wetted his lips before he proceeded talking. “I appreciate you, too. A lot, actually. Every time I’m in your company, I’m the happiest man alive. You draw me in and I can’t help myself but wanting more.” You tried to interrupt him, but Joseph quickly stopped you by raising his hand and continuing his speech. “Ah ah, honey, please let me finish. I know what you want to say: ‘But Mr. Joestar, what about your family?’ Well, they’ll understand, they have to. We’re soulmates, I can’t just ignore that. I’ll leave my wife for you, then we can start a life together. Please, my love, consider my words. After all, even without knowing it, I’ve been waiting the whole time for you.” Joseph gazed intensely in your eyes, yearning painted across his face. He patiently watched you gulp heavily and waited for your answer while he put his hand back on yours. 

“Your words are sweet and I’m grateful for your sincerity, Mr. Joestar,” you eventually sputtered, “you’re dear to me, I’d be lying if I said you weren’t, but not in the way you intend it to be. I don’t think I could ever see you in a romantic way. And even if I could, I don’t want to be a homewrecker. I know you love your family, you shouldn’t toss them away for me.” Joseph sighed deeply. He’d learnt with experience to tame his quick temper, but still, impatience flared up inside him. 

“Why can’t you give me, give us, a try? I’m aware that our initial plan was to keep some distance between us, but if we both have feelings for each other, why deny them then? You said you couldn’t see me as a lover, but I don’t believe that. Give me a chance and I’ll prove you how much I love you.” Joseph slightly squeezed your hand while spilling out his passionate words. “You said I shouldn’t toss away my family, but you want me to throw you away. How could I do that? Every morning, it’s your name that escapes my lips, your body I want to feel next to mine, your scent I want to inhale.” The man grew desperate the more he talked. “Don’t worry about our age difference, I know a way for you to grow old with me.” Joseph perceived your puzzled face from the corner of his eyes as he fixated his gaze on your hand, but kept speaking. “I can give you so much Y/N, if only you’d let me. Please, let us try it.” He finally looked up to you, fearing and yet anticipating your reaction. Yes, only you could make him this nervous… Your brows were tightly furrowed, though a hint of sympathy seeped through your kind eyes. 

“Joseph…”, you whispered softly. The Brit’s heart fluttered like a hummingbird upon hearing you finally say his first name. “I’d hoped I wouldn’t have to reveal this to you, but it’s only fair for me to be honest to you as well. I’ve actually met this man a while ago.”

Joseph’s jaw dropped at your confession and his eyes widened. No, this couldn’t be true. He felt as if his whole world had shattered in this moment. Cruelly, you decided to hurt him more with your words. “And to be frank, things are going well. We’ve even talked about moving in together. I think he might be the one I want to spend my life with, Joseph.” Thud. Joseph’s prosthetic hand slammed harshly on the table. Instinctively, you winced at the loud noise. 

“Why would you say that to me?!”, the man in front of you shouted, desperation coating his voice, “Why would you break my heart like that? I can’t believe it! Here I am, thinking about leaving my wife for you while you’ve been having fun with some other guy!” Joseph’s grasps painfully tightened around your hand. His handsome features had transformed into a terrifyingly furious grimace. You gasped fearfully, trying to retrieve your hand from Joseph’s hold. “Why would you bother to be with him when I’m right here? He isn’t your soulmate, I am!” Hot anger flooded the male’s body. It’s been years since he felt this kind of raw emotion again. Joseph glared at you while you still tried unsuccessfully to escape his grasp. Eventually, he let go of your hand. Hastily, you pulled it away from the table. Taking a deep breath, you spoke up. 

“I think you forget that I’m still an independent woman, Mr. Joestar.” 

“So we’re back at the surname, huh?”, the Brit thought gloomily. 

“No matter if we’re soulmates, I’ve still got my own life, as you do. Which means I can choose with whom I’m in a relationship. I hope this incident here is non-recurring and that you’ve come back to your senses the next time we’ll see each other.”

With these final words, Joseph woke abruptly up. Adrenaline was still pumping through his veins from his intense outbreak. While laying down on his bed, he tried to calm his agitated breaths. “I should come back to my senses, huh?,” the male muttered quietly into the room as to not wake up Suzi, “What a bold thing coming out of your mouth, since you’re the source for my irrational behaviour.” Yes, Joseph had always thought of himself as a sensible man. But times had changed. And drastic times called for drastic measures. Subconsciously, the Brit knew exactly what had to be done if he didn’t want to lose you to that pest you thought was your boyfriend. Slowly, he climbed out of his bed. Joseph glanced one more time at his spouse’s sleeping form. 

There was no turning back now.

Out of a drawer, the man grabbed a polaroid camera and called out his Stand.

[lena-in-a-red-dress]

Notting Hill AU Snippet #5

Lena's waiting for her by the time Kara comes down to the lobby. Her vest has been traded for a velour coat in maroon, nearly matching the color of her lips. Her hair, last seen flattened by the horror of facing an impromptu press junket, is revitalized and styled into 1940s waves. Kara smiles at the sight of her, and the way Lena's entire countenance seems to warm at the sight of her.

Unsure of the dresscode for the night, Kara had settled for a satin paisley button down, made more casual by braiding her hair across her head in a crown. She'd debated taking it down as soon as she'd finished, but when Lena doesn't make a crack about her looking like a swiss miss, Kara's glad she left it.

They take a cab from the hotel, and though the conversation is stilted, Kara can tell that Lena's nervous. When they finally arrive, Lena pauses them at the doorway, and levels a solemn look at Kara.

"There's just one thing you need to know before we go in," she says.

Kara stares at her. "Which is?"

"I am so, so sorry."

With that, the door bursts open and a large form comes barreling out to swallow Lena in a giant bear hug.

"There you are!" the figure growls playfully, resolving into a bald, broad-shouldered man in a button down with the sleeves rolled up and a frilly pink apron.

"Can't... breathe..."

"Yeah, yeah, likely story." Kara presumes the man is Lena's brother, confirmed when he releases Lena only to trap her in a headlock and give her a knuckle rub. "And who's the poor hapless prey you're impressing this time, huh?"

The man stops short at the sight of Kara.

"Holy shitting fuck."

Kara braces, but then the man blinks and the moment passes, his attention returning to his prisoner, who extricates herself with a sigh and a shove against his shoulder, smoothing her ruffled hair.

"Kara, this is my prat of an older brother, Lex. Lex, this Kara. My date."

"Pleased to meet you, Miss Date. Come in, come in, you're letting all the wonderful smells out!"

He ushers them all inside, and while he's right the house is filled with smells, not all of them are wonderful. There's mish mash of aromatic spices that Kara detects, but there's an undercurrent of something just slightly burnt wafting beneath it all that makes Kara concerned for the unattended stove.

Before she can worry further, a woman comes bustling in, tall and gorgeous. "Lena, darling, it's so lovely to see you."

Kara watches Lena melt into a smile that makes Kara's heart skip a beat. "Hello, Drea. Glad to see my brother hasn't poisoned you yet."

"Oh, hush," the woman, Drea, responds giving Lena a kiss on both cheeks. "Of all the vices he could have, his passion for bad cooking is one I can live with."

Drea's gaze then turns to Kara, and while Kara can see the moment recognition hits, the woman covers it graciously with a smile and an outstretched hand. "Hi, I'm Andrea. Andrea Rojas."

"Kara," she responds, well noting the way the woman rolls her Rs and speaks like words are honey. No wonder Lena melted. "Thank you so much for having me. Your home is lovely."

And it is. Where Lena's flat is cluttered and marked with signs of both age and use, Lex's rowhouse is clean and modern, full of smooth lines and cool colors. She suspects Andrea Rojas had something to do with that, judging from her silk blouse and pencil skirt, accented with classy jewelry.

"Thank you so much," Andrea returns, "you're too kind. Here, can I get you something to drink before my husband's cooking ruins your sense of taste completely?"

"I'm telling you," Lex cuts in, offended, "this one is the winner winner chicken dinner!"

Kara laughs, and just like that, the ice is broken. She relaxes, but sticks close to Lena, reveling in the easy comfort that fills the home. It feels... nice. Real. Unlike anything she's had in the past ten years.

She has a sister. But her sister is also her manager, and Kara can't remember the last time she and Alex just sat and talked like this, trading jokes and playful barbs around the dinner table. Even when Lena's roommate Querl and his girlfriend Nia arrive, the atmosphere remains easy and warm.

Kara's defenses relax, until it comes time to fight over the last brownie for dessert.

"And the last one goes as a prize to the poorest sod here."

"Ooh!" Nia chirps. "Hand it over!"

"Oh please!" the table choruses. Someone throws a wadded up paper napkin at Nia, who bats it away.

"Come on!" she exclaims. "Just look at me! I'm fresh out of art school with zero prospects, zero job, and I'm dating this guy." She jabs a thumb at Querl, prompting a round of laughter even as Querl doesn't seem to register the playful insult.

"Well," he says, "I've been making a fool of myself asking for grants from an institution with no imagination and no desire to seek the answers of the universe!"

"Weak!" Lena boasts. "I've got a shop so deep in the red I'm practically swimming in it, and my last girlfriend of five years left me for her male yoga instructor saying her experimentation phase was done."

That shocks Kara. Her gaze flickers to Lena, and despite the veneer of good humor, she can see the hurt underneath. Five years isn't an experimentation by any stretch of the mind. To be told that's all it was... Lena's entire world must have been turned upside down.

Still, Andrea Rojas isn't a woman to be beat.

"Well, how about being told in no unequivocable terms by your boss that there's no way to make partner unless you fuck him?" There's a bitterness in her voice that makes the table go quiet. "And on top of wondering what you've been doing with the last ten years of your life, you find out you've given those assholes your best egg laying years because now, suddenly, your doctor says you're too old to have children?"

Kara shoots a look around the table, as does Lena. Their eyes meet in the middle, before Lex wordlessly hands over the plate.

"Hey!" Kara blurts. "What about me?"

"What about you?" Nia retorts irreverently. "You think YOU deserve the brownie to saddest sod?"

"Well, I'd at least like a shot at it."

"Okay," Lena returns blithely. "But you're going to have to work for it. It's a very good brownie."

Kara nods. "Sure. My earliest memory is being spanked by my mother for ruining a take by crying. I've slept with a director for a role I didn't get anyway, and I've been on a diet for my entire acting career, meaning that this is my first time eating a brownie. Ever."

A beat of silence follows.

"Well, shit," Nia quips. "Give the woman all the brownies, then."

Just like that, the suddenly somber atmosphere lifts back to its previous humor, as Querl adds his own two cents. "I life without brownies is a life not worth living."

"Cheers to that, bro," Lex concurs, lifting his glass before chugging it.

Kara savors her brownie in small bites, trying not to blush under Lena's gentle gaze.

previous / next

[rockscanfly]

the stars are not wanted now

The headline was several days old by the date in the corner. The cheap paper was peeling at the corners from the wall it’d been pasted to when Charles ripped it down. His mind was carefully blank as he hitched Lenny’s canvas-wrapped corpse higher on one shoulder. He stuffed the ripped page into his pants pocket. 

It stayed there, smouldering, as he loaded Lenny onto Taima. Sadie was already seated on Bob, Hosea laid carefully behind her. Her eyes caught his, red and shining.

Charles was an hour into digging Lenny’s grave when it hit him: He was never going to see Arthur Morgan again.

Death’s messenger arrived in the form of the front page of The Saint Denis Times. TRAGEDY AT SEA! CARGOSHIP THE OQUENDO SUNK FIVE MILES OFF GUARMA COAST!

or,

Charles Smith, Sadie Adler, and the two deaths of Arthur Morgan.

Read below or at  AO3. 

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

In the life of Charles Smith, death’s messengers had come in many forms. 

The first was in the navy blue uniforms of American soldiers, their ghost pale hands wrapped tight over his mother’s arms as they dragged her from their tent, screaming and kicking. 

Ten years later it was in a letter, sent by an old neighbor. It contained his father’s wedding ring, a family photo, and no explanation. 

The way the whiskey had wafted off his father’s breath the night Charles left? There was no need for one. 

Then it had been the sharp crack of a gunshot—one, two, three. Sean, Hosea, Lenny. There was the frightened whinny of a horse mixed in, and the sick, rotten-fruit plop of Kierran’s head as it fell from his cupped, bloody hands.

This messenger arrived in the form of the front page of The Saint Denis Times. TRAGEDY AT SEA! CARGOSHIP THE OQUENDO SUNK FIVE MILES OFF GUARMA COAST!

The headline was several days old by the date in the corner. The cheap paper was peeling at the corners from the wall it’d been pasted to when Charles ripped it down. His mind was carefully blank as he hitched Lenny’s canvas-wrapped corpse higher on one shoulder. He stuffed the ripped page into his pants pocket. 

It stayed there, smouldering, as he loaded Lenny onto Taima. Sadie was already seated on Bob, Hosea laid carefully behind her. Her eyes caught his, red and shining.

Charles was an hour into digging Lenny’s grave when it hit him: He was never going to see Arthur Morgan again.

For twenty-seven years, careful restraint of his emotions had allowed Charles to survive. He’d never had the luxury of anger, of rage. An outburst from most members of the gang meant getting kicked out of the saloon, a fine, or a night in jail at worst. 

For Charles, a length of rope looped over a tree branch was never far. America hated nothing more than a mutt, and to her people Charles was a rabid dog best put down at the first snarl.

So Charles learned control and calm. He learned to bury, to smother, to take everything burning in him and shove it somewhere safe. To put his feelings aside until he was alone and could take them out and look them over with no nervous trigger fingers or hateful eyes waiting for the first excuse—the first bitter word, sharp gesture, first hateful look. 

Charles didn’t know what did it, what final burning hurt snuck into the tinderbox of his chest and sparked the blaze. If it was the seventh rock his shovel struck in the soft, sucking dirt, forcing him to fumble in the dark until he could haul it free and cast it out. If it was the heat, the chafe of sticky cotton on his damp skin. Could be it was the flies buzzing in his ears, or the way the sweat from his brow stung his eyes. 

Maybe it was the sickly smell of rotting meat already coming from the sacks wrapped around Lenny and Hosea’s corpses, or the way there was no money for coffins to bury them in. 

One moment Charles was digging side by side with Sadie, knee deep in the grave that would hold just one body of the second family that fate had torn from him.

And then he was kneeling in the sucking mud, hands fisted uselessly in the torn roots and crawling worms. Anguish tore howling from his throat, muffled against gritted teeth. Charles could taste copper coating the backs of his gums as he hunched in the dirt. His eyes clenched tight as his heart did its level best to tear itself from his chest, to strike out for a life less riddled with bullets, one that didn’t bleed loss like a butchered carcass or burn everything good up to ashes.

Charles was dimly aware, under the pounding of his own pulse in his ears, of Sadie’s soft cursing as she threw down her own shovel and climbed into Lenny’s half-dug grave beside him. The darkness behind his eyes became complete as she shuttered the lamp, plunging them into night. He flinched away as Sadie’s firm hand gripped his shoulder. “Don’t,” he growled. He didn’t want comfort. He wanted exorcism. 

Sadie just gripped him tighter, blunt nails digging hard into the hunched muscle of his shoulder. “I know,” she rasped, kneeling before him, sharp knees pressed to his own. A choked cry strangled in Charles’s chest as her skinny, whipcord arms wrapped around him, pressing him to her chest. 

“They’re gone,” he managed, gasping through the tightness in his lungs. He couldn’t get any air. “Lenny, Javier, Hosea—Arthur.” Charles made a fist, pounding senselessly at the dirt. “He, we—” Charles cut himself off, dug his nails deep into the flesh of his knee, and tried to claw the pain into his own skin. 

A beat passed. One of Sadie’s palms gripped Charles at the back of his neck, cupped the back of his head gently. “Charles,” she said, voice rough and small, gentle. “Charles, I know.”

And it’s possible she did. She was one of the more observant folks in the camp. He and Arthur hadn’t really been very careful. Nothing too blatant, no. But anyone could have read into the casual ease with which Arthur touched his shoulder, the way their knees almost touched as they sat by the fire. The way Charles would return from guard duty with his hair mussed, leaves of grass clinging to the back of his shirt, the trailing ends of his hair. How Arthur would sit on a stump, failing utterly to conceal that he was sketching Charles as he chopped wood or hauled water. 

Arthur was not a cautious man by nature. He often made Charles foolish. 

More important than any of their thousand tiny, dangerous indiscretions was the fact that Arthur had trusted Sadie. It was possible the big, soft-hearted idiot told her about them. Maybe one day Charles would have it in him to be angry about that, at Arthur for putting them both at risk without asking him first. Reckless, impulsive, trusting. 

Gone.

Charles leaned heavily into Sadie’s grip, buried his face in the sweat and dirt streaked cotton of her shoulder. “How did you live through this?” He hissed, breath hitching. It felt like nettles had grown in his chest, wrapping around his lungs, choking like weeds to a garden. 

Sadie’s arm tightened over Charles’s shoulder. “Sun hasn’t dawned on a single day I’ve wanted to live through since they killed my Jake.” A filthy hand pet his hair back from his face, streaking dirt through the sweat on his brow. “Two reasons I go on. I gotta put every O'Driscoll on this green earth into a hole in the ground. And ‘cause I got folks as need me, now.”

Charles buried himself tighter against her, hiding from the pain that wracked him. It was ridiculous. Sadie was half his size, if he was being generous. But pressed against her, her clumsy hand in his hair, her skinny arm not even half over his back—he felt safer. Smaller. “They don’t even want me.” 

Sadie laughed, a hoarse, half-hearted thing that shook her chest more than it did the air. “You think those boys are lining up to put me in charge? Or, hell, Grimshaw? It don’t matter what anyone wants, Charles. They need us.” 

“I needed him,” Charles keened. He sounded like a child. He felt like a child. And he’d never felt so helpless, so lost, since he’d been torn from his mother’s arms. “All of them.” Charles bit back a breath, forced it down. He grasped a handful of Sadie’s shirt, pulling her closer. “I feel like the only part of me that’s good died with them. I don’t. I don’t think I can keep doing this.” 

“John ain’t dead yet,” Sadie whispered fiercely. “And neither is Tilly, or Mary-Beth, or me. Even the rest of ‘em. They’re all the family we got, Charles. So cry it out. But then you gotta pull yourself together. I need ya.” 

No one had ever needed Charles Smith. 

No one who lived. 

Charle’s head was going fuzzy, light, in a buzzing, burning way. Maybe he wasn’t getting enough air. Maybe he was choking on his own pathetic sorrow. 

Maybe the pain of losing so much was finally going to kill him. 

“I should just leave,” he mumbled into Sadie’s filthy, mud spattered shoulder. “Suffering follows me, I think. Maybe if I just go you won’t die, too.” 

Sadie’s blunt nails dug hard into Charle’s shoulder. “You leave and you’re yellow or you’re a fool,” she said, shaking him. “The world doesn’t give a shit about any of us, Charles. You know this life we’re livin’ ain’t meant to be a long one.”

Something in that tickled him, in a sideways sort of way. He laughed, a weak, hacking thing that was half-cough. “How the hell is Uncle still kicking?” 

Sadie’s shoulder moved under his forehead as she gave a half-hearted chuckle. “Can’t die if you never do shit.”

“You’re right,” Charles admitted. The stupid joke had shaken something loose in his throat. His chest still hurt, but he wasn’t choking on air. “I’m sorry. I just—” Charles sucked down another breath. “I wasn’t ready to live without him.” 

Sadie just pulled him tighter, tucked his head up under her chin. Charles wondered, vaguely, what she saw when she looked out into the dark of the Lemoyne night. “I know, honey,” she sighed. “But you will. You have to.” 

                                     _________________________

Traditional Kotsoteka mourning is an involved process. Done right, Charles should have burned Arthur’s wagon and killed Peachblossom, Arthur’s white Roan mare, so he would be well equipped in the afterlife. 

But there was no body to bury. No grave in which to throw Arthur’s guns, or the bow he’d left strapped to Peachblossom’s saddle on that final, bloody day at the bank. It would have been a shame to snap into pieces, anyway. Charles had made the bow for Arthur, so the other man had always taken excellent care of it. 

Fact was, Arthur’s body lay somewhere at the bottom of the sea, and they were too strapped for resources to go burning wagons and wasting supplies for traditions Charles had never been all that good at following. So instead Sadie helped him shave the sides of his head—the left side, to mourn a fellow warrior. The right, because a fellow warrior wasn’t all Charles was mourning. 

Together, Charles and Sadie burned one of Arthur’s shirts. There was no wailing, no cutting of arms and chests. As the last few patches of blue cotton caught fire, Charles resolved that, a year from then, he would never again speak the name Arthur Morgan.

                             ______________________________

Six years and too many graves later, Charles was resting on a freshly hammered fence post when a giant, mean-looking mustang rode up the road to Beecher’s Hope. Charles was half-way to drawing his sawed-off when its rider called out to him. “Charles! Charles Smith!”

Charles would know that hoarse drawl anywhere. 

Charles jumped the fence, jogging towards the black-clad woman on her suitably terrifying horse. “Sadie? Sadie Adler?”

Sadie swung down from her saddle, running forward. Charles caught her around the middle, swinging her excitedly. 

“How are you?” Charles asked as he set her down, hands moving to her shoulders to get a look at her. She’d picked up a few fresh scars, some weather to her skin from sun and wind. But her eyes were just the same as they’d always been, lit with an inner fire.

Sadie smiled, that same bitter half lift of the mouth as six years ago. “Alive,” she shrugged, patting Charles roughly on the shoulder. “You?”

Charles shrugged back. “Better, now. A few months back? Not so well.” 

Sadie nodded, walking back to her evil looking mustang and leading it gentle as a kitten to the hitching post. Charles leaned back against the fence, digging around in his jacket pockets for a pack of cigarettes and his lighter. He lit one, settling it in the side of his mouth. Demon-horse secured, Sadie settled beside him, leaning forward over the fence to survey the homestead. Charles passed her a cigarette, holding the lighter out and flickering as she lit a burning ember in the early morning light. 

Sadie inhaled, brown eyes sharp and considering as she surveyed the half-built ranch. “So. You’re, uh. Livin’ with the Marston’s?”

Charles nodded, tucking the lighter back in his pocket. “Just John for now.” He caught himself, laughed. “Well, and Uncle.”

“That old fool’s still alive?” Sadie whistled. “Bless his heart.” Silence stretched out between them. Maybe it should have been uncomfortable, the way it would have been between any two other friends who had parted in bloodshed and hadn’t seen one another in six years. 

Instead, it was like a well-worn blanket, warm and comforting in the early morning chill. Charles hadn’t shared a peaceful silence in a long while. John and Uncle always seemed to need to fill the air with talk. The folks in Saint Denis too, and theirs had been a lot less friendly. 

Their cigarettes burned down to embers before Sadie broke the peace. “Any clue where John’s at?” she asked. “I got a job for him.”

Charles grunted. “Bounty hunting?”

“Only kinda jobs I run. For now, anyway.”

“He’s in town grabbing supplies. Won’t be back until late.”

“Well, shit.” Sadie cursed, scuffing her boot in the dirt. She frowned, kicking up little clouds of dust while she chewed on her lip. Charles turned, tucking his arms up atop the fence, settling against the sun-warmed wood. Sadie leaned in beside him, shoulder to shoulder, so the fringe of her leather duster brushed against his knuckles. They watched the horizon together for a few long moments, the sun slowly rising higher in the sky. 

Sadie let out a long breath, shifting restlessly next to him. In the corner of his vision Charles caught brown eyes flicking consideringly over at him, measuring. “You busy?”

Charles let out an inaudible sigh of his own. “I don’t do that anymore, Sadie.”

Sadie laughed, a little bitter, a little sharp, like a sip of bark tea. “You too good for bounty hunting? Well, excuse me.”

Charles groaned, burying his face in his hands. “Isn’t like that. I just. I’m trying something new.”

Sadie rolled her eyes. “Ain't no reason you can't help around Marston’s ranch and earn yourself a little money.” She gestured to the half-built house, the piles of timbers and sacks of plaster. “Hell, how you think John’s paying this place off? I know y’all ain’t making any sort of profit yet.” 

Charles massaged his temples, willing away the oncoming tension headache. Sadie wasn’t wrong. Charles loved John, knew he needed to look after him for Arthur—at least until John was settled in with his family. But there would be an after, one day. Charles had learned one thing in his thirty-three years: no one stayed. 

He’d be watching his own back again, probably not too long from now. And it's a lot easier to do that when you had money. 

Charles sighed, pulling his hands from his face. He hooked his thumbs through his belt. “What’s the job?”

Sadie grinned, bitter and mean. “Man murdered his family, looks like,” she said, pulling away from the fence. “He’s wanted in Strawberry. Not even that far of a ride from here.”

Charles walked over to the little campsite, pulling his rucksack from his tent. It was already packed. He hesitated. “Kids?”

“A little girl, around ten. And a boy, round three.”

Charles pulled his tomahawk from under his bedroll, tucking it into his belt. He grabbed some of the nastier arrows—the poison wouldn’t kill a full grown man, but it’d make him suffer. 

Some men deserve to suffer. 

Charles stalked over to Falmouth, mounting him in one swift motion. “Lead the way.”

Sadie swung up onto her monster. “Good man,” she said, kicking her boot against Charles’s own as she trotted by. “Let’s see how rusty you’ve got, Mr. Smith.”

As they rode, Sadie interrogated him. 

“Talked to John a little, ‘bout you,” she yelled over the thundering of hooves. The earth was hard-packed and dusty in the Texarcana heat. “Heard things weren't going too well down in Saint Denis.”

“They weren’t,” Charles called back. “I’d only been there about a year, anyway. Job was going sour.” 

“How so?”

Charles laughed. It wasn’t a pretty sound. “Folks were only going to put up with me beating up white men for a living for so much longer.”

Sadie tossed a grin over her shoulder, knowing and vicious. She and Charles had different struggles in their lives. But there was a baseline understanding between them. Most of the gang had been dangerous for what they did. Of the ones who lived, Charles and Sadie were dangerous because of what they were. “Novelty was about to wear off, huh?”

Charles shook his head, whipping wayward hair from his face. “Yeah.”

Sadie turned back to the road, steering Hera around a sharp bend. “Before that?”

The road widened out. Charles urged Falmouth forward, riding till the two horses were running abreast. “Was up in Canada. Helped relocate the Wapiti after...” Charles paused. He had left with the Wapiti immediately after the attack on the oil refinery. Hadn’t even gone back to camp for the rest of his belongings, just taken what was on Taima’s back and. Left.

Charles had no idea if Sadie even knew why Charles had gone, what Arthur had told her.

“That kid,” Sadie asked, breaking Charles’s train of thought. “He died, didn’t he?” 

Charles swallowed, the dust from the road cloyingly sweet in his mouth. “Yes.”

Sadie steered Hera over a wooden bridge, hand on her rifle as she scanned each side for signs of an ambush. “I don’t think I understand what all happened with them,” she said. “There was so much going on, towards the end. Folks leaving, Arthur sick, that damn fool plan with the train—How did Dutch even get those folks wrapped up in our mess?”. 

“Same thing that happened to all of us,” Charles offered. “Dutch talked a good game, riled them up over things they were already angry about, got everyone in over their head, and was the only one who didn’t pay for it.” 

The rest of their ride continued in contemplative silence, broken only by the necessary shouts and calls needed to wrangle their bounty. The murderer was holed up in an abandoned cabin just a little north of town. Hardly worth hiring bounty hunters for, really. Except that the Strawberry sheriffs had always been corrupt, not to mention lazy. Some things don’t change. 

Still, working with Sadie again was worth it. It’d just been them those long months Arthur and the rest were lost in Guarma, presumed dead. Sure, the rest of the girls were still around and they pulled their weight. But none of them were as talented in violence—save Karen, maybe. 

 But she was too far gone over Sean to hold herself together, let alone anyone else.

It’s when they’d divvied up the bounty and stepped into the Strawberry saloon that Charles remembered why those months had been so damn stressful. Besides the Pinkertons, the hopeless fate of half their family, the deaths, John trapped in prison—

Sadie Adler’s temper had always been on a short fuze. 

And Charles, fool that he was, had always had a weakness for brave, impulsive idiots.  

A big, mean white man took exception to Charles drinking at the same bar as him. Sadie snapped off a sharp warning, stepping around Charles and squaring up to the man twice her size. Then the mean bastard took exception to Charles traveling with, being familiar with, a white woman. 

Sadie took exception to his exception, and her exception took the form of a knife straight through the man’s hand and into the scarred oak of the counter. 

They were riding hard out of town, ducking the odd shot from the posse riding too slow behind them, Sadie whooping wildly and shooting flawlessly over her back when Charles realized: he hadn’t had fun like that in six years.

They lost the posse in the hills by turning off on a razor thin trail, stashing the horses under an overhang and laying down in the tall grass. 

They lay there, panting, laughing, exhilarated. The stars were bright in the sky, glaring down through the clear West Elizabeth sky.

Eventually Sadie sobered, hoarse laughter falling silent. Charles could see her from the corner of his eye. She was still staring up at the stars, hair limned silver in the moonlight. She chewed on her words before breaking the peace. “You didn’t say goodbye.”

Charles took a breath, held it. “We had to leave before the Army arrived,” he said. He picked absently at the grass, crushing it dry and summer-sweet between his fingers. “The Wapiti. They were mostly women and children, the elderly. The sick.”

Sadie huffed, turning on her side, propping up on her elbow to glare down at him, hair frizzled into a messy halo behind her head, all lit up by moonglow. “Ya could of wrote,” she insisted. 

Charles kept his eyes fixed on the night sky, on the stars in their cold, beautiful distance. “To who?” he scoffed. “We all knew the gang was on its last legs. By the time we crossed the border into Canada I’d already seen the papers. Interesting, how they left you out of it.”

Sadie went quiet. She collapsed back beside him, thumping softly in the bent grass. “Is that how you found out?” 

A copy of The New Hanover had been pinned to the wooden wall of the trading shack where Charles was selling pelts for food and medicine. He’d left for Beaver Hollow the next day. “Yes.”

Sadie sucked air through her teeth. “I went back, few years later,” she muttered. Her boot knocked against his, a rough comfort. “You uh. You did a good job, Charles,” she said. Her fingers sought his in the tall grass, brushing against his lightly. Like she was scared to spook him, maybe. “We watched the sun come up together. He woulda liked it.” 

Charles drew his hand back, pressing it over his heart. The hollow, dull ache that lived in his heart sharpened, brightened. A fresh cut on an old scar. “He’d have liked it better if he’d lived.” 

Sadie made a noise, propping back up on her elbow to lean over him. “You know that ain’t his fault,” she frowned at him. “The man was sick, Charles.” 

Charles’s head hurt. His whole body did, in a cold, numb way. This wasn’t the burning, searing grief at the bottom of Lenny’s shallow grave. It was older, rooted deeper down. “Don’t,” he rasped. Grit from the road coated the back of his throat. “Just, don’t.” 

Sadie charged on, implacable. “You know he wasn’t gonna leave without John.”

The stars were so bright. Charles could feel the headache building, like a creature clawing out through his temples. “They could have left together,” he snapped at her. “We all could have left together, before the bank. All of that mess in Lemoyne—none of it had to happen. Arthur didn’t stay for John—he stayed for Dutch.” 

Sadie scrubbed her free over her face. “The man raised him,” she tried. The excuse was hollow, empty. Even she didn’t buy it.

Charles turned on his side, faced Sadie properly through the tall grass and moonlight. “Don’t give me that, Sadie. Not you.” 

“Fine, Charles! He was a fool!” She threw her hand up in the air, exasperated. “He was scared, he was foolish, and he loved Dutch because he was an idiot.” Sadie fixed him with a glare. “There, did that make you happy, big man? Speaking ill of the dead?” 

It didn’t. “I shouldn’t be speaking of him at all,” Charles said instead. “That’s not how—we’re supposed to let go. It’s been years.”

“You loved him,” she insisted.

“Look at how much that mattered,” Charles said, anger furrowing his brow, burning low in his stomach. Had he ever let himself be angry, with Arthur, with the choices they made? “What did loving him buy me, besides a heart that broke twice?”

Sadie’s eyes softened, understanding dawning warm and terrible. “I know that’s not how you really feel,” she said. Sadie reached out, again, with careful fingers. When Charles didn’t stop her she tucked the hair plastered to Charles sweaty forehead back, away from his eyes.

It was the first gentleness anyone had touched him with since he left the Wapiti for Saint Denis. Charles’s breath caught in his throat, trapped, terrified. Vulnerable. 

It would have hurt less if she’d socked him in the stomach.

“You don’t ride back from Canada, on your own, to bury a man who you hated,” Sadie continued. Her calloused hand settled on his jaw, thumb behind his ear. She held him steady, made him look her in the eye. “You don’t spend a year of your life helping his kid brother get his family back.”

“Arthur didn’t need me, at the end,” Charles managed. “Rain Falls needed me—and then they didn’t. No one did.”

“Why Saint Denis, Charles? You hated it there,” Sadie asked, resigned. She already knew the answer. She was being cruel, making him face it out loud.

Charles swallowed. No one had ever accused Sadie Adler of being kind. 

“I was waiting to die.” 

Sadie nodded. Yes, of course. “And all this with John? What next, once he doesn’t need you?”

Charles glared at her, mouth tight and stubborn. 

Sadie laughed in his face. “You and Arthur,” she sighed, shaking her head. “You were made for one another, weren’t ya? No understanding how to live in this world for yourselves.” 

“You’re one to talk,” Charles shot back. 

“I’m happy with my life,” Sadie said firmly. “I had love, but I never wanted a family. I just wanted Jake. He’s gone. So I’m doing what makes me happy.” She paused, staring down at him, considering. “What makes you happy, Charles? You’re the most competent, most stubborn man I know. What do you really want? You know no one could stop you from getting it.”

Charles shook his head. “I have no idea,” he admitted. He climbed to his feet, offering Sadie a hand. She accepted, pulling herself to her feet. She kept hold of his hand, squeezing tight.  

“Don’t stop looking,” she commanded. “What you were doin’ in Saint Denis, waiting to die? You’re better than that, Charles Smith.”

Charles shook his head, pulling Sadie into a one armed hug. Grief, Arthur, his life—they hadn’t solved any of it, laying out in a field and snapping at one another under the stars. 

But the wound hurt a little less, like a lanced infection. 

“I hope so, Mrs. Adler,” Charles said into the mess of Sadie’s hair. She chuckled into his chest, punched him half-heartedly in the arm. They separated, fetching and mounting their horses. 

They separated at the fork in the trail. Sadie headed east, back to her base camp just outside Valentine. She had work to do, bounties to catch. The world may have been more ‘civilized’ in 1907 than it was in 1899, but work was still plentiful for a rider and marksman of Sadie Adler’s skill. 

Charles rode west towards Beecher’s Hope, sun rising over his shoulder.

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

A/N: Charles and Sadie are my favorites, and they should have spent more time with one another. They're not exactly similar people, but they've been through many of the same trials. 

I also think they were both done a disservice by the epilogue. Charles's feelings regarding the gang's collapse are largely unexplored, despite him canonically being the one to have buried Lenny, Hosea, Mrs. Grimshaw, and Arthur. 

We also don't get a good explanation for why Charles ended up in Saint Denis as part of a fighting ring. Certain lines from Charles--"It seems like I was put on this Earth to hurt and to suffer myself"--have always led me to believe that he suffers from suicidal ideations. Him ending up in Saint Denis, surrounded by people who wish him harm, reads to me like a sort of 'death by cop' form of suicide.

On the subject of Charles's heritage: Rockstar is a trash fire, so beyond being half-Black and half-Native we have very few clues about Charles's culture and his history. I settled on a particular band (the Kotsoteka, or 'buffalo eaters') of the Comanche who would have had a decent amount of contact with Black Freemen post-Civil war. They live in Oklahoma and Texas, buffalo are a central part of their traditional lifestyle, and one of their mourning traditions involves shaving their heads in a manner similar to Charles's hairstyle change post-Guarma arc.

 I'm white and if anyone has constructive comments about my inclusion of Kotsoteka funerary traditions I'm happy to hear and act on them.

The Oquenda was the name of a Cuban trading ship from the 1870's. It was primarily used to transport indentured Chinese workers to the Cuban sugar plantations.

[shadow--writer]

Bittersweetness

Julian x mc (no pronouns used!) -- set in universe -- after upright endish

Word count: 4.5k

TW: none!

Tags: hurt comfort, fluff, angst, loneliness, Julian works too much, a little spicy at the end but nothing nsfw

~~~~

Some days it was hard for me to fall asleep. Some days it was even harder to wake up. Julian was always out or working, leaving me with the small ache in my chest as I thought about him. 

He was working when I fell asleep at night and was gone when I woke in the morning. 

Some days I’d wait up for him, reading and practicing spells. He’d come through the door, smelling sweet like mint and cinnamon and bitter like medicine. His hair would be a ruffled mess, eyes tired and sagging. Purple bags made permanent residence under his eyes and his lashes would brush his cheeks lazily as he blinked. 

Tonight I pretended to be asleep when he came in. Just to see what he’d do.

His voice was thick with exhaustion as he watched me pretending to sleep. “Ah asleep again,” he whispered, peeling off his gloves and boots. Off came the shirt and pants and then his sleepwear.

He never wore anything much during the summer. Just some low hanging pants a friend made for him. Venezuela was always sticky and too hot during the summer months making wearing anything else a chore. 

The bed sighed under his weight as he sat down, running a hand through his hair. There was a small chuckle from him, it rumbled from his chest and sent a spike of warmth threading through my stomach.

“Hey there sweetheart,” he said, scooting closer to me. He brushed my hair out of my face. I struggled to keep the peaceful look on. He planted a gentle kiss against my forehead, combing my hair away from my face and across my pillow. “I love you, you know. Even if I can’t be around as much...work is picking up now that the clinic is being talked about. More and more housecalls and people getting sick.”

There was a sigh as he settled into bed, arms wrapping around me. His legs tangled into mine, his nose buried into the back of my neck. His breath was warm against my skin. I let out a small sigh myself, sinking into his touch.

“I promise I’ll take a day off soon. I just need some time...to get back into things,” he murmured, lips ghosting my neck. “Thank you darling. Thank you.” A whisper. A breath. 

And he was out. 

I let out a small gasp of breath, feeling warm tears slide down my cheeks. 

I missed him.

I missed him so much it hurt.

~~

He was gone when I woke up. The only sign he was really there was the small cooling dent in the bed and the feeling of breath on my neck.

I got to my feet, wrapping a blanket around my shoulders. It smelled like him. Like leather, cinnamon and coffee. Something bitter lay under all of it. Something bitter coated my tongue and heart. 

As I moved to the kitchen I noticed that the apartment smelled nice. Like honey and coffee beans. 

I shuffled into the kitchen, tears springing to my eyes when I saw he made coffee and breakfast. The source of the good smell. By my plate of pancakes was a little note. His handwriting was messy as ever but over time I learned to read it. 

Hello my love,

Sorry I had to go so early. I swear I’ll be home earlier tonight. Things are getting very busy and I might need to hire new help soon. Which is both exciting and scary I’ll admit. 

I hope you like this peace offering of mine. Pasha taught me how to make these. It was a lot of trial and error. 

I love you more than the sun in the sky darling dear of mine. One of these days I’ll prove it to you. 

See you tonight. 

Yours,

Ilya

I held the note to my face, tears stinging my eyes. Weeks. It had been weeks since we really talked. Talked without one of us sleeping or pretending to sleep. 

I kissed the note softly, bringing it down to hug while I sat down. 

The coffee was sweeter today. He knew how I liked it. The pancakes were perfect if a bit toasty. I smiled a little. He wouldn’t stop until they were absolutely perfect. Even if I was happy with how they were now. 

My smile faded at the edges as I looked out the window at the rising sun. The day was already warm and sticky. It always was like this in the summer. Couldn’t catch a break. 

I knew Julian was right next door. Easy enough distance to go. 

But he was probably busy. He always was. 

I finished my breakfast, getting up to wash the dishes and think for a moment. Spotting the rest of the dirty dishes in the sink I knew I had a few good hours of washing with my thoughts.

As I scrapped off the plates I thought about what I could do. I could try making him lunch and bringing it over. 

My heart fluttered at the thought. 

Yes. That’s what I’d do. Make him something too. 

I quickly finished up the dishes in the sink. Forks and spoons went into their drawers and I set a few pans on a towel to air dry. 

Tucking the dish I held into a towel I set to work. 

I knew he liked warmer lunches and soups. Even in the summer. But there was something said about eating something that left a trail of warmth as you ate it. 

I was no Mazelinka but I knew he’d appreciate the sentiment. 

I got to work on a sweet potato mushroom soup. We had extra potatoes that I didn’t know what to do with. So what better way to use them than for lunch?

I peeled and mashed the potatoes, slicing up the mushrooms with care and a small hum. I grabbed a clean pot, setting it to simmer over the stove. In went the potatoes then spices. It made the house smell like butter, cumin and sweet potatoes. While I waited for that, I sliced up some plain bread with sharp cheddar. 

I made lemonade and tucked it into a cooling glass. I had extra, maybe I’ll freeze it and make lemon popsicles to share later today.

I quickly made my own lunch, standing back to admire my hard work. Breathing in I coughed a little. The air was stifling already and it wasn’t even noon yet. 

But soon his lunch was ready. I packed it into a paper bag, hoping he’d be there so I could give it to him myself. I quickly got dressed and tugged my shoes on. It was a quick trip next door, then I’d go to the market to get things for dinner. 

He...he probably wasn’t going to be back in time for dinner anyways. 

I bit my cheek as I pushed my way inside the clinic. Inside was the same as always. Large bookshelves filled with different books ranging from research to adventure novels. Kids lay on the ground with little toys and colouring books as they waited for their checkups. 

The secretary brightened when he saw me walk in. “Ah! Dr. Devorak is in his office around back, you made it just in time he just finished up with his last patient before housecalls!”

I blinked, and then smiled. “O-Oh thank you! I brought lunch for him.”

The secretary’s eyes sparkled with mischief as they took in my barely thrown together appearance. “I’ll keep people away for as long as I can,” he said with a wink making me blush. 

“No need we won’t be doing much! I’m just bringing him lunch.” Another smile. “Just lunch.”

“Whatever you say. He’s back in his office, last door down the hall.”

Face red and heart racing I whisper another thank you and move down the clinic quickly. There voices from some of the other doors, but I ignored them, knocking gently on the door labeled ‘Devorak’.

“Ah yes? Come in! I was just heading out to lunch!” Julian’s voice. 

My heart skipped a beat at it. We were both awake this time. 

I pushed the door open a bit more with a smile. “Hey darling,” I said. His eyes went wide, and he broke out in a grin. 

“Sweetheart! Y-You came to see me!” I closed the door with a small click, making his eyes jump to the sound. His cheeks warmed but he still smiled. “Mmm and what’s that smell?”

“Lunch. I made you something. And of course I came to see you, you silly duck. The shop is closed today for restocking. Asra was going to drop by later to help out so I’m free.”

“And you made me something to eat?” His eyes welled up. “Darling you didn’t have to do that!”

“I did. And I won’t be taking no for an answer.”

“At least eat with me!”

My eyes widened a fraction. I did bring my own lunch, I was going to see if Portia wanted to eat with me and then go around the market. 

But now that this opportunity appeared…

“Are you sure? Don’t you have work to do?”

His face was ashen pale. He really needed sunlight. “No no I’m on my lunch break now! Besides, I’d like to spend this time with you. I haven’t seen you in weeks!”

I bit my cheek from snarking at him. It wasn’t his fault, but it still hurt. 

Even so, I smiled softly. “Yeah. I’d love that.”

He grinned, patting the chair next to him. I sat down, handing him the paper bag. “Mmmm sweet potato soup?”

“I warn you I’m no Mazelinka-”

“Darling, you made this, making it even more special to me.”

I turned away with a smile, my cheeks warming. “It’s nothing special.”

“It is for me. And it smells so good, darling you are a wonder.”

I giggled. “Well you already made breakfast for me so I thought I’d return the favour.”

He kissed my cheek, digging in. 

I ate as well, slowly to savour these stolen moments with him. We talked about this and that. The leech dealer and her wife. About the different kids that would come in. How excited he was to get his day off and spend it with me.

“Where would we go?” I asked at that question.

He stopped talking, his hands dropping what they were doing. “Huh?”

I tucked my legs up into the chair under me, scooting closer to him. His eye twinkled. “Where would we go?”

“Well...I was thinking we could go for a boat ride in the fixing up flooded district.” He was leaning in closer to me. 

“And then?”

“After rocking the boat with some fun activities…” I let myself smile. I had an idea what activities he’d do in that poor little boat with me. “We’d go for a walk up in the meadows right outside town. Into the fields and by that great big willow tree by the stream.”

“And?”

“We’d have a picnic! We’d fool around in the wheat, maybe play hide and seek.” I giggled. That sounded lovely. “And once it gets dark I’ll take you down the stream and up this little rock formation I found. There we’ll stargaze together before you fall asleep and I have to carry you home.”

“And when I wake up at home all cozy in our bed…?”

He kissed my forehead, then moved to kiss my cheeks. “I’ll hold you. Cuddle and talk together. Run my hands through your hair, press your body against mine. Never let you go. We’ll fall asleep like that together and in the morning wake like that together.”

“Then I’ll get up first and make breakfast.”

“I’ll come down tired and grumpy that you left me.”

“I’ll kiss you as an apology and give you your coffee and we’ll talk some more.”

He kissed my nose, my browbones. “After breakfast we’ll call on some friends and go out together and maybe stay the night with them.”

“Going to the Rowdy Raven for a pint first.”

“Of course.”

I laughed, throwing my mouth open and my head back. He grinned at the sound, kissing my chin and the skin just below. “I love you,” he murmured. 

I let out a small hum, brushing my hands up his arms. He shivered at the small caress. I opened my mouth to respond. “I-”

“DOCTOR!” The secretary burst in. He caught my eye, and winced with apology seeing where we were positioned. I didn’t feel embarrassed. 

Just...sad.

“Ah! What’s wrong?” Julian snapped back, getting to his feet. I watched it all unfold, hurt snapping through my bones. 

“House call. Broken leg. Fell off a horse. Bone is sticking out. Mother is frantic with worry. Kid is fifteen.”

Julian winced, quickly packing his bag. “Tell her to wait a moment and I will be right there.”

He turned to look at me. I must’ve not been hiding my hurt very well because he frowned. “I’m so sorry darling I’ll make it up to you-”

I waved him off, forcing a smile. “No no! I can’t ask you to pull away from a kid in need. Go on and help him. I’ll be here.”

His eye swam with worry and concern. “I’m still sorry, my love. I’ll be home tonight. Early. I promise.” He kissed my forehead, and hurried out the door. 

I knew that was a lie. Things always got bad after dark. The night got sticky and warm. Heat strokes, bar fights, sneaking out. He wouldn’t be back until late.

I looked down at my lap, at the empty dishes on his desk. At the mess of paper and messy handwriting. My picture was at one end of the desk, another frame of us together next to it. Our friends all smiling at the ocean. 

I curled my knees to my chin, looking at the door he left from. 

“I love you,” I whispered to nothing but air.

~~

Dinner went cold two hours ago. I put away the leftovers an hour after waiting. I fell asleep soon after that, angry and bitter at the world for taking him from me like this. 

I missed him so much that it was clear on my face. 

I startled awake at three in the morning from a dream. A good dream or bad dream I didn’t know. I just knew I trembled alone in the dark, my skin clammy with the summer heat and my own sweat. 

My cheeks were stiff with the salt of unshed tears as I got to my feet. I pulled socks on over my toes, trying to keep as quiet as possible when I snuck down into the kitchen to get some water. 

Julian was fast asleep on his side of the bed, legs sprawled out like a starfish. He looked peaceful and I didn’t want to disturb that. 

It was a nightmare I decided. I had a bad dream. My stomach was tied in knots and my hands still trembled as I got water from the sink. My tongue was coated in something bitter and I just felt...empty. 

The bad dream aches would go away soon, only to be replaced with the almost homesick feeling.

I loved him. Don’t get me wrong I loved him so much. 

But I didn’t know how much longer I could keep going without hearing his voice in the morning, eating with him just...being with him. 

I stood by the counter, swaying my hips a little as I drank water. The water washed away the stale taste in my mouth but did nothing to help the bitter feeling. My hands slowly stopped shaking and my body stopped aching as I moved. 

“What’re you doing up so early?” I stopped what I was doing, turning to see Julian running a hand through his hair. His pants hung very low on his hips, his feet bare. The moonlight seemed to make him glow. His eyes softened as he looked at me. “Bad dreams?”

Wordlessly I nodded. 

He crossed the distance between us, wrapping me up in a hug. “I know I’m late to comfort you. I know I haven’t been the best in these last few days. These last few weeks,” he whispered to my hair. 

I didn’t say a word, not wanting to interrupt this moment. I just closed my eyes, breathing him in. We swayed a little, rocking from foot to foot. 

Then he pulled away from the hug, letting my hands slide down his arms into his waiting palms. He held my hands gently, slowly drawing me into a slow dance. 

Letting one hand go he spun me. The movement was slow, his other hand brushed my hip. A whisper of a question. 

When I stopped spinning I wrapped my arms around his neck, pulling him in closer. Almost immediately his arms went around my waist, his face buried in my neck and mine in his. 

His hands shifted my nightshirt up, his fingers cold as ice against my sticky warm skin. I let out a small gasp, making him smile. 

Squeezing my eyes shut, I leaned into the touch. His fingers danced up and down my sides, running down my ribs and resting on my hip bone. I pressed a soft kiss into his neck making him let out a small gasping breath. 

“I want you,” he whispered. 

“I want you,” I responded. 

“I’ve wanted you for so long. Here. In my arms. With me. Alone,” he said, kissing the side of my neck and my jaw. “Soft touches and kisses. Just you and me. I want...I want to touch you.”

“Touch me then,” I breathed, my voice seeming to come out in a gasp. 

He smiled, kissing my cheek. “As you wish.”

His hands moved from my sides to my face. Down my shoulders and arms. His fingers were so cold, but they felt nice against my clammy skin. His brows were pinched in worry, love and guilt shining in that eye he always kept covered. 

“It must’ve been one hell of a nightmare,” he said, brushing at my cheeks with his thumbs. 

I nuzzled into the touch making his breath hitch. “It must’ve been but I don’t remember it now.”

He brushed a kiss at the spots he touched. I wanted to huff in annoyance. I wanted him to kiss me. I wanted to kiss him. I wanted him to spin me out of control until all I could see and touch and taste and feel was him. 

We danced around the kitchen in slow swaying movements. He was humming a slow bittersweet tune. One that made me feel as he did. 

He was guilty. He hated leaving me alone. Leaving me missing him as he missed me. 

He pulled out of my touch, bringing my hands down to his face. He planted small kisses on my palms and fingertips. Then following the trail he lay with his fingers he kissed up my left arm. My skin tingled with goosebumps at the touch of his lips. 

He pressed soft kisses on the inside of my wrists, tongue flicking over the veins and skin. He was gentle with me. Oh so heartbreakingly gentle. 

He moved up my arm. To my forearm and then my elbow. His lips were a ghost over my skin, making me arch my head back as he moved. 

Farther up my arm now, kissing my biceps and the soft skin right before my underarms. Then he planted kisses on my shoulders, nipping at the skin there. The muscle where my shoulder met my neck. When he bit down softly I let out a gasp, my hands tightening against his arms. 

He smiled, tongue flicking over the spot as he resumed kissing up my neck. When he reached my face he planted one final kiss on my jaw and left me craving his warmth once again. 

Holding his hands I swung our arms up and down a bit as I planned my move. He was here with me. I had him all to myself in these quiet moments in the morning. The moon was our only witness, the only light to see him by. 

He was strong, my Julian. Broad shoulders and strong arms. Broad chest leading into a small waist that I could wrap my arms around so easily. A face with strong lips always with a smile on them. Grey eyes. Grey eyes filled with so much adoration for me it hurt. Messy auburn hair falling around his face in soft waves. 

I haven’t gotten to look at him, truly look at him in a while. 

I repeated what he did to me moments prior. I kissed his hands. His large calloused hands that had seen so much blood. Helped so many. Let go of more. His breathing hitched as I kissed each of his fingertips. 

I kissed his wrists, biting softly at the skin there, just kneading it between my teeth for a heartbeat. His heart thudded softly. Soft feathery kisses up his forearm and against his elbow. Up his biceps, pausing at each scar to give it it’s own kiss. 

“Oh darling,” he breathed. 

I said nothing, just kissed his shoulders. “You have very cold hands,” he whispered as I ran my hands up his chest. 

I kissed the skin of shoulder meeting neck, raising my eyes to meet his. “I should say the same about you.”

He chuckled, the sound cutting out as I took the skin between my teeth. “Oh,” he said, his voice turning into a soft moan that warmed my stomach. 

I let it go too soon, and I knew it was too soon when he let out a small huff. Hiding my smile with more kisses I moved on. 

Up his neck, biting softly and kissing as I went. He squirmed a bit, hands moving down to my waist. Fingers drummed along my hips, drumming to the tune of his choked hum. 

I came to the spot I knew he liked biting best. The muscle behind his ear, meeting his jaw. I kissed it softly, before biting down. 

The noise he made sent sparks through my veins. A breathy mix between a sigh, moan and groan. 

He made it again when I flicked my tongue over the spot I bit. 

“Careful now darling,” he breathed, chest heaving against my fingers. His heart thudded so quickly against my touch. “I might just need to have you noooooooo-” he let out another moan, cutting himself off as I bit down on the spot again. 

“Hush now my love,” I whispered, moving on to kiss where his jaw met his ear. He let out another hum of pleasure. 

“Mmm I love you,” he whispered. 

I planted a kiss on his jaw, his cheeks, the tip of his nose. The bridge of his nose. I had to stand on my toes to kiss his forehead, him bending down to the touch. 

“I love you too,” I whispered as I kissed his temple. 

“Mmm kiss me,” he murmured. 

I let out a small giggle. “I am kissing you.”

His eyes snapped up to meet mine. “No I want a real kiss.”

“What’s the magic word?”

“Please.”

The pleading tone of his voice made me pause. I grinned, making him wilt a little bit, the two of us still swaying and shifting our weight from foot to foot. 

“Say it again.”

“Please.”

I held his face in my hands. “One more time?”

“Only if you say it back.”

I giggled. “Please?”

He didn’t respond, just kissed me. I didn’t care that he didn’t say it again. I didn’t care that I felt sticky and warm. 

I just cared that he was here with me. 

I moved my hands from his face, wrapping my arms around his neck again. He leaned into me, making me hold onto him for balance as he pressed me against the counter. 

His lips were needy. Begging mine. Pleading with me. They whispered things we left unsaid. They whispered apologizes and littles pleas. 

I only hoped mine held the answers. 

“Darling,” he said, lips brushing against mine with the word. 

I slowly opened my eyes, he was so close. So close. So heartbreakingly close. Illuminated by moonlight he seemed like some ethereal being. 

“Yes?”

“I’m sorry.”

I blinked. “Julian...you don’t have anything to be sorry for. You got caught up in work that’s f-fine.” My voice caught on fine. It cracked. 

He knew it wasn’t fine. 

“You stuttered,” he said, nuzzling my face. “That means you’re lying. It’s not fine. I know it’s not fine.”

“But-”

“Let me finish. I got caught up because everyone is getting hurt all the time. There aren’t many doctors or help in my clinic. I really do need to hire.” I let out a breathy laugh. “I’ll set that up tomorrow. I swear it.”

“You haven’t come through with your promises as of late.”

He kissed my cheek. “I know and I’m sorry.”

“I’m sorry too. For not...trying.”

“Darling you of all people have nothing to be sorry for!” He sounded offended. 

I offered him a small smile. “But I do. I didn’t try. This is a two way street. If I want something I need to give something in return. I love you Julian, and I’m sorry for not trying. Not trying to see you. Not trying to see if you can take a break.”

“Sweetheart. Love of mine. My darling. Dearest. You understand how important work is to me, and that’s why you stayed away.”

I looked away. “I do. But I still care about your wellbeing and I should have said something.”

There was a small rumble from him. A chuckle. “We both should have to be honest.”

I laughed. “Yeah, we should’ve.”

“Thank you.”

“For what?”

He took his face out of my cheek, kissing me softly. “For loving me. The mess that I am.”

I didn’t argue with it. He was a mess.

And so was I.

“Thank you for loving me. All my broken pieces,” I said, pulling him closer. “And for helping me find my pieces still missing.”

He kissed me again. And again. 

“Broken is not the same as unfixable my dear. And you are wonderful and perfect no matter how many pieces seem to be broken or missing.”

I sealed my mouth over his, breaking away after a few moments of just enjoying how he tasted. Smelled.

Felt.

“Well Dr. Devorak. I’m here now. With you.”

His eyes lit up with mischief and something more. “Alone…” he said.

I kissed his cheek. “So what are you going to do about it?”

He picked me up, making me let out a small squeal. I wrapped my legs around his waist, clinging to him like ivy. His arms fell back around my waist, squeezing my butt making me laugh. 

With another sweet kiss to my lips he whispered, “I guess we’ll have to see.”

The door to our bedroom clicked as it closed. 

[hxlyhead-harpies]

Cowboy Like Me

evermore

Pairing: Sirius Black x Remus Lupin

Summary: Muggle! AU. Remus Lupin is a con man who is determined to get what he wants. That is, until he meets Sirius Black. Inspired by Cowboy Like Me by Taylor Swift

You're a bandit like me Eyes full of stars Hustling for the good life Never thought I'd meet you here It could be love

Word Count: 2.2k

Warnings: Mentions of alcohol

Remus stood at the edge of the ballroom, watching the rich men and women dance around the room as he sipped from his glass of wine. He was at some high society ball that he hadn’t been invited to, searching for his next meal ticket. Remus crashed these events often, knowing that with a pretty enough smile he could get in anywhere. He’d meet the gaze of various important men from across the room, enticing them with his golden eyes. Each long, fixed stare conveyed a message, as if a secret code was embedded in Remus’s honey irises. They would find their way to him sometime later that night, in a secluded hallway or closet. There were many elites with secrets in unhappy marriages, a fact that Remus could easily use to his advantage. He learned early on that men who came from old money loved nothing more than to spend it, showering him in gifts he could sell and cash he could spend.

So there he sat at the end of the bar, eyes scanning the room for someone donning that specific air of loneliness. He tugged at his tie and observed. 

The ballroom was grand edging on gaudy, high vaulted ceilings seemingly coated in gold. The party was held in the ballroom of a rich benefactor who had nothing better to do than to throw money at shallow causes and to throw gauche parties. The air was thick with fake niceties and the lofty laughter of old rich women who had downed too much champagne. Remus hated these parties, but he had to make a living somehow. Hustling for the good life was exhausting but the end always rewarded the means. He could forget how miserable these parties were when he finally had what he wanted. 

His eyes eventually landed on a familiar man with sleek black hair pulled into a bun. He recognized him, from these very parties in fact, but he hadn’t seen him for years. He remembered the man’s piercing gray eyes, his overconfident posture, and his clunky black boots. Remus used to stare at him during these events, reveling in the shape of the man’s shoulders and the way he’d shed his jacket and roll up his sleeves. 

The last time Remus had seen him was when he was nineteen, just starting to learn the life of a con man. Back then he had been on the cusp of adulthood, masquerading as a man when he was only just a boy. The man appeared to be close to Remus’ age and mysterious. He had always seemed carefree and out of place. Though his appearance screamed aristocrat, his smile held the mischief of a vagabond. 

The man had disappeared abruptly, never showing his face at another event again. That was, until tonight. 

He looked just as beautiful as Remus remembered, but still painfully out of reach. He seemed like a wild and free spirit, someone who wouldn’t be scandalized to be seen with him. He wasn’t the type of man that Remus could scam and milk for money. Remus didn’t have time to waste on anything else. But momentarily, sliver met gold, the stranger’s eyes strong and unwavering. Remus nearly shivered under his gaze but looked away quickly. 

That night Remus spoke to a man in politics, whispering in hushed voices in a back hall, promises of riches if Remus promised not to tell. It was just as he planned. The gentleman left to return to the party and dote on his unsuspecting wife, leaving Remus to lean against the wall with a satisfied smirk. He felt a presence next to him and he turned, meeting the iron eyes he hadn’t been able to get out of his mind all night. The man smirked at him and crossed his arms. His bun had become slightly messy, pieces of hair falling to frame his face. The way he was looking at Remus was dangerous. 

“Care to dance?” he asked, making Remus’s cheeks go pink. Remus leaned his head back against the wall, letting his eyes roam over the stranger’s body before turning away.

“I don’t think that would be a good idea,” he said after a moment. The man grunted in response, his eyes never leaving Remus’s side profile. 

“I’ve seen you before haven’t I?” he asked Remus with a furrowed brow. 

“I come to these events quite often,” Remus replied. The man narrowed his eyes. 

“But the thing is,” he said, “I know everyone who’s invited to these little soirees and I don’t know you.” Remus smiled to himself and took a lazy look back towards the man.

“Whoever said I was invited,” he answered with a chuckle. A grin broke out across the other man’s face and Remus felt something in his stomach twist. Remus couldn’t risk taking a liking to this gorgeous stranger no matter how sharp his cheekbones, as love could never fit into his lifestyle. It was a realization he had come to a long time ago, a sad one, but it was the truth. 

“So what is your name then?” he asked with a smirk. Remus thought for a moment, trying to decide whether he should give his given name or an alias. 

“Remus Lupin,” he said finally. The man raised his hand for Remus to shake. Remus grabbed his palm, the stranger’s grasp warm and firm. 

“Sirius Black,” he said, his eyes glinting. Remus faltered for a moment. 

“As in…” he began.

“Walburga and Orian Black? Yes, I’m their son,” he said, interrupting Remus. Remus swallowed thickly and looked away, a pit forming in his stomach. For some reason, some part of him had wanted Sirius to be like him: a wandering man with no destination and a knack for fooling the rich. But it seemed that he had been mistaken, Sirius was one of them, among the ranks of the men he had swindled, and Remus had just told him his name.

“Not that they’d ever call me that,” Sirius said quickly as if sensing Remus’s internal panic. “Left home when I was eighteen. I’ve been disowned and disinherited,” he said, bitterness ebbing into his voice. Relief flooded through his veins for a moment, a feeling he felt guilty for seconds later. 

“That must have been hard,” Remus said after a beat. Sirius just shrugged and loosened his tie.

“In all honesty, I’m happy to be away from them,” he said, “And it’s fine. I get by.” Remus nodded. 

“So what do you do now?” he questioned, “You know, to get by?” Sirius smirked at him and gestured to the ballroom. 

“I do this,” he answered, “There are plenty lonely women on the other side of the marriages you ruin, Lupin.” Remus let out a surprised laugh, not quite expecting Sirius’s bluntness. Sirius only smiled wider at the sound f his laughter, giving Remus a look that could only end in disaster. 

Remus’s night ended in the coat closet with Sirius’s lips pressed against his own, ignoring the party and the potential scheming for the feeling of his hands running through Sirius’s dark hair.

Remus wasn’t sure what he expected to come out of that night. No contact information had been exchanged. After pressing several searing kisses to Remus’s lips, Sirius had straightened his coat and exited the closet, leaving Remus behind.

It was a month until Remus attended another party wearing a fancy new suit that a mayoral candidate had purchased for him, secretly of course. This party was in the garden behind some manor, a white tent pitched among the flowers and lanterns hanging from trees. As soon as Remus pulled back the tarp and headed into the heart of the banquet. He convinced himself that his eyes were searching for his next conquest, not for Sirius. But he froze when he caught sight of the man across the crowd with his hand resting on the forearm of an expensive-looking woman. 

Remus sighed before heading into the throng of the crowd, reminding himself that the fleeting moment he had shared with Sirius had been nothing and they were both here now with a purpose. He couldn’t get sidetracked or too attached. So as the night wore on he met with various men, planting the seeds for his various affairs and subsequent funds. 

As the party dwindled he felt a hand on the small of his back and he looked up to catch Sirius’s burning gaze. Sirius pushed past him, using his carefully placed hand to maneuver around Remus, his eye contact lingering as he headed towards the exit. Remus counted to a hundred in his head before downing his drink and excusing himself from the conversation and heading outside.

Remus left the tent, walking around the side in an attempt to find Sirius. After a short walk, he was met with Sirius’s back, the other man looking up at the sky. A twig broke under Remus’s foot, alerting Sirius to his presence. He spun around with a wide smile.

“Took you long enough,” Sirius said before stepping towards him, “I almost thought you didn’t read my signals correctly.” Remus chuckled before Sirius grabbed the front of his shirt and pulled him in for a blazing kiss. When Sirius pulled back he had a self-satisfied smile on his face, his grey eyes reflecting the stars. 

After that night, every party that Remus attended became less about profit and more about the chance he could catch a glimpse of Sirius. He felt himself falling down a rabbit hole, feelings he had always scorned now bubbling to the surface. He didn’t know what Sirius wanted from him, but frankly, he didn’t care. Remus couldn’t offer him money or anything material, all Remus could offer was himself. He had been in this business long enough to know that he wasn’t enough for men like Sirius. But he was too caught up in the excitement of clandestine meetings and secret rendezvouses to dwell on it. The way that he’d catch Sirius stealing glances at him from across the room while simultaneously attempting to swindle one of his mother’s friends sent electricity down Remus’s spine every single time.

After their fourth encounter, Remus had the courage to slip his number into Sirius’s pocket, praying that his confidence was good and not a misstep. He sat by the phone anxiously for hours, waiting for the man he felt himself quickly falling for to call. And to Remus’s delight, he did. 

After a particularly slow Christmas party, Remus found himself once again in Sirius’ arms. After months of parties, the arrangement had become less about their surface-level attraction. Gone were the nights of senseless kissing and grappling for honest human touch. Now, nights were spent learning of their pasts, tracing fingers across shoulders, and memorizing the shape of each other’s smile. 

Here, Remus laid with his head resting in the crook of Sirius’ neck, breathing in his expensive scent and listening to the sound of his breathing. He thought the other man was asleep, his eyelids fluttering against his cheeks and his muscles relaxed. If Remus had suspected that Sirius was conscious, he never would have been so bold. He swiped a strand of dark hair from Sirius’s cheek and pressed a kiss to his jaw before murmuring the words that he had never thought he would say. 

“I love you,” Remus whispered, the honesty of it all hitting him square in the chest. In the past, the words had only ever been used as a weapon, as a tool of manipulation. But as they left his lips, his eyes trained on Sirius, he knew that he had never once meant something so much in his life. The words were completely unselfish and authentic. Remus, for once, didn’t want or expect anything in return. 

The air around him stilled as Sirius whispered that he loved him too. 

Months later Remus stood in the lounge of a country club, tying up some loose ends. He sat at the end of the bar when a conversation to his left caught his interest. A few ladies that he knew Sirius had conned were lunching together, discussing Remus’s lover.

“I haven’t seen the boy in ages,” one of them said, scandalized. 

“Not since the Malfoy’s Christmas party,” another one added with raised eyebrows.

“Quite a handsome young man, it’s a shame he’s run off again,” a third woman said. They all nodded in agreement and sipped their tea. Remus smiled to himself as he listened, knowing exactly where Sirius had disappeared to. 

When Remus arrived home he walked towards his bedroom, kicking a familiar pair of black boots out of the way. He climbed back into bed and was immediately met with Sirius pressing languid kisses to his jaw. 

“I missed you,” he murmured into Remus’s neck. Remus smiled, pushing Sirius’s hair out of the way and leaning in for a real kiss. Once they parted Sirius curled up into Remus’s side, his head on his chest. 

“I love you,” Remus whispered, pressing a sweet kiss to Sirius’s temple. He had said the words to countless, people many times. But the words were only spoken when he needed something from them. It wasn’t until Sirius that the words meant anything. And Remus knew that never in his life would he want to say the words to anyone else.

[crypty]

happier than ever

I don't relate to you

Tommy used to be just like Wilbur. He tried to be as well. He wanted to be his brother, to be just as smart and strong. Those dreams died, slaughtered by bloody swords as Tommy lost a life for his brother. That child like trust in Wilbur died in that control room when Wilbur failed to save him. He tried to make up for not trusting his brother. He would have walked through fire for Wilbur. Was it guilt for not trusting him or loyalty pushing the boy, Tommy would never admit. 

I don't relate to you, no

Tommy always wanted to be “as good as Wilbur.” What would he do now that he was better? Was he even better? Tommy thought so, in a way. At least Tommy knew that what he was doing was bad. At least Tommy admitted it. Tommy was better than his brother because Tommy told it how it was. He knew he was self destructive, he didn’t try to fool himself that anything was healthy. That made it better. Or did it make it worse?

'Cause I'd never treat me this shitty

Tommy didn’t lie to himself. The boy was blunt, never one to sugar coat words. Not like Wilbur, with his sweet, candied lies. Not like his brother who enticed him to the edge with promises of honey coated glory. Not like the sickly sweet promises that Tommy hung on to. No, Tommy didn’t lie to himself. He had more self respect than that. 

You make me hate this city

His L’Manberg. Those were the lyrics, no? Wilbur’s L’Manberg, Wilbur’s legacy. Once upon a time, Tommy would have just been happy to see Wilbur’s dream bloom in L’Manberg. Now, bitter resentment curled in the blond’s heart. Vicious and angry and shameful. Blowing up the country. In a way, Tommy was glad Wilbur did it. It was almost poetic that the creator destroyed L’Manberg. Tommy didn’t get the peaceful ending he was hoping for. 

And I don't talk shit about you on the internet

Ah but he still stayed loyal. He hated Wilbur but they were brothers. He would always love his brother. Not once did he betray his brother. He stayed loyal through words and actions both. He never once verbally doubted Wilbur. Not once. Not through the war, the elections, exile, or death. No, he loved his brother. 

Never told anyone anything bad

He never once spread slander or rumors. Why would he? Beyond that, Tommy would never hurt Wilbur like that. He would never betray his brother, no matter his doubts. He persevered through fear or pain or death. No, he loved his brother. 

'Cause that shit's embarrassing, you were my everything

Not that Wilbur extended the same courtesy to him. Wilbur used Tommy, the boy saw that now. He was left to pick up the pieces of a broken childhood and wonder if his brother was even aware of his manipulation. At least, when Tommy hurt himself, he didn’t fool himself into thinking that it was okay. He didn’t lie to himself. He knew he was fucked up. 

And all that you did was make me fucking sad

~~~

Based on “Happier Than Ever” by Billie Eilish

Masterlist

https://thelullabyer12.tumblr.com/post/639129395216433152/masterlist-of-2021

[thereluctantinquisitor]

WIP Whenever!

Thank you for the tag @frenchy-and-the-sea, and for sharing your own wonderful WIP (which curious folks can find HERE - seriously, GO FORTH AND ENJOY).

I’m currently trundling away at a new project, so I figured I’d just go ahead and post the (current) chapter 1!

I will tag: @leothelionsaysgrrrr, @dafan7711, @captainsaku, @rufinagertrude, @bladeverbena, @thefluffynug and anyone else who has something they want to share (just tag me so I can see it!)

Chapter 1 (1800 words)

For many centuries, the blessed temple of Callifae, the Broken Bride, stood proudly atop its noble grassy plateau. The goddess, whose likeness emerged, brilliant, from the forward face of the temple, cast her watchful gaze over the quiet city of Vezarine with eyes of smooth, pale stone. When the sun set on a clear day, there was said to be a moment when those all-seeing eyes shone with a honey light; a perfect imitation of the goddess’ golden stare.

On this day, the second of Torrens, night had already arrived. The sun - gentler, now, against the summer-scorched earth - had vanished long ago. But still, the Bride’s eyes glowed.

Vezarine was burning.

In the warren of streets below, a cloaked figure peeled out of an alleyway. His chest rose and fell in a rough, staccato rhythm - the breaths of someone who had been running, climbing, hiding, fighting, for far too long. 

The wide, two-storey building behind Xaraan was already blazing. Its wood groaned and cracked in the heat, slowly buckling beneath the weight of itself like a body held up by broken legs. Backing further into the street’s exposed centre, his footsteps crunched against a thick coating of ash and blood. When the upper storey gave way with a shudder that shook the ground beneath him, he simply watched, silent. Cold. It had been a workshop, once. A tannery, if the smell was any indication. A smell like cooked fat and burning hair.

Sivaan, the third of the sister-moons, hung low in the sky. She joined the fire to bathe the city red. The raid was almost done. 

He had to move quickly.

---

Elsewhere in the ashen streets, a lone figure stood among the licking flames, the crimson mantle of her station whipping out behind her, tossed by the wind and smoke. Beneath her heels, the cobbles were stained black. Narrow rivulets trickled along the grooves in the stonework, drawn towards its gutters by the street’s gentle curve. Calayne, the Scythe of Erentis, watched the pattern as it slowly spread from the soles of her feet. 

She was where she belonged. The poison at the centre of the web.

A sharp signal - her raised fist - led to a pattern of blasted horns, their low, reverberating sound rolling through the broken city like thunder. Irethani soldiers began to flood back onto the main streets, peeling out of buildings and alleyways, some wiping blades on their dark cloaks, others pleased by the gore trailing in their wake. A patrol group joked lightly beneath the red moon’s gaze; playful remarks about how considerate she was, to mask the worst of the stains. We have become too used to this, Calayne thought as her soldiers swept past, saluting, smiling at their conquest. It was not the first time such treacherous words had crossed her mind. They were as dangerous as any blade. She would do well to keep them sheathed. 

“Scythe?”

Calayne released a slow, calm breath. Soon. Soon she would be rid of it all. The blood. The guilt. 

That wretched name. 

For now, she turned towards the familiar voice. Her dark hair, long and grey as night, swept past her face. “Report, Xaraan.”

Xaraan, the last of her officers, hesitated at her tone before snapping quickly to attention, right fist upturned against his stomach. “The city has fallen, Scy---ah, Overseer. Those who did not raise weapons against us have been gathered in the square by the catchers. Vezarine’s leader and high priest have barricaded themselves in the temple, along with their servants and a large number of cityfolk.” He hesitated, his luminous eyes flicking towards the statue of the goddess. “Should we send the burners?”

His question was first met with silence. How many this time? She had been informed before embarking that Vezarine was home to thousands. Then, after a sharp demand, Xaraan confirmed the estimated body count. It placed the dead, alone, at about the same number. The pleasure in his voice would have encouraged her, once. She would have basked in it. 

Instead, she frowned into the smouldering dark. The numbers the Rhaiz had given her had been wrong.

She clenched her jaw until her teeth ached. Never again.

“Forget the temple. Give the signal to retreat.” She was careful to keep her voice flat. Expressionless. Fire, its smoke thick and dark, licked from rooftops in the distance. “We are done here.”

Xaraan, perhaps misreading her soberness, suddenly remembered proper protocol. Hurriedly, he placed himself directly in front of her, his feet in line with hers. As one might expect after a raid, the man was dishevelled, his light hair tangled at his shoulders, blood streaked across the front of his leathers. The dark markings that streaked down past his eyes in a mimicry of spilled ink only made the wideness of his gaze - its faint luminosity - more pronounced. He is still young, she thought absently. Then, that very same realisation struck her like a blow to the chest. 

Had she not noticed that before?

“Overseer… the prisoners?” There was an edge to his voice, now. Uncertain. Fearful. That was the trouble of a man in his position. Even if he felt he knew the answer to his question, he was forced to risk her ire by asking it anyway. 

This time, however, he could breathe freely. “Take the ones already gathered in the square. Leave the rest to sweep the ashes.” It was, truly, the least she could do. For Vezarine, yes, but also for her own soldiers. Unfortunately, she doubted it would be enough of an offering to spare them from the Rhaiz’s anger, once the dust had settled. She had been carving away at their leader’s patience for over five seasons. What might have once been a victory in his eyes was now a failure. Another bleeding gash to be stemmed.

Of course, Calayne was far too valuable to use as salve for his wounded pride.

No. She would dig her fingers in and tear. 

In front of her, Xaraan - a far more likely sacrifice - hesitated, his amber eyes widening, betraying his surprise. Fool that he was, he had always worn his heart on his sleeve. It was a dangerous place, to keep such a vital thing. “But... Rhaiz Sathan’s orders were to take as many---”

Her patience was nearing its end. She cut him off with a glare. 

“The Rhaiz’s orders have changed.” 

A gust of hot wind blew past them both, forcing Xaraan to flinch and blink away the ash and dust. Distracted, his hand raised in front of his face, he made his first mistake. “I -- they have? I didn’t hear any...”

He stopped himself before she even had to speak. Of course, it was already far too late. A year or two ago, he would have been dead where he stood. The Scythe of Erentis had not earned her name for leniency.

“You are not in a position to be informed of anything.” Calayne’s gaze sliced across, ending his next sentence before it began. It carried with it a terrible, icy anger. The one that had borne her through decades of conquest. The one that had lifted her all the way to commander, then higher again to overseer. It gave weight to the words she spoke next, each laden with implication. “Do I need to remind you of your place?”

It was difficult to tell when one of the Irethani felt true fear. The other denizens of Erentis had developed noticeable tells for such things; vast swathes of their skin drained of colour, their voices shattered like glass, their bodies reshaped in ways that were impossible to ignore. But for her people, it was a subtle thing, best told by the lips. Xaraan’s, for example, had just turned a sickly pale shade of grey, his dark blood fleeing towards his stammering heart. “No, Overseer.” His gaze quickly fell to her feet, hands pressed hard to the tops of his thighs. A child’s trick to conceal a tremor. “I will sound the victory. Give your orders to the patrols.”

She made Xaraan spend a few more moments writhing beneath her stare. He had begun to question her more and more of late. Perhaps she had been a fool to allow such insubordination to fester and embolden him to the point of recklessness. It would see him killed under another’s command. Anger tightened her fists at her sides, but this time it was not a weapon to be aimed. No - it seemed her distractions had been as dangerous as her actions. For too long, her mind had been... elsewhere.

It remained a poor excuse for such carelessness.

Eventually, she released him from her glare with a sharp nod. “Go. Deliver my order.”

Xaraan’s relief was palpable. He exhaled it in a shaky rush. “Yes. Of course.” He gave a final salute, then turned to flee. But just when she believed their conversation over, the young man hesitated. Turned halfway back, his pale hair whipping in the fire-lit air. “The Rhaiz will be pleased with your victory today, Overseer.”

Calayne did not even have time to sharply repeat her order before he turned on heel and vanished into the thickening smoke. Sycophant, she thought at his retreating back, but swallowed the word like bitter tonic. It was self-preservation, obvious and infuriating, and nothing more. She should not scorn him for that.

The Rhaiz will be pleased with your victory today. 

Calayne’s gaze lowered, drifting to a body discarded by the roadside. Human, she believed. Male, broad of stature, perhaps in the middle of his lifespan. He was sprawled, half out of his doorway, head resting in a dark pool where his home met the city street. A few feet away was an old scythe, flecked with blood on its curved edge. A common farming tool, raised as a weapon against an army. He had managed a single swing – one futile strike – before it had been kicked from his grasp and his throat opened to the night.

The sting of the cut burned on the underside of Calayne’s arm. Her dagger still dripped a slow, pensive red. She had not planned to kill that night.

“You are more deserving of the name,” she murmured to the corpse. Yes. The Scythe of Vezarine. Had he lived, had his aim been true, perhaps it might have been so. Perhaps it might have been better for them both, if a new legend had been born from these ashes.

Something like an invisible chain tightened around her neck, heavy and cold. She turned away from the corpse to face the smouldering city. 

He should have stayed inside.