#Hair Restoration Training Course

[elegancevidyalay]

Your Career In Healthcare By Elegance Vidhyalay

Are you looking for a respected and rewarding career but have not studied beyond 10th grade? It is no longer a problem. Elegance Vidhyalay welcomes you to join our diverse range of paramedical courses. Whether you are interested in becoming an Operation Theatre Assistant, Laser and Cosmetic Procedure Technician, Anaesthesia Assistant, Hair Transplant Technician, or Diabetic Foot Technician, we have the right program for you.

Our courses are designed to provide hands-on training and real-world skills that will open your doors to important roles in the healthcare sector. These programs are perfect for individuals who wish to start their careers quickly and effectively, providing all the necessary training to excel in these high-demand fields.

Do not let limited formal education limit your potential. Enrol at Elegance Vidhyalay and step into a career that not only promises growth and stability but also the opportunity to make a significant impact on others' lives.

[kittenintheden]

You Can Read Me Anything Part 2

*ELMO ON FIRE GIF* so that took longer than anticipated but you know. HERE YOU GO. (thank you for all the wonderful comments on Part 1)!

***

Druidic Tav grew up in a nomadic clan that recorded their history through spoken word and song rather than written text. As such, she's illiterate, and one charming-ish vampire offers to help her with reading lessons and a whole lot more. Out of the goodness of his heart, of course.

Then one night, she unwittingly brings him smut for their lesson.

Rating: E Word Count: 5100 words Content: illiterate Tav, Astarion being a shit, but also being cute, innocent Tav, suggestive dialogue, blood drinking, biting kink, first time oral, cunnilingus, fellatio, PIV sex, Astarion playing himself

AO3 Link

Astarion cradles her head, palm gently pressed to her cheek as she leans into it. She sighs and it tickles his ear, sending a dissipating wave of gooseflesh down the length of his back.

“Are you done yet?” Tav asks, voice breathy.

He hums and detaches from her neck, admiring the clean pair of fang marks he left there. His tongue swipes his bottom lip so he doesn’t waste a single drop of her blood. He releases her and takes a step back.

“You…” he says with a lazy smile as he reaches out with a finger to boop her nose. “... are so delicious.”

“Ha, ha,” she says with an affectionate eyeroll. She spreads her hand over the bite mark and calls on her connection to nature, using it to knit the flesh back together and restore her blood supply. “Glad to help.”

“I’ll bet you are,” he drawls at her with a wink. “Thank you for the appetizer. I’d best go find myself a full meal now.”

As he starts to saunter off deeper into the woods, Tav clicks her fingers and lightly bonks herself on the head. “Oh, almost forgot.�� After him, she calls the Elvish phrase Shadowheart taught her.

For the first time since she met him at the site of the nautilus crash, she watches Astarion trip over his own feet.

He catches himself quickly, spine unusually straight as he puts his hands on his waist and takes a few more steps like he’d meant to do that the whole time. When he turns around to look at her, her smile fades when she notices his wide-eyed expression. The tips of his ears have gone very pink.

“Wha-” His voice cracks and he clears his throat and tries again, tone painfully casual. “What did you say?”

Tav grimaces. “Shit, did I get the middle part wrong? It was tricky when Shadowheart had me practice.”

Astarion leans forward a bit and gives a shaky laugh. “Ah. Right. I must’ve misunderstood. What were you trying to say?”

“She told me it meant, ‘I’m pleased to have provided you a good meal,’” Tav says, reaching up to pull some of her hair over her shoulder and fiddle with it.

“I see,” he says as he comes closer, his eyes searching her face. “Could you say it again? So I can correct your enunciation.”

“Oh, okay.” Tav gives a soft cough into her hand and repeats the phrase.

Astarion is close enough now that she sees his pupils dilate the tiniest bit. The flush at the tips of his ears spreads down the edges. Do they always do that after he feeds? They must.

He reaches delicate fingers up to cup her chin and draw her jaw down, parting her lips. His eyes are trained on her mouth and that makes her feel all too warm.

“Loosen your tongue,” he says softly. “Once more.”

She tries one more time and watches his eyelids flutter, inches from her own.

“There we go,” he whispers.

His gaze shifts to her neck again and he leans down toward it. She nearly stops him, but then she feels the draw of his tongue over the spot where he bit. He punctuates it with a soft, barely-perceptible press of his lips. A kiss, she might think, if she were a silly little girl. Which she certainly is not.

Then he’s standing straight again, releasing her face and putting space between them.

“Missed a smudge. Can’t let it go to waste.” His eyes rove over her face. “It’s so very precious.”

Then he walks off and she’s left standing there, cheeks hot and chest uncomfortably tight. Tav continues to run her fingers nervously through her hair as she turns and walks back toward their camp.

Astarion counts out fifty paces before he ducks behind a tree and leans his back heavily against it, letting out a shivery breath. He puts his cool fingers to his ears and tries to rub the heat out of them.

“Stop it,” he whispers to himself. “Stop it, stop it.”

---

Near the crumbling wreckage of a stone alter, Shadowheart kneels in prayer seeking guidance and direction from her Lady. The darkness, the loss, the silence�� they are vast and answerless. She opens her eyes and takes a deep breath in and out. Clenches her right hand, glancing at the ever-present wound there.

If only she could remember… anything useful. No matter. For now, it’s whatever path will take her back to Baldur’s Gate.

She gathers her components and packs them away, standing to walk back down the path toward camp. There’s a trio of crumbling walls that clearly used to be some sort of holy building and she walks along one, trailing her fingers over the soft moss overgrowth.

Then she turns round the corner of the broken temple to find a bristling, broody vampire leaned up against the wall with his arms folded, glaring at her with a tic in his jaw. He raises an accusatory finger.

"You," he says, the word hard on his tongue. "Are an arsehole."

She gives him a smug smile and arches her brow. "You're a bigger arsehole."

He refolds his arm and narrows his eyes at her. “Really think you’re clever, don’t you.”

The cleric shrugs and cuts off to the side to walk back to the path. “The goal was to make you lose your cool. Seems like it worked.”

Silently and suddenly he’s walking at her side, lip curling in disdain. “Congratulations to you, you managed to annoy me. Don’t do it again.”

“Oh, he’s testy tonight,” she says, putting a hand to her cheek in a mockery of shock. “Maybe you’d feel less the fool if you hadn’t been teaching her to talk dirty.”

“We can’t all be ice queens, dear,” he sneers. “Some of us are queens with needs.”

Shadowheart rolls her eyes and her entire head along with it. “You should be thanking me, then. I gave you your opening.”

Astarion stops and she keeps on walking.

“To what?” he says.

“To have your ‘needs’ met,” she calls over her shoulder. “I’m not the one who was teaching her to invite me betwixt her thighs. Have a frustrating night.”

Astarion makes an affronted noise after her, pouts a moment, and then calls back, “Your bangs are wretched, by the way.”

She throws a rude gesture up at him and continues onward.

---

He plots and flirts for three days straight before he decides to make his move. Tav’s guard is down, her shy little moments are increasing in frequency, and he can literally hear her heartbeat quicken when he’s near. If that’s not all signs pointing to yes, he doesn’t know what is.

All he has to do is, you know. Make the move. Which he’ll do. Soon.

Because she still makes the most sense. The others all adore her, listen to her. She’s the perfect choice of protector should his vampirism prove a problem to anyone. She’ll say yes. Of course she’ll say yes.

… of course she’ll say yes. No one denies him. It doesn’t happen.

… it rarely happens. Not as if he’d care if it did, this time.

Astarion rocks his weight onto his back leg, flicking his gaze up to see Tav kneeling near the campfire and giving the dog a generous belly rub. Before she stops, he goes back to his extremely casual reading. Standing posed outside his tent. Holding a book with the title facing out. Very normal.

After what feels like an hour, his ears pick up approaching footsteps and he skims the page he’s on, waiting.

“Is that a new one?” Tav asks timidly.

He closes the book and looks up to meet her. His close-lipped smile feels almost natural. Almost.

“There you are,” he says, dropping his register a fraction. “I was just thinking about you.”

Not a lie, actually.

She tucks her hair behind one ear. “Oh? Do I owe you something?”

He laughs and sets his book aside. “Only a bit of your time. I do enjoy it so very much.”

Tav quirks her mouth up on one side. “Yeah? You’re pretty okay, too.”

“Better than okay, I should hope.” He closely examines his thumbnail. “I’m… growing to enjoy the whole package, honestly.”

She doesn’t immediately respond and he chances a look up at her.

“Deer in the magicked light” is what one might call the expression on her face. She blinks rapidly and gives her head a small shake before she looks to the side, color rising prettily in her cheeks.

“Is that so?” she says, giving a tight laugh.

His smile starts to go a little toothy and he dials it back. “I’ve been thinking an awful lot about our last reading lessons,” he lilts at her, peering up through his lashes. “And our language lessons. I’ve been pondering over what other sorts of lessons I could offer.”

Tav’s cheeks go pink to red.

He leans in to speak softly, making her lean in closer to be able to hear him. “I like you,” he says. “And I think you like me, too. So?”

“So, what?” she blurts, immediately grimacing at her own outburst.

A giggle bubbles up out of him before he can stop it and he puts a hand up in front of his mouth to hide his smile. When he regains control, he lowers his hand. “So, I thought you might like to indulge in certain curiosities with me.”

I want to go down on you.

Astarion blinks the thought away as soon as it appears in his head, briefly letting his smile slip before he snatches it back.

Tav is blushing furiously, but she leans in closer to him nonetheless to whisper, “Like what, exactly?”

Elvish, rising like the language of his dreams: I want to drink of your fountain.

He gives his head a light shake, playing it off with a mirthful huff as he says lowly, “Like sex, sweet thing. Whatever kind you might be… interested in.”

Tav nods rapidly and hums, slowly leaning back and standing at her full height again, not quite meeting his eye. “I was pretty sure that’s what you meant, but you know. Better safe than sorry? Is that a thing people say?”

Astarion reaches out to gently guide her chin toward him until she’s looking at him. “Think about it. If you’re amicable, you’ll find me later at the clearing where you last offered me a bite after the others are asleep.” He chucks her under the chin. “I’ll be waiting.”

She nods once more, expression unchanged. “Yeah. Yep. Okay. I’m going to… see you later. Maybe.” Then she turns on her heel and walks away.

“See you later,” he says. “Lover.”

When she disappears into the dark, he blows out a breath, subtly shaking his hands out. That was a yes.

Right?

“Of course it was,” he snipes at his own brain.

---

Hours later, Astarion paces the moonlit clearing, fiddling with the cuffed sleeve of his shirt. The others must be asleep by now. He pulls at the sleeve. It feels too tight.

Should he take the shirt off? He should just take the shirt off.

He does.

Astarion glances around the clearing once more, noting the blanket he spread on the ground nearby. Not a bed, but you know. He’s okay with that, actually.

He clenches and unclenches his fists, rolling his hands at the wrists. Cracking his neck. Rolling out his shoulders. He takes a deep breath and forces himself to be still. Controlled. Practiced. This is an act he’s performed thousands of times. This is no different.

It’s not.

She’s going to come out of those bushes any moment and-

The bushes he’s looking at actually rustle and he jumps, whispering “oh, shit” before he can stop himself. He manages to put a smile back on his face just as the leaves part and a small doe takes two hops into the clearing and freezes when it spots him.

Astarion doesn’t move. He doesn’t even breathe. The doe relaxes very slightly, flicking an ear.

It’s one of the little black-tailed deer native to the area. He’s made a meal of more than one of them in recent days. Her coat is smooth and healthy, her eyes brown and clear.

The doe blinks at him and takes a step closer.

He gives a relieved chuckle and says, “There you are, Tav.”

“Oh, you heard me? Damn,” says a voice from behind him.

“Ah-” he yells. He tries to cut off the sound, but it’s too late. The doe spooks and bounds off into the underbrush once again.

“Apologies,” he says, regaining his composure and rolling his eyes to the stars above. “She was such a pretty little thing that I assumed it was you.” He starts to turn. “But I’m glad you made it. I was starting to worry you’d gotten lost and…” He finally sets eyes on her and loses his smile immediately. “... and you’re already naked.”

Tav stands before him without a stitch on, her long hair hanging over her rounded breasts and everything from the waist down on full display. He spots her clothing and staff in a neat stack nearby. Her whole body is flushed.

Astarion swallows. He’s seen untold numbers of people in states of full undress. This is routine. She caught him off-guard, is all.

“I… was I not supposed to be?” Tav says, hands going up to run nervously through her draping hair. “Sorry, I thought… you said sex? And then I saw that you had your shirt off, so…”

He holds up a hand and ticks up his brows. “No, no, it’s fine. It’s fine! I like it.” He finds the mask, the posture, like muscle memory. Slips back into the person in control. “You’re just full of surprises, beautiful.”

Tav rewards him with a bashful smile, continuing to comb her hands through her hair.

Astarion huffs a laugh. He can’t help himself. He approaches her with slow, intentional steps. “I had a whole catalog of poetic nothings to whisper in your ear, but looks like I needn’t bother, which is fine by me.” He stops in front of her, smiling his charmer’s smile. “So long as you still want to be tasted.”

He’s starting to notice it’s a good sign when the apples of her cheeks turn red. She nods. “I’d like to try the tongue thing, yes, please.”

“Good,” he purrs, reaching for her hips.

He pulls her in for a sweet, well-executed stage kiss. Most people needed about that much before they got to what they were really with him for. He pulls back and gives her a tight-lipped smile.

Tav looks into his eyes, her lips parted. She’s not moving, and oh gods, he’s going to have to lead completely, isn’t he? Ah well. Such is life.

But then she tucks her chin, her gaze going heated. The pupils of her eyes flicker, changing shape ever so slightly, and Astarion hardly has time to drop his pretender’s smile and ask before she surges forward and kisses him back, throwing her arms around his neck.

Astarion gives a surprised “mmmn!” as he stumbles slightly under her vigor, but he corrects quickly, wrapping his arms around her ribcage and lifting her against his body. Her tongue runs along his mouth and she’s nipping, nipping, and-

There’s a sharp sting on his bottom lip and he releases her right as she pulls back from him, hands to her mouth and eyes wide as saucers. He reaches up to touch his lip and when he looks at his fingers, they show a smeared drop of blood. He blinks down at it, astounded.

He feels a snap deep inside him as the monster in him, the hunter, stirs at the sight and scent of blood.

“I’m so sorry,” Tav says, dropping her hands. “It’s a druid thing, we can get a little wild, I’m really sorry, I won’t do it again.”

Astarion licks at the cut on his lip and stares at her face, his breath heavy and his shoulders ever so slightly hunched. He can see the smallest bit of his blood at the corner of her mouth.

“Do it again,” he says with a voice like gravel as he scoops her bodily up and goes to his knees so he can set her on the ground.

He lays his body on top of hers and she gasps as his mouth covers hers, exploring and hungry. It doesn’t take long for her to return it in kind, arms wrapped around his shoulders and tangled in his hair. He can’t even bring himself to care when she’s making it look like.

Murkily, his brain reminds him why he’s actually here.

Astarion forces himself away from her mouth and she whines at him, a sound far more animalistic than humanoid, but he doesn’t stop trailing his lips down her body until he gets to her hips. He rolls himself up onto his knees and runs his palms up the tops of her legs from knee to thigh, coaxing them open so he can position himself between.

He looks at her face to find her gaze far less “startled doe” and far more “she-wolf in heat.” Her tongue darts out, licking her lip before she says, “People really like to do this?” Then, “You like to do this?”

Astarion positively grins, his pointed teeth showing through.

"Yes. Though it’s a pity this is your first experience," he says through his feral smile. "Because no one will ever best what I'm about to do to you."

“O-okay,” she stammers, clutching her fists close to her sides.

He purrs deep in his throat and puts his mouth to the inside of her knee, the tip of his tongue tracing a sensual line down her thigh, toward her center. He holds her eye the entire time and delights when her leg twitches.

When he nears the crease of her hip, he gives her a sharp nip and she growls at him, bucking her hips. He runs his tongue up along the crease until he reaches her hipbone, to which he gives a firm suck. As she attempts to roll her hips toward him, he spreads a palm over her hips and applies pressure to hold her down.

“Shall we check to see how you’ve kept your garden?” he says, looking at her from under his brows as he speaks.

In response, Tav giggles and slaps a hand over her mouth. Then nods.

She drops her hand to the ground and shakes her head, murmuring, “It can’t be that different, I’m sure it’s just like…” She shudders in a breath. “... just like…”

Astarion parts his lips and huffs out his breath against the slick skin at her core, already shining with want and anticipation. The sensation is a warming one.

Tav continues muttering to herself. “Books are full of all kinds of nonsense, I’m sure it’s-”

He flicks his tongue right over her clit.

“Ah,” she yelps, trying to buck her hips again. He doesn’t let her.

But he does flick again.

“Wha-” she says, thighs jerking on either side of Astarion’s head. “Why is-”

Astarion presses the flat of his tongue firmly at her entrance and draws it slowly all the way to the hood, teasing with the tip before he curls his tongue in slightly and dips back down to better open her inner labia.

“Holy hells,” Tav groans out, her chest arching up and the hands clawing the ground at either side of her growing actual claws.

He gives her another lap before pulling back to smolder at her. “And here I’ve only just started,” he says, voice silky.

“Holy hells,” Tav shouts to the sky this time.

Astarion huffs a laugh against her and goes back down, playing her with highly practiced skill. Full, long licks paired alongside firm draws over the swelling pearl at her center. She continues to buck ever now and again, but mostly she’s gone near boneless above him, head lolling lazily to either side and fingers weakly gripping the grass on either side of her.

When her breathing begins to stutter and he feels the flutter of her getting close, he finally moves his hand from her belly back down until he can get the angle right. He places the tips of his two middle fingers at her entrance so he doesn’t surprise her and glances up to see her eyes flutter open. She stares down at him from between the mounds of her breasts, pupils blown wide.

She licks her bottom lip.

She nods.

Astarion slides his fingers inside her and begins to pump in time with the movements of his mouth. Tav goes wild, both literally and figuratively. The pupils of the eyes watching him go slitted like a cat’s, gradually dilating back as her teeth go sharp and a random patterning of fur shivers down the length of her body before turning back to skin.

He takes that as a good sign and curls his fingers inside of her until he finds what he’s looking for.

Tav bark-mewl-roar-calls into the air above the clearing, her hips grinding into his mouth and hand now that she can move them again.

“Why does that…” she gasps. “Feel… so… good?” The last word comes out a growl.

He’d answer, but his mouth is preoccupied and he dare not let it leave its task.

With his free hand, he pushes her thigh up and guides it higher until she can wrap her leg round his shoulders and he can go deeper. He feels the swell of her under his tongue, going harder beneath his touch, and he begins to trace circles around it as he continues to pump his fingers into her.

Tav’s entire body rolls, trying to get closer, to get more, to get-

She howls as the tension finally snaps. Literally howls, from the very bottom of her chest.

Astarion slows but doesn’t stop, continuing to fuck her through it as he feels her release in the palm of his hand. He’s gentle, taking a touch of pity on her as he gives her a few more soft licks before he leaves her, drawing his fingers from her at the same time. They’re a mess, as is his face. He sits back on his knees and looks her over with lidded eyes, a self-satisfied half-grin on his face. Then he reaches into his pocket to produce a soft cloth to clean up.

He’s not much of a planner, but he plans enough for things like this.

Tav lolls on the ground, her body fully returned back to humanoid form. All except her pupils, which continue to occasionally flicker across the animal kingdom.

“Oh, that was good,” Astarion says, brows raised and grin on his face as he wipes his hand down. “Even for me, that was good. You’re welcome.”

She throws one arm out to her side, then the other, and slowly pushes herself up onto her elbows, trying to focus on him. “Why doesn’t… everybody do that? Oh my gods.” She flops back onto the ground.

Oh, she’s very good for his pride. He gives a pleased wiggle.

“You tell me,” he says. “Or call upon your old lovers and ask.”

Tav weakly waves her hand through the air. “They were bad. I’ve realized. Just now. They were bad at sex.”

“Poor thing,” Astarion croons. “All better now.”

“Yeah.” She rolls onto her side and sits up. Shakes out her head. And starts to crawl toward him.

He instinctively leans back as she comes closer, breasts swaying as she moves. “What are you doing?” he says.

She blinks at him. “I’m going to do it back.”

He blinks at her. “What?”

Tav draws her knees closer and matches his kneeling posture. “I’m going to put my mouth on you back.” She waits a beat. “If you want me to.”

“Uh,” Astarion breathes before he shakes himself and gets his wits back about him. “I would like that very much,” he says. He tries to purr it, but slightly lower in pitch is the best he can do.

It’s been years since he’s been with anyone who even bothered to ask. Probably decades.

Tav beams at him, a bright smile that’s so sunshiny it nearly betrays what they’ve just done. She rolls up onto her knees and pulls him by the wrists to do the same so she can reach the laces that hold his trousers on. His arousal pulses near her hands.

Astarion blinks. He’s… more into this than he usually is.

He blinks again.

He’s very into it, actually.

His fingers go to join hers and together they make quick work of his pants and underthings. Gently, she guides him back to kneeling again as she curls forward. Without thinking too much about it, he reaches out so he can hold her hair up out of her face. She’s at eye level with his cock, inspecting it with the eye of someone all too familiar with all the things nature has to offer and completely unashamed for it.

Astarion swallows back the wanting sound that tries to claw its way out of him.

“Have you done this before?” he asks softly.

Tav peers up at him from her position below and bends her legs at the knees, kicking her feet slowly through the air. She shakes her head “no” and something frozen inside him melts. Best ignore that. That’s a future-him problem.

“You are adorable,” he breathes. He finds he means it in the affectionate way rather than the condescending one, which is alarming. That’s another future-him problem.

Astarion clears his throat. “Same general practice applies here, really,” he says lightly.

Tav licks her lips and reaches out to touch him. Her fingers on him give him a little jolt to the solar plexus and he curls toward her on instinct before he catches himself.

“Tell me if there’s something I could do better,” she says, simply.

Then she licks along the underside of his cock and puffs her breath out across it, much in the same way he did to her.

He curls in toward her again and tightens the hand in her hair.

She puts her mouth over the head of him and he’s enveloped in warmth and oh, yes, he remembers this. This feels good. This feels very good.

Tav doesn’t get down very far before she backs up again. When she pulls off, he reaches a hand down to cup her jaw and draw it down, parting her lips.

“Loosen your tongue,” he whispers. “Once more.”

She does. She descends on him again, relaxing her jaw and loosening her tongue, taking him down deeper and deeper with each pass. Astarion means to watch and guide her, he does, but instead his head lolls back, eyes falling closed, and he smiles. A real smile.

It feels so bloody good. It feels good and he doesn’t have to… he can just be…

Tav hums a little with him mostly inside her mouth and he gasps from it, blinking back to the surface.

Oh, that’s too good.

He lets her go a few seconds more before he tightens the fingers in her hair once more to still her and gently guide her back. His chest heaves as her mouth leaves him, a string of saliva connecting them, and Astarion shudders forward.

“What’s wrong?” Tav asks, her eyes wide and concerned.

She can’t look at him like that. That’s not fair.

He lifts her beneath her arms and pulls her up toward him, her face to his, and kisses her again. She happily responds, catching his lower lip between hers and nipping once more.

Astarion groans.

Hands on her face, he breaks their kiss and tries to collect his scattered thoughts. It’s all hazed over with want. There was a reason for this, they were supposed to… he was supposed to…

“Why don’t we…” He loses the thought and swallows. Tries again. “Let’s find our mutual…”

Words, words, words, where are his words?

Astarion hisses through his teeth. “Oh, just… sex. Let’s have sex.”

“Oh,” Tav breathes, lips swollen and cheeks ruddy. “Okay.”

Whatever he had planned, which was not much, goes completely sideways as she simply climbs up onto his lap, reaches between them, and holds him steady so she can sink down onto him.

He’s so wholly unprepared for the suddenness and initiative of it that his eyes nearly roll back in his head before his mind catches up and he grips her hip with his hand, guiding her as he rolls up to meet her, his hips rhythmic, until their hips meet and he bottoms out.

Tav throws her arms around his shoulders and immediately begins to rock against him, her eyes closed and her joyous grin on her face. Astarion is doing his absolute best not to completely lose himself in her heat, her closeness, her scent.

Her pulse, oh, gods.

Astarion rocks himself up into her with steady rolls of his hips, tilting in to press his open lips to her neck with a moan.

“You can,” she gasps as she rides him. “You can bite, if you want.”

He’s not sure if the words he makes are language, but he does know he’s biting her and her blood washes over his tongue and he drinks lazily, sipping as he fucks into her at the same time. His mind is so unbelievably, blissfully bare of anything except how good, how hot, how much, how full, how winding winding winding-

Astarion pulls off her neck with a gasp almost on the edge of his orgasm. Automatically, he reaches between them and uses all the wiles of a skilled lockpick to send her spiraling over her ledge a second time before he furrows his brow, slams his eyes shut, and yells out as he climaxes, his spend spilling where he’s still buried deep.

“Oh, fuck,” he blurts before he can stop himself, nearly collapsing onto his side with Tav along for the ride. He slips out of her on the way down and immediately feels the mess they’ve just made.

Another future-him problem.

Tav casts a very half-hearted create water spell that at least rinses them off. She drapes herself over his chest, dopey smile plastered on her face. “You win,” she says. “I see what all the fuss is about now.”

“I bet you do,” he says breathily.

He’s grateful she’s not looking at his face as he struggles to hide the worry pulling at his expression. It’s future-him time, and future-him is having a moment.

He just had the best sex he can remember having in… that he can remember. With someone who will still be alive in the morning. And he likes her.

Oh, hells.

He likes her.

[vetteltea]

Strawberry tea: playing with Carlos’s hair omgggg

☕︎ strawberry tea

CS55 and 'playing. with. his. hair.'

Despite the three-week break, he’s utterly exhausted, and all you wanted to do was help him.

Between the constant simulator training,  gym sessions and endless appearances for Ferrari’s media presence, Carlos was a ghost of himself; his smiles on each precious call fading by the moment, eyes dulling as each day passed away from his beloved.

You wanted to be there, of course you did. However, your relationship was fresh. New. You’d seen it go horrifically bad for other couples who had publiciced their relationship on the grid and the last thing either of you desired was for hate and opinions from the outside world to shatter your privacy. 

That’s why you were there now; sat in his bed, Piñon resting at the foot of the bed, keeping you company in the soft bed sheets. You’d been so engrossed in paying the puppy attention, heart melting each time he nuzzled closer into the blankets that you didn’t hear the latch of the door, bedroom entrance opening and soft barks emitting from the furry companion. 

Even sleep deprived, Carlos looked nothing but breathtaking. Dark tufts of hair were messy against his forehead, clad in a gray hoodie and dark track shorts. Every ache, every groan of his muscles is immediately relieved upon seeing you in his bed, a smile finally returning to his face as he lets his heavy bag drop to the floor.

“Mis bebés.” He’d murmured, running a gentle hand across the top of Pińon’s head, the dog relaxing into Carlos’ touch and ceasing his barking. Dark eyes then transfixed onto you, letting his body crawl across the soft fabric, arms collapsing when his face reached your lap, resting his head on your soft thighs. 

“Oh, my baby.” You responded, hands placing down your now discarded book, softly stroking a hand across his warm scalp. He’s so strained, overworked to such a standard he can barely string five words together. Even now, nestled in the warmth of your thighs, the man is hyper-aware that his moment of bliss will come to an end; he’ll be whisked away back to fast cars and media stunts. 

But for now, he can feel his tension melt away, seep out of his muscles as your strong fingers massage his head, trailing through his dark tufts, brushing the locks away from his forehead. An audible moan falls from his lips, the feeling sent him to another place, entirely in a new headspace from the contact. 

His head immediately snapped up the moment you stopped the contact, eyes widening at your sudden lack of attention. Tanned fingers interlock with your own, pulling your hand to rest back atop of his head. You can’t help the laugh which passes your lips, his head sinking back down into your lap now the contact has been restored.

“Better?” You’d softly hummed, feeling his nose nuzzle back into your leg, content to fall asleep in this position and awaken later, finally reunited with the woman who had undeniably stolen his heart. 

“Better.”

part of the vetteltea 500 celebration!

[mediumgayitalian]

previous

———

“Hm,” Piper says, fingers steepled. She looks very intently at the air in front of her. “Hm.”

Nico scowls impatiently. “Feel free to be helpful at any given time. Now, even, if you’re so inclined.”

“Have you considered that the reason you’re so infatuated with Will is because you may be blessed by Apollo?”

“I’m infatuated with Will because he is the physical manifestation of everything I value in a person,” Nico says automatically. Then he frowns, processing the rest of Piper’s sentence. “Wait, what?”

Nico understands his error as the grin on her face stretches into something truly grotesque. “I was going to make a joke about your drama levels, but thank you for that. I’m really looking forward to telling several dozen people and delighting in the knowledge that you’re going to curl up into a bundle of humiliation under your bunk tonight as you think about it.”

Instead of answering, Nico decides to walk away. Since there is so much blood concentrated in his skull, resting mostly around his face region, he takes two steps and begins to pass out, but luckily Piper has followed him and impedes a head injury by gripping his arm and merrily forcing him forward.

“So,” she says, steering them towards the amphitheatre, “what’s Plan B?”

“Bold of you to assume there was a Plan A.”

“You like Sunny Boy way too much to walk in there blind.”

“…Touché.”

She’s smug enough to be silent, slinging an arm over Nico’s shoulders as they walk. The closer they get, the harder Nico is forced to grapple with just how godsdamn much he’s softened. I want you to be happy, Father had said. Camp will be good for you, Chiron had agreed. You’re a little twit and need socializing, Mr. D had snipped.

Nico needs a better father figure. He wonders if Paul Blofis’ offer is still open.

The amphitheater is not, of course, empty when they arrive, because Nico knows the Fates personally and each of them despises him. The actual training part is empty — unsurprising — but the stands are moderately filled, with people gossiping, braiding hair, and if Nico is not mistaken, a small, pop-up nail painting salon. Mitchel lifts a purple-smeared hand in an absentminded wave as they step onto the packed dirt.

Nico ducks under Piper’s arm, turning to face her. “I need to fight you,” he informs her. “For my own personal pride.”

She nods thoughtfully. “It does indeed need restoring.” He curved, icy blade gleams in the early afternoon sun, mirroring her dangerous smile. “Square up.”

Since honour is for nerds, Nico doesn’t bother waiting. He simply attacks, lunging for the left side Piper always leaves open. Unfortunately for him, her recent meddling in his love life means her mother has blessed her with a little sprinkling of extra verve, and she dodges easily and cheerfully.

He sends a glum mental prayer down to his father.

Anytime you’re feeling generous, Pop, he grumbles, I would love a boost.

There’s an actual rumble to the ground, as his father laughs at him.

“Real kind,” he says out loud. “Dick.”

“I wonder if you would have more success in the wooing department if you had conversations outside of your own head,” Piper says sweetly. She spins her sword in a neat little circle by his face. “All bay brooding makes you look so…broody.”

Nico scoffs at her. “Will seems to like my broodiness. For some reason. So there.”

“And yet…” She trails off, shooting him a teasing look. Nico is unfortunately very easy to tease (thanks, Bianca) (and for that measure thanks, Hazel) (Reyna too, probably) (and honestly Annabeth) (gods, and Percy) (don’t even get him started on Leo) (really, it would be more prudent to name the people who do not take sick pleasure in driving him up the wall) and as such succumbs easily to her tormenting, taking a hard hit to the side when he’s too keyed up to avoid her spinning slash.

“Note to self, don’t let the monsters know about big embarrassing crushes,” she muses. “They make Nico sloppy and will get him killed in battle.”

She mimes writing something down. This, thankfully, leaves her distracted enough that Nico gets his sword levered against hers, twisting until she’s disarmed. She lifts both hands up in surrender when he points a sword at her throat, but remains entirely unaffected by his glare.

“Pride re-instated?” she asks.

Nico huffs. “No.”

…Yes.

“You’re such a grouch,” she says fondly. She tries to ruffle his hair and is forcibly stopped by his jab to her ribs. Unfortunately, Piper McLean takes no shit sitting down, and in a minute they’re on the floor, getting caked in dust, trying to see who can leave the most bruises on the other. Nico would wager that they’re just about tied.

“You have a list,” Piper grunts, muffled as she bites his bicep. He shouts, wrenching his arm away — she is pointy. “I have no idea what you’re all mopey about.”

He digs his knee into the small of her back. “I gave him flowers! He made a poultice out of them!”

“Technically, you made the poultice.”

He elbows her in the stomach. She shrieks and jabs her knuckles right under his eye.

“You’re so annoying!”

“You’re so annoying!”

“Ugh!”

“Ugh!”

Every part of Nico’s body aches. So badly. He’s not sure which one of them won their brawl, if either, but he knows for sure that he is actively turning purple. He feels like the first time his nonna gave him a hammer and a piece of cutlet — he was maybe five years old — and told him to flatten it. (He remembers, now, the look on her face as she wiped pulverized chicken flesh from her eye. Oops.)

“Go to Will and get healed up?”

Nico huffs a laugh, immediately wincing at the strain on his tender ribs.

“Yep. Let’s go.”

The walk is miserable and bruised. And slow, since both of them are limping. Several campers walk by snickering, since apparently Saving The Entire Damn World, For Real And Actually, You Ungrateful Brat, Should I Just Destroy It Again Then earns you no permanent respect.

It’s not too bad, though. Nico would rather chomp on concrete than admit it out loud, but Piper isn’t horrible company, and she hums when she walks. Bianca did the same thing. For once, it’s a pleasant reminder, although he does wonder if Nico will ever be able to look at the women in his life and not think of her.

(In all honesty, probably not. He sees her in the clouds, in the gnarled bark of the trees; feels her in the warmth of the sun; hears her in every snorting laugh. He likes to imagine how much she would love these women, though. If she were alive they would be her friends first. He knows she was happy with the Hunters, however briefly. He thinks he can maybe forgive himself if he thinks of her without weeping.)

“Least it doesn’t look too busy today,” Piper comments. She purses her lips at the Big House, which for once seems quiet. Perhaps Will made good on his threats and finally dosed the Hermes’ table breakfast spread with Benadryl. Nico would be proud. He deserves a day of peace.

“Great. That means we get the full force of Will’s bitching on us alone.”

Piper scoffs. “Please. You like it when he yells at you.”

Nico almost kills her for real. By the time she manages to kick him off of her, still snickering to herself, they both have a new layer of bruises on top of the old ones.

“Gods, di Angelo, you make it so easy —”

“Shut up,” he says hotly. “You are literally the most annoying person in this stupid camp.”

She sticks her tongue out at him. He scowls, kicking a rock to avoid kicking her and setting both of them off again. It rolls over the grass, pinging off the side of one of the many braziers and rolling finally to a stop back at his feet. In its new position, it perfectly catches the brightly shining sun, refracting the light in a dandelion-esque burst.

“Huh,” he murmurs.

Wincing at his stiff joints, he crouches, vaguely registering Piper pausing somewhere to the left of him. He scoops the little thing up, bringing it close to his face to inspect.

It’s roughly cut, so it’s not anyone’s jewel or anything. Some of the pieces are textured with tiny little divots, like a regular stone, but some are straight and flat and catch the light. Some kind of crystal, then. It’s dense, about the size of a walnut, and shaped kind of like a brain. It is a very familiar shade of blue.

“Holt Hades, you are sappy.”

Nico flushes, shoving the rock into his pocket. “Nobody asked you, Piper.”

“I asked me! I am always asking me.” She jogs to keep up with his suddenly speedy strides, gripping onto the elbow of his shirt when he tries to move faster. “Is this Plan B? Little gifts.”

“It’s a rock,” he says shortly.

“Diamonds are rocks.”

“I didn’t get him a diamond.” He pauses. “Should I get him a diamond?”

She shrugs. “I dunno. I’m not the one in love with him.”

“Who said anything about —”

“Nico! Piper! Hey!”

“Notice who he called first,” she whispers, right in his ear. She grins over at Will before he can say anything. Or curse her. “Hey, Will! How are you?”

It is unfair for a person to look good in mint scrubs. They don’t even suit him, not really, but he still looks — well, he’s beautiful. His hair is poofier than usual and sticks out like he stuck his finger in a socket, and his beam is so bright Nico has to genuinely squint to look at him, and how is it, honestly, that his freckles look like dappled sunlight? That’s not normal.

“I’m okay.” He waves them inside, not bother to close the door behind them — it’s nice out, and Nico knows he prefers the breeze and sun. “Bored.”

“Not enough ocular surgery to perform?”

Will’s grin turns wry. “Nope.” He reaches out to brush his thumb across Nico’s eye scar. He freezes, holding his breath, hyperaware of those callused fingers as they approach the ever-warming skin of his face, heart galloping in his chest. As soon as Will makes contact — because of course the touch was to get his vitals, c’mon, Nico, head in the game — he frowns.

“Why are so many of your capillaries burst?”

Piper smiles guiltily, holding up a hand.

“I beat him up.”

“Wha — you did not!” He turns to Will, indignant. “We beat each other up! She’s lying!”

Will sighs. He glares at them both for a full forty seconds, then turns his face up to the heavens, muttering something that sounds suspiciously like I do not deserve to be surrounded by this kind of dumbassery. Send lightning through the sky if I should let them suffer.

Nico waits. No lightning comes forth.

Will sighs. “Cot, let’s go, y’all know the drill.”

Piper mouths y’all as she sits down. Nico mouths eat dirt back at her.

“Now, I could hum sum’n and —”

“Sum’n,” Piper whispers delightedly. Nico ignores her.

“— get y’all fixed up good, but y’all’ve pissed me off good —”

Nico takes the initiative to pillow-smack Piper in the face while Will’s back is turned. Luckily, it muffles her shriek.

“— so I’m not gonna do all that.” He closes the cupboard with his hip, hands full of vials. “Ain’t even gonna waste ambrosia on y’all, honestly. Y’get some bruise ointment and a Tylenol ‘cause I know y’all were up to shenanigans.”

He puts a lot of emphasis on ‘nan’. Nico knows he is trying very hard to be stern, but he is in fact very cute, and Nico is putting a lot of his brainpower towards memorizing the specific wrinkle pattern that Will’s nose gets when he’s annoyed. If he says that Will looks like a bunny he might actually get shot, no matter how much Will allegedly seems to like him, so he manages to choke down the sentiment. But it is indeed there.

“— and take it easy, y’hear? Bruises don’t heal in a day.”

Gods, his eyes are really, really pretty. He’s almost tired of thinking it, but they match the sky exactly, all the time. Poets write about sparkling eyes and pretty faces all the time, but all of them can choke because all of them are liars. Will Solace has the prettiest eyes of anyone who has ever lived. They are indeed the windows to the soul, and his soul is just —

“This is for you,” Nico blurts. Essentially acting on its own, his hand slips in his pocket and draws out the blue stone, holding it out. “Um. I saw it and —” He glances at Piper, panicked, and she kicks him in encouragement. “Thought of you. So.”

Will stares at the stone for a moment. Nico sweats.

“Nico di Angelo,” he chides, hands on his hips. The panicked look he flits in Piper’s direction grows tenfold. He is not at all comforted by the grimace she sends back. “Do you think I’m so corrupt as to accept a bribe?”

“Um.” Nico hesitates. Piper smacks her face onto her hands, groaning. “That’s not what I —”

“Well, you would be correct.” Quick as a bird, Will darts out and snatches the stone, sliding it into one of his many (many) shorts pockets, nodding in approval. “I don’t have any aventurine. I’ve been looking for it. Good bribe.”

He sets down the ointment and Tylenol, gesturing for Nico to hold out his hands. Nico sighs, then complies.

“I mean, he didn’t destroy it, this time,” Piper whispers as he begins to sing, enveloping Nico’s body in a warm, golden glow. “So…progress?”

“Progress,” Nico agrees. He glances over at Will, eyes squeezed shut in focus, and rolls his eyes fondly. “Who knew it would be so hard to convince someone who already likes me to go out with me.”

———

next

[enjolrasoftheday]

Hello!! Do you know any good Enjolras/Grantaire fics ? Asking for scientific purposes only, naturally

Well, if it's in the name of science...

I do have some recommendation lists in my fic rec tag, and I absolutely still stand by those. But! Here are some more recent fics, in no particular order, that I've enjoyed (and may or may not have speed-read in the last week since receiving this ask, I swear I wasn't ignoring you, I was just conducting important research lol). I’m not going to include the tags/warnings for each fic, so remember to take a look at those on ao3!

Also if anyone else has any recs, feel free to add them in the comment or reblogs!

Happy reading!!

Seek and Destroy by pumpkinspiceprouvaire (27,102 words)

Because Grantaire doesn’t feel that way about him. Grantaire is his friend, and Enjolras will love him from a distance, and that’s the way it’s always been, the way it’s always going to be. Enjolras’ blood freezes in his veins. It’s so obvious. This isn’t Grantaire.

restoring the balance by televisionbodies (14,427 words)

“How long are you stuck here?” He thinks for a moment. “The next train is in about five hours time. And then I’ve got work again, tomorrow.” “No wonder you wanted a coffee,” the bartender murmurs. “Well, then. You’ve got plenty of time to let me show you around.” — It’s 12:36am on a Wednesday and Enjolras, consumed with his work, has missed the last train home.

Les beaux cheveux que voilà by GayAvocado (9,184 words)

One should always have a hair tie around their wrist. If not for their own hair, for others’, or for the multitude of mundane situations that require a hair tie. So of course Grantaire has a hair tie around his wrist tonight. A pink one that might have belonged to Jehan or Azelma or both at some point. The neon colour will look lovely in the middle of Enjolras' golden curls. Or: For some reason, Grantaire finds himself braiding Enjolras’ hair way more often than he thought he ever would. Things change between them.

And Pages To Go by femmebingley (5,441 words)

Grantaire loses his sketchbook. /// “You’ve had it this whole time?” Grantaire couldn’t even find enough indignation to cover his growing terror. “Did you open it?” Enjolras sighed, and that was it. Grantaire’s life was over.

Lost in All of Our Vices by cx_shhhh (11,220 words)

“You will be banished for an indeterminate amount of time and stripped of your godly abilities,” Javert announces, voice booming in the echoing hall, not unlike the thunder he represents. “Until you learn that order is necessary for the gods to stay in power, that the respect of mortals is valuable to us, and until you learn to love them wholeheartedly, you will live like one.” Basically, Enjolras is banished from the heavens, and he learns that a god can, indeed, fall in love.

The Worst First Date by kjack89 (3,443 words)

Enjolras sat down at his desk, fresh mug of coffee in front of him, and took a moment to adjust the ring light behind his cellphone before taking a deep breath and pushing record. “So, um, I hope no one minds but we are taking a break today from our usually scheduled ranting at various governmental institutions because one of my best friends wants me to do a TikTok that’s part of this viral trend.” Or, the one where Enjolras makes a TikTok about his first date with Grantaire.

Green Rushes by loverism (6,043 words)

The mermaid, Enjolras, bites his lip, glaring at Grantaire like he's trying to determine whether he's serious. Grantaire supposes he was probably raised on stories of how evil the cave-witches are, how deceitful; how they mock everything they speak of; how they're driven only by profit; and above all, how striking a bargain with one of them is never, ever worth it. Grantaire can't exactly call those stories inaccurate. or: grantaire is a sea witch chilling in a cave, mixing potions and trying to mind his own business. enjolras has other ideas.

Love is Blind by kjack89 (32,982 words)

Enjolras sat down in front of the camera, and the producer just off-screen gave him a reassuring smile. “Nothing to it,” the producer promised. “Just introduce yourself and tell everyone why you’re here.” Enjolras jerked a nod before looking into the camera. “My name is Enjolras,” he said. “I’m 31 years old, and I’m here because this is the first season that this show has been open to queer contestants.” The producer cleared his throat. “So do you believe Love is Blind?” he prompted. Enjolras gave the camera a smile. “Well,” he said. “That’s what we’re here to find out.”

Love Bites by ShameDumpster (9,557 words)

"What—" Enjolras says, breath hitching at the sight, “What are you doing?” Grantaire immediately freezes, and then pulls back, slightly. Even still, it’s closer than they’ve ever actually been, barely a foot between their faces. "I…need to bite you?" he says, managing to sound both wry and nervous at the same time, "How exactly did you think this worked?" In which Grantaire has recently been turned into a vampire, and Enjolras offers to help him. For the Same-Prompt Fic Challenge 2022

Tell Me Why (Ain’t Nothin but a Heartache by cs_shhhh (3,281 words)

It starts slowly, of course. Grantaire already pays too much attention to Enjolras, so it’s easy to spot the white petals, no matter how hard he tries to hide it. Enjolras seems to grow angrier and angrier when the coughing starts interrupting his speeches, so much that Combeferre has to take over after pushing a glass of water towards him, and he casts the flowers to the ground, glaring at them.

anything you want, boy (i can make it happen) by thewalrus_said (3,545 words)

As he’d been falling asleep, he’d expected to feel devastated, or heartbroken, or something negative after a clearly one-off night with the object of his long-held desires, but instead he just feels...satisfied, almost content. Enjolras clearly finds him at least physically desirable, and he’s apparently in Enjolras’ head at least a little bit, and that turns out to be enough for him. He’s finally had sex with Enjolras, and while it hadn’t been what he’d secretly hoped for, it had still been good, and so the memory doesn’t drag him down like he’d feared it might. So when he answers a knock on his door a week later to find a breathless Enjolras, who immediately pushes his way into Grantaire’s apartment and says, “I think we should have sex again,” he’s more than a little taken aback.

The Arms of the Ocean, so Sweet and so Cold by ShameDumpster (11,867 words)

Sirens attack the crew of the dreaded pirate ship, the Musain. They send out Enjolras to deal with it, as in the past, he’s proven himself to be unaffected by their song. Unfortunately for him, as he’s told Grantaire many times, things can (and do) change. And this change may leave his life, and heart, in the balance.

It Only Takes a Meow-ment by cx_shhhh (7,158 words)

“The prince is finally putting out a challenge for his hand. He has a very loyal cat, you see. Whichever suitor, man or woman, can obtain the ring attached to the bow around its neck will be given the time of day.” Or Enjolras is oblivious, and it impacts everyone around him in the best way possible.

neon loneliness by dyhtps (4,345 words)

He lets his gaze fall around the kitchen. A coffee mug left out on the side, a tea-towel hung over the oven handle, even one of those awful kiss the cook aprons that he figures must belong to Enjolras’ boyfriend. Grantaire blames the concussion for the sudden, awful sinking feeling in his stomach. He decided he hates the mystery boyfriend, maybe he's been an arse to future Grantaire before and it's just his subconscious warning him to get away from the guy as quick as he can. or Grantaire loses his memory, is jealous of Enjolras' mystery boyfriend and finally realises that's actually him.

visiting hours by televisionbodies (5,731 words)

”I guess I’m just surprised you’re still in here at all.” “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” Enjolras says smoothly, knowing exactly what Grantaire means. “Two months?” One side of Grantaire’s mouth is turning upwards. “I didn’t think you were capable of sitting still that long.” — 5 times grantaire visits enjolras in prison, and 1 time he doesn’t have to.

[kkurami]

( PASILYO ! ) 🌷 ² ˚ ༘ fluff

୨୧ ‧ megumi kept a plethora of secrets close to his heart, some of which were contained within his eraser.

in the hushed world of rustling papers and whispered secrets, fushiguro megumi found solace in the dance of sunlight streaming through the classroom windows. as they settled into a seat towards the back, the aura of anticipation hung thick, mingling with the delicate notes of uncertainty.

“hey megumi, can i borrow your eraser?”

unfortunately, his peace was sharply broken by his beloved seat partner.

the question was a simple one, yet it caused sweat to precipitate from his forehead.

after all, amongst the gallery of faces megumi saw daily, one stood as a portrait of remembrance—y/n l/n. her presence, a bright sonnet in the midst of cacophony, captivated megumi’s gaze. he wasn’t quite what it was about her, but perhaps it was her alluring personality that seemed to draw everyone in, or the sweet tone of her voice, maybe even the way her kindness shone down on even the worst people. a shining silhouette against the mundane backdrop of his life, y/n’s eyes held a secret language that beckoned megumi deeper and deeper into her being.

“i… don’t have an eraser…” megumi muttered under his breath, hoping y/n would just shrug her shoulders and ask someone else.

but in all his years of being infatuated with knowing her, megumi knew that she was often unrelenting.

“oh, come on! i can see it right there.” she giggled underneath her hand, her other perfectly polished finger pointed towards the eraser that sat on megumi’s desk. “why don’t you want me to borrow it?”

“it’s not that- i just, um, well…”

megumi couldn’t tell her the real reason, he would never live it down. but what other reason was there to tell? what reason could he come up with for not wanting to let her borrow an eraser- the most insignificant of utensils?

the typically stoic boy felt a thunder within his heart as he gazed upon the item of his affection. as his eyes stayed trained on her ethereal figure, megumi felt his lips twitch upwards. he wanted to tell her the deep emotions that swirled inside his soul, the ones he had buried for so long. but he couldn’t. for he was too much of a coward to be vulnerable with others.

“yes?” y/n inquired, raising an eyebrow on anticipation.

ever so nosy as always.

but that was one feature that megumi adored.

she was so precious to him, after all.

“um,” megumi paused as he racked his brain for excuses, “i-it doesn’t work. i’ll get you a different one.”

before y/n could respond, megumi had run out the door to get to his locker.

she was so precious to him that megumi would do anything to keep their sacred bond.

“why did megumi just run outside of the classroom?” miwa’s voice rang through y/n’s ears as she approached her friend from her posterior side.

a smile creeped up her face in pure adoration. “he’s getting me an eraser! the one on his desk doesn’t work.”

miwa let out a chortle in disbelief- was her friend that oblivious? “it’s an eraser, y/n. of course it works!”

the blue haired girl’s hands reached out to take the eraser that laid on megumi’s desk, despite y/n’s protests of invading his privacy, and rubbed it against the pencil stains on her paper. sure enough, the restored whiteness revealed that the eraser in fact did work.

“see!” miwa said, proving her point.

the confused girl stood in the midst of swirling thoughts, her eyes reflecting uncertainty, lost in a labyrinth of confusion as she tried to make sense of the tangled emotions within. “but… why did he lie about it to me?”

it seemed as though a puzzle piece clicked within her brain, as miwa let out a girly giggle. “you know, there’s an old myth that if you write your crush’s name on an eraser and you use the whole thing then they’ll reciprocate your feelings! it was in that one show, ‘teasing master takagi san’!”

within the sacred space of learning, where whispers of knowledge and dreams collided, y/n found herself gaining new realizations. the classroom exhaled a quiet breath, each creak and shuffle composing a delicate prelude to the unknown.

“and i mean… the eraser is basically 75% used up.” miwa continued.

the two girls looked down at the rubber as y/n slowly peeled away the plastic that separated her from the truth of megumi’s feelings.

“which means that…” y/n continued.

sure enough there it was, her name was hidden under the plastic wrapping of his eraser.

[tonberry-yoda]

hii, loved ur zuko x reader post, it made the zuko simp out of me rise ✨️

I was wondering if u could write a zuko x fire bender! reader where they re together in the gaang and talk with the rest about how they would train together on the ship back when zuko was obsessed w catching aang and reader making fun of him along with sokka and toph,

thank you <3

OMG HI!! i am so glad you were here for that zuko writing and here for a request!! seriously, rewatching Avatar made my inner simp come out bruh (also, i love your pfp so much monster high was my CHILDHOOD lmfaoo). thank you so much for the request! this was super fun to write and i am so happy i got to write it for you <3 have a wonderful rest of your day and please stay hydrated <333

The Past - Zuko

Pairing - Zuko x reader

Warnings - none!

Word Count - 663

“Remember when you were bald?” You said through a cough, giving Zuko a sideways glance with a little smirk on your face.

“Oh come on!” Zuko exclaimed, throwing his hands in the air. “What the heck did I ever do to you, y/n? Stop making fun of my bald self.” He crossed his arms and pouted and you just giggled to yourself as Toph and Sokka were holding back laughter.

“You have to admit it’s a little funny, Zuko.”

“It’s not!”

You walked over to Zuko and put your arm around him. “Okay, okay, it’s not that funny.”

“Thank you!” Zuko turned away from you still pouting and the campfire you were around with the others went silent.

Until you spoke up, of course.

“Remember when all you wanted to do was capture the Avatar.” Everyone started laughing and Zuko’s face went as red as a tomato. It definitely didn't help that Aang, you know, the literal Avatar, was sitting right there.

Sure, Zuko was happy that the gaang took him in, but it was definitely a little embarrassing that he had once made it his whole life and every waking moment to capture him.

“I have to capture the Avatar and restore my honor.” You said in a mocking dramatic voice.

Sokka and Toph were completely out of breath laughing while Aang and Katara were trying not to laugh in respect of Zuko.

“Okay, y/n.” Zuko turned to you, his face flushing a dark crimson. “I'm serious. Stop.”

“Zuko,” you walked over to him and tucked his long hair behind his ear. “You know I'm just playing. Sure, capturing the Avatar was definitely number one on your list, but you were still just a kid.” You rubbed his arm and Zuko smiled at you.

Zuko didn't know if he could live without you or his uncle. You were both there for him through thick and thin since he was banished from the fire nation. Heck, you even decided to go back to the fire nation with him after that awful crisis in Ba Sing Se. No matter what, you were always there for him.

“Remember when we would train on the boat?” You smiled.

Everyone turned to the both of you, intrigued.

You just smiled and hugged Zuko’s arm. “You’ve always had the potential to be a great fire bender. Who cares if your sister was some prodigy since she was born? You've always put in the work, making you that much better.”

“Stop,” Zuko said with a bright red face, hugging you to him. “If it wasn't for you, I wouldn't be as good as I am.”

“Oh, come on, Zuko! I'm not that good.”

“YES YOU ARE!” You laughed at Zuko’s sudden outburst.

“Yeah, y/n!” Aang butt in, beaming at you. “You’re not only one of the best fire benders I’ve ever met, but also the nicest. No offense Zuko.”

“None taken.”

“You guys are a riot.” You said with a joking eye roll, standing up to stretch your legs.

Zuko stood up with you and wrapped his arm around you, looking at the full moon.

“You know,” Aang said, standing up and walking over to the two of you. “If it wasn't for the both of you hating my guts for that period of time, I honestly don't think that I would have any firebending teacher.”

You and Zuko smiled at Aang, pulling him in for a little group hug. Aang smiled and ran back to the rest of the group and you turned to Zuko and pulled him into his own hug, kissing the crook of his neck. “I'm so proud of you.” You whispered and looked at his bright yellow eyes with small tears of your own.

“I'm proud of you too.” He leaned down to you and gave you a small, but loving kiss on the lips before the two of you cuddled in each other’s arms, watching the clouds cover the moon.

~~~~~

atla masterlist --- pinned post

@tonberry-yoda

[tieronecrush]

water in your hands

joel miller x f!reader

rating: E (18+ ONLY, MDNI. you will be blocked if you don’t have age/range in your bio)

word count: 9.7k (she's long but hopefully good?)

summary:

You are sick, and you're married, and you might be dyin' But you're holdin' me like water in your hands…

Joel will only end up failing you. You deserve better than him. He needs you to move on, to give him peace of mind. So, he gets married to someone else, to try to force you away. Except he just can’t let you go, and you always come back when he calls. Like a dog with a bird at his door.

warnings: NO USE OF Y/N, cheating (it’s moon song y’all), marriage, age difference (joel is canon age, reader is 20s/30s), use of pet names, discussions of water/drowning, ANGST, hurt/comfort, unprotected sex, fingering, praising, lowkey possessive joel & reader, undefined relationship, alcohol use, mentions of john lennon cause he needs his own warning, joel is messy and selfish

author’s note: this is my first time writing any sort of fiction in literal years, but i couldn’t help but try to write this idea cause i'm a sad girl who wishes joel miller was real! apologies for any typos/errors, i am the actual worst at proofreading (see, my master's diss that i read at least 50 times and still had typos in the submission). any interaction is appreciated <3

PART II HERE

dividers from @saradika

Fresh snow had fallen this morning, wiping away some of the evidence of daily life here in Jackson. The air was biting, you work your sleeves over ungloved hands to keep the chill away, cheeks flushed. Snow crunches under your boots while you rush from your house to work at the Tipsy Bison, Jackson’s bar. Because of course one of the first things restored in the commune, in the middle of the apocalypse, was the one place with all the alcohol. Not that you were complaining, it gave you a job in town that you enjoyed; you got to pass time by being around people and making conversation, something you didn’t get in the small cottage that you occupied by yourself.

Keeping your eyes trained on the ground as you walk, careful to watch out for patches of ice, you only look up when you hear your name called. It’s the familiar voice of your boss; at least, you call him your boss cause he makes your shifts, but he hates to feel any sort of claim over the place since, y’know, the whole communist thing.

Tommy Miller stands near the steps up to the bar, clad in his signature look of denim and chambray, denim’s sister (the man wore a Canadian tuxedo nearly every day, you kept a tally). He’s waving you over, and before you can greet him, your attention is pulled from Tommy to the pair standing next to him. 

A man, looking slightly older than Tommy but eerily similar with light grays sprinkled in his brown hair, donning a suede winter coat that was fitted across broad shoulders. His beard was patchy, not covering much of his strong jaw. Hooked nose, syrup brown eyes, olive skin looking pale from the season. There was a scar on his right temple, and other healed injuries dotting around the exposed skin. He’s handsome.

The young girl next to him just reached the man’s shoulders at her full height, bundled up in layers of sweatshirts and an open coat that didn’t look very warm. Her beanie framed her face along with her brown hair, the look on her face one of obvious teenage annoyance. She looked barely fifteen.

Tommy started introductions, barely getting a word out before the mystery man cut him off.

“I’m Joel, Tommy’s older brother. And this is Ellie.” He gestures to the girl and she gives you a nod. Joel removes a glove and extends his hand. You meet halfway, feeling the need to apologize for your cold skin chilling his own much warmer. Work-worn fingers wrap around to meet the skin on the backside of your hand. Your mind wanders to how those hands would feel in other places like -- 

Tommy’s voice breaks up your thoughts, “They’ve been traveling for a few months now to come here to Jackson.”

A smile crosses your face, grip not yet leaving Joel’s. His mouth ticks up slightly to one side.

“Welcome to Jackson, Mr. Miller, and you too, Ellie. It’s nice to put a face to the brother that Tommy’s been telling me stories about.”

“Please, just Joel. And it’s nice to meet you too, I hope he’s only told the good stuff.” Before you can respond, Ellie quips in.

“For months you have refused to tell people your name and now the first pretty girl in this perfect fucking town and you’ve given it twice.” She rolls her eyes so hard they disappear into her skull. Been there, Ellie. The attitude of a teenager is universal, even in the apocalypse.

Joel’s head snaps to Ellie and he grits out under his breath a little too loudly, “Ellie, quit cursing.”

Blush creeps across his face and you note that he didn’t say anything about Ellie knowing he thought you were pretty. Joel breaks eye contact and lets your hand go.

“Alright, hon, we should be on our way. I won’t subject you to any more of my older brother. He’s not much of a conversationalist,” Tommy teases. Joel gives Ellie a run for her money with the intensity of his eye roll.

Waving to the newcomers, you step back to head up the stairs. Out of the corner of your eye, you swear you see Joel take the smallest step towards you, about to follow like a puppy. 

“See you later, boss. Nice to meet you again, Ellie and Joel, enjoy your tour of our perfect fucking town.”

Joel glances back over his shoulder to watch you walk into the swinging doors. Lord, if you could read his thoughts. He knew he was in trouble the moment he saw that damn smile.

The last few weeks have been torture to Joel. He and Ellie had been back in Jackson for about a month now, getting settled in their new normal. However, it wasn’t the lifestyle change that was anguishing him.

He’d thought of you a few times after he’d met you that winter; remembering your smile when Ellie was quietly resting against his back on the horse, a fever dream of you when he was in the basement of that abandoned house, a rush of nerves when Tommy brought him to the bar for the first time since he’d been back. He was infatuated with you, and now that he’s living in the same town as you, it’s gotten worse. Foolish mind daydreams of you and him together, feeling like a teenager again with the way you make his knees weak. He’s been careful not to spend much time alone with you, reminding himself that he shouldn’t let someone like you get involved with someone like him. All he’d do was fail you, fail to give you a good life. Words were carved into his skull at this point:

You’re too broken, too bruised, too scarred, and full of guilt - you’re going to fail her, too..

The small two-bedroom cottage diagonal to his and Ellie’s house was yours, and the proximity wasn’t helping his situation. And not only were you his neighbor, but you worked at the place where Joel spent a good chunk of his free time - the bar. He’d get drinks with Tommy or other guards after a shift, and that evolved to going by himself in hopes to see you and drown his guilt over those hopes (among a lot of other things).

It’s these nights when he’s become a bit looser with his self-inflicted rules around you. He occupies the stool at the end of the bar, stealing glances as you help other customers. His index finger rims the dry glass in front of him. You approach with that same damn smile aimed at him. It’s a dangerous combination along with the liquor, both fuzz his rationality.

“Another one, Mr. Miller?” you nod to his glass, reaching out to take it from him. Soft fingertips brush over his skin, sending a jolt of energy up his arm. 

He clears his throat and answers, “Now, darlin’, I think I told you to call me Joel. Actually, at this point, I think it would be classified as begging. Mr. Miller makes me feel old.”

Throwing your head back with a laugh, the skin of your neck is exposed. His tongue involuntarily wets his lips when he thinks of leaving a mark there.

“Feel old? You are old, Miller,” he fakes offensive, eyebrows raised, “Aw, c’mon Joel, you know I’m just kiddin’. You’ve still got it. That silver fox thing you got goin’ on really does it for women ‘round here.”

He wants to be bold enough to ask if it’s doing anything for you, but instead, he huffs a laugh and shakes his head in disbelief, taking the two fingers of whiskey you poured.

“And how do you know that, darlin’? Haven’t had many offers for courtship since I got here.”

“I work in the bar. Women get drunk and spill their every thought. Including that the new guy with the daughter is hot,” you lean over the edge of the bar top, face less than a foot in front of him. Your eyes shift down to his lips. “Plus, I might encourage the conversation with my own thoughts.”

That smile again, except now it’s more of a smirk. He sips his drink, capturing the lingering alcohol with a lick of his lips. Your eyes go again, watching his tongue.

“I’m glad I can be such a riveting topic of conversation for you, sweetheart. Hope it’s good thoughts only.”

“Wouldn’t say the thoughts I have about you are good, Joel,” he swallows hard hearing the flirtation in your comment, feeling his jeans tighten.

Snapped out of hazy judgment, he resurfaces from the alcoholic tides; the rules he has about you act as a life preserver for him to cling to before getting caught in your rip current.

Joel throws back the rest of his drink, standing from the stool. He needs to get out of here if he wants to keep his promise to himself. Well, not that he wants to, but it’s what’s right. He can’t get you involved with his broken self. Your face drops slightly at the sight of him leaving, and part of him wants to lean over the bar to grab your face and kiss you hard in reassurance that he has the same kind of thoughts. But he can’t.

So he wishes you goodnight and walks home, angry with himself for nearly crossing the line. But he can’t help but think of your smile, and those flirty comments, as he tries to fall asleep.

You’re wide awake. Every time you close your eyes, your brain starts looping your conversation with Joel. Fingers rub circles in your temples, cursing to yourself as you get the replay of his extremely quick exit after you’d said you have…not so good thoughts about him.

The only indication you’d gotten from him that he felt any type of way toward you is his periodic visits to the bar on his own, spending the night chatting and laughing with you. You’d sometimes find yourself meeting his stare when you’d see each other across the street from your porches or in town.

But he’d never made a move, hell the most he’d touch you was to take a glass of whiskey or beer bottle from you. So why did you think he would suddenly reciprocate when you’d made openly flirty comments?

You needed some air. Just to clear your head of this embarrassing play-by-play. You pull yourself to stand and grab the sweatshirt at the end of your bed before heading out.

Jackson had the sort of late spring, early summer climate that happened to be your favorite. Warm, mildly humid days that brought the colors back after winter, and chillier nights, the right temperature to keep your cotton sleeping shorts on and add an extra layer up top to keep you warm.

Without thinking, you started towards the old barn on the edge of the residential area. The structure had seen better days, mostly used for storage now, but the open field behind it had an incredible view of the sky at night. It was a place you loved to go when that deep, dull ache in your chest wouldn’t quit.

Gravel crunches softly under your feet, small pebbles slip out from under your soles with each step. Not remotely focused on what’s in front of you, it comes as a surprise when hands land on your biceps. Your knee-jerk reaction is to scream, but as you look from the ground to the person grabbing you, the sound dies in your throat when you meet chestnut eyes.

“Jesus, Joel, you scared the shit out of me! Hasn’t anyone told you, you can’t just go grabbing women at night? Well, at any time of the day, really.” Your voice is rasped into a whisper despite the fact that there’s not a soul around.

“Maybe you should be paying a bit more attention to your surroundings when you’re walking by yourself at night, sweetheart” Joel counters, mouth ticking up to the side as his drawl continues, “Don’t know who’s lurking in the shadows in little ol’ Jackson.”

“You’re apparently the only person lurking, and you’re not doing a very good job since you just came right up to me.”

“Couldn’t help myself, I guess. What’re you doin’ out here at this hour?”

Heat burns under the surface of your skin when Joel drops his hands from your arms, the sensation radiating throughout the rest of your body. “Couldn’t sleep. I was gonna go sit out in the field behind the barn for a bit, admire the moon.”

He lights up with the first genuine smile you’ve seen from him. He has the best poker face out of anyone you know, but a part of you hopes that he feels like he doesn’t need it around you.

“Mind if I join ya, darlin’? Might be nice to stargaze a bit.”

You have to hold back from nodding frantically, attempting to play it off as if you’re weighing your options, “I don’t mind at all. You can teach me about the stars.”

The walk over is quiet but comfortable. At the shabby split-rail fence, you lift your foot to the lowest rail and push off the ground to mount the barrier. Joel’s hand meets the small of your back to hold you steady. Heat emanates from the spot, fingertips brushing your sweatshirt. His warmth leaves you as you make it over, watching as he easily clears the fencing with one smooth movement.

“Any spot in particular?”

As an answer, you grab Joel’s hand. Nerves bubble in your stomach, two steps ahead with your arm outstretched behind. His larger strides are quick to close the gap, arms between your bodies with palms pressed together. His hand shifts in yours, fingers lacing with yours and curling around the outside of your smaller hand, his thumb skimming back and forth.

Steps slow at a small clearing in the tall, overgrown grass, settling down on the dewy ground. He lays back with you, not focusing on the stars right away. His eyes are a cooler shade in the moonlight, yet no warmth is lost in the way he looks as if he’d been waiting for this moment.

Suddenly aware of yourself under his stare, you lightly clear your throat and turn toward the sky. “Do you know a lot about astronomy? I never got to learn much, other than my brother teaching me how to find the north star to navigate.”

Joel’s attention moves to the stars, his voice coming out lower and softer than in the daylight, “I used to know a lot more. Did a lot of camping before and learned to find the major constellations. Taught Ellie some of ‘em, and now she’s got a few books on astronomy. She kept saying how she wanted to fly, go to space or the moon like Sally Ride.”

“She’d be a pretty badass astronaut.”

He laughs softly, nodding before his expression settles into one of reminiscence and guilt all muddled together.

“You’re not wrong,” he pauses shortly before continuing, “But, I think I can still remember most of the constellations. What’s that thing called where you’re assigned one when you’re born?”

“Astrology?”

“That’s it. I know where my constellation is. I’m a Libra, whatever that means.”

Joel lifts your joined hands, his index fingers extended as he traces out the shape of scales in the corner of the sky.

Pulling the limited memories you have from the book you’d found sitting on a shelf at home, you follow Joel’s finger, “Libras are supposed to be balanced, that’s the whole scales thing, I guess. And impartial, but sometimes indecisive. Oh, and charming.”

Joel nestles your hands back on the ground. “Balanced, impartial, and indecisive? Sounds a lil’ vague, darlin’. Not sure I’m believin’ the stars can tell you about your personality.”

“Well, they got the charming part right about you. You’re certainly a Southern gentleman, got ladies swooning left and right.”

“Nah, I don’t even notice ‘em. Too busy focused on someone I’m pretty charmed by myself.”

You let go of Joel’s hand, turning onto your side to face him. He mirrors you, and you take the chance to lean in. Lips touch together with a brush, breaths fanning over both of your faces as you wait for his response.

Joel sits up, weight resting on his elbow. Broad shoulders lean over to shift you onto your back, rich eyes never leaving you. His touch is confident, a large hand fully cups the side of your face. Fingers sprawl along your jaw, thumb on your cheekbone. His frame leans further over yours, lips hovering as his voice breaks the moment of silence in a rasp, “This okay?”

Your voice thick with anticipation answers, “Yes.”

His kiss sends ripples of tension over your body. Fingers curl into the fabric of his sleeves, feet press into the dewy earth, chest tightens with quickened beating, lips match his depth. He tastes minty from toothpaste, mixed with notes of the Tennessee whiskey he orders. It’s intoxicating, reminders of him to seep into your daily life.

Joel brings you closer with a hand in your hair. His tongue traces your lips, parting them to let him in. When his fingers leave the crown of your head, his touch floats over your body, caressing your waist, sprawling under your breast, and jumping to your exposed thigh. He’s pressing your skin back against your body as if you were going to flow out from under him.

His frame shifts over you, pulling him away and breaths mix from open-mouth exhales. Legs open and hands find purchase on his expansive shoulders, heat pooling at your center when his knees settle between yours.

“You’re so beautiful, darlin’,” Joel’s earthy tone sighs, his hands moving along your body with a rumble of satisfaction brewing out of his chest.

His touch surrounds your cheeks as if he was bringing water up to drink from his hands, only your lips are the means to quench his thirst. You moan into the deep kiss, finding a frantic rhythm together. Fingertips dance along his torso to reach the hem of his navy t-shirt.

Hot, humid kisses line your neck to the collar of your sweatshirt. Tugging at the fabric and slipping his hand underneath, you comply to get the material off. Your t-shirt follows in its wake, the chill of the ground and Joel’s touch spreading goosebumps on your skin.

You breathe out a moan at his teeth scraping the curve of your shoulder, hands pulling at his shirt. He follows the silent order, getting the soft cotton over his head.

His hips grind down, arousal flooding your core. Another moan slips at the feeling of Joel’s breath meeting a small peak on your chest, sucking the pebbled skin.

Hips jerk up against his bulge, Joel’s throaty groan cutting into the night.

“Fuck, baby, you’re so soft…”

He gives the same treatment to the opposite breast and large fingers hook in the waistband of your shorts, tugging lightly to ask permission.

“Touch me, please. Wanna feel you…”

Joel’s lips separate from the skin with a pop. Your shorts come off, Joel retaking his place between your velvety thighs.

His eyes worship your body, dark with lust but still harboring a warmth. A slight ache burns in your hips that you completely ignore when his knuckles brush up your covered slit.

There isn’t a single thought in his head that doesn’t revolve around you.

His fingers slide against the last piece of fabric covering you, feeling your wetness through it. Your delicate sounds encourage him, thumb finding your clit and rubbing slow circles. He watches for a moment, eyes catching your face as you whine.

“Joel, please…”

His teasing doesn’t cease. Instead, he removes his thumb from your clit, hooking his finger to pull your panties to the side and exposing your wetness to the chill of the night.

“Gonna have to tell me what you want, darlin’. Not a mind reader…” He grins as you huff out your frustration.

“Please, Jesus Christ, want your fingers inside of me…” you look at him impatiently as you wait for an answer.

Biting his lip to hold back a groan, he pulls your panties off to leave you completely naked under him. His mouth waters, taking you all in as his touch runs up your bent knees.

Two fingers gather your wetness, pressing harder circles into your clit. Your whimpers egg him on, slipping down to tease your entrance with one finger.

“Good girl. ‘M gonna make this pretty pussy come around my fingers.”

With a smirk, one finger slides into you. Moans fill the still air, the tightness of you around his middle finger making him stiffen. A second finger easily joins the first to work you open.

His name is repeated like a prayer when he hooks his fingers on the uptick, searching for that rough patch inside your walls.

“Fuck, Joel, feels so fucking good,” you writhe under his touch, the sight and sound of you falling apart making him ache. He uses the hand resting on your stomach as a temporary fix for himself, a deep moan interrupting the orchestra of your whimpers and wetness. He pulls his hand away from his jeans, the need to feel you come overpowering his own.

He moves in circles around clit while fingers work in and out quicker, wanton moans growing louder and higher in pitch to accompany the sounds of your drenched cunt.

“So tight around my fingers. Feels good, yeah? You gonna come for me, sweet girl?”

The sounds you make in response are lewd, pleasure overtaking you as you rasp out, “Joel, I-I’m-”

“I know, baby. Let it happen.”

His words push you over the edge, fingers nearly pushed out from how hard you clench around them. Moans flood his ears, and all he can focus on is making that feeling last for you.

Soft breaths return when you’ve recovered, hand finding him hard and working your palm. Fingers open his button and fly, shoving the fabric as far down as you can manage.

“You sure, darlin’? We don’t have to, watching you was enough for me.”

You make your way inside his jeans, fingers wrapping around his cock and stroking slowly. He’d never really been one to care about underwear in the middle of the apocalypse, and right now he was thanking his past, lazy self for the lack of barrier. A shudder ripples down his spine, your touch so much better than his own fist.

“‘M sure, baby. Need you inside of me,” he twitches in your loose grip at the request, pushing his pants down just far enough to free himself.

Nails scrape against his scarred chest, a moan escaping you as he guides the head of his cock through your slick before positioning himself at your entrance.

His eyes lock onto where your bodies meet as he enters with a gentle thrust, your nails biting into the skin under his collarbone. He looks for a second at your face, your nod permission for him to move once you’ve adjusted to the stretch. 

He nearly comes at the sight of you taking him fully, your tightness and warmth making the edges of his vision blur. “So, so good, baby…Feels so tight and warm and wet. Perfect, you’re perfect.”

Wetness pools around the base of him and onto the grass below, drenching the sound of skin meeting skin. He watches your eyes screw shut, whimpering as you take every thrust, “Fuck, Joel. Feel so full, ‘m close already.”

His hips work you harder, feeling that taut rope in his gut near its breaking point. One hand leaves your leg held against him, licking his thumb to make quick movements on your clit. His name tumbles from your lips in a high-pitched whine and your head presses back against the ground.

“Come for me, baby.”

Your walls grip him tighter and nearly knock the wind out of his lungs, your back arching off of the grass and nails biting into his shoulders. Eyes open when you settle, clouded and full of pleasure. His thrusts grow sloppy as he chases after his own high.

“Fuck, ‘m close. Feel so damn good.”

“Come for me, please Joel, wanna see you come.”

Your begging snaps that taut feeling in his gut; he quickly pulls out and replaces your warmth with his fist. His chin falls to his chest with a guttural moan as he watches his spend cover your lower stomach, glistening in the soft light. Warmth spreads across his body in a tingle, pleasure clearing his head.

They say drowning is one of the more peaceful ways to go. Once the first few breaths of water fill your lungs, your muscles relax and there’s a warmth that washes over you. Then you pass out and everything goes black. It’s not comfortable, but the tranquility makes it better.

Joel feels like he’s drowned in you, muscles relaxed, warm peace in his chest. His vision is black for a moment, breaths deep in recovery. His eyes adjust to see moonlight flooding your face and body in cool blue. His hands start roaming again, softer this time. Pulling out of you slowly, your whimper meets his small hiss.

He lays you on your side to face him, your form molding like fresh clay.

“You okay?”

Your eyes close contently when his fingers brush your hair from your face, humming, “Fantastic. I wanted that to happen ever since I met you.”

His heart beats quicker at your confession, his mind immediately repeating those words - you’re going to fail her, too.

He only holds you closer in response, and by the time you’re both dressed again and walking back to your street, he knows that he can’t let this continue.

Guilt harbored in his chest over forcing himself to avoid you for weeks after you’d given him exactly what he longed for. He didn’t want you to think that he saw you as a one-night stand, it had felt like more than he wanted to admit, but he couldn’t seek you out to apologize. If he saw you alone, he’d end up doing it all over again. He didn’t regret it. He was just trying to do right by you. Give you space, give you the means to move on before you’d drift too far into the deep end with him.

So he decided to move on himself, try to force your hand into someone else’s if you saw him coupled up. It was cruel, but that’s who he was deep down. Cruel, guilty, undeserving.

He asked Tommy to set him up with someone, and his brother told him about a nice widow who’d been in Jackson since the beginning and had mentioned how cute she thought Joel was. That was enough for him. He asked her out that night.

He’d been dating Heather for a couple of months now. She was pretty, with medium blonde hair and blue eyes. Not much younger than him. Everyone knew they were together, and he assumed that meant you did too. He’d seen you around, eyes never meeting while he walked to his house hand-in-hand with her. He heard rumors of you leaving the Tipsy Bison with a guy in tow a few times, and despite the pang of jealousy that he felt, he kept reminding himself that this was right. You’d fall in love with that guy or someone else, forgetting all about him.

A few months of dating led them to a quick engagement. Joel still couldn’t get you out of his head and took extreme measures to ensure nothing more would happen. They got married in his backyard in a small ceremony. The occasion was lowkey, at the request of Joel. Word spread after the first outing Joel had taken to the market, the silver band on his finger telling everyone what they wanted to know. Each conversation came with congratulations to him and his new wife. He returned them with tight, polite smiles, hiding the oozing guilt that was filling his chest.

Joel had found out that you’d skipped work a few times when Tommy mentioned it in passing on patrol, which was extremely unlike you considering you loved your job. He knew it was because of his marriage.

He tried to bury his worry, telling himself that he was doing the right thing. For him and for you.

Heather had lived her young life with her first husband, she wouldn’t grow to resent him for what he failed to give her. You would move on, as he did, and find some nice guy to settle down with, who could give you what you were looking for. What you deserved.

The worry carried over the day, his brain jumping to worst-case scenarios. He had to make sure you were okay. He would knock on your door to see if you were there. It was the neighborly thing to do.

Joel silently left his bed with his wife sleeping next to him, slipping out the front door in the hours before dawn. He needed to check on you, even if he had to look in through your windows to make sure you were alive. Knuckles lightly rapped on your door, and just as he was nearly about to go find your bedroom window, the door cracked apart from the jamb, and your face was lit by the soft night light.

“What are you doing here?” He can taste the bitterness in your tone.

He swallows down at the toes of his boots, raising both shoulders in a small shrug.

“Tommy said you skipped out on work most of this week. Just wanted to make sure you were alright. That you were alive.” He tries to joke, but your expression remains annoyed.

“Well, I’m fine. Alive. You should probably go, your wife’s at home.”

The door starts to shut, but he quickly grips the edge, rasping out, “I need to talk to you.”

You pause for a second before opening the door. Not waiting for him, you move to sit on your couch. Joel strides over, sitting at the other end and cheating his body towards you curled up in the corner.

 “What do you need to talk about?”

“I need to apologize to you. I shouldn’t have ignored you after that night. Hell, that night shouldn’t have even happened. I got caught up-”

“Do you regret it?”

He thinks about saying yes. It would make everything so much easier. You could hate him, call him an asshole for fucking you and breaking your heart. But he can’t lie to you.

“No. I could never regret it.”

“So why shouldn’t it have happened?”

He sighs, wringing his hands together and resting his elbows on his knees.

“Honestly? I’ve been trying so hard to do right by you, darlin’. You deserve so much more than me. I’m broken, bruised, scarred. I’ve lived an ugly life, and I don’t want to end up giving any part of it to you. I can barely live with myself for the things I’ve done, even if I’ve done them to save my people. I’ve lost so much, and taken all the same. You’re so bright. I see it in that beautiful smile of yours. You deserve someone who can add beauty to your life, to live a long while with you. I can’t do that for you. All I’m going to do is fail you; it’s all I can seem to do these days. So I chose for us, and I moved on, and I hope you can find the same thing.”

After a breath, he feels like he can face you. That confidence crumbles immediately when he sees the tears streaming down your cheeks, the soft sniffle as you wipe your runny nose with your sleeve.

“That’s not true, Joel. You could never fail me because all I ever wanted you to give me was yourself. I love you, Joel. You are someone that can give me a beautiful life. Or could’ve, I guess, but now…” your eyes flick to the band on his left ring finger, “What you did was so fucking selfish, Joel. You couldn’t even have a conversation with me. And no matter how angry I get with you, I still can’t help but fucking love you.”

All he can do is kiss you. He’s spilling every emotion he can’t speak into this kiss. It would be wrong to tell you what you want to hear from him, even if it hurts to keep it inside him. His hands run over your body, gathering you in his arms and guiding you back to your bedroom.

He shouldn’t keep going. He should stop. But the feeling of your lips on his, your soft skin in his hands, and the fact that you love him keep his feet moving down the short hallway.

He can’t give you up. He was in way too deep and he would be damned if he wasn’t going to pull you in with him.

Despite the anger, sadness, and betrayal, your love for him overpowered it all. You needed to show him, to let him go with a searing memory of how you feel.

All of the actions between you two are sloppier than before. Each touch is rougher, grabbing at whatever you can take in the midst of heady kisses. Every movement is filled with unspoken words.

Joel gently pushes you the last few inches onto your bed, kicking off his boots and working at the buttons of his shirt, “Take it all off, baby, don't wanna waste a second.”

You’re only apart for as long as it takes for clothes to be shed. Back against the pillows of your unmade bed, arms pull Joel in and legs spread wide. His weight is supported with one arm, a soft moan exhaled as he bites his mark into your neck. Fingers move through your wetness, circling your clit.

It’s your turn to be selfish, and all you want is for Joel to feel himself inside of you. To remember what it’s like to have you when he goes home. To think about you when he fucks his wife. It feels wrong to want that, but you can’t help but feel a claim over him. The fingers tangled in his hair pull his head from its spot at the curve of your shoulder. You meet his lust-blown eyes and speak your demand.

“Fuck me, please, I need you now.”

Joel groans, fingers ceasing their movement as he questions you, “You sure, darlin’? You ready for me right now?”

“Yes, ‘m ready, please, baby,” you plead with him.

Joel repositions himself upright on his knees between your wide legs, stroking himself to get fully hard. He drags the head of his cock up your slit, coating it with your wetness before he presses the tip inside of you. You feel a tinge of pain as he splits you open, but you whisper for him to keep going.

When he’s completely inside of you, Joel sighs out your name, hands gripping your thighs and bringing one up to wrap around his waist, allowing him to sink further.

“Please, Joel, want it hard…” you whimper out, feeling the sensation of him in your gut. Joel needs no further instructions, pulling back to fuck into you hard and deep.

He watches where your bodies connect, how the drag of his cock swells your cunt. Lip pulled between his teeth, the sight makes his hips snap roughly against yours.

He’s leaving bruises with how tight he’s holding onto you, keeping you from moving up the mattress with the power of his thrusts. You don’t say anything until Joel breaks, fucking you with a possessive drive, “Mine. You’re all mine.”

“Only yours, baby. ‘M only ever gonna be yours.”

“You’re made for me, sweet girl, made to take me. Feel so fucking good, such a perfect pussy.”

You’re relieved when his eyes leave yours as he watches him hit inside you again, tears pricking your eyes from the pain and pleasure pounding through you and the thought that he won’t ever be completely yours.

That stupid piece of metal around his finger burns against the skin of your thigh. It should be a symbol of you, not someone else.

Hurt, anger, and pleasure meld together. Hands move to Joel’s shoulders, using your strength to flip over. His back hits the crumpled pillows at the headboard, sitting up as you straddle him.

“Look so beautiful on top of me, baby,” his chest rises and falls in quick succession, the next inhale sharper as you sink down completely, watching his eyes screw shut and a deep moan vibrate his chest.

“Oh fuck, take what you need, darlin’. Use my cock. I’ll give you whatever you want.”

Your mouth opens to tell him you can’t have what you want most. Because of what he decided for the both of you. Instead, a moan tumbles out, hips starting to roll to work him back to that near-ecstasy feeling. The room is filled with the wet smacks of skin meeting skin mixed with wanton moans. Your movements keep you both near the edge, your head back and eyes closed as you scream Joel’s name. He doesn’t reprimand you for potentially exposing yourselves to the neighbors, only reaching a hand to the back of your neck and pulling you in for a passionate kiss. You can tell he’s close when his feet dig into the mattress, hips under his vice grip. He starts fucking up into you, both of your rhythms meeting to work you higher. One hand leaves his chest to hold the side of his head, forcing him to meet your eyes.

“‘M yours…” you echo his lust-filled words. You need to remind him that at least part of him will always belong to you, that only you can make him feel this good, this loved. That you’re the one who fucks him like this. “Made for you, right? Just for you, baby. No one besides you can make me feel this good, make me come like you can. Ruined me for everyone else.”

“Mhmm, that’s fuckin’ right, darlin’. This pussy’s mine. You belong to me, all to me.” Joel’s thrusts become frantic and you lose your rhythm, his fingers finding your clit and rubbing quick circles.

You come hard, screaming his name again and whining with each thrust after your intense orgasm. Joel’s right behind you, your sounds pushing him over the edge. Warm ropes coat your walls, his husky groan reverberating under your palms pressed to his chest. Your voice can barely reach a whisper when you look at him, fingers moving to tug his hair, “And you belong to me.”

He doesn’t say anything if he even hears you, his skin sticking against yours and his come dripping out of you onto his stomach when you move to lie down. Joel gets up after he steadies his breath to grab a warm cloth from the bathroom to clean you up. He crawls back into bed, slipping under the covers after tossing the dirty washcloth into the hamper. Your head finds his chest, curling up into his side with his arm wrapping you up. He kisses your forehead as you drift off, feelings of guilt, anger, and love rising from your gut to sit square in your chest.

Cold sheets. That’s what you wake up to. Sitting up in bed, you glance around your room with sleepy eyes, searching for any evidence of Joel.

Nothing. He must’ve left after you fell asleep. You can’t blame him. It definitely wouldn’t look the best if his wife woke up in the morning and he was nowhere to be found. And he couldn’t risk someone seeing him sneak out of yours in the morning light.

You’re remembering your confession that was met with his claim over your body. Your own stupid attempt to make him believe that he belonged only to you, spurred on by his possessive words.

Something on the nightstand catches your eye. A note from Joel:

Meet me at our spot tonight, sweet girl

You met him that night, and nearly every night since then, too. Mostly in that overgrown field behind the barn, sometimes at yours when you craved complete comfort of the couch or bed.

Joel started staying later with you, holding you after the possessive claims he made over you like a prayer. He opened up about his time with Ellie before Jackson, stories about Boston, about Tess. What it was like growing up with Tommy, confessing he loved to sing and play guitar, even wanted to be a singer when he was younger and somehow ended up as a contractor. He even told you about his daughter Sarah, how beautiful and bright she was.

You told him your own story too. Leaving the Chicago QZ with your brother and sister when everything went to shit with FEDRA and the Fireflies. How you lost your sister soon after, bit by a straggling clicker in a gas station you were raiding. How your brother was the one to shoot her when she begged you both. Stories about traveling west with him, how he protected you until the day he died. You were chased by raiders looking to kill you both for your supplies, running through the forest just along the river outside of Jackson. You didn’t know the community was there, but it ended up being your saving grace. Your brother pushed you to run over the bridge, the men finally catching up to him. You couldn’t stop, couldn’t look back. All you could do was scream as you heard a gunshot.

Joel held you as you cried, you comforted him when he needed it. He never told you what happened after he and Ellie left Jackson that first time, he didn’t have to if he didn’t ever want to. These vulnerable moments brought you closer together.

But it was never close enough to stop the cycle he developed of pushing you away after a few weeks together, getting so in his head about the situation, feeling guilty, or getting paranoid if he suspects that Tommy or Maria or his wife are catching on. His abandonment would last a few days or even a week at a time.

And you always wait it out, always come back when he wants you.

Like a dog with a bird at his door, you gave all of yourself to him.

It’s a late night at work for you. Joel parked himself on his usual stool, drinking ‘til last call after his buddies left, something he’d done often in the last few weeks.

Tommy finished restocking the fridges under the counter and tossed you the keys to lock up. As he leaves, he gives Joel a knowing look and you a sympathetic one.

Joel slaps his hands against the bar top, standing when you walk from behind the counter. His steps falter a bit as he gets used to the ground underneath him. Steadying him with an arm around his back, he wraps his own around your shoulders to keep you at his side.

“Let me walk you home, baby.” Words slurs together, eyes half-lidded and glazed over. It would be a bit endearing to see him without his usual stoic persona, but the fact that this is the third night this week that he’s gotten this drunk is concerning.

You end up carrying Joel all the way home, and just when you’re about to get him to his front door, his strength overpowers your own and he pulls you away with him, dragging you two in a drunken stupor down the road.

His steps are heavy and sporadic while he whistles some song in your ear, reaching the field. He flops down into the grass, his arms sneaking around your waist when lay down with him. Joel pulls you in close, kissing you deeply and sighing against your mouth. He smells of whiskey, leather, and musk; all combining to be uniquely Joel.

You couldn’t bring yourself to argue with him about getting home so you let him kiss you, let his hand under your shirt. You listened to him recollecting the night with the patrol guys. The only touches exchanged were his fingertips running up and down your side under your loose t-shirt and your cheek pressed against his denim-covered chest.

He brought up a song that was playing on a record at the bar, John Lennon’s Woman. He reminisced about hearing that song as a young teen for the first time, and telling you how a couple of years later he wrote the lyrics down for his tenth-grade girlfriend, telling her he wrote a poem for her.

“She read it, obviously knowing the song. She crumpled it up, said ‘That’s John Lennon, not you, Joel Miller,” and walked away from me. Needless to say, she broke up with me.”

“Wow, a breakup over plagiarism. Must’ve been a real stickler for academic honesty,” you reply, sending both of you into giggles.

His laugh faded slightly, the wrinkles still showing next to his eyes and his smile lines present, jovially commenting, “You probably barely even know who John Lennon is.”

He laughs but his words made you feel small. He teased you before about the age difference, but for some reason, you couldn’t brush this one off.

“Y’know, I still remember what life was like then.”

His hand finds your chin, tilting your head up with a sigh, “That’s not what I meant, darlin’, you know I was just teasin’. You probably didn’t even know it was John Lennon if you heard one of his songs when you were young, baby.” You sit up quickly, separating from him.

“He was a fucking Beatle! Like the biggest band ever. I might be younger than you, but I’m not stupid. They were around even before you were born, so yeah, I do know who John Lennon is. And did you know he cheated on his first wife, like, a bunch of times and left her for one of those women? Sound familiar, Joel? Actually, probably not, ‘cause you’d never actually admit how you feel about me and leave your wife, even though you love me,” your words come out before you even have a chance to think about them, and as you look at Joel, you can tell he’s letting his anger and annoyance come over him, his expression turning to stone, “I feel like you just see me as some naive girl who doesn’t know anything or hasn’t dealt with shit in this world -”

“You haven’t done nearly a fraction of what I’ve had to do in this world, darlin’, so don’t get started. You are a naive girl. You’ve always had someone to protect you, and I’ve always been the protector. You don’t know nothin’ about losing yourself or having to do the worst possible thing just to save yourself or your people,” his voice is low and unwavering with an intensity you hadn’t heard before. He’s trying to hurt you now, bringing up the protection that you’d been given by your brother before he died to save you, the fact that you’ve always had support from him or the people of Jackson.

Your eyes gloss over, blurring his hunched-over figure. His words are venom seeping through the well-worn cracks in your heart. Curling up into a ball and chin on your kneecaps, pressing down into the bone to keep your lips from trembling. How childish you must look like this. Joel doesn’t move to comfort you, staring a thousand yards ahead, emotionless.

“I know you think I don’t know the guilt or pain or heartbreak that you feel 'cause I’ve been protected for a lot of my life in this world. But being in love with you, being some dirty secret to you, has given me enough guilt, pain, and heartbreak to last for the rest of my life.”

A shaky breath slipped out of your parted lips, untangling your limbs from their locked positions to stand. You turn away, legs carrying you home. You don’t look back, wiping your tears away as quickly as they fall. You’re exhausted from him, from this whirlpool of loving and leaving that he’s pulled you into. A part of you breaks just the slightest bit more, a new piece for you to mend whenever he calls you back.

You should hate Joel. He pulled you in and pushed you away, and all you could do was fall, but now it felt like sinking. And your feet won’t ever touch the bottom.

He’s taken your love willingly, and only given you possessive invocations over your body, only made your constant pain burn hotter. Linen soaked up the tears that were left on your cheeks as you laid down in bed, exhaustion taking over.

The image you see feels warm, blurred around the edges. It was his home, no sign of his wife but evidence of Ellie in the comic book and worn-out sneakers near the chair across the room. Soft strums of a guitar float around, and your sights lock on him at the other end of the couch. You have this feeling that you need to say something to him, but can’t remember for the life of you what it is; the moment overwhelming. He’s singing and playing guitar, unabashed, and with a genuine smile only for you. Tender brown eyes glance away as someone walks into the room. Ellie’s holding a lopsided birthday cake with a few candles lit. It’s decorated with a sloppy frosting drawing of the ocean, a boat on the horizon. It was a reminder of the daydream you had vocalized to Joel, spending a life on the shore in a small sailboat together. The song he was playing softly fades into Happy Birthday, his smile matching Ellie’s. All you hear, before the image fades, is his voice as you lean in to blow out your candles, “Happy birthday, darlin’. I love you.”

The clinking of stacking glasses is the only sound echoing through the empty bar as you and Tommy close out. Joel’s been ignoring you, has been for a couple of weeks after your fight, spending his free time picking up shifts or staying at home with his family. The rag you’re holding moves in circles over the shiny bar top, reflecting your face back to you. You can see the pain in your eyes seeping back after spending the night putting on a face for your customers.

“You don’t need to keep on paintin’ that pretty smile on your face, hon. I hate seein’ you looking like you’re gonna crack your jaw from forcing yourself to look happy,” Tommy sighs, looking over at you while he continues to polish the glass in his hand. “What he’s doing to you, it’s wrong. You deserve to be treated with respect.”

“He wasn’t doin’ anything I wasn’t letting him do. It takes two, Tommy. Think you’d know that with a newborn around,” you try to lighten the mood, kicking yourself for still defending Joel.

“I know. But I also know how you look at him. Like you’ve been drownin’ at sea and he’s the one who’s come along to save you.” You finally look up from your reflection on the bar surface; the shame in your face becomes too much for you.

“At this point, it feels more like he’s the one pulling me under.” 

Tommy sets the glass down and tosses the rag at it. Closing the small space between, he pulls you against his chest, arms around your shoulders. You can’t cry in front of him, embarrassed that he even knows about you and Joel in the first place, let alone that he feels sorry for you. You reciprocate the hug, gingerly wrapping your arms around his torso. The sound of the door swinging echoes in the large room. Tommy let’s you out of his comforting embrace and turns to meet the late patron.

Joel.

He’s standing across the room, eyes moving between his brother and you. He came looking for you, not expecting Tommy to still be closing out the bar with the baby at home. A furrowed brow creases lines between those soft, guilt-ridden brown eyes. The same look he’s had every time he’s shown up at your door at 2 AM to apologize, kiss you, show you how much he needs you. You fall every time, wanting to be his comfort, his relief. His lighthouse in the storm of remorse he’s constantly battling. Loyal to a fault.

At this moment, you wish for a wave to pull you under and sweep you into the tide.

Tommy asked him to wait outside.

Asked is generous. More like, grabbed Joel by the collar and dragged him outside like a scolded puppy, pointing his finger and giving him a strong, “Stay.”

He did as he was told, leaning against the post at the top of the stairs. Arms crossed over his chest and anxiously tapping his foot against the wood porch.

Both you and Tommy left at the same time. Joel would be knocked out on the spot if Tommy had his way, judging by the look on his face. The younger Miller wished you goodnight and you gave him a reassuring nod as you stayed back to face Joel.

Tommy’s out of sight and out of earshot before you break the silence.

“So…why’d you come here? Thought you’d be done with the naive girl.”

Joel raises to his full height, taking a hesitant step toward you. You don’t move away, but he keeps his distance in order to get his thoughts out.

“Darlin’, I’m -” he starts, pausng for a moment to gather his words, “I keep doin’ this, don’t I? Being happy with you, then pushing you away and hurting you. I’m sorry, sweet girl. I’m so, so sorry. I don’t want to fight with you. I shouldn’t have said those things to you, I know what you’ve been through. You’re not naive. You’re mindful, attentive in ways I could never be. I hurt you. I haven’t done this the right way. I haven’t protected you like I should’ve 'cause I couldn’t stay away from you. I’m what you needed saving from and I’ve been too selfish to keep us both from drowning.”

You worry your lip between your teeth as tears gloss over your eyes. He steps closer to you, hands reaching up to cup your face. He’s not sure if you’re going to slip between his fingers, but he’s trying his best to keep you there with him. Tears fall, his thumbs working to wipe them away. Not letting a drop of you to slip away from his touch.

He can see the innerworkings of your brain in your eyes. He knows how to read you; he can see the battle in your head about whether or not he’s saved this time. Your voice is coated in emotion when you finally speak up again, “I’ve heard drowning is actually kind of a peaceful way to go, all things considered. And if it’s going to be with anyone, I’d choose you.”

That damn smile finds its way across your face in spite of your tears, and he can’t help but mirror it. It’s a welcome home for him, the light pulling him into your harbor - safe once again. He leans down to press a soft, tender kiss to your lips, deepening it for a moment when you reciprocate.

His hand finds yours when he pulls away, “Let’s go for a walk, sweet girl.”

Joel leads you away from the bar, walking down your street. You slow down when you get in front of your cottage, moving to walk down your path. He stops you, shaking his head and mouth ticking up in a small smile. His eyebrows are raised in a silent question, asking you to come with him. You fold easily, taking your place next to his side, hands intertwined.

He takes you to your spot where he’s set up a blanket and a couple of flickering lanterns for some light, but not enough to disturb the view of the moon.

“Joel…this is wonderful, I’m - I don’t know what to say, thank you.” Your hand squeezes his and he shrugs the praise off.

“Don’t thank me, baby, I should be doin’ this for you all the time. ‘S what you deserve.”

He’d gotten a couple of strange stares when he’d been walking down the road with a blanket under one arm and the lanterns in his hand. It occurred to him that people would think he was doing it for his wife, that they might ask her about it tomorrow and he’d be in for a line of questioning. But damn the consequences, he needed to do this for you. To give you something.

Joined hands pointing out more constellations he remembers and ones that Ellie knew, having asked her specifically to help him find the one for your zodiac. As the two of you lay on your backs, curled into each other, he’s taken back to the conversation Ellie and him had about their combined dream of a sheep ranch on the moon. Now that dream, at least for him, included you, too.

“I think it’d be nice out there. Without this world, feeling weightless.” He wishes for that down here, to lighten the load on his chest and the guilt on his shoulders. A different life.

You hum in agreement and he continues, “I wish I could just bring the moon down here, to take the weight off us, and to give Ellie the chance to get her dream.”

You’re quiet for a beat before your words wrap him in warmth, “If I could give you the moon, I would.” 

You’d do anything for him, he knows that. And he’d do anything for you.

As those words cross his mind, the ring from his finger burns in his pocket. He’d taken it off to rid you both of the reminder of how this night would end, how every night would end. A little metal circle that has decided your fates, at least for now. His voice is slightly gravelly in his throat as he answers, “Maybe in another life, yeah?”

if you got to the end, i'm giving you a big smooch.

taglist: @swiftispunk (supportive bae)

[bokettochild]

Demon In A Bottle

Took me bloody well forever, but I'm off work now, so here we go!

Febuwhump: Day 1 - Helplessness

Word Count: 5,395

Summary: In the wake of a battle with a demon, one that's abilities allow it to dredge up old miseries, Sky must hunt down their straying captain to try and stop him drowning said old miseries in whiskey.

TRIGGER WARNINGS: Alcoholism and Substance Abuse

notes: quite frankly, the theme of this fic is in no ways lighthearted, but while the title jumped out at me from the story, I find it also makes me laugh. I can’t help thinking of the tweetle-beetle-bottle-puddle-paddle-battle-muddle from Fox in Socks and I don’t know if I hate myself for it or am just glad I can giggle about something related to this story! 

  If there’s one thing heroes are supposed to be able to do, it’s save people. By definition, a hero is someone who helps others, but in meeting the rest of their chain of heroes, Sky has since learned that the title of hero means something else too. 

  The Hero is a man or child clad in green who appears when Hyrule is in danger to fight away monsters and evil and restore peace to the kingdom. The fashion in which they do so differs of course, as he’s slowly learning, but the fact remains that a hero still has a duty to his people and his country, and while it’s not always something thrust upon them, each one of his brothers bears that burden. Some of them let it drag them down, the weight of the world on their shoulders an inescapable duty, others shoulder it as a life purpose, a defining role, something that they’ve built their whole being around, and others, like Wind, regard it as a natural course of action. 

  It’s strange, learning that the title is so commonly used, that so many men and boys have borne it since it was given to him what feels like ages ago. In a way, it’s nice knowing that there are others, that there are people like him who understand things, yet in the same breath, they’re all so different, and with such varying experiences that really, in the long run, they’re as different as night and day sometimes. 

  As if to prove it, Legend’s blatant lack of trust in knights clashes with the fact that so many of them bear the honor of knighthood with pride. Warriors is a polished, well-spoken soldier, trained in the ways of combat, and Twilight is a ranch hand hailing from the country village of Ordon, brash in many ways that clash with the captain. Time is quiet, distant at times, and Wind is warm, welcoming and an ever-present ray of sunshine at their sides. Where Hyrule is unpolished and unassuming, the majority of their group stand out in a crowd. Wild can cook. Truly, there is such variety among their number that it’s a wonder they can all be classified by the same singular word: a hero. 

  But just because the title is there, doesn’t always mean it always feels like it fits. 

  Sure, Legend’s whole being is built around his life as a hero. They're not sure how long he’s been doing it, but they don’t call the young man “veteran” for nothing. It’s clear he owns his title without shame, living out each day in the effort of following the destiny given to him. Sure, Wild has taken to heart the burden bestowed on him, striving to be the best he can be and own the title. Sure, Wind accepts it like it’s just another truth about himself, just the same as his golden hair and ocean blue eyes. Yes, the old man seems to characterize what any child might think of when asked to describe a hero. But Sky is not Legend or Wind or Wild or Time or any of the other heroes. They are of the same spirit, and some of them apparently share blood (why had Twilight and Time told no one?) but they are each their own separate selves, each with his own life and person, and unlike them, Sky feels the weight of their shared title acutely. 

  It was his duty to save Zelda. The weight of the future was on his shoulders. His duty was protecting the people of Hylia and restoring peace and safety to the surface. His whole world expanded in one day from a smattering of islands high above the clouds to a whole huge land full of people and animals and duty. 

  Duty. What a heavy word. 

  It follows him. Even with the sword now silent, Fi having gone to rest with the assurance that he has accomplished what he must and no longer requires her aid and guidance (even though he does, he still does, please, Fi, some advice would be great from time to time) his mission isn’t over. No, because now that he’s defeated the god of evil, now that Zelda is safe, now that Impa is dead, he is the one Hylian out of all of them who knows enough about the surface to guide the other in surviving there. Yet, in the same breath, he’s still the youngster who barely graduated Academy, never mind being properly knighted. He’s still young enough that the elders sometimes doubt him, but experienced enough that they know not to treat him like a child. He’s ‘too young’ to understand the Knights of Skyloft, but has seen more of the world than they ever have. 

  It’s strange, being caught in such an imbalance. People expect so much and yet so little of him. They want him to know what’s happening but doubt that he does. They ask for advice but question anything he gives them.  

  It’s exhausting. He knows Zelda used to tease him before, but the nickname “sleepy-head” never felt so accurate. 

  At least with the chain though, he doesn’t need to worry about it. Call him selfish, but there’s a certain kind of relief that comes from allowing someone else to take the lead, knowing that everyone else understands the world around him better and knows what to do. He doesn’t need to babysit them around new species or warn them about dangerous conditions or fauna. He doesn’t need to even be on guard, instead free to drift along at the center of the group, knowing that Twilight’s sharp ears and Legend’s acute sense of danger will provide ample warning if anything does come upon them. 

  He’s free to sleep for the first time in what feels like forever, without someone busting through his tent in a panic because they heard keese for the first time or realized that rain existed. In fact, he’s allowed to even sleep in sometimes, no plans or defenses or responsibilities waiting for him when he wakes up, just simple easy to follow orders of get up, get ready, walk, fight, and make camp. 

  Call him crazy, this adventure has been almost a vacation if it wasn’t for the fact that Twilight almost died on them a month ago! Or then again, there’s been a lot that happened since then, but even with that in mind, at least he’s not the sole one responsible for the safety, care and guidance of his fellow heroes. More often than not, actually, they’re the ones looking out for him. Honestly, he doesn’t know how he’ll thank Legend for teaching him about the poisons on the surface, or Wild for letting him peek at the champion’s slate to read what he can about monster types, weaknesses and whatnot. The other heroes have this and that to add, of course, but those two have been the most helpful, seeking him out in order to show him things first hand when they can, so that while Wild and Hyrule often go to muck about, he and Legend find their free time typically spent with the veteran teaching him everything he knows about the surface world, survival, and even matters beyond that; matters beyond being a hero and more about just being. It's nice learning things for the sake of learning, not for the sake of staying alive, and Legend talks with a similar cadence and manner to Fi when he’s caught up in expounding on this point or that, uninterrupted because Sky very much appreciates both the effort and the guidance. 

  For all Legend has to share with him though, the vet isn’t exactly someone he can turn to when it comes to problems with people. Honestly, sometimes it feels like he returns the kindness shown to him by the younger hero by covering Legend’s ass when it comes to social interactions, at least among their group. The vet’s left a terrible first impression on most of them, and since it seems everyone else is equally bad as he is when it comes to communication, there’s still many in their group under the impression that their vet is a total asshole. 

  So yeah, Legend is not the best person to ask for help when it comes to people issues. Time either. Time and he aren’t close by any exaggeration of the word, and while the older man is willing to offer advice here and there, Sky’s not certain he feels comfortable seeking it out. Typically speaking, he’s found that Warriors is the best person to ask about these sorts of things, being as he is a man and not a child and possesses the social skill necessary to address this sort of thing, only.... 

  Only, it’s terribly hard to ask someone for advice on how to handle their own stupidity. 

  He is not blind. Okay, well, maybe, and to some things, but missing Time and Twilight’s relationship is likely more a matter of him not being close enough to either to really put much stock in their interactions. Their leader’s fondness for one of their number wasn’t too shocking considering how attached he himself has become to all of them in such a short time. He'd just assumed that Time moved slower and had begun to warm up to them one at a time, starting with the rancher and moving on to the sailor. He'd thought they’d all follow in time, not that Time just ultimately had favorites. 

  Despite missing that though, he’s not entirely incompetent. He sees his brothers, and much as they might have all assumed he was simply the tired, quiet one, just because he doesn’t speak up doesn’t mean he’s not paying attention. No, he sees what happens in camp. He sees Legend’s tentative bids for connection, Wild’s withdrawn attitude that hides behind the smile and the laughter. He sees Wind’s worry and Time’s stress. He knows Twilight is wrung out and confused after his secret was exposed and the rest of them have had to accept the fact that their silent, furry companion was, in fact, one of their brothers.  

  He knows that there’s a breach of trust there, or at least a perceived one. Those who didn’t regard the beast as a threat have often sought the company of their wolf companion in order to express troubles or thoughts that they didn’t wish to share with anyone else, including the rancher himself. Not knowing, they’d told him things, thinking he was just an animal and incapable of sharing them, told him things they didn’t want Twilight to know, things they thought or felt. Now, knowing that Twilight is privy to so many of their secrets, it’s perhaps natural that their barriers have been thrown up, their brothers guarded and wary of what he’ll do with the forbidden knowledge he possesses. 

   He knows it hurts the man, but he understands. He’d never shared his own feelings with their wolf companion, but if Crimson were to one day take hylian form, he’s sure he’d be at least the slightest bit worried about it, maybe even betrayed. Not knowing a dear companion could speak if they so wanted, could be like yourself, would be hurtful. To know they didn’t trust you when you poured out your heart to them... 

  Yes, he understands. 

  Unfortunately, that also means that Twilight is, very much, also not in the category of people who he can come to about things that are worrying him. Sadly, it seems none of them are. He’d never dream of asking the younger ones; Wind is a child and should not be burdened with such things, Hyrule is still struggling to make his own connections, Wild may or may not understand and most definitely has enough on his plate already, Legend is Legend, and he’s never been very close with Four. 

  Which leaves Warriors, who is, again, the course of his frustration. 

  Because, unfortunately, despite being a hero, and despite killing an actual god, Sky finds himself helpless to face a mere vice, a common demon that seems to have taken hold of one of his brothers. 

  It started simple. A night after a tough battle, one where he couldn’t sleep and had wandered downstairs from the inn-room he’d shared with a few of the others, a room where Wind was being kept awake for the sake of his earlier concussion from a battle. Stress was high across the whole group, and he’d needed the space so it was natural that he’d wandered downstairs, hoping to sneak outside and catch some fresh air like he used to on Skyloft. 

  Like on Skyloft, the awful visions that woke him up that night were also cause for his slipping from bed. 

  His intention had been to step out, to catch the breeze on his face and maybe watch the stars for a bit. Legend often says that the stars hold comfort and assurance, and while he doesn’t know nearly as much about them, or the stories and figures the vet can pick out from the heavens, he does know that cloudless nights remind him of home, and bright lights twinkling above had quickly become the only familiar thing between every place he’s gone. 

   Maybe that’s why Legend likes them so much; they’re an unchanging constant no matter where you go. 

  At any rate, he’d needed the space. He hadn’t expected to find any of the others up as well though, much less the captain. In the end, he never made it outside, instead sitting up and talking with the other. 

  He’d thought little of the nearly empty bottle of whiskey at the man’s side, too busy with his own thoughts and worries. 

  He’d thought nothing of it either when, after a terrible battle that nearly saw the loss of the traveler and ended with a passed-out Legend and a very bloody Four, he’d found the captain up stewing quietly over ill thought-out plans and reckless behaviors. The off-handed “I need a drink” had been something to just smile and shake his head at. 

  But then he’d begun to catch on. Rough battles, difficult nights, sleeplessness from worry, from pain and in his own case; from visions. It had resulted in many a night spent up in each other’s company. More worrying still was the constant presence of a little silver flask, held tight in fainty trembling hands as dulled blue eyes would linger over their younger ones. 

  He’d thought it strange, but it was Wind’s worried “has the captain been drinking again?” that really caught him by the ears and shook him. He’d thought it a passive thing, hadn’t paid it much attention because there was no true way to know what was in that little flask (Legend has one too, but it’s got some kind of sweet, spicey juice in it). The sailor asking about it though had changed that. It had revealed that, no, it wasn’t simply a passing thing and was very much a longstanding issue. It was not at all what he was hoping to find out. More so, the youngest can’t even say anything about it, because the captain knowing that his former charge is aware of the vice apparently would have some very, very bad results. 

  So, Wind can’t say anything without potentially making it worse. None of the others know or have seen it enough to realize the weight of the issue, and he’s left the only one who not only knows and witnesses it but has nothing he can do about it. 

  Long nights, dark eyes and pain, so, so much pain in the captain’s face and voice have left him stumbling. The quiet admission of how their elegant captain’s own stepfather was a miserable drunk isn’t any help either, although that conversation had rather quickly turned from him trying to bring up the issue and into the both of them commiserating on the lack of decent father figures in the world. 

  From there. It just... keeps happening. 

  He’s watching, trying to say something and so, so easily letting pretty words and prettier eyes distract him into talking about something else. Quite frankly, it would be terrifying if it wasn’t so impressive how the captain manages to dodge his every quiet attempt by redirecting him onto something else, turning the matter around or simply accepting his concern with a smile and an easy, gentle, so very believable dismissal. Yet, he sees the results. He sees the stress and the tension. He sees the misery that before had hidden so prettily behind a polished mask, but which now spills from time to time into a slippery mess before him, catching him in its mire and leaving him floundering, breathless, and scared. 

  He’s the hero, the one meant to save those around him from trouble, but he’s failing a battle with a bottle that’s he’s not even touching. 

  Watching the result of that failure, the downward spiral, it hurts. It hurts more than blades or arrows or even poison. In a way, it is a sort of poison; a slow working thing that, while he never touched it, has infected not only his own life but those around them. 

 As chaos sows itself across the kingdom, poison spreads within their own number. The attention of their brothers, and indeed, most of his own, is fixed on the protection of their home, on defeating the newly risen foe, on ending things so that their lives can return in some small manner to a semblance of normalcy. And somehow, he lets his worries fall to the background, let’s his mind turn to the struggles spawning up around him with the others, with himself, with things that are ever so much more prominent than a little silver flask. Even the yelling match that sprung up between the vet and druken captain hadn’t refocused him, his attention more fixed on other things in the aftermath; Legend’s behavior, his own aggression when shouting at the captain to just cease and desist with beating the dead horse before he’d marched off after the vet.  

  Fighting and travel have kept him busy since, but failure is as sure a trigger as anything, or so he’s learned. Even now, he watches as the others retreat to lick their wounds, to hide away in their inn rooms, silent and mournful, blood still staining their clothes. He’s sore himself, tired, weary, too worn from the events of things over the last couple of months to actually want more than to lay down himself and sleep, but he doesn’t. 

  No, because when the rest of them go to hide at the inn, the captain goes off alone, a cold, dangerous, dark look in that drawn and tired face, and worry gnawing at the skyloftian’s own heart will not allow for him to even entertain thoughts of sleep, not when he’s learned to know what that look means. He lingers only as long as he must to ensure all the rest are settled, safe and stable, before darting back out onto the streets. 

  Watching is hard. Seeking is harder. 

There’s an awful sort of feeling that comes over him at the realization that the nearest bar is mostly the new location of his straying brother but finding it in the dark is nearly as difficult as dragging himself towards it, knowing full well what he’ll find inside. He does though, he does because he has to and because it’s the right thing to do. He does it because it’s what a hero would do.  

Heroes save people when they’re drawn into danger, and the devil in the bottle is slowly urging his beloved brother and friend in. A steady hiss or whisper or however it’s call manifests for the captain, and one that, if he doesn’t make it in time, he won’t be able to stop from taking hold. 

He can whisper a begrudging thanks to the heavens that Warriors is a gentle drunk most of the time. 

- 

The bar-room's floor is shockingly clean when he enters, considering it’s a farming town they’ve stopped to stay in at Time’s suggestion. Faint, dusty footprints from one or two people scuff in and out, but he can see where thick ash and dirt have clumped and marched across the floor, and following the trail is the easiest thing he’s done today after fighting a far larger, far more terrifying demon. 

In his mind, Sky steels himself; if he can fight Demise and come out alive, he can face up to the captain about this most worrisome coping technique. The key is simply not to let Warriors distract him with something else, so at the first mention of anything that’s not the man’s own issues, he needs to start to redirect. 

Hylia above, why couldn’t those cursed goddesses have granted him even just the smallest piece of Wisdom? Charging in is the easiest part, getting through the battle with a silver-tongued soldier is the thing it seems he can’t do properly. 

Glass taps on polished wood, a heavy and familiar sigh following. Trailing his eyes towards the back corner of the room, he can easily make out the bloody and worn form of his brother, slumped against a small table and already with a hand ploughing through his ash dusted hair. Warriors looks like hell. Dark bruises beneath darker eyes, face drawn and still stained with the remains of their defeat. The usually proud appearance has been crippled, uniform torn and filthy, and blood still spattered over armor, leather, and skin. The man doesn’t so much as spare him a glace as Sky settles across from him at the table, keeping the barrier between them for both their sakes. 

“Hey.” 

A long, drawn-out sigh sounds off the wood of the worn bar table. 

Sky waits. Pressing any of his brothers is counterproductive. Sitting quietly, taking in the situation, is the best approach, letting them determine whether or not they’re ready to speak yet. He won’t push either, he just sits and rests his arms on the table, glancing the empty glass and the blessed lack of a matching bottle.  

“What d’you want, Sky?” Still not even a flick of dull eyes up towards him. “Shouldn’t you be with the rest?” 

He shrugs, stiff, as though he’s not being eaten up a bit with guilt at leaving them. The other adults can keep an eye on things though, and Wind was already doing a marvelous job of talking them out of their heads. It’s up to him to handle the captain though, as the sailor may or not have even been allowed inside the bar. The kid shouldn’t be here anyway, for the captain’s sake and his own.  

“I didn’t feel right about letting you go off alone.” 

“The kids need you right now.” 

“They need you too,” he challenges, leaning a bit closer and trying to catch the turned away eyes of the other. “And I think you’d do yourself some good to be around them.” 

A twitch of the fine-featured face before him is his only answer as sooty fingers toy with the empty glass between them. It’s lifted briefly, before the other man seems to check himself and realize it’s empty. 

 Sky needs to prevent it getting refilled. Hopefully, he can drag the captain’s ass out of here and back to their brothers before then. The key is just getting through to him, and though it feels like ages since he’d looked at the other man and found only unreadable smiles and perfection, there’s still a barrier that stops him really understanding what the captain might be thinking. Goddesses above, how is it that even Legend is easier to read than this man? 

“Wars, you’re worrying me.” He tries. Slowly, softly enough that no other patrons in the place will hear him, but it seems the captain doesn’t hear it either. 

No, the man just taps his glass against the table-top, distracted, and sigh so heavy he seems to shudder. “Go back, chosen.” 

“No, captain.” 

In battle, maybe blue eyes hold the flames of the goddesses themselves, but in the dim light of the bar, there’s only a dullness and flickering darkness that makes him want to shift and draw away. He doesn’t though, doesn’t dare. Instead, he sits under that stare for the brief second it's spared, and then the soldier is shutting his eyes with yet another heavy sigh. “Rest, you need it.” 

“I can’t.” You’re here, he wants to add. You’re out here and you’re worrying me, and I can’t sleep easy until I know we’re all safe. 

Fine features twitch, shifting into a frown that would be very terrifying indeed if Sky hadn’t gotten used to all the harsh looks of his team over the last while. Time’s dark looks and Warriors’ disapproval aren’t nearly as weighty all things considered, and he carefully doesn’t respond when the other looks up at him again, brows drawn low and tightly together, jaw twitching slightly. “Sky-” 

“Link,” he returns, sharp to match the look he shoots at the other. Their given name slips strangely off his tongue and earns a twitch of the brows in answer. “No. I’m not letting you sit alone a stew.” 

“Even if I want to?” The glass taps loudly against the table, a sharp contrast to their low voices. “Does that matter at all?” 

Okay, that’s just a bomb-burr waiting for him to walk too close. “Link, please,” and the use of their shared name seems to have fingers closing tighter over the mouth of the whiskey glass, “we both know what will happen if I leave.”  

His words are proved by the lack of verbal answer, instead the tapping of the glass back onto the table as dark eyes meet his. They’re blank again, impossible to read past that closed off, stern expression. It's not one he’s used to facing much these days, but he’s seen it turned on the younger ones plenty of times. 

“I leave,” he presses, “and you’ll drink.” 

There’s the faintest tightening again around the glass still clutched in sooty hands. “It could be worse.” 

“You’re right,” he agrees, nodding slowly, “it could. I could keep ignoring it and you’ll keep getting worse.” He steels his own jaw, folding his hands if only for something to do with them before he meets the stare now fixed, heavy and harsh, on his face. “When we all met, you hardly touched the stuff save maybe after a bad battle, and I mean a really bad one.” The same as Time here and there. The same as any man likely might. A really bad day is fair enough excuse for one drink, but Warriors used to stop at one, and now he doesn’t. “Now it seems every time our backs are turned...” he motions to the glass, watches as blue eyes dart down to follow his gaze. 

The captain’s hands aren’t shaking like they normally do. They’re perfectly still as he clutches hold of the empty cup.  

He doesn’t like it. The tremor is normal, it is a sure sign of ease. He knows the after effects of their last battle, the magic in it, the illusions cast around them of the worst they’ve seen, worst they’d imagined, used as a distraction shook all of them, but seeing the man still so tightly wound, still so caught up in his head that his body is still responding as though he’s in immediate danger, it doesn’t sit well with him. 

“Come back to the inn,” he begs. “We all-” 

The sudden shriek of the chair as the soldier stands might be what cuts him off, the cold look in closed off eyes definitely is though. “I don’t know what that demon showed you, chosen, but know this: you can fight gods and you can win, but some of us have fought men and believe it or not, there’s something quite different and more terrible about that.” It’s the clipped soldier’s voice that speaks to him, resounding enough in the bar that everyone else present has fallen silent and tense, looking up from their own conversations to stare. “So go back to the inn, get over what you saw, and let me do the same here so we can face the demon again in the morning.” 

“Wars-” 

The other turns, heading back to the bar and no doubt with full intent to refill the glass he holds. 

Sky darts after him. “Please, Link! This isn’t good for you!” 

“Well, it isn’t exactly hurting you now, is it?” Is the sharp answer as barkeep approaches the two of them, wary. 

 For a moment, Sky debates between telling the barkeep to not serve his brother and telling the captain to just walk away. Caught betwixt, he misses the opportunity for both, too distracted, too unfocused, to slow, and when his brother motions for the bottle in the hands of the barkeep, it’s only then that he gets his wits about him enough to catch hold of the thing himself. 

The barkeep darts away, no doubt eager to avoid the mess as snapping eyes fix on storm cloud blue as Sky’s voice rumbles low like thunder between them. “You doing this hurts everyone that loves you. We can’t stand to just sit back and watch anymore.” 

“Well no one asked you to watch,” the captain bites, “or care.” 

“But we do,” he answers back, trying desperately to catch those eyes again, “we chose to be your brothers, and thus we chose to stad beside you.” 

“Then don’t blame me when your choices get you hurt.” The hand he’s set on the bottle is knocked away as, once more, Warriors turns his back on him and heads back to his table.  

He’s not sure if he should chase or walk away or give up. He’s left standing for a moment before darting after, again, unable to stop the other as a finger of amber is poured and knocked back without so much as a flinch. Well, not a flinch from Warriors, he finds himself recoiling just the slightest bit as he watches. 

 He tries again, this time not daring to push further by touching the forbidden poison, but instead trying to break through and get the other to just look at him. “Link, please, you’re killing yourself like this.” 

Dark eyes are empty, lifeless, as they turn upwards to look at him, like visions of the sealing grounds were once, thousands of years ago; barren and ruined by battle and death. “Good.” 

And then it’s gone, another glass knocked back and Sky left standing, only able to watch. 

What else is there to be said? What argument is left to beg, to plead, to convince? He’s the hero, he’s good with his hands, his blade, his strength. He sees foes and he crushes them. He sees allies and he aids them. But when an ally embraces the foe, what then? What’s left for him to do? What course of action is there left save to beg? And when even that fails there is nothing. 

Nothing but watching, unable to go back without fulfilling his mission and unwilling to let his brother be left alone in the weakened state the quickly emptying bottle will leave him in. All he can do is watch as golden poison flows, as sooty, bloodied, burned hands lift and toss back, as glass clacks against the tabletop again only to be refilled once more. There's nothing else he can do or say. There may be other arguments, but they’re lost to him, buried instead under that horrible stare and the cracked and shattered soul that had glinted through on that single, devastating ‘good’. 

It’s not the first defeat he’s faced today, but between the two, this is the one that leaves him truly helpless in it’s wake. 

[elegancevidyalay]

Best Opportunity For 10th Fail or Passed Students to Make Their Career In Paramedical Field. Enroll Now in Our Job Ready Course.

Get Training From Board Certified Experts. Get a Chance to get a job in Government or Private Hospitals.

Visit for more info - https://elegancevidhyalay.in/ Register Now : +919904567789

[arinbelle]

Gentle

A/N: Happy Cassian Appreciation Week! It has been so long since I’ve posted anything and this fic sort of came to me unexpectedly. I really miss Nessian and I super, super miss the concept of them in Illyria with Nesta going with Cassian after ACOFAS. I guess this is an AU to ACOSF, and it’s a little angsty, a little smutty, and a lot of Nessian, which of course I love and live for.

Thank you @cassianappreciationweek for putting this amazing week together. I’m so excited!!!

                                                            ~*~

Nesta was curled up on the couch, a cup of tea steaming besides her and a thick novel held in her hands which she promptly laid down once she saw him.

She didn’t say hello, or ask how he was, not that he expected her to. And apart from a quick nod of acknowledgement on her part and a grunt from him, that was it for them.

Cassian was tired. Bone-deep tired and he worried he may not have the energy to speak for the rest of the week, let alone do anything else. The rain he’d been caught in on the way home hadn’t helped his mood either. And definitely not as he’d trudged upstairs and peeled off the sodden clothes and leather that stuck to him like glue.

But a quick, heated bath restored some of his energy and he made his way back down to Nesta, still on the couch, and still reading as he towel-dried his hair.

“Good book?”

A hum. Yes.

“Did you eat?”

Another hum. Lower. It could be yes or no, he’d learned.

“Come eat with me.”

A click of her tongue. He was interrupting her reading and it was his cue to stop bothering her. So he did.

He made his way to their small kitchen, following the smell of freshly warmed up food. He opened up the pots on the stove, taking in the rice, lentils and chicken. The smell was heavenly and after surviving on stale bread and hard cheese for the past week, he was relieved to eat a hot meal that required a plate and cooking.

Nesta didn’t move away when he joined her on the empty side of the couch, nor did she prompt him to eat somewhere else. Not that there was anywhere else to go eat. It was either down here with her, or upstairs shut away in his bedroom.

He opted for company, however silent it may be.

“It’s good.” He said after getting a second serving for himself.

“Emerie’s recipe.” She flipped the page, eyes never once wavering from scanning the lines in front of her.

He finished the remainder of the meal quietly, peeking glances to the female across him, not even two feet away, every so often. She’d opted for a loose knot at the back of her head, as opposed to the tight coronet braid it was usually in. And the nightgown she had on covered her from shoulders to toes.

Last he’d seen her, the week before, she’d looked much different. Her hair had been loose, falling down her back in silky ripples. He’d wrapped his hand around the length of it once, twice, until he’d had enough to tug her head gently backwards and meet him for a kiss. His hips had snapped into her own, pounding deeper and deeper and she’d pulled away with a moan, burying her head into the pillows as he tightened his grip on her hips. The thin scrap of lace that she’d come to him wearing, a barely there nightgown, was sitting discarded besides him on the floor besides the couch. He had been too close and he would have pushed her over the edge soon enough had there not been a sharp rap on the door a few feet from them.

Nesta had quieted immediately while Cassian had stopped altogether. The knock had come again a few moments later and Cassian had flipped her over onto her back while yelling out at whoever was at the door.

A message had come from a northern kingdom in the mountains that he was needed for some sort of emergency. Cassian had discussed the details for a few minutes more while continuing to fuck Nesta slowly, covering just her mouth as she came hard around him, back arched and eyes rolling back in her head.

It wasn’t until the messenger told him goodbye and that he’d be waiting at the training barracks for him that Cassian had properly extricated himself from Nesta, and propped himself into a sitting position on the couch.

Nesta was still catching her breath besides him and the swift peek he’d gotten between her slightly spread legs, of her swollen sex, had almost tempted him to taste her one last time before he had to be off. Almost, because before he could do anything, Nesta had reached down and dressed herself in that damned gown again.

Before he could rise as well, and cool down to get rid of his hardness, Nesta had gotten on her knees between his open legs, sucking him down her throat. It hadn’t taken him very long to explode in her mouth, his hands holding her hair back while he fucked it with a frenzy. She’d taken every thrust, and swallowed his release while continuing to work her mouth around him.

Her eyes had looked up at him wickedly as her tongue had chased him from the side of pleasure to overstimulation and he had twitched against her hold.

They hadn’t shared a goodbye but Nesta had kissed him swiftly, brutally, with the taste of himself still on her tongue before walking away.

“What?,” she snapped, pulling him from his lewd thoughts.

“Nothing,” he said, scraping his dish clean. He picked up the bag he’d brought with him and made his way to the kitchen to clean up.

It was only after he’d washed his dishes and placed the leftover food in the icebox did he call out to Nesta to join him. She hadn’t moved right away but after a few breaths he’d heard a shuffle, the closing of a book and she’d soon appeared in the kitchen doorway.

“What?” Clipped. And a hint of annoyance if he’d read the rest of her posture correctly.

“Aren’t you charming? Is the book getting good? Did I interrupt an upcoming smut scene?”

He opened the white box’s packaging and Nesta took a seat opposite him from the center island.

“It already happened. They were going at it again.”

“How refreshing,” he chuckled with a wink. Nesta rolled her eyes.

“So I know how you are about your chocolate cake, but you have to try this one. I picked it up from a bakery up north and trust me, you’ve never had anything like it before.” He placed a generous slide onto the cake plate and pushed it towards her, handing her the fork she always favored.

Nesta didn’t eat it. She only surveyed the white cream and strawberry jam in between the large cake layers with barely concealed disdain. Strange. To his knowledge, she liked strawberries fine enough. And cake was always a welcome dessert for her.

“Where is it from?”

“Erm, Miyola. It’s a small town between these two hills in the northern Steppes. I know the baker there. I haven't had a chance to go in a while but I was nearby for the work I was doing with that Illyrian king, so I decided to drop by on the way home.”

She picked up her fork, spearing the center of the cake, but still not eating it.

“This baker is your…friend.”

She stated it but Cassian heard the question in her voice.

“Yes,” he answered, confused. A sort of friend that he’d known for a couple decades. Nothing like Azriel or Rhys, which were more family than friends at this point. But still, a good friend who made great pastries. And always gave him some extra for free when he left.

Nesta’s eyes narrowed. “Just friends? It’s a very nice cake.”

“Yes,” he answered again, irritation beginning to spike in him. Gods but he was tired.

Nesta reached down to her lap before procuring a small piece of paper, all but throwing it at him.

“It fell from your bag when you came home.”

Cassian read it in silence, quickly realizing what Nesta was probably thinking.

“It’s not…”

“She doesn’t seem to be very set on being just friends, don’t you think?”

Nesta’s glare was murderous.

Layla, the baker he’d met a century ago had been a fun, heated tryst that had quickly fizzled out. Or so he’d thought. And when he had dropped by this past week, his thoughts of their past nights had been a fleeting memory. Perhaps he should have explained the cake was for Nesta, his…

Well she wasn't really his anything. Not between them or amongst the rest of the world. She’d made that much clear the first time they’d slept together. A very formidable  line had been drawn, by her, making it known to him that it was just sex. Just for fun. And only while she was staying with him in Illyria. That it had nothing to do with romance, or care, or anything outside of base lust and desire. Which he could understand if it was any other female besides Nesta. If it had been any other female, he would have gladly accepted the agreement, and while he still had, a large part of him had felt empty at the thought. That it was all they would ever be. So for her to question this situation, question them when there really wasn’t a them - well it clawed at some already fraying part of him.

“Is that a problem?” He couldn’t help the snap in his words, the teeth he had to keep himself from baring.

If she wanted to play games, he could too. Nesta didn’t expect that and her spine stiffened, practically begging her to fight back. Bite back even. But he knew she wouldn’t answer truthfully. Because to do so would mean admitting that this thing between them was something real, something more than what she was lying to herself about. And the best thing she always did was run from the truth.

“Of course not. Why should I have a problem who you invite to your bed? I was just curious since you said- no, you lied, about who she was.”

“I didn’t-,” Cassian caught himself, taking in a ragged breath. So that’s what they would do tonight. Fight. He was in no mood for it.

“She’s a friend. I didn’t lie about it. And even if she wasn't, why do you care?”

Her spine went ramrod straight and she took in a quick breath, eyes blazing with simmering fury.

“I don’t,” came her strained reply.

Sure.

“So eat the cake.”

She waved her hand, ignoring him. “I don’t care. I don’t control you. I’m not stopping you from whatever you want with her. If you’d like to even bring her here and fuck her, why should I care?” Nesta got up, getting shriller and shriller with each passing word. “I don’t care one bit Cassian. Don’t stop on my account. While you’re at it, why not become reacquainted with all of your old friends? Females just seem to throw themselves at you left and right, don’t they?”

“They do, actually,” Cassian retorted. “I didn’t think you’d give a shit though. You don't about anything else.”

Nesta seemed to startle at his sudden outburst, but she quickly recovered.

“Well how great that’ll be then. You can go to one of them now and stop panting after me.”

“I wasn’t aware you were so miserable,” he deadpanned.

She smirked, crooning. “Males’ egos are truly a thing of wonder. You aren’t doing anything for me that I can’t do for myself with my own hand.”

Cassian laughed darkly. “Let’s not get into all the things I do to you. With my hands or otherwise.”

A faint blush stained her cheeks at that but she didn’t back down. She opened her mouth, readying for her next attack, but Cassian interrupted it.

He tried softer this time. “Don’t be cruel, it doesn't suit you.”

“Doesn’t it?,” she snapped.

Cassian shrugged then. “Jealousy definitely doesn’t. You would know if there were any other females around me in that way. You’d smell it on me.”

She shook her head. “I’m not jealous. I already told you, I don’t-.”

“Yes I got it the first time. You don’t care. Are you done now?”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

Cassian had to laugh at that. “Are you done, Nesta? Have you had enough?”

Eyes narrowed in contempt, arms crossed over her chest in lovely defiance, she was the most beautiful creature he’d ever laid eyes on.

Cassian took a bite of the cake. “You’re persistent, I’ll give you that. And you don’t quit. I’d admire it if I wasn’t so tired. And I’d encourage it if I wasn’t already in a piss poor mood. Gods know I don’t need any excitement for a while.”

She blinked, unmoving, but quiet. So he continued, finishing up his dessert.

“But we do this, don’t we? You pick a fight with something that isn’t really an issue. I say something, you say something worse, I say something back, you get upset. You cry and then I’m the asshole that has to apologize for something you started. Or did I miss something?”

She knew he was right, but Nesta wouldn’t say it. Nesta wouldn’t say a lot of things. So instead he reached across the table, and pushed her plate further towards her.

“Eat the damn cake, Nesta. I brought it for you.”

She did. With just enough contempt that she might have scratched the plate with her fork from her first bite. But she did it. And eventually she had a second slice too, Cassian noted with a small feeling of victory.

“What’s her name?”

Gods save him, not this again.

“Nesta, I don’t-.”

She held up a hand, almost placating him. “I’m not trying to start a fight. I just wanted to know her name.”

Cassian hesitated for a moment. “Layla.”

“Pretty,” she noted quietly, moving the fork around her empty plate.

“Yes,” he murmured, cleaning up, and trying his best not to stare too much at Nesta, in case she spooked and ran from him again.

“Is she? Pretty, I mean.” Nesta’s voice was soft and too fragile for his liking. She wouldn’t look at him as she asked.

“Yes,” he admitted slowly. And she was. He couldn’t deny it. And even if he lied, Nesta would know. She always knew when he lied.

Nesta left then.

He argued with himself the entire way up the stairs and to her door. To talk to her, soothe her worries, and reassure her that there was no one else for him. But to do that would mean acknowledging that there was something here of enough substance where another female might present a problem.

Nesta would never accept that.

Still he knocked, and even though she didn’t and wouldn’t respond, he let himself in.

“New book?”

She didn’t look up once, sprawled out on her stomach, with her feet to the head of the bed.

“Old book. Rereading it.”

At least she spoke to him. He supposed they were no longer in that rough place anymore where he would have to worry about her stoic silence. She rarely iced him out since staying with him. Rarely felt the need to resort to it, even with some of their worst fights. This, he could work with.

He sat down beside her, trying his best, and failing, to keep the peace.

“You’re beautiful,” he finally said after a pregnant pause.

She clicked her tongue. “Is that why you’re here? I don’t need that from you. I’ve been told I had a face fit to marry a king since I was eight. This isn’t news for me.”

Of course it wasn’t. People had to be blind to not know that Nesta was stunning. Becoming Fae had only heightened it to being otherwordly.

“Well, then you should know that just because Layla-.” She clicked her tongue, shutting him up. She didn’t want to talk about this. But he couldn't leave it so cold and open. Especially not when he knew exactly what sorts of thoughts were probably racing in her head.

“Nesta,” he murmured, hoping she’d at least look at him before he threw his heart out in front of her, yet again. She had a habit of stomping the life out of it, but he prayed one last time, that maybe she wouldn’t.

She closed her book then, turning onto her back to look up at him. Her hair fanned out behind her and Cassian couldn’t resist carding through the tresses softly, gently, with so much hesitation it was a wonder he didn’t tremble too.

There was something about Nesta that terrified Cassian. Not the stone cold facade or the cutting words. He could take a hit or two to his ego, and with Nesta, it was more entertaining for him than anything else. But he had faced foes on battlefields for centuries, had killed and maimed without much thought, and never once had he encountered someone like her.

The brute strength and the efficiently cutting violence that he could easily execute with had always helped him as a soldier. As a general. And then as commander. Never had it been a weakness to deter from until he’d met Nesta.

Then, suddenly, all his largeness, all his brash, booming loudness had become dangerous. To her. For her. Gods knew she had the temper and fire inside to match his own, and to meet every shredding, stupid thing he said to her with her own poison. But it wasn’t the same and he knew it.

The fragility that she hid behind a beautiful, almost impenetrable mask scared him. As if he may one day, accidentally, shatter her irreversibly, if he wasn’t careful. So he tried again this time, trying and willing the words to form in the gentlest way possible to deal with this storm of a woman laid out in front of him.

“I don’t know what you want from me. I can’t guard you from reality even though I’d like to. There will always be another Layla if you go looking hard enough. And knowing you, you tend to go looking for heartbreak just so you can swing first.”

Cassian didn’t miss the fact that her storm-grey eyes began to fill with tears, but he had to commend her grit in not letting them fall.

“Is it not enough if I tell you there is no one else? Not now, not for a very long time, and not anytime in the future as long as you wish it.”

She laughed, but it was a hollow, broken sound. “I never asked for your loyalty.”

“You have it anyhow.”

A stray tear leaked out and Cassian’s hand flexed automatically to reach over and wipe it away. He held himself back only for a moment, judging whether or not it would shatter this delicate moment. Another tear leaked out and Cassian gently wiped it off then. Nesta nuzzled against his hand and it took everything in him to not pull her towards him.

“I never asked anything of you,” she whispered into the heart of his palm. 

“I know.”

“So why do you keep giving?”

Cassian smoothed her hair, stroking her cheek. “Because I can. Because I want to. I guess you’ll just have to deal with it.”

She froze as he leaned down over her, before softening against him.

“I suppose so,” she whispered against his lips.

Cassian kissed her gently, even though his soul had been wholly consumed by her. Perhaps it would never be enough time in this world for him to show her how much she mattered to him, how much he cared. But for now, this would do.

~*~

Taglist:  @endlessdaydream @sleeping-and-books @purpleglitterypinecone   @sv0430   @gwynberdara @karmasworlds @bookstantrash   @duskandstarlight  @d0riansgray @perseusannabeth@vasudharaghavan   @sayosdreams   @arielle-reads   @theoverlyenthusiasticwriter  @nahthanks  @oversizedbats  @swankii-art-teacher  @inardour  @rowaelinismyotp  @starryblueskies7   @vidalinav @nessiantrashh   @imagine-me  @iwastoowildinthe70s @lady-winter-sunrise @vanzetanze @moodymelanist @wishfulimaginings @amaranthas-whore @simpingfornestaarcheron @generalnesta @mis-lil-red @nestaisgod  @booksstorm @loosingdreams @champanheandluxxury  @18moneytoad @starksravings @tinasbookishlife @cookiemonsterwholovesbooks @nesquik-arccheron @readingwitches @that-golden-lyre @awesomelena555 @wannawriteyouabook @story-scribbler @readingismyonlyhobby @burningsnowleopard @pyxxie 

[silentium-symphony]

Work of Art Modern AU (Link x Reader) I

(a/n) AAAHH I'M SORRY THIS TOOK SO LONG!! i've reached that point in the semester where i've got either a project or an exam due every week, and i haven't had any time to write :( but i'm here now with a brand new fic for you! so thank you for waiting :)

parts will be linked and will also be available on my masterlist when they're available!

cw: link experiences unwanted sexual advances in the beginning (nothing too explicit) so please proceed with caution, afab!reader, swearing, zelda and link are besties :}, breathless conversations in a stairwell, you and link are just some awkward goobers

wc: 2.3k

♤♢ ~~ ♡♧

"And this one-of-a-kind masterpiece depicts the moments leading up to the Hero's decisive victory over the Demon King. For just a moment, let's draw our eyes toward the finer details the artist has decided to depict. Look with me now at the use of light in this scene, and how it starkly contrasts..."

Is that a new crack?

Blue eyes absently traced the thin line that fractured the pillar's marble surface. A wisp of gold tickled the tips of his lashes and he huffed, coursing his fingers through his hair in a bid to keep it in place. He kept his eyes trained on the small, black fissure that coursed through the white stone.

Definitely a new crack.

Taut fingers absently fumbled the ring of keys latched to his belt while the other hand thumbed the baton's cold metal. Link's eyes fluttered shut and he let out a soft sigh, adjusting his feet to abate the blood pooling in his heels.

"--Ahem."

His broad shoulders twitched and ocean blues met irritated meadow greens, which juxtaposed the seemingly sweet smile Zelda flashed him. Link dropped his hands immediately, causing the metal nuisance to sing a dying song against his thighs; a quiet chorus of giggles served as the encore.

"Thank you," his best friend cleared her throat, "as I was saying--"

Hylia, he was so bored. He rocked on his heels and watched Zelda motion to the large, newly restored painting before them. He knew how hard she had worked on restoring the old thing, and he was proud of her for sure, but if he had to listen to her spiel about the painting's history one more time--

"Hands off the rope please." He uttered softly to the woman dangling off the red velvet. She scoffed, but her look of disdain eventually softened into something... heavier. A sultry smirk snaked its way onto her lips and her eyes turned lidded.

"Sorry, sir. I just couldn't get my eyes off such a gorgeous masterpiece. It's a work of art, y'know?"

"I understand ma'am," his knuckles tersed. "But please refrain from touching the rope."

"Oh, I'm sorry..." She dragged out. "Can I make it up to you with some coffee?"

"No thank you. I suggest you turn your attention back to the presentation. That is why you came, right?"

"Well, what if I told you I actually came for something--or in this case... someone else?"

A shudder wriggled down his spine; she continued before he had time to draft his next sentence.

"I know you've seen me around... Why do you think I visit this dump of a museum so often? To stare at the same paintings day-in-day-out?"

Her fingertip traced the velvet rope, nails softly scuffing the luxuriously-textured barricade. He kept his eyes focused on the little strands of hair peeping out of the mole on her forehead, his throat constricting and drying at the waft of cheap perfume.

"C'mon... After the museum closes, let's grab some food and head over to my place, yeah?"

"He said 'no,' ma'am." A soft voice deadpanned behind the both of them. A pair of bewildered eyes locked with calm, unblinking (E/C)s. "No means no."

"Excuse me?"

"Stop harassing him." You spat, cold venom honeying your tone. "No. Means. No. Do I need to scream to get that through your fucking head? That would draw the crowd's attention to you, don't you think? I wonder how they'd feel watching you harass someone in broad daylight...”

“Tch… Worthless piece of shit.” Red heels clicked right past you as she side-bodied your smaller frame, sending you back a step or two. Your eyes followed the storming figure as she dipped past the grand marble staircase.

“--And with that, I would like to extend my most heartfelt gratitude on behalf of all our curators here. Without your support, our work in restoring these priceless historical pieces would not be possible. So from the bottom of my heart--“

“--Thank you.” He mumbled, his pulse quickening.

You flashed him a soft smile.

"No problem. I'm sorry you had to go through that.

"It’s okay. This... Isn't the first time."

"What, she tried pulling this shit on you in the past?"

"Oh, no, I mean..." He sighed. "It's not the first time someone's done something like this. I never really knew what to say, so I just... didn't say anything, so… Thank you."

"Well, I'm glad I could help." Your smiling eyes averted towards your buzzing phone. “Oh, fuck... Sorry officer, I gotta run! Have a good night!”

"W-Wait, can I ask for--"

--your name?

You raced down the same path his unwanted suitor went a few minutes prior, back disappearing past the staircase. The warmth of gratitude in his chest chilled into a growing, aching hole. Gods, if only he had gotten your name!

"Soooo... who was that?" Zelda snickered, saddling up to the flustered man. Link's cheeks reddened and a small pout bloomed on his lips.

"No one."

"Really? So 'no one's got you all hot and bothered?"

"'Hot and--?' Nah.."

"Uh-huh, whatever you say." She slinked an arm onto his shoulder and dangled off his steady frame, watching the thoughtful wander of the museum's patrons. The air about her turned somber, and her voice dipped to a volume only the blonde could hear. "... Did someone bother you again?"

Link's lips curled into a soft smile--a rare sight, even for his lifelong friend. Confusion ticked Zelda's features as she saw this new reaction.

"Well, the one who ran off helped me with another 'admirer.'" A dreamy sigh. "I was just thanking her."

A soft, contrite smile graced the curator's lips.

"I'm happy to hear that... I'm sorry this is such a regular thing for you. I wish there was some way to know what kind of person we're selling our tickets to..."

Link waved off her concerns and shrugged her off, throwing his arms above his head and feeling the sweet, satisfying pops in his joints. His neck craned from side to side, filling the air with a chorus of crackles; Zelda visibly grimaced.

"Stop doing that! You're gonna snap your own neck one day."

"If I do, does that mean I get a day off?"

"Of course not." She retorted mirthfully.

"Man..."

♤♢ ~~ ♡♧

Of course the elevator was broken.

Link heaved open the heavy metal door which led to the winding staircase unused by most tenants.

And of course he lived on the 6th floor.

With a huff, he lifted his foot on the cement step blackened from gunk and other dubious substances. He tried to pay little mind to how his shoes grew stickier with each step, or how the flickering light's buzzing drilled a dull ache through his temples. He rounded the first of many corners and kept an even pace, already beginning to feel a bit spent.

Hands fiddled around his hoodie's pocket, feeling for the familiar roundness of his earbud's case and the soft edges of his phone. As he popped his earbuds in, his eyes glazed over the dozens of unorganized playlists that littered his screen, eventually resting on the simply named 'workout' playlist. His music's volume amped up to an almost painful level in a futile effort to blend his rapidly beating heart with songs from his chosen playlist.

"ᴼ⁻ᴼᶠᶠᶦᶜᵉʳˀ"

He stopped to respond to a meme Zelda sent and texted an equally unhinged one back. The greasy scent of takeout wafted to his nostrils and he looked up, slightly confused.

"ᴼᶠᶠᶦᶜᵉʳ, ᶦˢ ᵗʰᵃᵗ ʸᵒᵘˀ"

A body filled his peripheral; pure fear coursed through his veins as his overactive imagination transmogrified a very real and alive person into eldritch nightmares unutterable by man. His phone leaped for safety, clattering down the flight of stairs for what felt like an eternity before rolling into its final resting place by the suspicious goop in the corner.

A moment of shock-spawned stillness blanketed the two persons--before Link was racing down the staircase.

"Hylia! Are you okay?!" A familiar voice called out. He stopped, fingers hovering a few hairs away from his phone as he slowly careened his face behind him.

There you were--gorgeous, gorgeous you--donned in sweats, a hoodie, Crocs with Socks™, and a steaming bag of takeout. The harsh fluorescent light softened your silhouette, casting an almost ethereal aura about you. Link gabbled an... exclamation of sorts as he grabbed his phone. He slinked the grimy thing into his pocket as he cooly made his way up the steps, shame and a newfound desire to drink lava inapparent on his blank face.

"Yes, thank you." He rubbed his (clean) hand against the back of his reddening neck. "Fancy meeting you here."

"I can say the same to you!" You laughed, shifting the takeout from one hand to the other. "How was the rest of your shift?"

"It was uneventful, thankfully. I'd like to thank you again for helping me out earlier... I really appreciated it."

"Aww... Of course. I'm really glad I could help you out back there."

Gods, how could a smile both ease and excite him all at once?

You both started up the steps once more, silently thanking and cursing your luck. After such a hasty exit you thought you'd never see the man again, but here you were, walking side-by-side up a neverending staircase. You looked down at your food, making sure the handles weren't gonna snap or anything, and happened to catch a faint mustard stain right by your heart. If only you didn't look so... grimy.

"S-So," you started, praying he didn't catch your stutter for air, "uh, what were you listening to?"

"Um..." He panicked slightly, "Just... workout music."

"Yeah? What song?"

"Something that... always gets me pumped." He cleared his throat. "What'd you order?"

"Oh, just some poultry pilaf from the Gerudo restaurant that opened up recently!"

"The one by 3rd Street?"

"Yeah, that one! Have you tried it yet?"

"Nah. But let me know how it tastes."

"For sure!"

A much-needed silence filled the air, both of you desperately trying to hide the fact that you were fighting for your next breath. A bright red '4' filled your vision and you groaned, throwing your head back.

"Gods, these stairs go on forever."

"Tell me about it." He hissed shakily. His eyes wandered to your slightly trembling arm holding your dinner. "Do you want me to hold that?"

"Oh, no, I'm okay." You subtly wiped the sweat beading your brow. "My floor's coming up. Thank you though."

"What floor do you live on? If you don't mind me asking."

"The 6th!"

6th...?

"Me too."

"Really? I'm surprised I never saw you around though. I’d definitely remember someone as cu—“ You coughed suddenly, rubbing a fist into your chest. "C-Cool as you!"

That... wasn't much better.

As you proceeded to curse the day you were born, furled golds and narrowed blues widened in disbelief before softening into a bashful smile.

"T-Thank y--

"Oh look, our floor!"

With a hop, skip, and a step, you bounded up the last flight of stairs and swung the hefty metal door, your frame teetering on the loose door handle.

"After you." You gestured grandly, giggles flitting between the two of you. He raced up the last of the steps and grabbed the edge of the door a little ways past your head, pulling it gently from your grasp.

"No, after you."

"Why, thank you, um..."

"Oh! Link." He stuck his hand out, a boyish grin splitting his lips. "My name is Link."

"Link?" You took his hand. “It's nice to meet you. I'm (F/N)."

"(F/N)..." You hated how your heart swooned just now. "What a cute name."

You canned the need to scream into the void as you slinked through the threshold, laughter alight. You waltzed to the crossroad leading to the separate wings on your floor. “I’m going this way. What about you?”

“I'm heading that way too.”

"O-Oh, okay!"

He strode to your side and you descended down the long hallway, the silence stiffening your throat. It felt... kinda weird knowing where he lived or vice versa; your eyes flitted to the wall's yellowed moulding, a path your eyes had taken hundreds of times.

You rounded a corner; so did he. You trailed along the gentle bend in the hallway; he did as well. Your heart started to race. A prickle of doubt heated your chest as you approached your door. He wasn't following you... was he?

When's he gonna turn when's he gonna turn when's he gonna turn when's he gonna

"You're my neighbor?!" Heads whipped around to catch the other's surprised gaze. A stiff laugh cracked between the two of you and you creaked your gazes away.

"W-Well." You coughed out. "Um, goodnight..."

"N-Night.."

Your bodies slipped past your respective thresholds and softly clicked the door shut. You sunk your body into the door; the thick metal drew the extra heat from your back, but it did little to remedy the red in your cheeks. Knees wobbling, your frame slid down, down, down onto your doormat as you cradled your face in your hands, heart thundering in your ears.

It was almost loud enough to drown out what was undoubtedly tapping on the wall.

You clambered to your feet, plopped your nearly forgotten dinner on your countertop, and skated to the source of the sound, pressing your ear against the drywall with bated breath.

There it was again!

You returned his taps with the same level of enthusiasm. If you listened past your drumming heart, you could trick yourself into thinking you heard a laugh. You giggled as well, heart fluttering at your newfound, totally-platonic-and-definitely-not-love-laced relationship you managed to foster all in one night. A tight knot ached your sides and your belly protested loudly.

Oh right! Your pilaf!

[mykingdomforasong]

Needed to get my fanfiction groove back, so I asked @theydjarin to send me a place, a position, and time period for a skysolo fic (madlibs style).

General tags for smut, unsafe sex, probably unsanitary sex, spit as lube, and an intense swing from dirty talk to earnest conversations about feelings, all mid-fuck. Also, twin swap au.

~

It was going to be a quick jump back to base. Han hated to see Leia take off on her own for some kind of Jedi training he never got the memo on, but he was glad he got to see it at all. His eye sight was mostly back now. Lando wouldn't let him pilot them off of Tatooine in the sandstorm though, so Han sat at the Dejerak table, waiting to see if the prince would join him for a game or something.

Luke had fled to Han's room and shut the door soon after they made it back to the ship. He'd been able to borrow some additional outer layers, but not many. Han hadn't actually seen him in the gold-trimmed loin cloth, but Lando mentioned it being "pretty unfortunate. It would have been hot anywhere else." Between the sand that had surely made it's way into every sensitive crack on his body, and Jabba's slimy tongue, he couldn't blame him for taking off to the shower before Han could even ask what are we?

Han tried to focus his eyes on the meter for the Falcon's water supply, which he was sure was slowly slipping down as Luke showered. Han ran a hand through his hair, trying to shake out the sand. The ship's data readings looked blurrier than they usually did at this distance. Han started to panic that the carbonite had seriously damaged his eyes.

"Your eyesight should return to normal soon," he heard Luke say. He turned. Luke was a blurry vision himself -- just a rough outline of colors standing down the hall, but still gorgeous despite the blurred edges of his frame.

Han never quite understood how he knew exactly what he was thinking. "If it doesn't, the Rebellion can help restore it. They replaced Leia's hand."

"What happened to Leia's hand?" Han asked as Luke came into focus. He was wearing his own clothes now, tan fatigues that were more well-tailored than anything the average soldier got, his wet hair combed down to one side.

"She lost it against Vader," he said simply, "trying to save you."

Han leaned back in the booth, spreading his arms across the back of the seat, inviting Luke to sit. Han was no mind reader, but he knew what Luke thought -- that he and Leia were something. Maybe they could have been, but Han's eye was always somewhere else. Once he saw the prince covered in garbage, shouting at him, he was a gonner.

"A lot happened in the last few days, then," Han said.

Luke's eyes widened before he forced his face back into a diplomatic, neutral gaze. "It's been six months, Han."

Han buried the sudden rush of existential horror that brought on, taking a deep breath through his nose to stifle the knot in gut and lump in his throat. He'd deal with that later.

"Took you guys that long to rescue me?" He tried to joke.

Luke finally sat next to him. Up close he could see the bags under his eyes, a bruise the peaked up above the collar of his shirt, and the red spots on his otherwise flawless skin.

Luke started to respond, but Han cut him off, choosing to be honest for once in his life. "You all did your best. I appreciate you coming after me like that."

Luke nodded. The air started to feel thicker, and Han felt his finger tips start to itch with anticipation. Luke was scooting closer to him, pressing the outside of his thigh up against Han's. Luke's head turned towards Han just a little; he looked the rest of the way with his eyes. There was something cunning and determined in them, and Han understood finally that this is what it looked like to be seduced by royalty. Oh if only Leia could see him now. She might have been his best friend (besides Chewie, of course), but she never had any faith he'd pull it off.

The silence between them told Han now it's your turn. He's said it twice, now say it back.

Han hooked a finger under Luke's chin and turned his head the rest of the way. "I love you," he said.

"I know," Luke grinned. Luke threw his arms around Han's shoulders, letting the romantic moment hang for just a few seconds before using the leverage to climb into Han's lap.

He felt Luke's erection press into his stomach right away. He's hard. He's been hard the whole time, Han thought, I must be blinder than I thought.

Romantic, careful kisses quickly slipped into messy, careless, and needy ones. Luke's hand was on the side of Han's face, trying to pull them ever closer.

"How long until we land?" Luke breathed.

Han tried to look past him to the controls, but he couldn't get a clear reading. "We've probably got time," he said. They were sure to be swamped the moment they landed. "If we're quick."

"Can I fuck you, Captain Solo?" Luke asked, not wasting a moment. He pressed his lips to Han's neck as he waited for an answer.

Han's brain went haywire, but his hands knew what to do. He started undoing his own pants, freeing his own erection quickly.

"That's a yes then?" Luke asked.

"I haven't showered in six months," he warned, "and I've never been fucked by royalty either."

"That's okay," Luke promised, shimmying his own pants down, "we like it dirty."

Han grabbed the front of Luke's shirt with both hands before leaning back. The booth curved, forcing him to shift awkwardly as Luke landed on top of him. He heard Luke shimmying out of his pants as he pressed his mouth back onto Han's, one hand cupping the underside of Han's thigh. But with one leg up in the air Han started to feel his lower back slip off the booth. He broke the kiss as he started to fall, trying not to make any noises that would make the whole thing more embarrassing.

He tumbled to the floor with a quiet oomph, but Luke's hands were on him soon, pulling him back up. Luke's cheeks were flushed, and his dick was still hard and waiting, not turned off at all by Han's fall. If anything, he looked more aroused.

"Let's scoot down," Han said, pulling Luke more wards the end of the booth where the cushion straightened out a little more. "It's easier here."

"Oh, is it?" Luke said, faux-betrayal in his voice.

"Sorry princess, did you think I was a virgin?" Han asked, using the moment to fully take off his pants.

"I wouldn't be surprised," Luke teased. Their lips met again, this time Luke was more teasing, biting Han's bottom lip, a hand on Han's side, manipulating his body to go where Luke wanted it.

Before Han knew exactly what Luke was doing, he found himself on his hands and knees, facing the corridor to the cockpit. It was closed, but if Chewie or Lando were inside, all they'd need to do was open the door to catch them.

"Lando is in there," Luke said. "If that makes you nervous?"

"Lando's seen me in worse spots than this," Han said. Lando had put him in positions like this, but he wasn't about to tell Luke that. "But I do have a bedroom, if you're nervous."

Luke pressed his back over Han's, his hard cock resting in the cleft of his ass. He leaned over, biting the shell of Han's ear before whispering, "I like when I get caught."

"Always been a rebellious one then?" Han said, his voice waving as he did, revealing just how much Luke exhibitionist streak turned him on.

Luke hummed an mm-hum into Han's neck as he kissed his way down.

Han had imagined plenty of time what fucking Luke would be like. In most fantasies, they were in some nice bed, fancy, bubbly wine in abundance, and they made love slowly. But they were at war, and Luke was full of surprises.

He felt Luke spit before rubbing it in, the gentle press of his fingers against Han's hole was a welcome bit of friction after leaving his hard cock so neglected.

"Whenever you're ready baby," Han said. He'd taken enough cocks in his life. He'd gotten a good look at Luke's. It was nice, but shorter than Han's own, and smaller than most of his toys. He'd take it no problem.

Luke didn't waste anymore time. He pressed into Han like wanted him to feel every minute of the last six months. "Slower," Han said.

"Sorry," Luke said, genuinely apologetic for his pace. "I should have planned better." He slowed down, letting Han enjoy the slow drag of his cock inside him, filling him up.

"There was lube in my room," Han said, before gasping as Luke bottomed out. Luke paused for a moment there, letting Han enjoy the feeling. Han could have stayed there for the rest of the war, impaled on his royal cock. Luke probably would oblige.

"Oh, I found it," Luke said as he started to move slowly, "your toys too. Borrowed a few of them."

Han groaned, overwhelmed at the thought. "I'd like to see that," he said.

"I'd like if you watched that," Luke said, promising a future. Alright then, Han thought, we've gotta end this war, and come out the other side of it.

"That's a good enough reason to keep living as any," Luke said. Maybe their heads were in the same place, or maybe Luke really was a mind reader. "Actually," his fingers dug into Han's sides, "you're the perfect reason to keep living." Luke's voice had changed -- he wasn't dirty talking Han anymore. No he was just ... talking. Earnestly, openly. The way they really never had before. They'd fought, but there was always ... subtext to it. Not now though. Now everything was just ... text.

"You'd better live through this, baby," Han said, letting himself be earnest for moment (although earnestness didn't come naturally to him, at least not when he was on the bottom). Luke was still rocking into him at a steady pace. Han could feel his arousal building low in his belly, but he wasn't near close yet. But he didn't reach down to touch himself. It felt like the wrong moment.

"Well then you'd better not let me die," Luke said.

"Never. You saved me, I'll save you." Luke kissed Han's neck, before picking up his pace. Luke reached around, finally -- finally --touching Han, stroking him in time with his thrusts. Han wasn't close before, but Luke was doing something to him that was bringing him close to the end rapidly. Maybe Luke just did that to him.

"Fuck, Luke," Han said.

"I'm gonna cum," Luke warned.

"Please baby," Han said. He figured, mind reader that he was, Luke would understand his instruction.

Han gasped when he felt Luke cum inside him, thrusting slower and slower as he released, letting Han enjoy the last few drags of his hard, pulsing cock as he did. Luke kept his hand on Han's cock as he came, and Han was quick to follow after him.

He'd never enjoyed the messiness or the stickiness of cum inside him, but Luke's was different. Luke's he seemed to crave. He wanted to blow him more than anything. He wanted to suck his cock and taste every drop of him. But he'd never particularly enjoyed going ass to mouth, certainly not after six months of carbonite. And by the way Luke was panting, he didn't think he'd be up for it either.

Luke slipped out of him slowly. Han stayed where he was, not exactly sure how to avoid getting cum stains on his own ship. Well, he thought, wouldn't be the first.

He felt Luke press his sleeve to his hole, wiping it gently with some expensive fabric, hopefully not from his home planet. "Sorry," he whispered, although he didn't sound very sorry.

"I'll shower quick," Han said, turning around now to face Luke, planting his bare ass on the seat as he reached for his pants.

"Han," Luke said. "Kiss me?"

Han didn't waste time. He let his pants fall to the floor again as he captured Luke's mouth with his own.

"I'm not lying," Luke said, "so you'd better not be either. I love you." Luke pressed their foreheads together.

"I know you can read my mind, baby," Han said. "So you know I love you too."

~

"We'll be landing in just about -- whoa-ho," Lando said, leaning against the corridor wall as he stared at Luke and Han. They stared at him wide-eyed, both of them with their pants half-way off. Judging by their soft cocks, messy hair, and tell-tale smell in the air, he'd bet this ship he'd caught them after a quick and dirty fuck. "That cockpit door is more soundproof than I remember."

Lando didn't get a great look, but he was pretty sure he saw the prince's cock go hard again, just as he pulled his pants up over it.

~

If there's one thing I'm gonna do, it's create an AU where Luke grows up basically royalty. Also they never take their shirts off, so they are winnie-the-pooh-ing it the whole time.

[clanwarrior-tumbly]

hii! could i get a thatcher Davis x fem!reader (fluff + angst), where she's his new work partner (say he isn't presumed dead and went back to work) who wants to support him and comfort him while he opens up too her, they get closer and end up together within a few months as a couple and the WHOLE station is aware 😭

Awh yeah,,,,Gotta give this man love and support through all the Horrors(tm)

...............

"What? They're assigning her to me?"

"I really don't see why it's a problem, Davis..considering you forwarded her application. She's just as interested in investigating the Alternate threat as you are, so they figured you two could work together on-"

"But I thought I made it pretty clear that I wanted to work on future cases solo. Because the last time I had a partner-"

"Look, I understand losing Weaver was painful..but that was 17 years ago. And the higher-ups are getting worried about you taking on all these cases by yourself, especially with your extended leave and the close calls you've had with those things."

"...so they think I need a goddamn babysitter?"

"There's no need for hostilities, Davis."

"Sorry, captain. I mean no disrespect, but..do you all really trust me after what happened? I mean...I just don't wanna see one more person suffer for my mistakes, especially not some rookie.." Thatcher mumbled the last part under his breath, averting his gaze from his superior.

He heard them sigh, although their tone became more sympathetic as they spoke once more.

"You're all we got now, lieutenant, and I trust you're not gonna repeat the past. Think of this as your shot at redemption. This town's lost all hope in us, but I think [l/n] can help restore some of that morale with your guidance. All I ask is that you don't scare her into quitting before she finishes her first day, alright?"

Although silent, Thatcher nodded his head in understanding, and the police captain seemed satisfied with that answer. So they walked out to call you into the office, telling him to wait a few minutes.

The moment the door was closed, he slumped back into the chair, growing increasingly aggravated as he tapped his foot against the floor.

His hands were practically itching for a cigarette right now...or a drink.

Anything to distract him from the conflicting thoughts running through his mind.

It felt like Ruth had only been taken from him yesterday. He remembers how much he cried and forced himself to grieve alone, burdened with the knowledge that he couldn't tell the department the real story of that night--of how he basically left her to die.

Of course, a memorial service was held for her. But it didn't feel like a satisfactory goodbye.

It was far from that.

So for the higher-ups to suddenly decide he needed a "replacement" felt like a punch to the gut. It's like they didn't trust him anymore.

But he then recalled reviewing your application file on his computer, seeing that you indeed showed a lot of promise:

[F/n] [L/n]--a confident and kindhearted woman around his age who studied criminology in college, passed all of her training with flying colors, taught a self-defense class in her free time, and has a decade's worth of experience in security.

You had a good heart and described yourself as "headstrong" in your personality description.

"Sound familiar?"

Hearing the distorted voice, he snapped his head towards the shadow in the corner of the room, every muscle in his body suddenly tensing.

For a split second he thought he saw the whites of somebody's eyes...

His eyes-

"Lieutenant Davis, meet Officer [L/n]."

Thatcher blinked, coming back to reality as he realized the captain had returned, stepping aside to introduce you to him.

He awkwardly cleared his throat and stood up, shaking your hand in greeting.

You politely reciprocated the welcome, although you were initially surprised by his bleached hair and facial piercings. If you were at any other police station, you would've thought he was violating the dress code.

But then again, with the Alternates running amuck it was probably best for him to look highly distinguishable from the average person (and as far as you're aware, they aren't clever enough to perfectly mimic piercings or tattoos).

Nevertheless, you were quite eager to work with the well-known lieutenant who's been here the longest.

However as soon as the captain left, he dropped his smile and gave you a rather ominous word of advice:

"Never get too attached to anyone."

In another life, he would have been more enthusiastic about training a rookie officer. But while giving you a tour of the station and all its rooms, his nihilism kept taking over his speeches.

It wouldn't let him shake the awful feeling that he basically sealed your fate...that being you could possibly die to an Alternate under his watch.

Specifically the one that's been tormenting him all these years. He still hasn't told the MCPD about it. He just can't.

It'll probably try to come for you next.

So he tried to keep his emotions at a distance so it wouldn't hurt him in the long run.

Yet you didn't let his attitude discourage you from asking questions and being as optimistic as you could, given the circumstances. You figured he's just seen some really shitty stuff in his career, understanding that's why he acted so closed-off.

At least he sounded nice in the emails.

.......

In the weeks following you being hired at the MCPD and working alongside Thatcher, things...have gotten interesting.

But they started off fairly grim.

He was still struggling to get out of bed and drag himself to the police station, trying to hide the fact he barely cared about his job anymore. His superiors sometimes had to call him in with threats of suspension, and he'd arrive looking constantly exhausted.

It's always been this way...with the exception of you asking if he was alright or getting him coffee if he forgot to make some. And while he accepted the drinks, he'd brush off any and all concerns you had over his health.

You shouldn't have to worry over him so much.

During your shifts together, you'd accompany him to places where Alternates were recently sighed (or their victims) and ask witnesses questions, or at the station where you'd review files and video footage regarding the most recent incidents, taking notes of whatever you find that he might've missed--and vice versa.

He'd often look back on files regarding the "Heathcliff Case", staring at the details even though he's reviewed them at least a hundred times over. He never elaborated on why he was so transfixed on them.

Could he really tell you that's where he immediately failed up as a lieutenant?

Absolutely not.

The one thing he kept putting off for weeks was training you on taking 911 calls--specifically those regarding an Alternate home invasion. He'd make excuses to show you other things whilst passing the headset to a different operator or officer, leading you to being confused but going along with him anyways.

It's not that he didn't believe you could handle it...he's just afraid of what you'll think when he tells you about the protocol.

However his superiors eventually caught on with his excuses and assigned you both strictly to the call center for a day.

When the first one came through, he had no choice but to instruct you through the process.

In all honesty, you felt sick to your stomach when you lied to the poor victim who said an Alternate was in her home, reassuring her calmly that help will arrive soon....when it's not coming at all. Even worse was when she begged you to stay on the line until they "arrived", although a short while later she didn't respond when you asked for a description of the intruder.

Then the call disconnected.

You had no idea if she was dead or forced to hang up, but you were irritated by Thatcher's nonchalant attitude about it, especially as he remarked that she was already "gone".

You both got into a brief argument about the cruelty of this "protocol". Of course, you knew it wasn't his fault that it was established this way, but you wished he showed a little more empathy.

Fortunately, the tension was short-lived as you received another call.

Calming yourself, you sat back down in the chair and donned the headset, dreading yet another home intruder report that you won't be able to save this person from. But you took a couple deep breaths before answering it, with the lieutenant listening to you closely.

"This is Mandela County Police, how may I help you?" You put on your most sincere voice.

"H-Hi, um..I know this isn't a real emergency so it's gonna sound stupid. Bu, I-I just..I'm very stressed about school and I need to talk to somebody. D-Do you mind if I rant?"

"...oh! Of course, hun." Immediately you were thrown off-course when you heard a timid teenager's voice on the other end instead of a panicked adult. "I'm not exactly a licensed mental health counselor, but I promise to listen for a bit."

"What?" Thatcher furrowed his eyebrows in confusion. "No, no, no. [L/n], tell this kid to get off the emergency line and call th-"

You ignored him and listened to the teen vent about their anxieties regarding the Alternate situation. They didn't understand why everybody else at school acted like this was the "new norm" when it shouldn't be, as their grades began to falter and they struggled to sleep at night.

At one point they began sobbing over the phone, afraid they won't have a future to look forward to, but you reassured them their fears were valid and that they're not alone with these feelings.

Although it felt like a white lie..you told them everything was going to be okay, and shortly after that they settled down.

Meanwhile Thatcher, who was at first livid over you blatantly disregarding his instructions, listened to your voice and realized how...sweet and nurturing you sounded towards this kid--suddenly no longer wanting to intervene and terminate the call himself.

Now that he thought about it...when's the last time an officer here ever answered a call that genuinely helped someone?

The fact he couldn't remember was telling.

"I think I handled that well."

Snapping out of his thoughts, he looked to see your smug grin as you switched off the headset, having finished the call. But when you saw his face, it disappeared and you sighed, knowing he was probably pissed off.

"Look, before you given me a write-up, I know that wasn't a "real" emergency, but I'm sure I saved that kid from spiraling into one."

"No, you have a point. I'm not gonna write you up." He reassured you. "I thought they were gonna say something about their math homework."

"Well, if their biggest concern is homework and not an Alternate..then I guess there's hope for the youth in this county." You chuckled. "So what's next, lieutenant?"

"....dunno. We're almost off the clock. You wanna....grab some coffee afterwards?"

You blinked. "Huh? Like..in the breakroom?"

"Nah I mean uh..at the gas station. I need to buy some food there anyway. Got nothing for dinner at home so.." He shrugged his shoulders; although part of him regretted mumbling that last bit considering the worried look you suddenly gave him. "...uh I mean-"

"Why don't I treat you to dinner instead?" You offered, which made him do a double-take. Though you quickly backtracked, your face flushed as you realized he could've taken that the wrong way. "I don't mean that a-as like...a date or...anything like that. There's a diner downtown you might've already been to but-"

"It's fine. I know the one you're talking about." He spoke up, smiling a little bit. "I actually haven't been there at all. But if you insist I'll...take the offer. Might as well get to know each other better."

While surprised he immediately accepted the invitation, you couldn't help smiling back before another call came through, and you focused on answering it. This time Thatcher didn't intervene and simply let you work while he occupied himself at another computer.

Suddenly both of you were very eager for the last hour of your shift to pass by.

...........

The "date" at the local diner went relatively well, with you and Thatcher chatting about recent cases and personal interests.

He didn't say a whole lot about himself, claiming his life was "boring" and asked more about yours instead. But it turns out you two shared similar tastes in movies and music, recommending stuff to each other and even exchanging personal numbers after dinner.

He mentioned a story of how he started playing heavy metal music in the station back when he was a rookie officer like you, getting his first write-up for it.

It made you laugh, and it was in that moment where he felt...the smallest of butterflies in his stomach.

At the time, however, he thought it was just anxiety. So he tried not to think too much of it as you both parted ways, seeing each other back at the station for your next shifts.

But ever since that night, you've been spending a lot more time together outside of work--to the point where, a month later, Thatcher felt comfortable enough to invite you over to his place.

Obviously he had to clean up so it looked more "presentable" to you...something he hasn't done nor cared about in years until meeting you.

He didn't know how or why, but you've considerably uplifted his spirits, pulling him out of this dark ditch he's been lying in for so long. He enjoyed your company and gave him reasons to come into the station on time.

Even his coworkers noticed and were impressed, with some teasing him about having a "crush" on you.

That reality did hit him, though...he did love you. You've been his motivation and inspiration. The light in his dark world.

Yet despite genuinely looking forward to seeing you, he was still putting up his usual front..as he was, in fact, feeling more stressed than ever before.

When he first met you, he warned you to not get attached to anybody--and here he was being a goddamn hypocrite.

Surprisingly enough, that Alternate hasn't shown its face in a long time. No longer did it invade his home, whispering nonsense and taunting threats in the dead of night; it led him to wonder if it grew bored of toying with him and decided to look elsewhere for a new victim, realizing he wasn't giving into MAD.

Could you have somehow driven it off without knowing?

He stopped believing in angels long ago, but part of him wants to believe you're one in disguise.

Perhaps..she knew he desperately needed one and sent you to help him when he lost all hope.

Yet you still didn't know anything about what happened that awful night, nor the mounting pressure Thatcher has put on himself after all these years. He just wasn't sure how to bring it up and explain everything without you calling him "crazy".

But it was killing him to keep all of this inside, though he felt like he had to..lest you thought of him as a weakly coward.

He's your superior. You should be looking up to him and counting on him for help, not the other way around. He even told himself he wasn't going to burden you with his past mistakes.

At the same time, you were the kindest and most nonjudgmental soul on the planet. He learned this firsthand that day you took that anxious teen's 911 call and assured them there was hope for their future.

That's where he first believed you were someone who could be trusted.

Even if you couldn't fix everything right away...you'd listen, and maybe that's the kind of person Thatcher needed in his life all along.

He knew that eventually you'll wanna ask him about that night, and he thinks he'll be ready to do so very soon.

Besides, he's going to run out of cassette tapes at some point.

.......

On the anniversary of Ruth's passing, both you and Thatcher had the day off.

You figured you'll sleep in and not disturb him, knowing he probably wanted to be alone today. But you did send one message to check up on him, saying you're always here to support him should he ever need it.

You knew him and Ruth used to be good friends back in the day, having accepted their promotions together and speaking publicly on live television. The MCPD still retained the footage, and you watched it on your work computer, smiling as they made their speeches to the community.

If only you were there to congratulate them both...

Your superiors remarked how he never truly did get over her death, acting like it's some huge "inconvenience" that he struggled to move on.

But even you knew that it's not that easy.

How could one simply "move on" after losing a close friend to one of those monsters? It's certainly difficult and painful, though you've wondered about the circumstances of her passing, always hearing everybody except Thatcher himself talk about it.

Was there a reason?

Did they twist the story?

You weren't sure, and you didn't think he'll be willing to give you any answers.

Especially not today.

Yet a short while later, you heard your laptop make a ping noise to indicate a new message and rushed to open it, reading his response:

[Thank you, [y/n]. If you're not too busy, could you come over in an hour? There's some things I wanted to talk about. I trust you enough]

You felt your heart skip a beat, wondering what he possibly could've wanted to discuss. But you were flattered that he trusted you, considering you didn't think he'd ever grow this close to you.

You simply replied "I'll be there" and hit send before getting ready, heading to his place an hour later.

Apparently he was expecting you, as before you could even knock on the door, he opened it up instead. And for a moment you stood there, taking in his appearance.

He looked like absolute hell, as though he just crawled out of bed, wearing a baggy band T-shirt with black pants. The dark circles around his eyes have gotten considerably worse, too, making him almost look skeletal-like.

Not to mention he reeked of smoke and cheap booze, both scents masked with cologne, but you didn't let it stop you from hugging him. "I got here as soon as I could." You said, smiling as he returned the hug. "How are you feeling?"

"...alright, I guess. Thanks. Hope I wasn't bothering you."

"You weren't, trust me." You shook your head, before letting each other go.

After heading inside, you noticed all the window blinds were drawn shut and the TV was droning in the background, showing some 90s flick. If not for the screen's light, then the entire living room for sure would've been pitch black.

You didn't see any reason to remind him of the laws concerning TVs and mirrors, being more worried about whatever he wanted to discuss with you.

Yet even as you both sat down on the couch, he found himself hesitating. He knew this was going to be a difficult conversation, but despite reaching out to you....he suddenly didn't feel ready anymore.

He started to regret ever sending that message in the first place.

You had to be the one to push him.

"So what did you wanna talk about? And don't tell me you were an Alternate this entire time.." You lightly joked, although when you noticed him staring vacantly at the TV, hands trembling as he turned the volume down, you realized your mistake. "..I'm sorry, Thatch. I shouldn't be kidding around on a day like-"

"It's okay."

"N-No, it's..it's fine. I'm not one of those things, I promise." He shook his head, trying to bite back the tears burning in his eyes as he turned to you. His heart was already hammering in his chest, throat feeling dry as he tried to keep his voice steady.

"It's just...fuck...where do I begin? A-And how can I say this without sounding selfish or crazy-?"

Blinking, Thatcher realized you had taken his shaking hand into your own, your thumb gently brushing over the back of it. And once again, he felt those familiar butterflies in his stomach..

He's never really felt this sort of kind touch..ever.

"Just take your time. I'm not going anywhere." You reassured him, feeling him squeeze his hand around yours tightly.

"..you sure you won't..tell anyone?" He asked, wishing he didn't already sound so pathetic. "Even if it were to change how you see me?"

"Whatever it is, it'll stay between us. I promise."

With that final confirmation...he told you everything.

He explained what happened to Ruth on this very night and the endless guilt of "abandoning" her that's haunted him since. He confessed to running away from the site out of fear when she vanished, without ever checking to see if she was even alive, never saying anything except she was MIA.

He also spoke of this weight he's been carrying all this time, still trying to be the "brave" and "heroic" lieutenant that everybody expects him to be and how he couldn't show any weakness, lest he let them all down...you included.

For years he was shamed for being a coward, when nobody knew that he and the entire department were just as terrified and helpless against those monsters as anyone. He mentioned not being able to sleep anymore...as the one who killed Ruth still remembers and taunted him every night over his failure.

It never made him forget, and some days he wished it was him who died instead.

Just so he didn't have to keep living with this burden.

He managed to speak calmly for the most part, uninterrupted by you. But he eventually broke down into tears when he tried explaining why he attempted to act cold towards you all those months ago.

Somewhere along the line, he spilled his true feelings of how he loved you and wanted to protect you but was far too scared of repeating his past mistakes, fearing that you'll end up just like-

However, you brought him into your arms before he could finish that statement, uttering something simple yet comforting that he needed to hear after all this time:

"It wasn't your fault."

And he immediately crumbled in your embrace, defeated as he quietly sobbed into your shoulder. He was unable to stop himself from clinging to you like some helpless child, but he didn't care anymore.

This felt a hundred times more cathartic than ranting on a cassette tape and writing letters to a dead person.

For some time, you held him without any judgement, rubbing his back as his emotions kept spilling forth. You wish you could kill the bastard that ruined his entire life...though this was all you could offer in the present.

And it was more than enough.

But as you comforted him, it finally sank in that this guy confessed to you, and you couldn't help but press a gentle kiss to his head, affirming that you reciprocated his feelings.

It seems he opened up to you in more ways than one.

"I love you too, Thatch." You muttered after he fell silent, to which he lifted his head up and looked at you with surprise.

"R-Really? You mean that?" He wiped at his watery eyes, slowly pulling out of the hug.

"Of course, why would I lie?"

"Well..uh...y-you just saw your "superior" have a freak out." Sniffling lightly, he looked down at his lap, the embarrassment catching up to him. "This is who I really am, [y/n]...just a loser crying like a baby over shit that happened nearly 20 years ago-"

"Hey. You're not a loser." You frowned a bit, taking both of his hands into yours. "Whether it's 20 years or 20 minutes..grief still hurts like a bitch, especially if you never confided in anybody until now. It's nothing to be ashamed of."

Thatcher nodded, his head feeling considerably clearer for the first time in ages. He was just relieved you didn't shun him. "Thanks for that...I've just..i-it's been hell, and...."

However, he trailed off as you leaned forward to kiss him on the cheek, both of you becoming equally flustered at what you just did on impulse.

It felt like you were both back in highschool, being two lovesick idiot teenagers who just shared their first kiss--except one was a lieutenant and the other a rookie cop.

He stared at you for some time, before smiling a bit. "How long have you been wanting to do that?"

"....a while." You admitted. "But..are you sure this is alright? Considering we work together, it might be...um-"

"What they don't know won't hurt 'em. So...now that everything's out there, you wanna go on an official "date" to that diner later?"

"I thought you'd never ask! But only if you're okay enough to. I don't want you to feel like I'm dragging you out of-"

"You're not. I need to get my ass up anyways."

---Two Weeks Later--

"Is it true that you're going out with the lieutenant??"

"Wha...who said that??" Stopping at one of the call operators' desks, you noticed her smug grin and stared back at her suspiciously. "Who else knows?"

"Uh, literally everybody here has known since last week. I haven't seen that guy smile in years until you came along. So whatever you did to drag him out of his shell...good job." She chuckled. "You must feel pretty lucky."

"Ah.." Flustered that you got so defensive so quickly over a known fact--that you and Thatcher were officially a couple--you just shook your head, flashing a tiny smile at her. "Thanks, but honestly he keeps telling me that he's the lucky one."

"That's fair. Before your break, can you run this file by him? It's for the case he's on."

"Sure." You took the folder and headed off to find your boyfriend at his desk, filing a report.

Only when you approached did he look away from the screen, a smile on his face. "Hey, you."

"Hey, you." You quickly pecked him on the lips, setting the folder down onto the table. He grumbled something about "PDA" and "staying professional", but you just rolled your eyes at his complaints. You can tell he wished the kiss was longer.

"I'm still your superior, y'know."

"Understood, "boss"..so what's the incident this time?" Curious, you peered over at his computer screen.

"A recent sighting of a supposed "child Alternate" that murdered the real kid's dad in the middle of the night," he explained, sipping his coffee. "It spared the actual person it mimicked, though..which is kinda weird, but I don't feel sorry for the bastard considering his criminal record. He lied in court just to get custody of a kid he didn't even give a shit about."

"Huh, interesting.." You hummed. "Maybe some Alternates can feel a sense of injustice around them? Or empathy?"

"I doubt it. They just mimic what they see and hear." He shrugged. "Once I finish this up I'll join you on break, okay?"

"Okaaay." You sighed dramatically, ruffling his hair up a little. "Don't work too hard, dear."

All you got was a small nod in return as Thatcher went back to typing, and you headed to the breakroom. But you could easily tell he was ready to keel over at the endearing nickname you've given him. That coffee mug couldn't hide the light blush that dusted his face no matter how hard he tried.

He's well aware of the risk he took by opening up to you, especially on the day where he felt he was at his lowest--something he never wanted anybody to see.

But he's glad he took that chance. Now that he knew you'd have his back, loving him and supporting him unconditionally, he was going to try his hardest to protect you.

And if that Alternate decided to come back?

He'll make sure it doesn't get to even breathe near you.

Not on his watch.

[dailycharacteroption]

Class Feature Friday: Phoenix Bloodline (Sorcerer Bloodline)

(art by AgusZanetti on DeviantArt)

Ah, the phoenix. Is there any symbol of life, death, and rebirth more wondrous and inspiring? Oftentimes, including in Pathfinder, phoenixes are also associated with manipulating fire beyond self-combustion, making them especially awesome as well.

It would only make sense that there would be those who want to emulate that power, and today’s bloodline seeks to do just that!

While it is unlikely that they have any direct relation by blood, sometimes a mortal or their descendants are infused with the power of a phoenix, perhaps by directly witnesses their fiery rebirth, or having been healed from near death by their magic, or maybe experiments involving phoenix blood. Either way, there are those that channel the magics of fire and healing through their blood, making them one of the very few sorcerers that can heal.

Physically speaking, this bloodline might manifest vibrant hair colors, feathers growing from the head or body, or other signs of the immortal bird’s influence.

Given their generally benevolent nature, I can imagine that most phoenix-blooded sorcerers share a similar disposition, but just as there can be corrupted phoenixes, I imagine there are exceptions among these mages too.

As we’ll soon see, this archetype is equal parts healer and blaster.

The spells granted by this bloodline include those that unleash a multitude of colors, namely a weak stun and barriers of deadly rainbow magic, piercing invisibility, fire magic in the form of barriers, runes of flames on allies, and transforming oneself into living flame, as well as breaking enchantments and creating safe pathways using hurricane-force winds.

Meanwhile, the techniques they learn include agility training in combat, focusing on fire magic, medical training, increased willpower, and quickening metamagic.

Perhaps most integral is their bloodline arcana, however, which lets them convert fire spells into a healing warmth to heal their allies, though with only have the potency compared to the destruction the spell would normally do.

These sorcerers boast supreme magical senses, allowing them to sense magical auras with ease, as well as immediately understand most magical items, though curses may still elude them.

They can also surround themselves with flame, empowering their attacks and searing foes that stand too close to them.

Additionally, they can grow a pair of phoenix wings to carry them aloft.

Later on, they can perform greater acts of restoration once a day, infusing the recipient with magical healing and purging flame.

The most powerful of these mages invoke the true power of the phoenix, and can resurrect from death once a day, rising a minute after apparently perishing, though overtaxing this ability can still kill them permanently.

While the wings and the free identification on most items and the fire aura are nice, the bread and butter of this bloodline is the ability to turn fire spells into healing magic, letting you do things like healing fireballs and the like. As such, This is one elementally-aligned bloodline you’ll want to load up on good fiery options, though of course, leave some room for diversity both in terms of other elements, and also other types of spells depending on your build.

With the powers of both flame and healing, this bloodline is certainly set up to inherit the reputation of the beings they draw power from. As such, they may find themselves living up to a lot of expectations, both reasonable and otherwise, and that’s a lot of pressure to be put under.

They say that phoenixes are related to other powerful elementally-aligned avians, and this includes tidehawks, who have their own sorcerous inheritors. Such is the case with the merfolk Melagi, who boasts a combination of stormwracked and phoenix bloodlines as a result, a combination she is proud to display, earning the nickname Storm Singer.

Subject to divine punishment from an evil god, a pharmakos is a creature of nearly immortal suffering and death with no respite. Even finally being slain only results in the soul being brought before the dark deity they forsook. However, one scholar posits that a ritual involving an atonement spell and blood donated by a phoenix-blooded sorcerer may yet free such a creature from their torment.

Despite the phoenix appearing as a symbol among many cultures, very few sorcerers that claim link to them are born. When one does appear, it is considered an omen of good fortune, one that many faiths may forget themselves to raise and acquire, such is the case with the infant that the party has been tasked with escorting.

[acourtofthought]

HOFAS SPOILERS -

More on Gwydion, Fionn, and Truth Teller

I was kicking around this idea yesterday but now I think I've solidified my thoughts on it and changed my mind on a few things. .

"It's why the Starsword calls to the descendents of Helena - of Theia". But only those with enough of Theia's starlight to trigger its power."

We can almost guarantee Rhys is a descendent of Theia through Silene.

And Mor is Rhys's cousin, her family having ruled the North long before his family, even before the prison was created which means she could be as well, Mor who has golden hair as did Theia:

Based on what we now know, Gwydion did originally belong to Fionn and at the time it was a symbol of the first High King. Truth Teller once belonged to Enaulis (his friend), which Fionn wore at his side after his death. However once Theia took the weapons from Fionn after his death, she "made" the Starsword and Truth Teller with her light which is why only her female descendents can use it at its full power (which I think is telling us that it has to go to someone other than Nesta despite it being in her possession, she is not a descendent of Theia).

Az was able to use it at one point only because he was the keeper of Truth Teller and the blades have a desire to be close to one another.

Theia was not necessarily the heroine as she was made out to be in Crescent City and Gwydion no longer represents a "saviors" light so it belonging in the possession of someone who is both light (a characteristic of Mor) and bloodthirsty (which Rhys mentions her as being) is a good fit. Light and Dark - a combination of the two being Twilight or Dusk.

I do still think Bryce leaving Nesta the lands of the Prison, Bryce's birthright, is setting us up for it becoming Valkyrie territory, where they'll possibly remain as defenders of the portal that seems to exist there, and as Mor expressed interest in training with the Valkyrie in SF and we're given hints she'll not be staying in the NC, the pieces seem to fall into place for her to end up living there if they all found a way to bring it back from its current state. It seems the monsters in the Prison are the cause for the land around it dying so by eliminating the current inhabitants, it's possible for it to again become what it once was.

And I think that whoever else is a descendent of Fionn & Theia could still be a contender of the High King plot if SJM goes that route. A lot of focus is placed on the bloodline of the females who contain Theia's light however not much is said of what Fionn's bloodline was capable of (if anything) or whether there are male or female descendants who show hints of his power.

Or if they simply realizing that they are a descendent, it could somehow lead to a course correction of history, where the land that died as a result of his death will be restored, a land I believe to be the Bog of Oorid.

We're told Fionn's general Pelias had red hair and Fionn had golden hair. We're also told they once went hunting in the lands in the middle, where Oorid lies and to me that indicates Fionn was possibly not of NC descent.

So maybe there is still something there to connect Lucien to the High King plot considering he is not only descended from Autumn Court but connected to the lands of Spring through the Rite and has Day powers through Helion which may or may not somehow connect to the "bright light" part of Theia's light versus the darker lights of Silene and Helena (her daughters).

Rhys could be connected to the High King plot through Silene and Fionn as well however, Amren tells us that the Cauldron's benevolence may extend itself to another if he rejects his birthright.

Truth-Teller

I do believe that if Mor were meant to have Gwydion it could provide an explanation for Az struggling to let go of Mor.

If Truth Teller has been longing to reconnect with the sword for 15,000 years it would make sense that Az would find himself pulled to Mor if TT recognized her as a descendent of Theia's daughter. It was not necessarily Az himself being pulled to her but him being influenced by the dagger to some degree.

It does not seem that Gwyn will end up with Gwydion, she doesn't seem to be descended from Theia or her daughters as her heritage is not that of the Night Court. But Gwydion and Truth Teller want to be together.

What if Az takes the dagger Nesta made (as it was in their possession again at the end of SF) and he gives Emorie Truth Teller to keep?

It's poetic, not only if she and Mor are endgame, but because Truth Teller originally belonged to Enaulis. A female Illyrian ending up with the dagger of an original Illyrian hero is girl power at its finest.