#Owl City was right all along | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

10byten · 2 months ago

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Soft Spot for u

- When you started college, one of the student associations assigned you a senior mentor. Back then, you never thought you'd still be friends with him as you enter your final year, while he’s already long graduated. Even less that he’d be the guy of your dreams—the one who makes your heart race. -

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You’ve never been much of a party girl. Well, not in the “nightlife scene” kind of way. But a night owl ? That’s totally you. Staying up late doing all the things the daytime doesn’t allow ? That’s your jam. Especially when you’re spending those nights with him.

Since your freshman year, Yuta has been your go-to for late-night hangs: studying, laughing, bickering, drinking, and dancing. You quickly adapted to his vibe - even though, unlike you, he thrives in the nightlife. He loves hopping from on-campus parties to the city’s best clubs. For Yuta, you’d adjust to anything. Normally, you’re not big on people or physical contact, but with him, it’s different.

The first time he asked you to join him at a party, you tagged along, thinking, Why not? At least I’ll have a story to tell. You didn’t like dancing in public—the stares, the unwanted touches—but his touch? That was different. Before long, you were showing up to every party he invited you to, becoming a campus party regular.

Little did they know, you hated parties. You only went for him. For those moments on the dancefloor when his hands rested protectively on your hips, silently warning other guys to back off. It drove you crazy that it felt more big brotherly than anything else. But when you danced together, something shifted. He wasn’t being protective—just… present.

You’ve always wanted to make a move, but the fear of losing him held you back. If he hadn’t made the first move, it probably meant your feelings weren’t mutual. Right? But honestly, just being by his side was better than being with anyone else.

Yuta changed you—not just in how you see relationships, but in how you see life. He was more than a mentor for academics; he pulled you out of your comfort zone and into a brighter, more open world.

Waiting for him to pick you up tonight, you’re lost in thought, touching up your makeup as Keshi’s Soft Spot plays in the background. Your phone buzzes.

Yuta: Be there in 2 mins, love.

You grin, his name lighting up your screen. Gosh, this man owns my heart.

When you hop on his bike, he whistles, eyes raking over your silver sequin dress.

“You planning to set the campus on fire tonight? I don’t remember telling you to outshine me, little miss.”

“No one’s hotter than you, Yuta.” You flirt back, the way you always do when he compliments you. It gives you butterflies every time.

He smirks, giving you a playful smack on the thigh. “Flattery’ll get you far, baby. Keep it up.”

At the party, Yuta, as usual, commands attention. Walking in with him feels like entering as a rockstar’s date—his magnetic aura turning every head. You join his friends—Johnny, Taeyong, Doyoung—who’ve already lined up shots.

Johnny hands you a suspiciously colorful concoction. You sniff it. “Johnny, is this safe? Because I really don’t want to start the semester in the ER.”

Everyone laughs, and Taeyong teases, “Sometimes I forget you’re still in school. Those were the days…”

Shots clink, faces grimace, and the party kicks off. But soon, the buzz, the chaos, and the alcohol start working their magic on your senses. All you want is to dance—with him.

The noise, the games, the music, the chaos of people chatting and singing along, all the stuff happening around you, mixed with the alcohol buzzing in your veins, has your senses on high alert. And now, you only want one thing—to dance with him. You’ve shared him with the crowd long enough, and now it’s your turn. Just you and him, in your world, even if it’s just for a bit.

You leave Jungwoo and Kai behind, still going at that ridiculous card game where every rule somehow ends in "take a sip." It’s funny as hell, you can admit that, but nah—right now, you need him. It’s all you can think about.

You find him at the bar, mid-conversation. You head toward him, sitting by the counter, your mind racing with one single thought: you wanna throw your arms around his neck and kiss him like it’s the only thing keeping you alive. His legs are spread like he’s waiting just for you, a couple of messy strands of hair falling into his eyes, and his half-unbuttoned shirt teasing you with a glimpse of that stunning belly piercing and a peek at his tattoo.

You stop in front of him, hesitating for a second. He’s still chatting with Taeyong but doesn’t miss a beat, sliding an arm around your waist like, yeah, I know you’re here. That little gesture? making you go crazy, and without a second thought, grab his wrist and pull him to the dancefloor. Pressed against him, your bodies move in sync, his hands on your hips, his breath on your neck. Butterflies? More like fireworks.

He’s totally getting with your vibe, moving with you like he’s reading your mind. When you turn around, you catch that huge smile lighting up his face—and wow, it’s the kind of smile that hits you right in the gut. He’s loving this moment, and it’s setting off a full-on butterfly storm in your stomach.

You kinda wish his smile wasn’t this attractive, this unfairly cute, this stupidly sexy. Because all you can think about is kissing him senseless. Like, right now.

You keep getting closer, grinding up against him more, and for some reason tonight, you’re feeling extra bold. You slide your fingers into his, guiding his hand to trace your curves in a way that’s definitely more suggestive than usual. Yuta doesn’t just go along with it—he’s into it. His response is all green lights, like his body is totally in tune with yours, wanting this as much as you do.

You feel his breath on your neck as you press your back against his chest, and yeah, it’s short. Is he... out of breath because of you? The thought sends a shiver down your spine, and without even thinking, you push your hips back against him, swaying like it’s second nature.

And then you feel it—him. Hard. For you.

That’s the last green light you need. You turn, locking eyes, fingers tangling in his hair as you kiss him, pouring years of longing into it. He kisses back—hungry, desperate.

Next thing you know, you’re in a dimly lit laundry room, pinned against the door as his lips crash back onto yours. His hands are everywhere, his voice dripping with desire.

He kisses you again, and this time it’s pure, raw desire. Like, where the hell has he been hiding all this? Not that it matters—you’re practically melting in his hands. Your skin’s on fire, and it feels like your blood is boiling. He’s gonna make you explode, like you’re some freaking nuclear reactor on the verge of meltdown.

The only way you can even begin to handle this insane craving is by biting his bottom lip, cutting the kiss short. He pulls back just enough to look at you, and there’s this spark in his eyes that makes your breath hitch.

“I didn’t know you had this bad girl side,” he says, smirking. “You’ve always been my sweet, innocent Y/n.”

“Not that innocent I guess, if only you knew about my dirty secret.”

“Hmm tell me more baby” you smile hearing the petname he gave you, you love it soo much.

“I touch myself so many times, soaking my panties, just thinking ‘bout you”

He groan “You didn’t.”

“I can’t even count how many times since I know you, you’re my favorite fantasm.” You say a lil bit shyly.

He looks into your eyes, a proud smile on his face. “Then allow me to make the fantasy come true.” He takes hold of your dress, so small that it doesn't take much effort for him to expose your already soaked thong. He slides two fingers over your pussy to caress you through the fabric.

“You’ve been holding out on me, huh?” he growls, fingers brushing against the lace of your underwear.

“Only for you, daddy,” you whisper, testing the nickname that’s been on your mind for way too long.

He freezes, then smirks. “Gosh, you’re gonna drive me insane.”

You've never been so willing in your life. You only dream of one thing: his tongue on you and IN you. He lifts your leg and places it on his shoulder to get better access. You feel his breath on your inner thigh and you moan at the sensation alone.

“Oh god.” He look at you, from the bottom and smirk “You can call me Yuta.” And with those words he wraps your whole soaking pussy in his mouth. First he eats you through the fabric of your thong. Then, using his fingers, he shifts it to the side. He flicks his tongue up and down your folds and then concentrates on your clitoris, sucking gently. The stimulation sends you into heaven, you feel as if you've left this earth. And then he starts playing at your entrance with one of his fingers, looking at you “Want me to get inside baby girl?”

“Yes, please, yes !”

“Your wish is my command.”

He takes hold of your clit again, nibbling lightly, then gently and deliciously slides a finger into your pussy, soon adding a second, which you welcome as a blessing. You try to be as quiet as possible, but your little cries and sobs excite Yuta even more. He picks up the pace and eats you up like he's starving, tasting you like you’re his last meal, you’re trembling. Soon you feel your orgasm coming on and you press down on Yuta's shoulder as if to let him know you're about to burst. He smiles, "Let it go baby, I'm here for you.” You feel the most powerful orgasm you've ever had in your life rushing through you. And this time you can't help yourself, you moan his name out loud and pray that no one else walks by at the same time. He stands up and sucks on each of his two fingers in front of you. Then he slides his tongue back into your mouth.

“I think you can still feel yourself on my tongue, so much that I've sucked you in.” You wrap your arms around his neck, wanting more, but Yuta slows the pace. “Maybe we should slip away before we're noticed.

You slip out quietly, not even bothering to say goodbye to anyone. On the way back, you’re still all sensitive from the way he completely wrecked you earlier. When Yuta pulls up in front of your dorm, he looks a little more hesitant than before. Still, you invite him to come up with you for a bit.

As you close the door to your apartment, you see him sitting on the couch, his hands covering his face like he’s deep in thought. But you don’t stop to overthink it—he’s already given you too much tonight for you to back down now. You climb onto his lap and kiss him, slow and intense. He kisses you back but suddenly pulls away.

“Wait,” he says, looking at you seriously. “I need to understand what’s happening here. Like, what are we doing right now?”

You stare at him, confused. “Do you want a diagram or something?”

“No, I mean, seriously. Isn’t this, like, a bad idea? I’m older than you, and you’re totally wasted. I am too, actually.”

“So what?”

“So yeah, I don’t think this is a good idea. You’ll probably regret it tomorrow. I don’t want to mess things up between us. You mean a lot to me and—”

You cut him off with a dramatic wave, making it clear he needs to stop talking immediately. “This is unreal. Stop seeing me as the clueless first-year kid who doesn’t know anything and needs a protector. Yuta, I don’t want a protector—I want you.”

He just stares at you, speechless.

“I got a soft spot for you, from the very beginning,” you continue, your voice shaking with the weight of the truth. “And honestly, I’ve been hoping every single day since we met that one day you’d wake up and feel the same. But you’ve always had this big brother vibe, and God, it’s been killing me, because I love your attention, I love how affectionate you are, and how you’re always there for me. But Yuta, I want so much more than that. I never said anything because I didn’t want to scare you off or ruin what we have. But seriously, I’ve been into you since day one. So please, stop being my bro—be my lover. Tonight, I felt like it was now or never. There was this moment, this chance, and hell, it’s my last year. I want to leave this university finally dating the guy I’ve been crushing on since freshman year. So if you’re not into it, just say it, but please stop looking at me like I’m some little kid and start seeing the woman I could be by your side.”

Yuta’s lips crash onto yours, giving you the single greatest kiss of your life.

“So you’ve been this into me for all this time, and you never said a word?” he teases, a grin spreading across his face.

“Yuta, please. I’m not exactly the most social person, but I’ve spent practically all my time with you. I hate parties, yet I’ve been at them every week since I met you. I HATE octopus, but I learned how to make Takoyaki like a pro. I think Naruto is the most boring anime ever, but I binged every damn season. Why do you think I did all that? For who?” you shoot back, exasperated.

“Uh… sorry?” he mutters sheepishly.

“Don’t apologize. Honestly, I love most of those things now because they remind me of you, or they’re just so you. I don’t force myself. If it means spending time with you, it’s always worth it in the end.”

He smiles at you, soft and affectionate.

“I’ll admit, I’ve thought about this a lot over the years too,” he says quietly. “But the age gap always felt like too much. And I had this mentor role, you know? I didn’t want to look like some creepy older guy. More than that, I didn’t want to lose you or ruin what we have.”

Your heart pounds at his words. So he doesn’t see you as some desperate little kid, and, more importantly, the guy of your dreams feels the same way about you.

“Can you say it out loud, though? Just once?” you tease him.

“I got a soft spot for you, Y/n.”

“No, no, no, you can do better than that.”

He chuckles, running his tongue along his cheek, clearly amused but knowing you’re not letting this go.

“I got a big crush on you.”

Your smile stretches ear to ear, and you crash your lips against his again. He responds instantly, sliding his tongue against yours, his hands moving to your hips as he pulls you closer. Then, without breaking the kiss, he lifts you effortlessly and carries you to your room, laying you gently on the bed.He trails kisses along your jawline, down to your neck, and a soft moan escapes your lips. He nibbles at your earlobe before whispering, “If you play your cards right tonight, sweetheart, you just might get me to admit I maybe am in love with you by the end of it.”

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joelalorian · 13 days ago

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Wonder in Winterland - Part IV

Hallmark!Joel x f!reader | wc: 3913 | masterlist

Series Summary: You, a city girl on a cross-country road trip a week before Christmas, find yourself stranded in a whimsical Christmas town. You soon discover there is more to life than big city dreams. Based on the Hallmark movie Love You Like Christmas.

Warnings: None (although the rest of this blog is 18+ mdni). This is utter fluff and whimsy, with a occasional foul language and lots of banter in the AU style of a Hallmark Christmas movie. Matchmaker!Sarah. Limited descriptions of reader and no use of y/n. Enjoy it with a cuppa hot cocoa and a warm blankie.

AN: This is it, my friends. The finale to this little mini series. I wanted to have this out by Christmas Eve, but my hubs surprised me with a PS5 and a zombie apocalypse game (Days Gone) that I haven't played before. Had to pry myself away to finish this lol. Hope you enjoy and Happy New Year's to you all!

Part IV

The fire burned out overnight, leaving you chilled despite the pile of blankets covering the bed. With hurried motions, you added kindling and wood, stoking the fire until it burned steadily. Back under the covers, feet snuggled in a wonderful pair of cabin socks you picked up at the general store yesterday, you gazed at the fire, recalling the moments you shared with Joel the night before.

The moon hung high above the mountaintops, its silver glow illuminating the snow-covered fields and casting shadows on the inn’s wraparound porch. It was quiet save for the occasional creak of the wooden boards beneath your boots and the distant hoots of a Great Horned Owl. The air was crisp, but you barely noticed with Joel sitting beside you on the porch swing, the heat of his body like a furnace where it touched yours.

“I’ve been thinking about it, you know,” you said with a wistfulness to your voice, breath visible in the frosty air.

Joel’s dark eyes flicked to you, the moonlight catching the warmth pooling in those rich brown irises. “What’s that?”

“About staying,” you admitted, shifting your body to face him more fully. “I want to, more than anything.”

“So, what’s stopping you,” Joel responded with an unreadable expression.

You glanced down, twisting your fingers in your lap. “I don’t know. An over-inflated sense of responsibility, maybe. Self-inflicted expectations. My life, everything I’ve worked so hard for, is back in the city.”

He eyed you for several long moments. “Is it?” Joel’s voice was gruff and tight, the question hanging in the air between you.

Your eyes darted upwards, breath catching at the intensity in the gaze that met your own. “What are you trying to say, Joel?”

Shrugging, he glanced down at his boots. “I’m just saying,” he began, voice softening to a near rasp, “maybe your life’s wherever you decide it is. Doesn’t have to be one place or another, one thing or another.”

His words settled over you like a blanket, comforting but too thick to fully wrap your head around. “You make it sound so simple,” you replied, voice barely above a whisper.

“Of course, it ain’t, darlin’,” Joel replied, leaning in with an earnest expression on his handsome face. “But sometimes the hardest decisions are the ones worth makin’.”

The swing slowed to a stop as the two of you sat there, the night air thick with more than the chilly temperature. Joel’s hand rested on the edge of the swing right next to yours and you both stared as his pinky reached out, tangling with your own.

Before you could second-guess yourself, you leaned in slightly, his unique scent brushing against your senses. Joel’s eyes flicked to your lips; his breath warm against your cool skin the closer he got.

“I probably shouldn’t do this,” he murmured, yet he didn’t pull away.

“Why not?” you murmured with a trembling voice. His large hand gripped yours fully now, other fingers tangled along with your pinkies.

“Because if I do,” he said, his lips curved into a faint smile as they almost brushed yours, “I might not let you leave.”

Your eyelids just fluttered closed when the sound of the door creaking open broke the moment, and the two of you pulled back as Maria’s voice called from inside. “Joel! Are you out here? Sarah’s ready for bed.”

Joel’s eyes lingered on you as he sighed. “Guess the universe has other plans tonight.”

You laughed, the tension easing slightly as you stood and led the way inside. “Goodnight, Joel.”

“Night, darlin’,” he replied with a soft smile, watching as you climbed the stairs to your room.

Heart fluttering madly at the memory of a mere almost-kiss made you wonder how it would feel to actually kiss Joel. With his pouty lips and the bristles of his scruffy beard, you imagined kissing him would be akin to satisfying a long-held craving. You lost yourself in daydreams for a few minutes before forcing yourself from bed and down to the dining room for breakfast.

The morning sun filtered through the inn’s frosted windows, creating a soft glow in the cozy common room. You sat on the couch in front of the hearth, letting the heat from the fire lick your toes until they were nice and toasty. The other guests were still asleep while Maria hummed in the kitchen, and Tommy shuffled through the door with a sleepy greeting, his hair askew and a bundle of firewood in his arms.

You phone buzzed loudly against the wooden end table, the screen lighting up with the absolute last person you wanted to talk to – your boss. A sense of dread settled in your chest as you answered the call.

“Hi,” you said, forcing a neutral tone.

“Good morning,” your boss replied, his no-nonsense tone immediately setting you on edge. “Nice work on revamping the campaign.”

“Thanks. Is that all you called to say?” You stood from the couch, restless, glancing toward the window. A fresh layer of snow made everything seem softer, kinder, pulling once again at your heart.

Your boss scoffed. “Are you on the road yet?” he snapped, his impatience slipping through any pretense at pleasantries.

Dread flooded your gut. “Uh, not yet. My truck should be ready this morning though.”

“The owner of our largest account getting married and personally inviting you to the wedding is a big fucking deal and we cannot afford for you to miss it. Why you didn’t just get a rental car and go instead of staying in that Podunk town is beyond me—"

“Hey!” you interrupted, not caring if you cut him off. “I love that truck. My dead father left me that truck and you damn well know what it means to me.”

He caved a little, shifting to a placating tone as he said your name. “I know, I know. I’m sorry. It’s just… I need you back on track, your focus where it should be.”

With a heavy sigh, you gripped the phone tighter. Silence hung in the air as you prayed for patience, before you finally huffed a defeated, “Yeah, I know.”

“I’ll expect an update from the road later today. You’ll barely make it as it is,” your boss replied before the line went dead.

The temperature dropped mid-morning, the cold more biting than ever with the wind cutting through the layers you’d bundled yourself in to pick up your truck from Jimmy’s garage. The old hunk of metal, held together by little more than the blood, sweat, tears, and unending love poured into over the years, rumbled to life as Jimmy went over the repairs made.

With a heavy heart you drove back to the inn, feeling like your choice was made for you, parking the truck in the driveway to make it easier to load up your belongings. Snow started falling again, rubbing salt in the wound of having to leave. You left the truck running, wanting to make your goodbyes quick in fear that you’d cave to any pleas to say.

Maria stood by the door, her arms crossed tightly and your packed luggage at her feet. “You’re sure you want to do this?” she asked, her voice tinged with reluctance.

You nodded, barely able to meet her eyes and voice tight. “I’ve got to make it to San Francisco. My boss is already breathing down my neck and has made it clear what will happen if I don’t make it to this wedding.”

Tommy leaned against the porch railing, grinning despite the melancholy air. “You’ll be missed, sweetheart. You certainly left your mark, especially on that brother of mine.”

Before you could respond, Joel’s truck pulled to a stop in front of the inn and Sarah burst out of the backseat like a whirlwind. Her red beanie sat askew atop her head, and her arms clutched tightly to something as she ran toward you, “Wait! You can’t leave yet!”

You knelt to meet her as she barreled into you, holding up a small bundle of pinecone ornaments tied with a ribbon. “I made these special for you,” she said, her voice trembling slightly, a sheen of tears in her eyes. “So you’ll always remember us.”

Heart clenching painfully, you clutched the young girl to you and sniffled, careful not to break the thoughtful gift. “Thank you, little bug. I could never forget you, but I will treasure these always.”

“Will we ever see you again?” she asked through a debilitating sob. “I sure hope so, bug,” you replied fighting back tears of your own. Oh, how you hoped so.

When you pulled back, Joel stood a few feet away, his hands stuffed in his jacket pockets. Wide, coffee-colored eyes held yours, both of your gazes filled with a potent cocktail of emotions. “Mind if I walk you to your truck?” he asked softly. “I’ll load up your bags.”

Words failed you and you nodded, following him down the path while the others lingered on the porch pretending not to watch while they gave you the illusion of privacy. The crunch of snow underfoot was the only sound for the too-short walk to the truck. Joel turned toward you, a guarded expression marred his brow, yet his eyes gave everything away – the longing, the thought of what could have been, all of it.

“You sure about this?” he asked in a low, mournful voice.

No. No, not at all.

You looked away, the ache in your chest making it hard to breathe when you looked at him. Once again reminded of all the things you have given up for sake of this damned career – this loss would be worst of them all, you knew it. “I must – you know that. I can’t just…”

Joel nodded slowly, his jaw tightening at the words you didn’t say. “I get it, I really do. But I wish—”

“Don’t say it,” you whispered, the tears brimming in your eyes spilling over. It was all too much.

He stepped closer, his presence a warm haven against the cold. The world went still, disappearing until it was only you and him under the falling snow as he took your hands in his larger, calloused ones. Your breath caught as he leaned in, dark eyes peering into your soul as he kissed the tear tracks scattered across your face.

The press of his chapped, warm lips against your cool skin made you weak in the knees. You turned your head suddenly, catching his lips with your own in a searing first kiss, one you would never forget. Forgetting yourselves, the kiss deepened, his tongue dancing along the seam of your lips until you gasped, and he licked into your mouth.

The sparks flew like nothing you ever experienced.

How could you walk away from this?

How could you afford not to?

A whoop startled the pair of you apart, chests heaving from the heady mix of want and lack of oxygen. When you peeked past Joel’s shoulder, you saw Sarah dancing across the porch, cheering and signing out your name followed by, “and Daddy sittin’ in a tree, k-i-s-s-i-n-g…”

Laughter bubbled from deep within, a watery smile spreading across your well-kissed lips as you met Joel’s amused yet bittersweet gaze.

Clearing his throat, Joel pressed his lips against your forehead, then the tip of your nose, and your lips once more before stepping back to help you into the truck. Once settled, he handed you a slip of paper with his phone number and address written in block print. “Please, drive safe. And don’t forget us because we will never forget you, darlin’.”

“Thank you, Joel,” you breathed, “for everything. You and your family made an impression, I could never forget you. I’ll call, I promise.”

He shut your door with a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes, patting the hood of the truck as you threw it into reverse. Your vision swam as you backed out of the driveway, rear tires slipping a bit in the fresh powder. You couldn’t look back, tapping the horn twice as you drove off, tears cascading down your face.

The winding snow-covered road stretched for miles ahead, flanked by towering evergreens that seemed to close in on you the further you drove away from the Millers. The ornaments Sarah made for you sat on the passenger seat, a bittersweet reminder of what you were leaving behind. The town’s charm and warmth that once loomed large, now grew smaller in the rearview mirror, and with it, your spirits. A bittersweet ache built up with every mile that separated you from the life and people you didn’t want to leave behind.

What the hell were you doing?

You thought it was the right thing, to get to that wedding, to return to your life back in NYC. So, why did it feel so wrong to leave Winterland and all it offered behind? The pit of your stomach ached.

Your phone buzzed with a text notification – your boss sending another sharp reminder of the importance of what awaited you in both San Francisco and New York City. You glanced at the screen only long enough to read the first few words, your blood pressure already spiking from the stress of everything weighing down on you. When your eyes returned to the road, a massive shape appeared in the middle of the road in front of you.

A moose, more massive than you thought any North American four-legged animal had a right to be, stood stock still in the road, enormous body taking up both lanes, dark form stark against the white snow.

“Holy shit!”

You pumped the brakes like your father taught you, the old truck not equipped with antilock brakes, your mind racing in the milliseconds that passed. There was no way around the moose, and you hoped you could stop the truck in time, the thought of hitting the breathtaking creature shattering your already fractured heart. The brakes locked up after all, the truck skidding on the icy road.

The moose bolted into the trees as you fought valiantly to regain control and the vehicle fishtailed, but it was a lost cause. Every movement of your hands on the steering wheel an over-correction, the truck spun sideways before slamming into a snowbank with a sickening crunch. Your head whipped to the side, striking the driver’s side window hard enough to make stars explode behind your eyes.

The truck shuddered before dying, and for a moment, everything went silent except for the faint hiss of the hot engine against the cold precipitation. Pain pulsed through your head, sharp and disorienting, as you struggled to regain your bearings.

Shaky hands searched the cab for your phone, finding it wedged in the bench seat, as the adrenaline drained from your system. You fumbled to unlock it, pulling the slip of paper Joel handed you earlier to type in his phone number, the numbers blurring. You had just enough signal to call for help.

“’Lo?” Joel’s crisp, deep voice rumbled through the phone, and you were both relieved and pained to hear it. Your head hurt so damn much, competing with the pain in your heart.

“Joel?” You fought to keep the tears from falling, but the effort strained your throat, clouding your voice.

“Darlin’? What’s wrong?” The urgency in his voice steadied you somehow. Sucking in a deep, rattling breath, you replied, “I need help.”

You needn’t say any more, already hearing Joel unlock his truck as he demanded, “Where are you? I’ll be right there.”

You gave him the closest approximation of your location, out by the highway. You hadn’t gotten too far in your failed attempt to leave Winterland.

“Stay put, sweetheart. I’m on my way.”

“Shit! Tommy!” Joel yelled frantically for his brother as his truck pulled up behind yours with a spray of snow and ice. The two men jumped out, boots crunching against the ice as they ran to you.

“Darlin’?” he called, his voice urgent yet strong as he wrenched the driver’s side door open. Tommy fetched your belongings while Joel helped you, stowing them away in Joel’s truck.

You blinked at Joel with slightly blurred vision. “I’m okay,” you mumbled, though the knot on your forehead and the associated throbbing suggested otherwise.

Wide, dark eyes scanned your face, his expression tightening when he noticed the bump, a small gash visible in the center. “You hit your head,” he replied, voice low and soft like he was handling a hurt puppy. “We’re going to the hospital.”

“Joel, I’m fine—”

“Can you stand? Walk?” he questioned doubtfully. Joel helped you out of the truck, large hand steadying you with a warm and reassuring grip. You wobbled, head spinning, proving his point that you needed to go to the hospital. “No arguments, darlin’. We’re going to the ER.”

Tommy climbed into the backseat with your luggage as Joel helped you into the front passenger seat. You were shaking, half from the cold and half from the dissipation of adrenaline, and Joel reached over to turn your seat warmer on and covered you with his warm coat after buckling you in.

“The hospital is in the next town over. Shouldn’t take long to get there though,” Tommy assured while Joel worked his way around the truck to climb behind the wheel.

The ride was quiet except for Joel occasionally checking on you and the soft rumble of Tommy’s voice as he updated Maria. Joel’s grip on the steering was tight, knuckles white and jaw set as if holding back a storm of worry as he navigated the icy roads with precious cargo.

The small-town ER was surprisingly empty when Joel pulled up, rushing inside to get a wheelchair for you as Tommy helped you out of the truck. Once inside, the staff whisked you into an exam room, collecting information along with your vitals.

The sterile brightness of the hospital room felt jarring, and you scrunched your eyes against the harsh light. A nurse held an ice pack to your head with gentle pressure while Joel hovered nearby. His concerned smiles were a constant, grounding force.

“Looks like you have a mild concussion,” the doctor diagnosed after some assessment. “I’d like to keep you overnight for observation.”

Opening your mouth to protest, Joel jumped in. “She’ll stay,” he said firmly, holding your gaze as he spoke to the doctor. To you, he added, “No arguments this time.”

You fell back against the reclined hospital bed with a sigh. “Fine,” you muttered, the edges of your irritation softening when Joel pulled up a chair and sat beside you.

After receiving some medicine for the pain, you were allowed to doze off for short periods of time. The nurse came in at various intervals to check vitals as the day turned to late afternoon, Joel never leaving your side.

The buzzing of your phone stirred you from a light doze and you grumbled. It felt like you just fell asleep, dammit. Joel picked the phone up, scowling at the screen. “It’s your boss,” his deep voice a rumbling whisper as he handed you the phone.

Dread coiled in your stomach as you answered, turning the volume down to ease the lingering headache.

“You didn’t check-in,” your boss snapped in lieu of a greeting. “How far along are you?”

Teeth clenched, you spat back, “I was in a car accident. Didn’t get very far. I’m still in the hospital.”

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” he said under his breath, though you heard every word. “That’s unfortunate. But it doesn’t change the fact that you’ve let me – and our biggest client, I might add – down. If you would have gotten back on the road when I told you to, this wouldn’t have happened.”

Silence settled for several long moments as you fought back tears and wracked your staticky brain for a suitable response. When nothing came, your boss heaved a frustrated sigh.

“If you can’t handle your responsibilities, maybe this isn’t the job for you,” he said with finality.

His words cold and detached, they struck harder than the crash. You sat there, phone pressed to your ear and staring into Joel’s kind eyes, as the weight of everything pressed down until something finally snapped.

“You know what?” you replied, voice calm yet firm. “You’re right. This isn’t the job for me.”

“What?”

“I quit,” you said simply, feeling the weight lift from your shoulders even as the words left your mouth. “Consider it one less thing to worry about.”

Joel’s eyebrows shot up, and though he tried to hide it, a small, satisfied smile tugged at the corners of his mouth.

“This is ridiculous—” your boss began, but you cut him off. “Oh, go fuck yourself, Brad,” you spat, ending the call before he could respond.

Joel stared at you, eyes sparkling with barely concealed joy, the worry that clouded them earlier giving way to something brighter. “You okay?” he asked, his voice soft and sweet, the weight of unspoken relief slipping through in his tone.

“Never better,” you said, the realization dawning even as the words left your lips. “I think this accident was a sign that I shouldn’t leave. And him calling to scold me over it just sealed the deal. I’ve wanted to tell Brad to fuck off for so very long.”

Joel’s laugh was low and warm, his hand reaching out to brush yours in a gesture so simple yet full of meaning that your breath hitched. “Good,” he said, smile growing until the corners of his eyes crinkled. “That guy sounded like a real horse’s ass.”

A surprised burst of laughter filled the room, the sound breaking the tension that had been building in your chest for days. “He really is,” you admitted, your fingers curling slightly against his.

Joel’s hand tightened around yours, his expression turning serious, yet the warmth of his gaze never wavered. “So, you’re really going to stay?”

“I am,” you smiled at the warm, certain feeling in your stomach. “I just need to find a job and somewhere to live and move all my stuff from New York and…”

Joel didn’t let you finish. He moved with purpose, slipping into the hospital bed with you. His broad form barely fit, but neither of you cared. His lips met yours in a kiss that was soft yet full of promise, sending warmth cascading through you.

When he pulled back, his voice was low and steady. “We’ll figure all that out after the holidays, darlin’. Until then, you can stay with me and Sarah to celebrate Christmas and New Year’s the way you’re supposed to – with family”

The mention of Sarah made your chest tighten with joy. “She’s going to be over the moon,” you murmured, the thought of her bright smile filling your heart with a new kind of warmth.

Joel smiled, brushing his thumb across your cheek. “So am I.”

Hope bloomed in your chest, mingling with the beginning flutters of something a lot like love. You clung to it with every fiber of your being, realizing that maybe this was the moment your heart had been waiting for all along.

What else, other than the magic of Christmas, could be responsible for turning a simple traffic delay and breakdown on a snowy highway into something so special?

the end

tag list (i included anyone who previously commented, requested, or I thought might like to be added, but please let me know if you'd like to be added or removed): @abirdsnest @brittmb115 @harrysrosetatto @carolineesnell @tuquoquebrute @inept-the-magnificent @lovely-vamp-princess @kyberblade @bluestar22x

#hallmark christmas movie inspired #joel miller x f!reader #joel miller x female reader #joel miller fluff #fluff and humor #ppcu fanfiction #hallmark!joel #BlueChristmasWritingChallenge2024

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porcelainseashore · 4 months ago

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Coffee & Secrets (2)

Series Masterlist

Pairing: Rookie Cop! Leon x Barista! Fem! Reader

Summary: As a cozy coffee shop owner in Raccoon City, you’re no stranger to visitors seeking comfort, quiet, and warmth. When a rookie officer named Leon finds a kindred spirit in you, it sets in motion a chain of events that forever changes the course of your lives. An alternate universe set in Resident Evil 2 Remake and inspired by the game Coffee Talk.

Content & Warnings: Canon divergence, coffee shops, romance, slow burn, strangers to lovers, idiots in love, fluff, slice of life, swearing

AO3 Link

Chapter 2: Beginnings

“What kind of coffee shop only opens at night?”

Leon had kept his word, returning some time during the week after his work shift. However, Claire left you a postcard, delivered through him, with “I.O.U.” written at the back in an inky marker.

“My kind,” you quipped back, clearing out some of the cups and glasses, and wiping down the tables used by the previous customers who had left.

He shifted awkwardly between his feet, realizing the faux pas he had made. “Sorry, I didn’t mean any offense.”

You looked up at him from the cloth rag on the table and smiled. “None taken, you’re just saying what comes to mind.”

“I like that,” you added for good measure.

Biting his bottom lip, his cheeks turned pink as he peered around the room before meeting your gaze again. “I-I… I guess I just wanted to know why?”

“Hah, she’s not interested in business! She’s rich!” a low bellow erupted from a ponytailed man sitting at the corner in an armchair. He laughed at his own joke, adjusting his spectacles along his nose bridge before guzzling down a thick, dark, syrupy brew from his cup. Then, he went back to reading his newspaper as if he had not uttered anything at all.

“Rude,” Leon whispered under his breath.

You chuckled as you gestured towards the older man. “That’s Ben, one of the customers I cater to. Enjoys coming here after dark. Says it helps him to think straight.”

“You see, I wanted to open a place where everyone could feel welcome,” you continued. “Even if it’s just the outsiders.”

“Hey, I heard that!” Ben called out again, though not once taking his eyes off the tiny print of the paper.

You smirked at his response. “Some people are night owls. So why not have a space for them too?”

Leon cocked his head to the side, staring at you contemplatively for a moment before replying, “That’s really nice of you.”

You looked away, unsure of how to respond. From the beginning, you had always accepted your role willingly, never giving it a second thought, so praise always came as a surprise.

“Mmm, why don’t you go make yourself at home, and I’ll be right with you?” you finally decided as an answer.

Evasive, but polite—perfect for such a situation.

He did as you asked, heading over to the counter seat, and seeing you work your magic on his drink. It seemed like he had taken a note out of Claire’s book, inviting a little more spontaneity this time into his order. He wanted something warm yet cool, but not too sweet.

“It’s not too much of a hassle, is it?” he wondered out loud anxiously.

You huffed out a small laugh, saying, “It’s fine, relax.”

As you served up the concoction before him, his gaze trailed across the amber swirls of the liquid, glinting under the pendant lights. They came to rest on the conical-shaped egg white foam you had whipped up on top.

“Gee, I feel like a kid in a candy shop,” he muttered. Taking a whiff of the mixture and upon finding it agreeable to his senses, he imbibed the rest of it.

“How do you—” he paused to recollect his thoughts before continuing, “How do you make such amazing drinks?”

Twirling the glass in his hand, he examined it, seemingly trying to figure out its ingredients. “It’s almost as if you read my mind.”

“I just listen to what people need,” you mentioned nonchalantly, playing down the compliment. Jerking your thumb towards the glass, you added, “I call it Midsummer’s Nightcap, by the way.”

“I’ll definitely remember that.”

He handed you the glass and you immediately followed up with a “Can I get you anything else?” It had been ingrained in you from day one to do so.

His face scrunched up slightly as he furrowed his brows. “I don’t know, hmm…”

“Something simpler?” you offered. “A glass of water?”

At this, he flashed a toothy grin. “There you go again. Reading minds.”

You scoffed good-humoredly, shaking your head as you poured him water over crushed ice with a slice of grapefruit and lime at the end. “So how’s your first week at work been?”

An involuntary groan rumbled from his chest, though he tried to suppress it.

“Not great?” you asked sympathetically.

“No, it’s good,” he began, “it’s more than I could’ve asked for, but…”

You held back, giving him the time and space to process his emotions. He fiddled nervously with the glass, pressing his fingers into it and leaving temporary imprints on the condensation.

“I don’t wanna fuck things up, you know?” he sighed. “I did well at the academy, but this feels like a totally different ball game.”

“It’s overwhelming, isn’t it?” you observed.

“Yeah,” he agreed, throwing his hands in the air. “I left everything behind for this job. My family, my hometown, my friends, my—”

All of a sudden, he stopped in his tracks abruptly, as though something had clicked and he instantly regretted what he had just said. “I’m sorry for dumping this all on you…”

“Hey, it’s okay.” You reached over, holding his hand gently as you gave it a little squeeze. His pupils widened and his breath hitched at your touch, but similar to the previous time, he did not pull away.

“You’re afraid of failing,” you murmured, already busying yourself with cooking up another beverage to soothe his nerves. “Maybe you’ve never failed before, and it scares you.”

He remained silent, watching you from across the counter with a grim expression on his face.

It was only after you offered him the warm, steaming cup that he spoke, “You ever get that feeling where you’ve waited for this moment your entire life, and when it comes to it, you’re paralyzed?”

A rueful smile crept onto your lips. “When I set up this shop, yeah.”

Your answer stunned him initially before he started laughing, and you joined in.

When he finally managed to catch his breath, he probed further, “And how has it been for you?”

“It has its ups and downs, but you’ll survive.”

Your eyes met his. “Leon, it’s okay to fail.”

He averted his gaze in embarrassment. “That’s not what she—my girl—uh, my ex would’ve said.”

“Sometimes, people say things because they’re hurt,” you sighed. “I guess she didn’t want to lose you?”

Shaking his head, he rubbed his face wearily as he exhaled a deep breath. “Yeah, she didn’t want me to move so far away.”

Then, he found the courage to look you in the eye again. “I thought she’d be the one. I… I’m an idiot,” he surmised self-deprecatingly.

“You felt deeply for her,” you pointed out. “It doesn’t make it any less real just because it didn’t go the way you expected.”

While he mulled it over, you motioned to his forgotten drink and he obliged, knocking it back as if it were a liquor shot. “Time,” you proffered. ”Everything takes time.”

His jaw slackened as he took a moment to savor the warmth and taste, but once that passed, he had yet another curveball to throw at you. “What if I’m not cut out for this job?”

“If it comes to that, you could either keep going until you are, or find a new path,” you countered, placing your hands on your hips. “Don’t limit yourself.”

“Anyway, I have a hunch you’ll do just fine,” you reassured him. “If you don't believe me, then ask your supervisor.”

“Wait, you know Lieutenant Branagh?”

You did not respond to his question, instead sneaking in a wink and a smile as you removed the cup and saucer from his table. That appeared to distract him as he dropped the subject and latched on to a new one.

“My grandma used to make this for me,” he said, indicating at the cup you were holding. “She had a name for it. Dreamsleep… I think?”

“Are you trying to tell me that I remind you of her?” you teased as you placed the items in the sink with the other dirty dishes.

“God, oh no, I’m sorry!” he coughed out, his face contorting into an expression of shock and horror upon realizing what he had implied. “That’s not what I meant!”

“I’m joking, Leon,” you giggled as he rolled his eyes and heaved a sigh of relief.

But when he took a peek at his watch, he pushed himself away from the counter. “I must’ve lost track of the time, um, I should get going.”

Stuffing his hands in his pockets, he glanced bashfully in your direction. “Thank you… for tonight.”

You waved it off. “Don’t mention it.”

However, when you opened your mouth to speak again, he shushed you with his finger and a fiery look of determination in his eyes. “And no, this time I’m paying.”

Dividers by @cafekitsune

#leon kennedy x reader #leon kennedy x you #leon kennedy #leon kennedy fluff #coffee shop au #re2 leon #re2 remake #resident evil 2 #resident evil #fic: coffee & secrets #porcelainscribbles

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cowpokeomens · 7 months ago

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Good morning squad I’m thinking bout

Matt who so clearly has a big ole crush on you and everyone knows except you and him it seems! It’s ironic because you’re so sweet and down-to-earth and Matt is. Himself. Anyways! The whole gang has a whole day to run amuck and explore The City right? And so everyone is making their little plans when like Nicky asks what you’re gonna be doing and if you wanna tag along with anyone. You’re like “what’s everyone doing?” And he says “some of us are gonna go walk around downtown, there’s some wildlife center that someone mentioned, and Noah said he’s just going to rot in bed for the morning and decide later.” And you’re like ooooh!! Wildlife center means goats I’m going there!! And Nicky is evil and says “cool Matt will go with you teehee bye” and Matt is pouting because he wanted the day to bro down with the owls and now some girl he doesn’t even like liar is coming with him smh so you’re hesitant but you go for the goats okay and Matt drives the rental and his mood is sour but you’re keeping your spirits high!! He doesn’t speak the entire time and when you try to engage in conversation he just grunts at you :-/ but you arrive safely and the folks working there are so nice and let you hold the chinchillas and the capybaras and Matt is actually cracking a smile watching you, takes lots of pictures bc he adores you the capybaras :-/ they let y’all meet Rocky the raccoon who’s recovering from a leg injury and Matt gets so excited that he goes from hesitant smile to literally beaming like a little kid, feeds Rocky little bits of fruit :-(( you take lots of cute pictures of him so you have evidence that he can feel human joy, y’all tromp around the center for hours petting deer and holding owls and giggling until the sun is starting to go down and you’re abt to pass out from hunger and Matt is like “cmon there’s a good place not too far from here” grabs your wee hand to help you navigate the “rough terrain” (there are some pebbles) but then ope! Doesn’t let go! No reason in particular! And it makes your tummy flip flop but it’s probably just because you’re starving so you write it off :-/ Matt opens your door when y’all get to the car :-/ someone cuts him off in traffic and his arm instinctively comes up in front of you :-/ he drops it onto your thigh and just :-/ leaves it there :-/ lets you queue up music and he bitches the entire time about it until you roll your eyes and put on like. PeelingFlesh or Cannibal Corpse or whatever passes the vibe check and then he’s rolling his eyes and saying “you can listen to your Taylor Swift it’s fine I don’t actually care-“ so you start bumping Picture to Burn and belting it out and he’s just :-( so fond :-( keeps smiling to himself bc he can’t name the emotion he’s feeling but I’ve thinks it’s content :-( y’all get food and you steal half his onion rings even though you swore you wanted fries and his foot keeps bumping into yours under the table and you don’t know why it’s giving you goosebumps!! It’s just cold in here that’s all!! When everyone gets back to the hotel you two are sitting on the couch practically in each other’s laps comparing photos of the day and giggling and teeheeing :-( he gets an arm behind your shoulders bc it was “falling asleep” so you’re all nuzzled up in his chest now and he smells like soap and grass and maybe you’re a little drunk on it but who knows :-( everyone knows

Anyways bye

#ramblin gal #matt dierkes fanfiction #matt dierkes x reader

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highqueenofelfhame · 4 months ago

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ROWAELIN MONTH DAY 11: SONGFIC

better late than never, right? this is kind of a mashup of tis the damn season and stick season.

warnings: language, sexual content

The irony wasn’t missed on her that she chose the middle of the night to drive into the sleepy mountain town. It was well below freezing and everything around her looked stripped from her very own soul: cold and dark. Almost like if she saw everything under the sun it would be too real and too hard to keep running from.

The thoughts were pushed, once again, to the back of her mind as she pulled into a long driveway that took her to a little cabin at the end of a gravel road. As soon as her car was turned off, she took a few moments to collect herself. In that short span of time, fog coated the windshield glass and she knew it would be a chilly evening all around. The interactions, the weather.

The part where she left.

Pocketing her keys and her phone, she slid from her SUV and approached the door. Snow crunched beneath her boots while two owls talked back and forth somewhere above her. Her breath was nothing more than puffs of vapor slipping from her lips as she raised her fist and knocked. It was so cold it stung her knuckles and left her rubbing her hands together to produce any sort of heat to bring them back to life.

“Rowan! It’s fucking cold out here,” she shouted, not worried about disrupting any neighbors. He didn’t have any for miles.

Aelin’s teeth began to chatter, the heavy cold settling into her bones as she waited. Just as she was nearly ready to kick the door, the porch light flicked on and it swung open, revealing a shirtless and slightly disheveled Rowan Whitethorn squinting down at her.

“You have a key.” She brought a gust of cold air with her as she breezed into the cabin, dropping her things on the coffee table.

“I lost it,” she lied. It was sitting in a landfil somewhere, rotting under thousands of pounds of garbage at this point.

“You were supposed to be here two hours ago.” Rowan stepped close enough that she could see goosebumps all over his arms and chest. Her eyes moved to his face and a fake smile forced her lips to attention.

“Work beckoned, traffic out of the city was terrible and all that.” It was getting too easy to lie to him– almost as easy as lying to herself. Maybe that’s why she was so good at it.

Aelin crossed the living room and put the kettle on, fingers tapping on the counter while she waited with her back to him. His presence sucked all of the air, along with her sanity, out of the room and being too close for too long while she wasn’t high off the touch of his hands was too much. She needed to be doing something.

“Oh, are we pretending you want to have tea and catch up? Not skipping straight to it?”

“We’re not pretending to do anything, I’m cold and want to warm up. You could have changed your mind since I clearly woke you up, and if that’s the case I’ll be out of your hair and on my way as soon as this is ready to go,” she rebutted, barely glancing over her shoulder.

“Gods, Aelin, I wish I could change my fucking mind when it came to you.” Rowan’s body was warm as he stood behind her, one arm bracing the counter and the other reaching around to turn off the stove before she was caged into the confines of his arms. She gulped down her anxiety, feet glued to the wooden floor as his lips grazed the back of her head.

For a moment, neither of them moved. The man behind her took a long deep breath as his fingers carefully pulled her hair to one side of her neck. Out of instinct her head tilted to the side and one of his fingers dipped beneath the fabric of her turtleneck and tugged down. Everywhere he touched was like she’d been branded, goosebumps following the trail of his fingers.

No word of admission would ever be muttered from her lips but she was touch starved for his hands on her body. The first graze of his lips against her neck had the smallest sigh filling the large room, and the first flick of his tongue elicited a moan. It was building up to be the perfect storm: his mouth on her neck, the pull of her shirt the mockery of what his hand would feel like around her throat. The final nail in the coffin was the low groan that Rowan let out at just tasting her skin. She knew he was dying for more, for everything, to be buried so deeply inside her that neither of them could think straight.

“Take it off,” she muttered, spinning in his arms while he pulled the shirt over her head and dropped it on the floor.

Aelin hopped up into his arms and he didn’t miss the catch, a hand on her lower back forcing her body to be flush with his while he carried her to his room blindly. Their kisses were feverish, punctuated with bitten lips and throaty moans. They didn’t even make it to the bed; Rowan was quick to push her back against the wall and sink to the ground in front of her. Clever fingers worked at the button on her jeans while she kicked off her shoes and the pants soon followed.

Standing in nothing but lacy underthings, Aelin combed her fingers through his hair. Warm lips pressed against her lower stomach while his fingers traced the shape of the lace on her hips.

“You wore this for me.” The growled words weren’t a question. Both of them knew it was the truth. Aelin had a knack for driving him insane and she hoped he couldn’t see through the wall she built up when it came to him. He drove her crazy, too.

Soon he tugged them down her body, slowly dragging the lace down her thighs. Everywhere he touched felt like sparks that would turn into a flame and engulf her entirely. She was proved right moments later when her thigh was over his shoulder, mouth pressed to her center.

Gods, his mouth, his tongue, the gentle nip of his teeth against her clit sent her spiraling into madness. Everything felt so good, too good. Waves of pleasure crashed over her as she cried out. Her fingers were knotted into his hair and daring him to stop, but he didn’t.

Rowan worked her until her legs were shaking, two fingers deep inside her. It was a tease of how his cock would feel and she needed it. She would wager they both did if the way he feasted on her was any indication.

“Please,” she gasped, pulling his head back by his hair and leaning down to press her lips to his in a messy kiss. Something about tasting herself on his mouth had her groaning again. “I want you inside me.”

“Fuck.” It was more of a hiss than anything else. Rowan was quick, stripping off his clothes and tossing her on the bed.

Aelin laid back, spreading her legs as he knelt between them. His thumb rubbed in smooth circles over her clit while his cock slid against her center. Rowan loved to tease her like this, loved to have her begging for pleasure only he could give her.

“Please,” she groaned, reaching down to line him up.

“Say it.” Fuck.

“I need you inside—” her desperate pleas were cut off by a sharp inhale that twisted into a moan as he slid into her. Gods above, nothing and no one could compare to this feeling. Every thought she had turned to ash. There was only Rowan.

Moments like this made her wonder why she ran from him, made her wonder why they didn’t and couldn’t work. Anything that felt this good had to be right. Nobody else could compare. Only ever him.

“You feel,” he breathed, leaning over her body to kiss her mouth, “So fucking good.”

Aelin swallowed his words, lifting her head to catch him in a searing kiss that threatened to undo her. All she could do was nod in agreement and allow him to take her hard and fast. Everywhere he touched was lit with flames, heat coursing through her body down to her toes. They curled when he hit a perfect spot inside her, a gasping moan escaping her swollen lips.

Rowan groaned, lifting her leg onto his hip to get even deeper inside her. Every thrust elicited a moan from her. Red nails scratched over his back and he bit the curve of her shoulder. He went faster and harder and Aelin knew he was close.

“Come for me,” she groaned, angling her hips up for him. Those words seemed to unravel him because he finished deep inside her.

In the aftermath he remained on top of her and inside her until he slipped out. Rowan flipped them and pulled her on top of him, strong hands rubbing up and down her back while they came down from the highest high Aelin had felt in a long time. Since the last time she saw him, if she was being honest. She had a knack of lying to herself, though.

“I need to go,” she whispered, raising onto her knees and smoothing her hair from her face. Rowan sighed heavily.

“No, you don’t.”

“Yes, I—”

“It’s the middle of the night, you don’t have anywhere to be. You’re just running like you always do.” Aelin sucked her bottom lip into her mouth and gazed toward the window. He was right. “All you have to do is stay with me, Aelin. I’m not going anywhere.”

It was a conversation they’d had a million times over but the words never seemed to sink in. She didn’t like getting too close to people, they always left. Her parents had died in a car accident when she was young, her foster father was abusive. Even her romantic partners always decided she was too much and turned away.

Everyone except for Rowan. It had been ten years of tip-toeing around a relationship but her fears drowned everything else out. They dated in college until she got scared and broke things off. Yet he remained, patiently waiting for her to come around to the truth: that he wasn’t ever going to leave her or give up on her.

Rowan propped himself up on one shoulder and used his thumb to coax her lip from her teeth. Aelin’s eyes dropped to where he tangled their fingers together, how he lightly tugged on them.

“Baby,” he said softly, and Aelin curled up on her side next to him. With her head on his arm, she looked at his face. “You know I’m not going anywhere. You know this is a good thing. What are you scared of?”

“People change their minds.”

“I’m never going to change my mind about you. I would have already done it. I want you. I want us. I've been so devastatingly in love with you from the moment I saw you. There’s no one else for me but you.”

“Okay,” she whispered, fingers tracing lines over the tattoo on his chest. Maybe she could try. Maybe Rowan wouldn’t be like the others.

“Yeah?” With her ear on his chest, she heard the quickening beat of his heart. Aelin nodded, face nuzzling his side.

“I want it all, too.”

“You’ll be here in the morning?” Aelin chewed on her lip again. Everything in her told her to run because she could get hurt. But she was tired of running. In her bones, her soul, she was exhausted. She wanted to feel safe and secure and the only source of that lately was Rowan.

“Yes,” she breathed, a slight nod of her head.

In the safety of his arms, she drifted off to sleep.

@rowaelinscourt

#rowaelinmonth2024 #rowaelin month #rowaelin month 2024 #tog #rowaelin #throne of glass #rowan whitethorn #aelin galathynius #stick season #tis the damn season #fanfic #fanfiction #rowaelin fanfic #rowaelin fic

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ghost-bxrd · 10 months ago

Note

Keep going I want everything *holds up a note pad* give me angst

*slides glasses up higher*

Okay, you asked for it! Get ready for some really cracky ship content on the side of more Court Family au!

Bruce grows up learning high society and Court etiquette mostly from Alfred and some trustworthy Court members and quickly decides that some things need to change. (He may be morally flexible here but he still wants to change things for the better). He still puts up the Brucie mask in front of High Society, but now he does it with the goal to gather blackmail material from as many people as possible and indebt them to him for potential use down the line.

Bruce becomes Voice of the Court when he turns eighteen and immediately starts uprooting several of the more corrupt members of the Court, instating new people into the ranks that will benefit the city as a whole. He makes some enemies this way, naturally. And soon after the Cout’s Talon is tasked with Bruce’s safety at all times.

Bruce and Cobb do NOT get along. At all. Mostly because Bruce is determined to make Talon’s life even harder by trying to slip away from his sight every other second. It’s infuriating. Cobb considers literally sitting on the guy after only one week. (“Try bailing on me now, o’ honorable Voice”)

Bruce spends several months strategically implementing new laws and projects that will benefit the Court AND Gotham in the long run, making it a point to go to the most important meetings in person, even if they happen to be between criminals. (Cobb was so, SO tempted to let Black Mask shoot the idiot that day.)

Within two years human trafficking is close to nonexistent in Gotham City, lethal crime is down a good ten percent (which isn’t much in the grand scheme of things but for Gotham it’s almost biblical) and whispers of “Batman” are omnipresent. (Cobb considers asking if slapping his Voice would be considered treason but… it probably would. Even though Bruce really deserves it with such a stupid cover name. Owls HUNT bats… couldn’t he have chosen Owlman?)

(“What’s your name, anyway?” Bruce asks one day, flipping his tie into a neat Windsor knot that’s just passable enough to not be considered sloppy. “I am the Talon of the Court, my Voice.” Bruce hums, one elegant eyebrow raising in the stark reflection of the mirror, “No, your real name.” “It’s whatever you wish it to be, my Voice.” “You know what I mean, Talon. If you do not wish to answer, then I will not make you. But do not play me for a fool.” “… Cobb. William Cobb.” Bruce blinks, the left corner of his mouth tugging upwards, “Will… I see.”)

The first time a traitor nearly succeeds in killing Bruce is when he once again slips away from the Talon’s sight, and while Bruce is still well trained he’s no match against five people with guns, sedatives, and a mission. Cobb finds them right as they’re about to shoot Bruce in the head and goes absolutely feral. (He hates Bruce, he hates Bruce, he hates Bruce, he hates-)

Bruce wakes up back at the manor with a pissed off Talon standing in the corner of the room, keeping watch and refusing to talk to him anymore beyond what he’s ordered to. Sneaking away from the Talon after this becomes virtually impossible for Bruce.

Cobb keeps giving Bruce the cold shoulder for months to the point where Bruce becomes genuinely concerned, but the Court scientists assure him that their Talon is running at a 100% capacity. (That’s not what I’m asking, Bruce wants to scream. I want to know if he’s okay.)

(Cobb wasn’t worried, he wasn’t. He watched countless humans die in so much worse ways already. Inflicted worse himself. It’s just because he almost failed his mission and allowed the Voice to be killed that he’s so unnerved now. That must be it. That’s all it is. That’s all.)

Dick’s parents fall and Bruce is up and out of his seat the next second, pushing through the masses until he can clutch at the child and cover his eyes, shielding him from the view of his parents’ dead bodies. Social Services never get to put their hands on Dick Grayson.

The Court is ecstatic. Cobb is ecstatic. From tragedy, opportunity blooms like a rose with poisonous thorns, and the Talon stands ready to take on his apprentice as the Court broaches the subject with Bruce.

But Bruce (idiotic, stupid, bleeding-heart Bruce) refuses point blank. (“He’s a child,” Bruce says. Like that means anything. They were all children, once. He’ll grow out of it quickly enough. And the boy will make an excellent Talon, perhaps even surpass Cobb himself, with time and training. Maybe more capable at keeping the Voice safe than him, too. But then Bruce says, “He’s my child. My ward. And any of you who think to go against me will answer to the Talon and myself.” And, oh, damn you, Bruce. Damn you. But what else is Cobb to do but lift his head and stare down the Voice’s subject in silent challenge, daring them to object? Bruce is his Voice. Talon will never not side with the Court’s voice. (He pointedly does not think of the time he slit another Voice’s throat. He does not.))

Dick is anger and fury and sunshine and it drives Cobb crazy. The raw potential that is lost with Bruce’s refusal to allow him to train the boy… he cannot stand it. There will be another Talon before long (Cobb is not bitter about it, he is not) and with Dick the protection of the Voice would have at least stayed within the line of Cobb’s blood, but now… now Cobb can’t be sure the new Talon will take their task as seriously as the boy would have.

Dick is the one to approach Cobb for training before he ever goes to Bruce

Bruce nearly has a heart attack the first time he finds Dick training with the Talon, ripping the boy away and screaming at Cobb for nearly an hour about “orders” and “NOT a Talon” and many other things Dick doesn’t really get

Bruce asks Talon to bring him Zucco’s head and Cobb will forever deny the vindictive pleasure he felt when watching the smarmy man squirm and beg for his life (he didn’t get fond of Dick. Cobb doesn’t do fond. He hates him almost as much as he hates Bruce, thank you and good day.)

… okay I just realized none of this really qualifies as angst but— somehow this post got away from me. I’m sorry 😭😭😭 feel free to ask for more specific angst content tho? 🙏

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imtrashraccoon · 1 year ago

Text

Oh hey, looks like the Reader is being comforted in one of these for once. Slight warning that there is some vague mentions of random people dying in this one, but it was all just a dream...

@owl-bones

First Day, Previous Day, & Next Day.

Bad Sansuary: Killer - Comfort

Word Count: 1,604

You tumbled out of bed with a scream, dragging the bedclothes along in your descent. Your gaze whipped wildly around your dimly lit bedroom and your heart felt like it was going to explode from how hard it was pounding. You couldn't seem to inhale oxygen fast enough and your chest felt like it was being constricted by a large snake.

The screams were still echoing in your ears.

Experiences that were not your own kept flashing across your vision.

You could still smell the potent stench of death and feel the burn of inhaled smoke in the back of your throat too.

You had to shock some sense into yourself.

Struggling to get your legs disentangled from your sheets, you stumbled to your bathroom like a half dead corpse before hauling yourself into the tub and turning the shower on full blast. You hadn't even bothered to get undressed and barely registered when the cold water struck your body.

You don't know how long you sat there.

You felt completely numb.

Your vision was blurry and it took way too long for you to realize that you were crying. By then, you were full on bawling and there was nothing you could do to stop.

You'd just witnessed what could only be described as Armageddon.

The sky had been torn in two and only a void of complete black lay beyond. Earthquakes caused most of the buildings to collapse, fires raged from both the breaking of electrical lines and leaking gas, and the familiar sounds of a once bustling city had been replaced with utter chaos. Children cried, dogs barked, and the sounds of alarm systems going off all at once had been nearly deafening.

But that was nothing compared to the roar of the Void.

You'd witnessed people get sucked into the sky and disappear. Some of them were even people you knew. Their screams of terror and pain still permeated the very depths of your mind even now.

You'd only woken up when you had been crushed by falling debris while trying to flee to safety. You were lucky as you may not have woken up immediately if you'd died from burning to death. It was easily the worst way to die that you could think of and with how real that nightmare had felt, you had no doubt that it would have been just as awful to experience in a dream as it would be in real life.

It had all seemed so real. You'd just seen and experienced things that couldn't possibly be explained as your mind mashing up and connecting old memories. What else could it have been than a nightmare though?

At some point, you were startled by a knock on the bathroom door, that you'd apparently had enough sense in your numb state to at least close.

"hey, angel cheeks? you've been in there for a while... are you okay?"

It was Killer.

You didn't want anyone to see you right now, let alone him. How would he react at seeing how pathetic you looked? Would he laugh? Or would he just stare at you? You didn't even know if he was fully capable of pity, not that you wanted any from him.

"No..." you finally croaked in response.

"do you need anything?" he asked.

You wanted to scream that you did but couldn't bring yourself to. You managed to form a response, albeit rather hesitantly "I... Just...stay with me..."

You heard a light thump and some shuffling on the other side of the door as he sat down and leaned against the wooden surface. He was only quiet for a couple seconds though.

"so, a horse walks into a bar. the bartender looks at him and asks, 'why the long face, pal?'"

When you didn't respond, he tried again. "you know, i used to have a handle on life...but then it broke."

You heard him click his non-existent tongue and he fell silent for a solid ten seconds when his joke had zero effect. "i got a new pair of gloves today, but they're both 'lefts', which is great on the one hand, but on the other, it just isn't 'right'."

"Your jokes are awful..." you finally muttered.

He sighed, "yeah, i know..." He seemed to shift the way he was sitting before asking the question you had been dreading. "did something happen?"

"I...don't want to talk about it right now...maybe not ever either."

"i see."

You didn't say anything else and neither did he for a little while.

"hey...are you decent right now? and i guess my next question is, if you would want me to come in?"

Normally, you would've yelled at him for even entertaining such a thought, but you were so beyond caring at this point. You were dressed in your pajamas, which just so happened to be an old t-shirt and a pair of shorts, although you weren't wearing a bra at the moment. Still, you were covered up enough even with the water causing your clothes to stick a bit more to your skin than usual.

"Yeah, alright. You can come in if you want I guess..." you responded hesitantly.

He slowly opened the door and you noticed he seemed to pause before entering. When he did come in, he did so without looking directly at you, which you actually appreciated quite a bit. He was aware enough to be respectful of your privacy even now it seemed.

He glanced at you in a quiet manner and if he had eyelights, you would've seen how much he was currently studying you. To your surprise, he didn't make any snarky comments, not even about how you probably looked like a half drowned cat at the moment. Instead, he knelt down next to the tub and reached over to turn off the water. At the same time, he cupped your face with his other hand and gently stroked your cheek with his thumb.

With how concerned he looked and the tenderness in this simple gesture, you couldn't help but burst into tears all over again. He didn't hesitate to wrap you up into a fierce hug, despite the fact that you were currently soaking wet. He even stroked your back in a way that while his movements were stiff, was probably the best attempt he could make at being comforting all things considered. He didn't let go until your sobbing had ceased and you tried to pull away from him.

"I'm sorry..." you murmured through lingering sniffles. "I'm a pathetic mess...and now you're all wet because of me..."

He tilted his skull and gave you the warmest smile you'd ever seen on him. "nah, it's fine," he insisted.

You still felt bad but didn't have the energy to argue further.

"here, do you want some help?" He motioned to your dripping wet hair and you immediately realized what he meant.

You shrugged, "I mean, sure? I can wring out my hair on my own though..."

He gently chided you before carefully pulling your hair to one side so he could wring the water out of it. You didn't bother protesting and he took great care not to pull your hair too much while doing so. He then wrapped a towel around your body to help dry you off a bit.

"do you want help changing too, cute thing?" he purred and leaned closer to your face.

Your face flushed a bright pink and you tried to shove him back. "No, please get out..."

He laughed and winked at you. He did leave without further comment though to your relief.

It was then that you realized that you had no dry clothes. There was no way you were going to try and make the walk of shame back to your bedroom in a towel either.

"Um, Killer...?" you called out nervously.

Apparently he hadn't gone far once he'd left the bathroom and he soon hummed in response.

"Would you mind...bringing me something from my closet that I can wear?"

"sure thing, angel~"

You didn't like the smarmy tone his voice had taken on but he was gone before your protests could reach his non-existent ears. The good thing was you didn't have many clothes that most would consider provocative. The bad thing was that you didn't trust Killer as far as you could throw him and he would totally try to find something revealing if he wanted to.

He returned a few minutes later and knocked lightly on the bathroom door. "here, i'll pass them through the door, okay?"

He didn't wait for a response before cracking the door open and sliding the leggings he'd gotten mended for you and an old crop top that you'd once used for exercising inside the room.

"No. You have got to be kidding me."

"oh, whoops, my bad." He then slid a knitted sweater you hadn't worn in ages inside as well. "almost forgot this~"

You took a deep breath to try and calm yourself down. It could've been far worse. Sure, he'd picked out form fitting clothes that you no longer enjoyed wearing, but it was better than being naked at least. You would tell him off later, once you were properly dressed anyways.

Unfortunately for you, Killer just had to make a comment about how cute you were as you walked past the living room. Man, he knew just how to get on your nerves! You were still grateful for his help today though.

Who knew that he actually had the capacity to be comforting, even when you were at your lowest point?

#badsansuary #raccoons drabbles #undertale #killertale #something new #killer sans #killer sans x reader #reader #female reader #have some empathy dear #oneshot

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stolasbuckzo · 6 days ago

Text

Imagine if this scene was in S3:

The apartment was wrapped in a rare stillness. The only sound drifting through the darkened room was the soft hum of the city outside, muffled by old blinds that hadn’t been adjusted in years. Blitz was sprawled haphazardly across the couch, half-covered by a blanket he had long since kicked down to his knees. His body curled into a tight ball, much like a cat, his head tucked comfortably against Stolas’s chest. His horns rested at just the right angle to avoid any sharp collisions, while his tail coiled firmly around Stolas’s lanky legs, anchoring him in place.

A faint sound of purring thrummed from Blitz, the low vibration subtle but constant — a rare but undeniable sign of comfort. Stolas smirked softly to himself, allowing his hand to gently run along the curve of Blitz’s head, his fingers brushing over the base of his horns. Each pass earned a sigh of contentment, Blitz shifting slightly under his touch, as though seeking more without truly waking.

The imp’s breath rose and fell in a steady rhythm, occasionally punctuated by the smallest murmurs of satisfaction. His tail would tighten just slightly in response to the absentminded strokes, then relax again with a flick, a silent indicator that, for once, he was content.

Stolas let his head fall back against the arm of the couch, his free hand resting over Blitz’s back, enjoying the rare serenity of the moment.

Stolas gazed up at the ceiling, savoring the peaceful quiet. His fingers absentmindedly traced circles along Blitz’s back, indulging in the rare warmth of the moment. Nights like this were few and far between—especially with the chaos that came with I.M.P.’s line of work.

Whether it was Stolas juggling his receptionist duties and wrangling eccentric clients, or the crew heading out on their latest hit, calm was hardly the norm. Even at home, Blitz’s eccentricity kept things lively, leaving little room for true stillness.

Yet tonight, against all odds, there was peace.

Stolas welcomed it. As an owl, late-night introspection was practically second nature. He often found himself lost in thought during these quiet hours, embracing the “night owl” stereotype without shame. But tonight, his mind wandered more gently, lingering in the warmth of Blitz’s presence rather than drifting into existential musings.

Until he heard it—soft, almost imperceptible at first.

A faint whimpering sound drifted in from the other room.

Most wouldn’t have caught it, but Stolas’s sharp senses picked it up with ease. Then again, not many in the Pride Ring had hearing quite as keen as the realm’s newest owlish civilian.

His brow furrowed as he listened, the quiet of the apartment no longer feeling quite as peaceful.

Most wouldn’t have caught it, but Stolas’s sharp senses picked up the faint noise with ease. Then again, few in the Pride Ring could match the acute hearing of its owlish resident.

Loona.

Stolas’s head tilted slightly, his brow knitting as the sound registered again—a soft, uneasy mumble that lingered somewhere between a growl and a sigh. The edges of it carried a weight he recognized. It was subtle, but unmistakable.

A nightmare.

His gaze flicked toward the hallway leading to Loona’s room, but for a moment, he hesitated. Blitz lay curled against him, head resting over Stolas’s chest, his tail loosely coiled around his legs like some lazy cat’s. The imp’s breathing was slow and even, the occasional low purring rumble vibrating faintly against Stolas’s ribs.

Gently, Stolas began to shift, sliding his hand beneath Blitz’s head and carefully lifting him free. Blitz groaned at the disturbance, his brow creasing as if protesting. His hand groggily patted at the space Stolas had just vacated, fingers fumbling for the warmth that was slipping away from him.

Stolas smirked softly at the sight. Blitz barely stirred, his face burying further into the cushion with a muffled grumble. His tail gave a sluggish flick over the edge of the couch, curling loosely as he muttered into the fabric.

“Jus’… five more minutes…” The words were heavy with sleep, slurred and barely audible.

Stolas lingered for a beat longer, running his hand gently over Blitz’s head, smoothing down the wayward tuft of fur between his horns. Blitz’s ear flicked, and though the imp let out another faint grumble, his breathing evened again, sinking deeper into his slumber.

“I’ll be back, darling,” Stolas whispered, though Blitz was likely too far gone to hear him.

Stolas carefully untangled himself from Blitz’s tail, letting it slip free with a soft rustle. As he rose to his feet, he glanced back briefly, taking in the sight of Blitz sprawled across the couch in a tangled heap, blanket half-kicked away as if he’d been at war with it earlier.

A small smile tugged at Stolas’s lips before he stepped toward the hallway.

The faint creak of the floor beneath his talons was the only sound as he approached Loona’s door. A sliver of light from the hallway spilled into the darkened room beyond, slicing across the floor in a thin, pale line.

Another soft sound escaped from within.

Stolas pushed the door open a little further, the hinges creaking faintly despite his careful touch. The soft glow of the hallway spilled into the room, illuminating slivers of furniture and tracing faint outlines along the floor.

The moment the door shifted, Loona whimpered again — soft and broken, the kind of sound a dog makes when lost in the depths of a troubling dream. It wasn’t just once. The whimpers continued in short intervals, a fragile and instinctive noise that tugged at something deep within Stolas.

Her breathing hitched, uneven and shallow beneath the covers, her tail flicking restlessly against the mattress. One of her hands curled tighter around the blanket, claws faintly digging into the worn fabric.

Stolas’s eyes softened, concern blooming in his chest. The sight of her like this stirred something old and familiar — the same feeling that once surfaced when he watched over Octavia during her worst nights.

“Loona,” he called gently, his voice dipping into a hushed tone, as if addressing his own daughter. The tenderness in his voice carried the weight of reassurance, like the soft rustle of leaves in a quiet forest.

The whimpering didn’t ease. If anything, it grew more persistent, her body curling further beneath the sheets.

His brows furrowed. Without hesitation, Stolas stepped inside, moving with deliberate care. He lowered himself onto the edge of her bed, the mattress sinking slightly beneath his weight. Loona didn’t react at first, save for a slight twitch of her ears as another faint whine escaped her.

His hand hovered for a moment before lowering gently onto her arm, his touch featherlight.

“Loona,” he said softly, leaning in closer. “It’s all right.”

Her eyes fluttered open slowly, bleary and unfocused as the world of sleep clung stubbornly to her. For a moment, she looked around in confusion, her gaze flickering across the room before landing on Stolas.

She blinked, and that’s when he saw it — the unmistakable shimmer of tears trailing silently down her cheeks.

Stolas’s heart sank at the sight.

Loona’s lip trembled, and before he could say more, she pushed herself upright and into him, her arms wrapping tightly around his torso. The sob she had been holding back broke free, muffled against his chest.

Caught off guard for only a second, Stolas responded without hesitation, encircling her with his arms and pulling her closer. One hand cradled the back of her head, fingers gently smoothing over her fur as she shook against him.

“I—” Her voice cracked, broken by the hiccup of another sob. “I almost got him killed… Blitz… I—”

Stolas’s embrace tightened, his heart aching as she buried herself further into him.

“I almost voted for him to die,” she choked out, her words fractured between sharp breaths. “I didn’t think… sure he can be a bit of an asshole… and.. I thought I hated him.”

She trembled in his hold, gripping the fabric of his robes as if grounding herself.

“But I don’t,” she whispered through tears. “I don’t hate him. I never did.”

Stolas rested his chin lightly atop her head, his voice calm and unwavering as he whispered, “I know, Loona. And so does he.”

She clung to him for what felt like an eternity, the storm of emotion slowly subsiding as the weight of her guilt eased, if only just a little.

“You’re not the first to let anger cloud your judgment,” Stolas murmured softly. “And Blitz knows you better than anyone. He knows your heart. I’m absolutely more than confident that he doesn’t resent you for it. He loves you very much, Loona.”

Loona didn’t reply, but the tension in her body gradually faded as the sobs quieted to faint sniffles. Stolas continued to hold her until her breathing slowed, his hand still running gently along her back in silent reassurance.

Eventually, Loona eased away, wiping at her face with the back of her hand. Her eyes were red, but the tears had stopped flowing. She let out a shaky sigh, her gaze dropping to the floor.

“I’m… sorry,” Loona muttered, her voice barely above a whisper. “A-About you seeing me like that.”

Her ears pinned back, betraying the embarrassment she felt. It wasn’t just the vulnerability of being caught in the grip of a nightmare — it was him catching her. Not her dad, but his boyfriend.

A hellhound, feared by many, reduced to whimpering like a puppy in her sleep. The thought left a bitter taste in her mouth. What kind of joke was that?

“I know we don’t interact much,” she added stiffly, her eyes avoiding his. “Except maybe at work.”

Stolas watched her quietly for a moment, his gaze soft with understanding. He could see the way she shifted beneath the weight of her discomfort, trying to retreat behind whatever emotional wall she had left.

“There’s nothing to apologize for,” Stolas said gently, his tone steady and calm. “However…” His gaze lingered, measuring his words carefully. “I do think you should talk to your father about this. It might help you find some closure.”

Loona’s ears flicked but she didn’t say anything, though he caught the subtle tensing of her shoulders.

“I’m not saying the nightmares will stop completely,” Stolas continued, his voice unwavering but warm. “But sometimes, when we dream like this, it’s our subconscious trying to tell us something. These things tend to linger until we face them — whether that’s by talking to someone or finding another way to process it. And I believe your father would want to know what’s troubling you.”

Loona hesitated, the words seeming to settle over her. She shifted beneath the blanket, her tail giving a faint flick across the sheets.

Finally, she gave a small nod, though she didn’t lift her eyes to meet his.

The silence that followed felt softer, as if the weight that had hung between them had begun to ease.

Stolas lingered at the edge of the bed a little longer, his presence quiet and unobtrusive as Loona’s breathing gradually slowed. Her eyes drifted shut, and this time, her features smoothed into something calmer, free of the restless tension that had gripped her before.

Before rising to leave, Stolas leaned forward slightly, brushing a hand lightly over her head. A stray lock of fur had fallen over her ear, and with a soft, deliberate motion, he tucked it back into place.

Loona’s ear flicked faintly at his touch, but she remained still, already drifting deeper into sleep.

Stolas stood, his tall frame casting long shadows across the floor. As he reached the doorway, he glanced back once more, lingering just for a moment longer.

“And Loona,” he added softly, his voice carrying across the quiet room, “you don’t need to feel embarrassed about me witnessing your nightmare. I, too, am a father… I understand these things.”

His gaze softened as memories of Octavia flickered in his mind. The image of his daughter — distant but never far from his heart — drifted across his thoughts.

“Even if Octavia has distanced herself from me, it doesn’t stop me from being her father,” Stolas continued, his voice gentle but resolute. “I will always love her, regardless of the circumstances. The same goes for Blitz with you.”

Loona didn’t stir, but Stolas suspected she had heard him.

“Hey, uh… Stolas?”

Loona’s voice broke the quiet just as Stolas reached the door. He paused, glancing back over his shoulder to see her sitting up slightly, rubbing at the back of her neck with an almost sheepish expression. Her eyes flickered toward him, lingering for just a moment before darting away.

“Thanks… for, you know… checking in on me,” she said, her words slow and a little uneven. Her tone carried the distinct awkwardness Stolas had come to recognize — the kind she had clearly picked up from Blitz. “Not saying Blitz couldn’t or anything, but… it’s nice. To see you act like a dad too.”

Her tail flicked lazily over the edge of the bed as she shifted beneath the covers, visibly uncomfortable but determined to get the words out.

“In a weird way,” she added, her gaze briefly meeting his, “it kinda feels like… I’ve got two dads. It’s nice.”

A faint smile tugged at the corner of Stolas’s mouth, warmth blossoming in his chest at the admission.

“I’m glad,” he replied softly, dipping his head in acknowledgment. “You deserve to feel that way.”

Loona’s ears twitched slightly, but she gave him a small, appreciative nod before settling back against the pillow.

“Goodnight, Loona,” Stolas said softly, his voice carrying a warmth that lingered in the stillness of the room. “Call out if you need anything at all.”

“’Night,” Loona mumbled, her voice already distant as she shifted beneath the blanket, settling into a more comfortable position. Her breathing gradually steadied, the weight of sleep reclaiming her with each passing second.

Stolas stood at her bedside for a moment longer, his gaze resting on the softened lines of her face. The tension that had gripped her earlier was gone now, replaced by a rare sense of peace.

Satisfied, he stepped lightly toward the door, careful not to disturb the quiet. As he slipped into the hallway, he eased the door nearly shut, leaving it just slightly ajar.

Just in case.

The soft creak of the floor followed him as he returned to the living room. Blitz was right where he had left him — sprawled dramatically across the couch, one leg dangling off the side while the blanket lay tangled around his waist. His tail flicked lazily in response to Stolas’s approach, but his eyes remained closed, a faint snore vibrating from deep in his throat.

Stolas couldn’t help but smile softly at the sight. With care, he leaned down, sliding his arms gently beneath Blitz’s shoulders to lift him just enough to shift his position back into something more reasonable. Blitz grumbled under his breath, instinctively curling closer to Stolas’s touch as he adjusted, allowing himself to be repositioned without waking fully.

As Stolas draped the blanket over them both, pulling it up to his chest, Blitz cracked one eye open, his gaze foggy with lingering sleep.

“Loona okay?” Blitz muttered, his voice raspy and slurred from exhaustion.

Stolas settled in beside him, resting Blitz’s head lightly against his chest. He ran his fingers gently through the imp’s fur, smoothing over the unruly tufts between his horns.

“She’s alright now,” Stolas replied softly. “Just a nightmare. I stayed with her for a little while.”

Blitz hummed faintly in acknowledgment, his tail curling loosely around Stolas’s leg once more.

“‘S good… she gets those sometimes,” Blitz mumbled, shifting closer beneath the warmth of the blanket. “Don’t always know what t’do, but… she’s tough.”

Stolas’s hand slowed, resting against Blitz’s back as he pressed a light kiss to the top of his head.

“She is,” Stolas agreed quietly. “And she’s lucky to have you.”

Blitz let out a faint snort, though there was no real bite behind it. His breathing softened again, his grip around Stolas tightening just slightly as sleep began to pull him under once more.

“Yeah, yeah… lucky to have a dad like me,” Blitz mumbled, the corner of his mouth quirking faintly in a half-smile.

Stolas chuckled softly, his heart warming as he pulled the blanket snugly over them both.

“Goodnight, Blitz,” he whispered, resting his cheek lightly against Blitz’s horns.

“Mhm… ‘night,” Blitz muttered, already drifting back into the steady rhythm of sleep.

As the quiet of the apartment settled once more, Stolas closed his eyes, holding Blitz a little closer. For the first time in a while, the night felt peaceful — not just for him, but for the family they were quietly building, piece by piece.

#I’d be so happy if they went with the stepfather/stepdaughter trope #okay so maybe not so ‘mini fic’#stolitz family - semi canon #season 3 predictions #post ‘Sinmas’#blitz buckzo #loona buckzo #the feels 🥹#mini fanfic #helluva boss #pansexual #stolas #gay #bisexual

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zergula · 1 year ago

Text

Welcome To Sims3City!

They say if you can make it here, you can make it anywhere! Celebrities can be found wandering the shops and giving impromptu performances all over Sims3City. There's live show venues everywhere and it's easy to see why they say this city runs on dreams yet never sleeps!

I found this absolutely gorgeous map: Waterfall Beauty and just had to use it to make my own city world save! This map did come with lots already designated so I filled it up with the best townhouses, apartments, and city life buildings I could find or make to make my own version of a mashup of Starlight Shores and Bridgeport.

INTERESTING CHARACTERS

Every sim comes to Sims3City to make it big! With a performance venue on nearly every corner, you're sure to see:

The Warflowers - These twins started a band and pulled some of their reluctant friends into it. They know once they got here to The City, they would make it!

Chloe and Bob Katt - always on the hustle to make people believe in magic again!

The Myth family is here, of course, living in the spookiest house!

Mirage Sable always seems able to make everyone else's wishes come true, hoping one day her only one will, too!

Candice and Arthur finally made it to The City when Candice got her book deal. Arthur is hoping to make it into the celebrity chef business...with a little help from his friend and now roommate, Derek. This new relationship has a lot of challenges being thrown its way, but this couple is determined to make it here and everywhere!

The Vireowing Fairy Sisters not only have beautiful voices, they love to bestow inner and outer beauty on all of those around them. That's perfect in a city that values beauty!

As with anywhere, crime can be overwhelming in the city but H & H Private detective family, Harmony and Henry, are on the case!

Lots of sims from Starlight Shores and Bridgeport are here: The Drama On TV household, the Crash Pad household, the Atkins Household, the Elson Family, the Sagar Family, the Platt Family, the Hemlock, Schlick and Slayer families, the Belle family, the Art Central household, and the Whitfield family.

AROUND TOWN

38 Community lots

74 Residential lots

This city is ALIVE! Along with all EA rabbitholes, you will find:

CHIPS Casino - a big show venue where you can see the greatest performers and play all games

Across the street, you will find another live show venue - The Locker -

where you can see more live performances. After that, dance the night away at Bubbleworks -

and keep the party going with the late night crew over at The Afterlife Vampire Lounge!

Don't worry about ghosts, though. A recreation of the firestation from the movie, Ghostbusters, is right next door so we ain't afraid of no ghosts! Next to that firestation and hospital emergency center, you will find the Anachronistic Art Gallery and City Hall rabbithole, with some mysterious things to explore in the basement!

In the more affluent area of the city is where you will find the Affluence Golf Club rec park and Tee Off! Sports Bar and Grill -

and some sweet treats at The Big Cheese bakery and shops!

In the center of town, you will find lots of fun for the kids at The Wise Owl Library next to the Aquarium Science Center and the Bright Beginnings Daycare and School center -

Stop by and get some sweet treats at The Plaza Ice Cream Parlor

and then get rid of all of that excess energy at the Big Rock Climbing Centre Gym or The Pac Man Public Pool next to the stadium rabbithole!

Don't forget to visit the Surf's Up Wave Garden at the beach right across the street or the seasonal festival grounds!

Downtown, you can get those extra strings at the DownTown Music Store, play some games at the Laserberry Arcade, and then head over to the Stardust Diner for some drinks and good times!

If you go at certain times of the day to catch a movie at Serena's Community Cinema, you might be able to see some of today's biggest stars working on set! You can pick up whatever you need at the big Sims 3 Market nearby and marvel at all of the old historical residential buildings before you head over to the Double Rainbow Disco Club for more dancing!

For those sims with a more exclusive taste, Club 112 in the historical section is the perfect lounge!

There's The Remaude Coffee Emporium Coffeehouse and Elixir Of Life Coffeehouse and shops for more live venues and fun in Sims3City!

After all of that excitement, the city folks like to visit the Stone Troll Mill Fishing Pond to unwind and maybe catch some dinner if they're lucky!

MORE INFO

This is a world save file. You will need to have the world installed in order to play the save file. In this download, you will find 3 save files and the world file:

Sims3CityCommunityLots - this version of the save is only the community lots

Sims3CityUnpopulated - this is the final version of the save without households

Sims3CityPopulated - this is the final version on the save with all households

I have all expansions, stuff packs, and store content so most of it is probably used in this save. If you do not have the item, the game should generate a similar item. The only expansion not used is PETS so I do not know how this save will run with pets, my apologies. THERE IS ZERO CUSTOM CONTENT IN THIS SAVE. All lots are set as regular lots (not apartments) so if you want to change them for roommates, etc feel free! I hope you enjoy this save as much as I am! Please tag me @zergula or #Sims3City if you share any photos, I would love to see them!

Please check out my other world saves here:

River Falls

Simarellen

Kaodina

Lunestia

Happy simming and green plumbobs for all <3

SIMSFILESHAREDOWNLOAD

#ts3cc #s3cc #the sims 3 #sims 3 world #sims 3 world save #world save file #sims3city

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stonecoldholly · 22 days ago

Text

Worldwalker: Chapter 5

Summary - After witnessing a ritual at a pagan festival in her hometown, Sam suddenly finds herself in a world where magic exists and dangers far worse than everyday crime lurk around every corner. Accepting her unfortunate situation is one challenge; trusting these otherworldly beings to help her is another. As she uncovers the truth, she often finds that it leads to more trouble than it’s worth. Sam must navigate this new world, find her way back home, and restart her life.

Warnings - slight religion bashing, alcohol use

Word Count - 8,795

A/N - My apologies for taking so long as this is kinda a filler chapter. Retail during the holiday season is a nightmare, had family in town, my birthday, and then had spinal injections for my back. But without further ado!

Part 6

AO3 Link

“Wake me up when this is over, I’m tired of living life like it’s a dream. Please wake me up when it’s all over, I’m tired of living right here in between. I refuse.”

I Refuse – Five Finger Death Punch

Velaris, Night Court, Prythian

If Lucien hadn’t held her steady, Sam would have passed out immediately upon arrival in Velaris. If he hadn’t been touching her, if she couldn’t feel the rough, calloused skin of his hand on her arm, she would have convinced herself that she was experiencing a fever dream and soon to be on her way to the afterlife to meet her maker.

She had completely forgotten about the feeling of her stomach attempting to exist outside her body once her feet were on solid ground. She had also ignored the dizziness making her head spin from the after-effects of winnowing. She felt the cool autumn breeze nipping at her cheeks, the early evening temperature dropping as the sun descended below the horizon. The beauty of Velaris soothed over her burdened mind and soul as if it were welcoming her home.

Her mouth hung open as she slowly dropped Lucien’s arm to take a few steps forward, staring at the kaleidoscope of colors from faelights sweeping along the cobblestone street. Her hand reached out towards Feyre’s as she passed by her and Rhys, unblinking and utterly hypnotized by the sights and sounds of the city. Towering buildings, rows of charming, cozy houses, and small storefronts outlined against the sky were illuminated by the flickering faelights like distant stars. The chirping of crickets waking up for the night met her ears and a barn owl from its perch somewhere above called out to greet her.

Sam was breathless as she took in her new environment, dropping Feyre’s warm hand and gradually turning in a circle, taking in the palpable energy of the lively city around her. It seeped into her pores, filling her with a renewed sense of purpose, of joy. The soft claps of water gently lapping against the river bank brought her back to River Street in Savannah, the scent of salt water tickling her nose. Sam felt a longing for home, Savannah calling out to her from its distant reach but this stunning place replaced the feeling as quickly as it came. Velaris exuded an enchanting allure, beckoning her to explore everything the city offered, to run and experience the life it promised.

An astonished, breathless laugh escaped her as she turned back around, her pupils blown wide in wonder, and a real, unhindered smile pulled at her lips. Colorful lights danced along her face, small puddles pooling in the cobblestone street reflecting the faelights above her. She felt happy to be standing there, to feel alive in a city and not so out of place for once. It felt like Velaris was wrapping itself around her, accepting her with the scent of lemon verbena and sea salt, the murmur of chatter being carried on the breeze. She placed a hand on her chest, nearly in tears at the sheer beauty of her surroundings as she continued to look around. “Wow!”

“Welcome to Velaris, Sam. The City of Starlight.” Feyre whispered from behind her and she could do nothing but continue to soak it all in. She couldn’t get enough of it, her senses demanding more, and she imagined what trinkets and freshly baked goods the small shops held inside. What else could this wonderous city offer her? A range of massive mountains soared into the ombre sunset sky, a blanket of snow capping what could be seen at the tips. Stars, thousands of stars, winked into existence above her and her contagious joy could be contained no longer as she spun around again, hearing the sounds of glasses clinking from restaurants and bells ringing from shop door handles.

“It never gets old,” Rhys said from somewhere around her; his voice seemed to melt perfectly into the sounds of the city. Sam was too busy spinning slowly in a circle, again, wonder-drunk on the symphony of lights, the setting sun casting an array of orange, lilac, pink, and navy blue across the sky. “Watching someone see Velaris for the first time.”

“Wait til she sees it from above.” Cassian quipped, leaning against a streetlamp next to a walkway that led up to a modestly sized townhouse.

“I can see it from above?!” Sam’s voice was an excited whisper, on the verge of flirting with hysteria. “Ho-? Oh, right, wings! Ha!” Sam let out a breathy laugh and shook her head, still staring up at the darkening skyline and shimmering lights. On the breeze, the sound of violins and music graced the air. “I musta’ve gone nuts by now. There ain’t no way this is real! OW!”

Cassian, who had pinched her on the back of the arm hard enough to leave a bruise, smiled sheepishly at her when she whipped around, eyes still sparkling with awe. “What? I was helping you make sure it was real.”

Sam tried to glare at him but between the enchanted feeling swimming along her bloodstream and her overwhelmed senses, it wasn’t believable. A part of her wanted to scramble for her phone and take a picture of Velaris to capture this moment in time forever; however, the other part wanted to keep it locked in her heart and mind instead, savoring this small piece of heaven just for herself. Rhys had told her that Velaris had long been kept secret, until relatively recently, and Sam could understand why. She, too, would want to protect this very city for as long as possible against all threats; Sam understood why her oath was so important, why it had so much weight to it.

Sam’s eyes turned to the mountains, a cool breeze caressing her face as three bright stars appeared above a peak, “Hey Siri….play ‘I See the Light’ from Tangled…” She whispered to herself as she stared at the stars slowly glowing brighter.

Rhysand came up beside her, putting a hand between her shoulder blades and jolting her from her daydream, “Come, let’s get you inside.”

As Rhysand led her into the townhouse, Sam turned her head to see Velaris one more time, peeking around the shadow-cloaked arm and relaxed wing of Azriel, before disappearing into the antechamber of the townhouse. Inside the wooden and marble antechamber, a wooden door; the actual front door, was inset between two panes of fogged glass, separating it from the foyer. When Rhys opened the door into the foyer, Sam was greeted by red carpeting and wood-paneled walls, decorated with beautiful canvas artworks throughout.

It was comfortable and warm, Sam noted; a fire roaring in the black marble fireplace to her left, bookcases built into the surrounding walls, and filled with heavily loved furniture with worn down cushioning. On her right was a dining room with a long cherry-wood table with ten chairs taking up the space, a glittering crystal chandelier suspended from the ceiling emitted a soft glow around the room.

Still feeling a high from seeing Velaris for the first time, Sam almost didn’t notice two female figures waiting in the sitting room. In the room with the fireplace, were two figures that were complete opposites. One female was small and thin with smooth tan skin and black hair chopped at her chin. Her striking silver eyes made Sam very uncomfortable along with the air of pure indifference that rolled off her.

The other was perhaps the most beautiful female Sam had ever seen in her life. She stood tall and confident, with bright, golden hair cascading down her back in waves. Rich brown eyes shined with intrigue at Sam’s presence, and her lips were stained blood red. While Sam didn’t care to give another female a body check out of respect; she honestly couldn’t help it. Her eyes trailed down the curvy, feminine figure and then followed back the path up to her eyes.

Rhys spoke up from next to her, introducing the two females but Sam didn’t hear a word. Still in a daze from what was awaiting just outside the townhouse and the two females standing in front of her. Sam blinked and shook her head when Lucien nudged her shoulder to grab her attention. “I am so sorry, I was stuck on stupid, I apologize.”

The blonde female grinned but there was no malice in it, only amusement which allowed Sam’s shoulders to relax. “It’s fine, Sam,” She waved off Sam’s obvious distraction at her presence and glided towards her with practiced ease, her heels making soft thuds on the carpet. “Azriel has told us about you; I’m Morrigan but call me Mor.”

Sam bristled as Azriel’s shadows brushed against her arms, her spine snapping straight. Sam’s mind almost short-circuited as she made connections to stories and legends from her home planet. “The Morrigan?”

Mor looked at her with her head tilting to the side, her reply was smooth, curious in its response. “Yes, the very same.”

Sam was silent for a few heartbeats, wrapping her head around the female standing in front of her. It took her longer than she cared to admit to sputter out an answer, “Holy shit, you’re considered a goddess where I’m from. I don’t know what to do, do I bow or..? What?”

Cassian’s loud laugh broke the tension and a stunning but deadly smile graced Mor’s beautiful ruby red lips. “Even in different worlds, your reputation precedes you, Mor.”

“As it should,” Mor winked at Sam, who returned it with an uneasy smile. She could hardly believe what she was seeing, the goddess was fae. What else had those legends missed or overlooked? What other details hadn’t made the stories? “I’m Rhys’ cousin. I oversee Velaris and Hewn City-”

“So this is the human girl I inked my skin for?”

Sam’s attention left Mor to take in the smaller female who was still standing by the fireplace. The glow of the flames illuminated one side of her face, and her silver irises reminded Sam of molten steel. Her arms were crossed, and her expression resembling one of indifference as she took in Sam’s appearance. Whatever it was that she was looking for, she didn’t find it, and Sam felt a cold stab of rejection in her gut.

“Unfortunately, yes, I am that human girl who comes with her own branding iron,” Sam spoke up despite knowing that she most definitely was not talking to her. “I’m Sam Damato.” She didn’t bother holding her hand out to shake.

Those cold eyes continued to look Sam up and down with a small tilt of her lips, making her feel akin to the mud she stepped on in the forest. “This isn’t another Bryce situation, is it?”

There was a crackle of energy that filled the room and made her ears ring. Azriel’s shadows writhed at the mention of the name causing him to tense behind her. She faked a yawn, fingering her ear to get it to pop as the energy grew thicker, putting more pressure on her eardrum than felt comfortable. Feyre gently touched Rhys’ arm, whispering a warning through slightly clenched teeth, “Rhys.”

Sam instantly felt the energy pull back and she looked at Rhysand as she blinked in surprise. That was him? If he was capable of summoning magic that heavy and so suddenly, the last thing she wanted was to be on his bad side. She was suddenly very happy that she took the Oath and was under his and Feyre’s protection, the other option would not have faired well for her in the slightest.

Rhys glanced at Sam, nodding his answer to her internal thoughts with a slightly apologetic expression, “While there are similarities, Amren, I believe this is a completely different situation.”

The female, Amren, held Rhysand’s stare for a moment, having a silent conversation with the High Lord, before nodding. She turned her attention back to Sam, who felt more out of place among the occupants of the house than she had been yet, “So, from which sky did you fall out of?”

Sam’s eyebrow piqued up, curiosity forming at the possibility of a past similar situation. Maybe she did have a chance to get back home if this Bryce person was able to leave. “Well, there wasn’t much of a free fall from the sky, more like a wake-up with a mouth fulla dirt in a forest, but I come from a planet called Earth. It’s a small-ish planet, I guess - “

Amren made a hum of agreement, interrupting her while she was talking and walking forward to stand beside Mor. Sam was taller than Amren by a good foot, at least, but even with her smaller stature, Sam knew that whatever power Amren had it should not be trifled with. The way she held herself beside the golden-haired female was equally confident if not impressive. “What should I be looking for if we’re going to send her back?”

“Portals, rifts, magical objects, other worlds, astrology, rituals, take your pick,” Rhys replied, sitting down on one of the couches in the room. Feyre followed suit, gesturing for everyone to join them. Cassian went to the window, moving the curtain to the side to peer outside at the city.

“So, we know nothing,” Amren said exasperatedly, rolling her eyes and spinning to face Rhys. “You brought a stranger into Velaris and you know nothing about her or how she got here?”

“I wasn’t about to leave her in Day Court and Lucien wasn’t going to let her stay in Autumn; she’s human, Amren, human, at least here we know we can protect her.”

“Human or not, Rhys, we don’t know the first thing about her. How do we know she’s not a plant from Vallahan, Montesere, or Rask? Places that were sympathetic to Hybern’s cause? Who still supports another uprising?”

“Does it help that I have never heard of those places?” Sam muttered under her breath, watching the confrontation between Amren and the High Lord.

“No.” Amren snapped at her and Sam’s eyebrows raised in surprise.

“Oh, my bad.” Lucien nudged her arm, shaking his head in warning to not get between the two formidable faes. “What?”

Sam knew that not everyone would be so welcoming towards her, that there would be those who had reservations about her. She had been wondering who would be the first one who would tire of her, grow annoyed at her presence, or decline to help her. The bargain tattoos, which held an enchantment within their ink, required those who agreed to assist her but did not require them to be happy about it. Sam figured it would only be a matter of time before they, too, gave up on her.

“There have only been whispers of another uprising, one that Mor and Cass have been dealing with between the foreign lands. Az says it's nothing but hearsay at this point.” Rhys pinched the bridge of his nose. “We have spies strategically plac-”

“We were not the only ones who felt Prythian shudder, I’m sure those territories felt it too.”

“I’m sure they did, hence, she is here with us. She is safest here.”

“But are we at risk? Velaris? Our people, Rhys.”

“No. We are not at risk by bringing her here into the Night Court. I would not risk my people like that, have some faith, Amren.”

“Let’s hope you know what you’re doing,” Amren turned her attention to Sam. “If you so much as think about betraying us or our High Lord and Lady’s kindness, I will skin you alive and burn the remains.”

Sam, who knew what a promised threat sounded like when she heard one, didn’t falter an inch as those silver eyes turned to slits. Sam felt it was another test of her resilience as she met her stare. She was grateful and indebted to these faes and could not even fathom deceiving them in the way Amren suggested. “I would hand you the knife willingly.”

Amren, for her part, seemed satisfied with that answer and turned to Rhys again. Sam let out a soft breath once those eyes were off her. “I will begin looking into rifts. I will let you know when I find something.” She looked back at Sam, staring her down before slipping past her towards the door.

“Thank you,” Sam blurted out quickly as Amren passed her. She doubted she cared if Sam was thankful for her but Sam needed to say it. She needed her to hear it from her own mouth even if she didn’t give a damn about it. “Thank you.”

Amren only looked at her for a moment before continuing on her way toward the exit. Sam frowned, looking down at the hardwood floor. Knowing ahead of time that rejection hurt did nothing to soothe the fractured part of her pride, feeling it crack into tiny fissures as the front door slammed shut. She bit the inside of her cheek hard enough to taste blood and Lucien set a hand on her shoulder, giving her a small squeeze in reassurance. Regardless of the obvious animosity stemming from Amren, Sam would continue to thank her and prove that she was worth helping, even if she was beginning to hear those little voices in the back of her mind saying otherwise.

There was a heavy silence for a minute that seemed to stretch on to the point of awkwardness. No one knew what to say in the aftermath, so instead said nothing. It was clear that Amren’s protests were already something that had been thought about, and discussed, without Sam being aware of it.

“That went surprisingly well,” Mor finally said to break the ever-growing silence, sitting down on the couch opposite Feyre and Rhys.

“Wait until she meets Nesta.” Cassian replied from the window, crossing his arms across his broad chest.

Sam turned her head towards the front door where Amren had just left, wishing she could have held on to the carefree feeling she had just experienced for a little while longer.

______________________________________________________________

It was several hours later when Sam was finally left alone to her own devices, finding comfort in one of the spare rooms of the townhouse Feyre offered for her use. Fire-warmed and beautifully decorated, the room was filled with plush cream blankets and ivory pillows, accents of sage green scattered throughout the space added a soft touch. Another massive bed took up most of the room, a normal occurrence she supposed, given how incredibly tall most of the fae she had encountered had been; never mind the two males with wings. A small marble bathroom was tucked away to the left and walls of windows overlooking a lush outdoor garden, a stone fountain nestled in the middle, and Velaris rising in the background.

Foregoing dinner, Sam had taken refuge in the spare bedroom. The confrontation between the High Lord and his Second left a sour taste in her mouth, and her appetite disappeared immediately afterward. Lucien, bless him, had tried to convince her to at least nibble on some cheese and cured meats but even the thought of food had turned her stomach. No, she needed something else to take her mind off of everything going on around and with her.

Sam stood in front of the windows for a while, staring out towards the City of Starlight, still attempting to convince her mind that it was real, that what she was seeing was real. The amount of times she had to remind herself that what happened to her was real was becoming too many to count. Would she ever feel at home here? When would she stop wishing for her world? Besides Josh and Melissa, what was there to go back to?

Sam shook the thoughts from her head, knowing where that line of thinking was leading. She changed into a more comfortable set of clothes, a silky amethyst-colored pair of shorts and a matching tank top; a long, black robe made of the same material covered the rest of her skin as she had planned to make her way to the rooftop garden.

Lucien had warned her about the strength of the faerie wine, and to be careful about how much she consumed as it had a stronger effect on humans than it did on them, especially with an empty stomach. Sam wouldn’t have taken the warning very seriously if it wasn’t for her High Lady agreeing with him. Feyre had hinted at a rather tumultuous time in her life where the wine helped her forget a series of evenings and Rhys had a rather forlorn look on his face as she spoke about it. A story for another time.

With the bottle and a glass in hand, she made her way out onto the rooftop garden, gently closing the door behind her. The night sky opened up for her, stretching across the horizon with a thousand twinkling stars. The chilly night air instantly soaked into the silk of her clothes, the brushing of the fabric against her skin causing small goosebumps to awaken along her flesh. She inhaled deeply, the scent of the city dancing along her senses as the stars winked at her from above.

She could stare at this view for the rest of her life and not mind a single moment, she decided. The breathtaking beauty of Velaris was unlike anything she could ever find on Earth. Not that she had traveled her world a lot, but she was convinced that nothing on Earth could touch the unblemished beauty of Velaris.

Sam glanced at her phone, the screen displaying that there was less than 35% of the battery left. A frown appeared on her face, the thought of being without her phone, despite it not working in this new strange world, felt like another farewell to her homeland. She set down her bottle and glass on the iron table, settling into one of the low-backed chairs - if she wasn’t going to have her phone for much longer, using the last of her battery to listen to her music would be a good way to send off her final piece of connection to home.

Going into her downloaded music, she pressed the shuffle button, allowing her playlist to choose the songs for her. Instantly, the sound of piano keys and guitar riffs filled the otherwise quiet night. Sam’s breath shuddered when she recognized the song, turning the volume up to a loud but acceptable level, setting it beside her to pour herself a large glass of wine.

“I don’t wanna die alone, I don’t wanna live forsaken, I refuse to let this go because my soul is breaking -”

She settled back in the chair, scooting down to rest her head against the back to look up at the sky, getting lost in the rough voice of Ivan Moody. For the first song to start playing, it seemed that the universe and the powers that be wanted her to feel what she was trying so desperately to shove down.

Despite Lucien’s strong warning and Feyre’s agreement, Sam just wanted one time, just once, to forget what was happening to her. To be numb to it all. Perhaps anyone else would say that she was running away from her problems instead of facing them. But how do you face something that you have yet to make sense of? She took a deep pull from her glass, allowing the warmth to spread throughout her body and willing herself to be in the moment.

“Wake me up when this is over, I’m tired of living life like it’s a dream. Please wake me up when it’s all over, I’m tired of living right here in between.”

Sam picked up her phone, opened her gallery, and scrolled through her pictures, looking at the numerous photos of her, Melissa, and Josh on various occasions. Her heart squeezed, seeing the happiness that Josh and Melissa had on their faces when looking at each other, it was the same look that Sam saw on Feyre and Rhysand. It made her envious, and jealous, but most of all it made her sad. Sad that she had lost her chance at experiencing that herself in her world. The sadness turned into heartbreak, believing that she would never get to see her two best friends again; never see them get married, never be an aunt to their future children, never go through life with them; that life would continue without her and it would return to a new normal for them while Sam was...here.

“It’s not a joke at all, inside my spirits fading. I refuse to take the fall 'cause no one cares at all.”

Before she could stop them, tears slipped from her eyes and she locked her phone, throwing it onto the table while the music continued to play. She needed to forget. Forget what she had lost and continue to be blissfully unaware of what tomorrow held for her. She downed the glass of wine and was in the middle of pouring another when the wave of light-headedness hit her. She continued to pour her second glass as the weightlessness reached each of her limbs.

It took minutes for her to drown the second glass, her thoughts getting fewer and far between and the music lulling her into a tranquil state of mind. Her fingers tapped against her stomach to the beat of the drums while she stared at the sky, watching a few stars fly across the black expanse of night. For a moment, she could believe that she was somewhere else, somewhere she belonged.

The first giveaway that she was no longer alone on the small balcony was the shadows that slithered along the stone floor and toward her ankles. The second was the rustling of wings. Sam slowly turned around to see Azriel closing the door to the balcony behind him. Her vision wasn’t blurred, a little fuzzy, but she could see him standing tall against the lighter exterior of the townhouse even if his shadows cloaked his being.

She gave him a small smile in greeting, her voice soft and low even over the music playing around them. “Hello, Azriel.”

Azriel tipped his head to her, his voice just as quiet as he greeted her in return, “Hello, Sam.” He studied the phone, the sound coming out of it, before taking a few steps closer to where she was seated. His gaze turned towards the city, sweeping over the landscape of rooftops and shining lights, the breeze rustling his dark hair across his forehead and the darker masses at his back.

Sam watched his wings flex outward at the touch of wind as if preparing for flight but Azriel stood still, his attention staying on the city just beyond them. Sam shifted in her seat to sit cross-legged, motioning to the other chair across from her, “You’re more than welcome to join me, I’m just listening to music.”

“Music? That’s music in your world?”

Sam let out a chuckle, her eyes shining from the alcohol in her system. “Oh, come on now, don’t insult my world’s music. We have a wide variety.” She joked and Azriel watched her face as it lit up when another song came on. “This one is pretty good, it’s by a band called The Midnight.”

“Is all the music there so...loud?”

Her eyes were still shining brightly at him when he sat down. “No, not all of it. We have classical music, opera, pop, rap, R&B, rock, country, synth-wave, metal...really every combination of instruments and vocals you can think of, we have some kind of genre that has it in it.”

“Do you play an instrument?” He asked, waving his hand for another glass to appear from his shadows. Sam perked up at the blatant display of magic as he took hold of the wine bottle and helped himself to a glass.

“I used to, it's been a few years since I have. I played the guitar.” She replied, her gaze going back to the sky above.

“Why did you stop?”

“Life got in the way.” She said quietly, marking another shooting star streaking by, her fingers still tapping her stomach with the beat.

Azriel could tell there was more to it than just ‘life’ but he pushed no further, sipping from his glass of wine. The vocals of the song drifted along the breeze, a comfortable atmosphere settling between the two. She didn’t feel the need to speak or keep a conversation going, content to just exist on the rooftop garden, imagining what life had in store for her. He was a stranger to her but she felt nearly as comfortable being alone with him as she felt with Lucien and Feyre which was promising to her.

Azriel listened to the beats of the drums coming out of the small speakers of the phone, curiosity getting the best of him. “How does it work?” He motioned to the phone on the table with his glass.

Sam sat up slowly and turned her body to face him, her tailbone numb from her weight pressing down on it against the hard seat of the chair. “Well, I’m not exactly sure how it all works, but basically this little device allows me to call other people who are far away, send a message to them quickly, take photos, watch videos, navigate, look up answers, listen to music...everything really. It uses what we call ‘the internet’ and...that’s more complicated to explain.” She smiled sheepishly at him, unlocking her phone and handing it to him. “You can go through it, it doesn’t work right here and it doesn’t have much battery left. Just use your finger to swipe the screen.”

She felt the loss of her phone almost immediately. Going through someone’s phone was an invasion of privacy if done unknowingly, but she just handed it to him, not thinking much of it. Subconsciously, Sam knew she trusted him even if she didn’t know why. A part of her chalked it up to pure curiosity and intrigue on their part, having something so shiny and new to them would prompt anyone to get a closer look at it. So Sam just went with it, disregarding the feeling of vulnerability and hesitation when the phone left her hands.

Azriel touched the screen, tapping different icons and watching them close themselves, not having the necessary connections to operate properly. When the song changed, he thought he had pressed something he shouldn’t have, almost handing Sam back the phone. Her little chuckle in response let him know that it was supposed to do that and he returned his attention to the little device. He kept tapping until one opened, finding stills of her life before the rift.

“Oh, yeah, those are pictures,” Sam informed him quietly, her earlier feelings of sadness threatening to resurface. She took another sip from her glass and scooted her chair closer to his, being mindful of his wings which moved back a little to give her space to sit near him. She kept a respectful distance between them, not wanting to crowd him or make him uncomfortable. Sam needed to get used to the two males who had wings and had to get comfortable being near the added appendages since she would be here for the foreseeable future. So she put herself right next to them, forcing herself out of her comfort zone to become used to their presence. “Those are my best friends, Melissa and Josh, I was with them the night before all...this...happened.”

Azriel studied the two people smiling at each other in the photo and Sam’s equally bright smile beside them, “How long have you known them?”

Sam let out a breath, took the bottle of wine, and poured a smaller glass than the first two she had already consumed. So much for ‘forgetting’. “A few years,” Sam took a long drink from the glass, pausing a moment to allow the alcohol to flow through her body. “There was a time, a few years ago, that we had an epidemic in our world. Sickness spread throughout the countries and this was immediately after it,” Sam leaned over to swipe the little screen Azriel still held. Sam’s attention briefly caught on the scars littering both of his hands, the skin pulled taut across the bones and muscles as they moved but she said nothing, returning her attention to the screen. If Azriel noticed that Sam had seen his hands, he didn’t say anything and she was grateful for it.

“This is Tybee Island, the beach, where they met. This was during a beach party called Orange Crush. The locals hate it but it’s fun.” A picture of what appeared to be hundreds of people on a sandy strip of land appeared on the screen. The photo was taken from the pier, overlooking the crowd. “They also have an amazing Fourth of July firework show during the summertime.”

Azriel’s finger continued to swipe through the photos, ignoring the small jolt of surprise when the song changed again. Sam hummed to the music, her body feeling lighter as she moved her head to the beats of the music. “Where is this?”

“That’s downtown Savannah, where I was during the pagan festival. This is a different day though, the sunset was beautiful and it just looked too pretty to not take a picture of it while along the river, ya know?”

He took in the massive silver bridge against the backdrop of the pinks and oranges of the foreign evening sky. The river running underneath retained its sparkle despite the stillness of the image, and Azriel had a small desire to see it in person. “Are all your sunsets like this?”

Sam shook her head, propping herself on her elbow to lean on the armrest, “No, but the summer and winter sunsets are probably the best Savannah offers. It’s a beautiful city, really, very old-filled with history, both good and bad. It’s been through a lot, the city and its people, but it’s a helluva place.” Sam’s mind started to venture away from her, her eyes going distant as she was pulled into a memory of walking along River Street with Melissa, enjoying a strong drink from one of the many bars scattered along the historic road.

Azriel stayed quiet to allow her to collect her thoughts, watching as the alcohol caused a soft flush to wash over her cheeks. The breeze from the cool night gently tossed her hair over her shoulder, and her scent of rose and blond wood washed over his senses, nearly causing his eyes to roll back. “How does this work if it’s not...on intanet?”

Sam seemed to snap out of her memory, setting the glass of wine she was nursing down on the table, “It still has its basic functions while not connected to the internet. Here-” Sam gently took the phone out of his hold and Azriel quickly withdrew his hands, setting them in his lap out of sight. Sam tucked her hair behind her ear and made a few taps on the lit-up screen. “Okay, watch! We’re going to take a picture!” Sam’s excitement made Azriel’s stomach flutter; a contagious, light feeling settling in his gut. She shifted closer toward him while holding the phone out at arm's length. “See us?”

“I do, but we’re moving in the box.”

“We won’t be soon, but you gotta smile.” A bright, if not buzzed, smile graced Sam’s lips as she turned towards the camera. Azriel leaned a little closer to her, flexing his wing out behind her, and gave the smallest of smiles; a simple upturn of the corner of his lips. Sam tapped a circular button at the bottom of the screen, a shutter sound following. “And it’s done! See?”

“And that’s how a picture is done?”

Sam showed him the photo, the two of them fitting perfectly inside the little screen’s frame, smiling while the lights from the townhouse created the backdrop behind them. “Congratulations, you just took your first selfie photo.”

“A what?”

“A selfie, a picture of yourself, basically. This will stay on my phone forever as it can’t be uploaded to the cloud or anything.” Sam explained, handing the phone back to him. Her southern accent became more prominent the more the liquor took effect, her ‘I’s’ sounding more elongated and her words coming out slower. “I’d explain what the cloud is but I’m not sure I know how it totally works either.”

Azriel nodded accepting the answer and took the phone from her, continuing to swipe through all the pictures she had. It amazed him, pictures, they were like Feyre’s paintings but immediate, capturing a memory in real time and holding it there. The depth of her situation struck him deep, deeper than it had originally when shifting through her photo memories. Her world was so advanced in comparison to his; taller, stronger buildings, technology, weapons, and music. While Velaris was advanced in its own right, it was not like Savannah was, her world, and Azriel felt a small twinge of pity for her. Here, they had magic and relied heavily upon it. Magic was in everything around them and they had none of it. At that moment, Azriel and Lucien agreed on something; she deserved help. She deserved to be protected.

There was a comfortable silence between them as Sam watched the photos skim past the screen. For the first time since being here, Sam didn’t feel the longing for home so strongly as before, no doubt the faerie wine’s doing. She was content to sit beside Azriel while he looked through her life, Sam adding little bits of information when he paused on a photo, opening a door into her world for the smallest of moments.

A lot of nature photos were in her gallery along with stills of her hometown. Some were of random items, or labels she had needed to remember but never got around to deleting, screenshots of recipes to try, saved stupid (hilarious) memes, and inspirational quotes. Feral cats sunbathing on the cobblestone streets outside the restaurant, graffiti on the sides of buildings, and selfies of Sam making funny faces or simple ones where she was smiling, each one different.

He had just swiped to another photo when the screen went black, the music turning off immediately. Sam sighed heavily at the sudden silence, reaching for the phone. “And it’s dead.”

Azriel handed her the phone, watching her put it in the pocket of the robe. “How do you...make it alive?” There were still hundreds of photos they hadn’t gotten to yet. Some, Sam was grateful he hadn’t come across.

A small chuckle escaped her, “You charge it with electricity. It’s like...invisible streams of energy that flow through a wire that's connected to your phone...and other things. How ya’ll have faelights, we have...just lights.”

“Have you always had it?”

“What? Electricity?” At his nod, she continued. “As long as I’ve been alive, yes, but not always. We were taught in school it was discovered by Benjamin Franklin but it was actually by multiple people. It’s a long story to get into as to what we were taught in school and what actually happened.”

“History is like that, unfortunately.”

“Written by the victors,” Sam added, settling back into her seat, turning her head to face him while resting it along the backrest. “So, what about you? What’s your story?”

Azriel remained quiet for a moment, deciding on how much and what to tell her. “There’s not much to know.”

Sam smirked, “And I’m the Queen of England,” She nodded to his wings. “We can start there. Why do you and Cassian have wings but no one else does?”

Azriel’s wings in question twitched, “We are a different race of faerie called Illyrians. We are a warrior race. We don’t have pointed ears so High Fae consider us a Lesser race of faeries.”

Sam, who hadn’t noticed his rounded ears, sat up quickly to get a better look. Azriel moved his head to the left so the soft light shined more on the side of his face, showing her the rounded top. The alcohol in her system caused her to feel dizzy at her sudden movement, “Do ya’ll have magic like Rhysand and Feyre?”

“To a point, I can move through shadows but Cassian can’t. Neither can he winnow, it’s something only the High Fae can do. But we can make things appear and disappear if that’s what you mean.” He held up his glass that he materialized from the blanket of shadows earlier.

“What’s the High Fae?”

“High Fae are the ones who look more human, they usually have a ruling role within the lands. They are more powerful than Lesser Faeries. Rhys is half fae, half Illyrian.”

“So he has wings too? Why can’t I see them?”

Azriel grinned, taking a pull from his wine before answering her, “He does, he glamours them so they can’t be seen all the time. Feyre can produce wings as well but her story is hers to tell.”

Sam accepted the answer, amazed at what magic could do and at how much magic she was around. Her eyes were bright, brighter than Azriel had seen since she had been here. “Even if he is half Illyrian, he’s still considered High Fae?”

“Yes,” Azriel took a moment to gather his thoughts to explain as briefly as he could. “It was controversial when he assumed the role of High Lord but most people here accept him and his leadership. The Night Court has never been more prosperous; he is also the most powerful High Lord in Prythian history.”

“Well fuck me, man,” Sam muttered, blinking at the bomb of knowledge. She had the protection of the most powerful High Lord in history, in what she assumed was the most powerful Court in the country. Her gratitude only deepened for the risks they were willing to take for her.

Azriel choked on his wine, “I’m sorry?”

“Oh, not literally, it’s just an expression.” Sam waved her hand, dismissing what she said. “You’ll likely hear me say worse. You said you can move through shadows?”

Azriel nodded, trying to keep up with the whiplash of the conversation. He wiped his face free of the sputtered wine and produced a shadow from his hand towards her. “It’s a shadowsingers’ version of winnowing. Anywhere there is a shadow, I can move through it.” He explained as his shadow twirled around her fingers and up her wrist.

“A good advantage to being a spymaster, huh?” Sam watched the shadow as it made its way back towards its master, disappearing into the small cloud of black cloaking his body. “I’m pretty sure I know what being a ‘spymaster’ entails. Is that why you’re out here?”

Azriel’s eyes snapped up to hers. He could see the defenses starting to rise behind her eyes in preparation for his answer. Truthfully, he wasn’t sure why he had ventured out onto the balcony. He knew she had been out there before he had taken the steps leading up to the roof, having heard her heartbeat and movements from above him. Maybe it was just in his nature that he wanted to collect any and all information concerning possible threats to his family. Perhaps he wanted to ascertain for himself, without Rhysand’s abilities, as to whether Sam was telling the truth about her situation. Maybe he just wanted to get to know her, in her own words. He did ink his spine for her without so much as a reason why, after all.

“No, that’s not why I am out here.” He finally said. He wasn’t sure where the need to explain further came from but he continued, “I know what it's like to feel alone, to not have anyone to talk to, to understand.”

Sam watched him for a few more moments before turning her head to look over the city skyline. Perhaps it was the alcohol tangling in her blood that broke the filter between her thoughts and words, allowing her to speak to a near stranger about her fears. A boundary she previously defended viciously in the past but one that was now blurred by circumstances. “I’m scared, Azriel.” A moment's pause stretched between them. “I’m scared as to why I am here...’cause there has to be a reason, right? I wouldn’t have been brought here for nothin’. What if I was sent here to die? Why is it me, out of all the universes, that got sent here? To this specific world? What is the connection?”

“We will find that out. Amren is already working on it. As you said, there must be a reason and I do not doubt that we will find it.”

“I hope so.” She replied with a sigh, still staring out towards the mountains.

“When we get to the House of Wind, we will start researching. It has a library and we can start there.”

“The House of Wind?”

Azriel pointed towards the mountain range she had already been looking at and in the distance, Sam could see a massive building that seemed to be carved out of the mountainside itself. “That’s Cassian and Nesta’s house, Rhys gave it to them as a mating gift but that’s where I stay most of the time as well.” Azriel would wait to tell her that there were only two ways to get up to the House of Wind.

“A mating gift?”

Azriel realized, quite quickly, that it would likely be up to him or Lucien to explain what they could about their world, as Rhysand would likely inquire more about her world and its workings than he would divulge about theirs. “It’s a connection between two...people, deeper and rarer than soulmates. If Cauldron blessed, you find your mate in life. Someone who is your missing piece, a part of you that you hadn’t realized was missing but upon finding, realizing that you had never been whole before.”

Sam smiled at the thought, “So, Cassian and Nesta, Rhysand and Feyre…”

“Lucien and...Elain.” Azriel stumbled over saying her name, his complicated feelings for the female still a fresh wound.

Sam didn’t seem to notice, “What about you?”

“No, I have not found my mate.” Azriel felt the daggers of envy for his brothers stabbing deep into his gut as thoughts of how lonely he was made their nightly appearance. He chased them away by drinking the rest of his glass.

“So, this...cauldron? What is it?”

“It made everything, all of us, this entire world.” Simply put, he decided. The burn of the wine left a trail from his throat to his stomach. He would need a few more glasses before he called it a night if he had planned for any kind of sleep tonight.

Sam made a face of understanding, bobbing her head, “So kind of like the ‘Big Bang’ or God. Okay, I can get it.”

“God?”

Sam looked over at him, a sleepy smile on her face. “I am in no condition to start the ‘God’ conversation tonight. It’s a long one, complicated, confusing, and, honestly, highly debated and controversial in my world.” A laugh escaped her and his shadows shivered at the sound. “Some consider it ‘a bad move’ on His part, creating humans.”

Azriel watched her slow blinks and glassy eyes, “I think we should get you to bed.”

“You may be right. I haven’t stood up since I started drinkin’ and Lord knows, Lucien and Feyre were right...shit’s strong.” She made to stand up, veering to the right and overcorrecting to the left, causing her to stumble ungracefully.

Azriel’s hand shot out immediately, catching the arm of her robe. “Have you always been a lightweight?”

A shocked gasp ripped out of her, “I’ll have you know, I can hold my liquor just fine. Magical wine just seems to be stronger is all and...I may have overestimated my ability. Only a little bit, though.”

“Only a little bit.” He echoed, keeping a hand hovering near her waist in case her body decided to nose dive to the floor. He opened the balcony door and stepped aside for her, the set of steps in front of them. “The true test will be the stairs.”

“Oh Jesus Christ,” Sam grumbled, grabbing onto the door frame and looking down the stairs to the landing. What she wouldn’t give for the ability to winnow right now. At the recalled phantom feeling of winnowing, her stomach lurched. On second thought, having the ability to not winnow would work just fine with her.

“Whose that?”

“Who? Jesus? Clearly not a helpful being right now.” Sam rolled her eyes, gripping the railing tightly as she began her journey down. “He’s the God guy I mentioned, or the Son of God, or…whoever. See why it’s complicated? I can’t think straight righ’ now.”

Azriel held back a grin, taking the steps with her as his hand continued to hover behind her. “Can you even see straight, right now?”

She stopped, turning her head towards him which caused her to sway dangerously backwards. Azriel’s hand settled in the middle of her spine before she leaned back further. “You sayin’ I need glasses?”

“No,” Azriel’s lips curled up, his voice dropping low as a chuckle fought its way up his throat. “You’ve had...three, almost four, glasses of faerie wine in over two hours, I would be impressed if you could see straight.”

Sam hummed, taking another step down, “I’m starvin’.”

“Let’s get you off the stairs first and then we will worry about food.”

“On second thought, I want to lay down.” Sam mumbled, the thought of the comfortable bed awaiting her made her realize how heavy her eyes were and how exhausted her body felt.

“Only a few more step-whoa!” Azriel grabbed Sam around the waist as she canted forward, his wings partially flaring out to steady him. Azriel rushed her down the last three steps, partly to save her from an unfortunate meeting with the ground and the other to just get her off the stairs. “Do mortals usually have this disregard for their safety?”

“We’re a special breed.” Sam quipped while she swayed, her eyes closing tightly. It took a few moments for her to regain her balance and swallow down the wave of nausea that struck her. “Oh, I fucked up.”

“Yeah, you did.” Azriel let out an amused chuckle, letting go of her waist and hovering his hands near her back again. “We’re almost to the bedroom, only a little more to go.”

“I’m never drinking again.”

“It doesn’t take being a spymaster to know that was a lie.”

“No need to show off.”

“Yes ma’am.”

It took ten more minutes for them to make it to Sam’s room where Azriel had enough time to walk her towards the bed before she face-planted into the comforter, completely passed out. He took a moment to grab the trash can from the bathroom and place it beside the bed in the event she couldn’t make it far from her position in the morning. As he closed the curtains, his shadows pulled the robe from her body and deposited it on the armchair in the corner. He looked over the colorful tattoos covering her upper arms and the inked bargain markings down her spine, disappearing underneath the tank top and the throw blanket the shadows covered her with.

He waved his hand, the faelights disappearing once he made his way toward the door. He glanced inside the room one last time, double-checking that she was comfortable before closing the door with a soft thud. He grinned as he made his way to where Cassian was lounging in the sitting room.

She would be here for a while and would have to get used to how his family liked to tease each other, so why wouldn’t he tell Cassian that Sam claimed she could hold her liquor? Seemed like something his brother should know and it was his duty to inform his family of interesting discoveries after all.

As he joined his brother in the sitting room, he sent one of his shadows back to Sam’s room to keep tabs on her in case she woke up in the middle of the night. With one look at Azriel’s blank expression, Cassian knew he had something to tell him.

“So?”

Azriel leaned back on the comfortable couch, his wings draped on either side of him, and grinned deviously at Cassian.

Tag List: @smol-grandpa, @daughterofthemoons-stuff, @plants-w0rld, @rcarbo1

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thetomorrowshow · 1 year ago

Text

knowing what the cards were

hi besties enjoy (or scream at me)

cw: past major character death (and mourning thereof), violence, blood

There's a pond in Rivendell, down the face of the mountain a little ways, right in the thick of the pine trees that grow all the way down the side. It's far enough away from the main city (and any outlying buildings) that likely few have ever even seen the pond, a place too insignificant to be worthy of any sort of attention. Despite this, the pond and its surrounding trees have always been a beautiful, peaceful location. The pond has only ever had the clearest water, carried down through a small stream from the melting snow of the high peaks.

Now, in the dark of night, water skimmers skate along the surface; a couple of frogs sit on rocks at the edge. Otherwise, there's no sign of life. No fish, no creatures poking through the trees to find a drink here.

The pond is a small, unseen place of tranquility, particularly at this before-sunrise hour, when even the owls are sleeping in their nests. The night is still, the forest silent, and the pond a dark reflection of all the unheard and unseen.

And Scott, sneaking out of his bedroom window like a guilty teenager, goes to it.

He had discovered the pond in his youth, a quiet hideaway from his brother and his parents and all their politics. He hadn't gone there frequently, only when everything really became too much and he had to get out before he exploded.

The pond had always had a calming effect, apart from the real world, a tiny piece of grace and solitude.

He chooses it now as the place not for its seclusion, nor its beauty, but for its lack of living creatures.

He doesn't know what's going to happen when he uses the artifacts.

Again, Alinar had been frustratingly vague on how to use the artifacts. There'd been something about magic, and something else about learning how the artifacts interact with him, so Scott hopes that using them before facing Xornoth in battle will be all right. He doesn't really understand what it means when it talks about interacting with him, but a test run never hurt anyone.

He already sent Gem the instructions (recipe? Scott really doesn't know a lot about magical terms) for the crystal that they need to trap Xornoth. She and Katherine are going to be working together on that, as far as he knows. Lizzie and Joel are occupied with the war. Pix has been out of contact for weeks. Pearl is maintaining neutrality. Shelby hasn't responded lately.

So it's up to Scott to execute the rest of the plan, not sure who he can even turn to for support in this. After all, only the Champion of Aeor can unite and use the artifacts to trap Xornoth in the crystal.

Scott lands carefully on the mossy ground beside the pond, wings drawing up behind him. The moon has disappeared beyond the mountain, but the sun hasn't yet begun to rise. Perfect time for experimental magic.

Scott pulls his Cod-woven bag off his shoulder and sets it down on the moss, leaning it against a small boulder, then slips off his soft shoes and sets them neatly beside it.

He doesn't much care for the feeling of damp moss under his socked toes, but a glance at the grass to his left tells him that it would be infinitely worse (and far more wet) to stand there.

Should he even be wearing socks when he puts the boots on? Will that ruin the . . . magical connection, or something?

Scott strips off his socks and stuffs them in his shoes, just in case. Then he unlatches his bag and pulls out the boots, which he sets atop the small boulder.

They glow, he realizes, the runes casting a very dim blue light over the leather and stone beneath. Scott stares at the glow for a moment, surely only bright enough to discern due to the almost non-existent light cast by the stars above, then reaches into his bag again, where his fingers meet the chilled gold rods of the antlers.

He withdraws the crown as well, sets it on the boulder. It glows as well, just the slightest bit, the gold clear against the dark background.

That's got to mean something. Maybe all ancient, godly artifacts glow like that.

There's really nothing else to wait for. At any moment, a servant could come knocking on his bedroom door, summoning him for matters of war, only to find him missing.

He should pray. Right? He is trying to get Aeor's attention, after all.

Haltingly, Scott kneels in the grass, grimacing when he feels the knees of his black trousers instantly become soaked. He's not really any good at praying, but he can give it a shot.

"Um," Scott says awkwardly. What is it the priests always say? "O Aeor, God of us all and of those below, God of the mountains and . . . and of the snow, God of the day that conquers the night, God that now slumbers until the world is returned to thy light. Uh. . . ."

The introduction part feels clunky and must actually be more ornate than that, but Scott can't quite seem to bring it to his remembrance, even with however many years that he's been hearing it. It's good enough, though, and now he ought to continue—but the prayers differ after that, a thousand and two different ones for any situation. And Scott, after he recited the main forty for his religious tutoring, made no effort to keep them memorized nor learn any of the others.

"Aeor," he says after a few moments of deliberation, dropping all attempts at following a prayer, "if I truly am your chosen, consecrate these holy objects now in me. Show me . . . show me the way. Help—help me."

Did Alinar ever kneel alone in a forest, praying for any help that his god would give? Did Alinar ever feel entirely inadequate for the job that he was faced with, for the mantle of Aeor's Champion?

Years ago, reading Alinar's tales, Scott would've laughed at such a thought. Alinar had been foreordained, had perfectly completed every task set for him. Never was there any doubt that the task at hand was beyond his reach.

But now that Scott's in the hero's story, he can't help but hope it's normal to feel like an utter failure. Normal to be scared. Normal to feel totally, utterly lost.

Scott stands, brushes off his knees, and pulls a boot on.

It fits perfectly, of course, his foot sliding into place with ease. He laces it up as tight as he can, the boot going a bit higher than halfway up his calf. The other is no different, though his fingers fumble on the white leather of the laces and it takes him a moment to get it pulled as tight as he wants it.

Okay. He has the boots on.

Next step.

Scott straightens, and with mounting anticipation and shaking hands, he lifts the crown of antlers onto his head.

He waits.

He doesn't . . . he doesn't feel any different, so far. Maybe . . . holier, maybe?

He flexes his toes in the boots. They aren't stiff at all, the leather well taken care of but fairly worn-in.

He tilts his head from side to side. The crown feels almost weightless, impeccably well-balanced. It isn't in any danger of slipping, either, set firmly on his head, fitting as perfectly as the boots do.

Now. How is he meant to test these out?

Scott takes a tentative step forward.

There's a sudden, crinkling-crackling sound from his feet—Scott looks down—

The edge of the pond is frozen.

There's frost under his toes. The edge of the pond is frozen.

There's absolutely no way.

He takes another step—more crackling, the ice spreads another foot down the pond.

Carefully, Scott puts some of his weight on the ice.

It holds. More spreads, even.

He puts both feet standing on the now half-frozen pond.

It doesn't even crack.

Ice magic, then. The boots have some sort of ice enchantment, likely written into the runes. That—maybe he's meant to freeze Xornoth? Freeze him, so that he can't get away from the whole crystal ordeal. Or maybe use the ice to freeze him to the crystal?

And when thou hast the daemone at thy will, binde it to the cristyl.

That . . . that might be right. Right? It's probably more than normal ice, it's probably strange magical ice. Something that can bind.

Scott crosses to the middle of the pond. He's walking on water, practically. The pond is just freezing around him, making a large path for his next step before he's even raised his foot.

Jimmy would have found this so impressive. He would've stood on the shore and sputtered, mouth hanging open. Scott would've laughed, and held out his hand, and brought Jimmy out onto the ice to stand with him. And then, gazing at his perfect lover with his permanently-messy hair and his still-shocked expression, he would have kissed him.

And it's for Jimmy that Scott is going to end Xornoth.

He can't kill Xornoth, the book had told him that much. Their souls are connected, some sort of confusing reincarnation of spirits kind of thing that Scott doesn't really understand. He needs to bind him to the crystal in a ritual that he also doesn't understand, but if the boots have an ice enchantment to freeze Xornoth in place or attach him to the crystal, maybe the crown just gives him the magical authority to command Xornoth to go into the crystal? Or something like that?

Scott points at a sleepy-looking frog. "Don't move," he commands with all the power he can muster.

The frog doesn't move. But it probably wasn't planning on it, anyway.

And part of the intrinsic elvish magic that he already has is the strength of suggestion. If he tells someone not to move, really tells them, with power, chances are they won't move.

Will the crown just amplify that magic, then? Or will it make it literally impossible to break a command given, since the power comes from a god and not just a normal elf?

Well, at least he figured out what the boots do. He really ought to get back—he's already spent enough time away. A servant could have alerted the entire palace by now if they knocked to find him missing.

Scott heads back to shore and unlaces the boots, stepping out of them and into his own shoes (he doesn't bother with his socks right now, tucking them into his pocket). Then he puts the boots and the crown back in the bag, beside a small book that looks . . . unfamiliar.

When did he put a book in his bag? Especially one that looks so . . . ancient?

Frowning, Scott pulls it out and cracks it open.

The text isn't anything like what he's used to, blue lines thick and letters big, with no discernable spaces for words. It takes a moment of staring stupidly at the large letters before he has the sudden realization that this is a book in that form of Oceanic that he was meant to give Lizzie. He's already given her the book, but he remembers that it had a smaller book inside. It must've slipped out at some point.

He'll probably see her soon, right? War negotiations have constantly been taking him or one of his advisors to and fro, so surely there'll be someone to give it to her, if not him precisely.

So Scott puts it back in his bag amongst the artifacts and takes off, flying straight back to the palace and landing on his bedroom windowsill, crawling in.

Unnoticed, the touch of his fingers on the window frame leaves frost.

When Scott wakes up (blurry nightmares of chains and indistinct threats), he feels cold.

He must've left the window open. He's done that before, woken up to a little bit of snow on the windowsill after a late-night flight.

And his bed's been rather cold as of late, missing the heat of another body.

But when Scott opens his eyes, his favorite blue blanket is white.

He sits up, confused—and snow falls off of him in little showers, clumping onto his blanket in the creases.

Why is there—?

There's ice on his bedside table, just a thin layer of it. Snow on the bedknobs. Snow on the rug.

And the window is closed.

The low fire that's usually still a bed of hot coals in the mornings is emitting zero warmth, the coals black and cold. The lantern on his bedside table has gone out.

Scott throws his legs over the side of the bed, ignoring the cascade of snow that falls to the floor. How did—what?

The boots.

Are they still active even when he isn't wearing them? But—had something changed when he put them on? Is there a way to turn them off?

Scott fumbles around his bedpost until he finds his bag hanging, from which he pulls out the boots and turns them over in his hands.

"Stop," he says, voice still heavy with sleep. "Just . . . don't."

Nothing changes. Did it work? Are the boots still freezing the room?

Nothing really looks like it's melting, but there isn't anything new in the room, either. Scott sets the boots aside (and they feel normal, they aren't covered in frost or anything) and stands up, stumping over to the fireplace on numb feet. He stokes the coals, trying to bring any bit of warmth back to the room, but there's absolutely nothing left to be brought back.

He doesn't keep a flint and steel in his room. Usually a servant cares for these kinds of things, but he doesn't want a servant in here to find his room frozen. How on Aeor's green earth would he explain that?

He has to have a flint and steel in his travel kit in the closet, right? Scott ducks into the closet, finds his travel kit thrown on the floor where he left it after the funeral. He picks it up, rummages through it for a moment. Sure enough, tucked into a part of the leather kit is a small flint and steel, right next to a small hunting knife and needle and thread. He pulls it out and heads back to the coals. He can do figure this out. No need to panic.

There's a little pile of logs by the fireplace, which he shakes the snow off of before tossing them in, hoping they aren't too damp or anything. That would be just his luck, the inability to light a fire in a frozen room.

Thankfully, they aren't too damp. It takes a couple of tries with his numb fingers to get the flint and steel to strike a spark, and another couple tries to get it to light, but it lights nonetheless.

Once the flame takes hold, the room immediately starts to feel a bit warmer, and Scott shudders as his fingers start to tingle with pins and needles. Right, that's taken care of. Maybe now he won't freeze to death.

And then he remembers that there's quite a bit of ice and snow in his room, which will all be melting shortly.

That might be even worse than all the ice, and it's with a panicked hurriedness that Scott starts scooping up the snow in his bare hands and running it to the window to toss it out. He gets a good bit of it (at some point he lifts his blanket off his bed and just shakes it out the window) out, but it's already starting to melt and he can barely feel his fingers and the rug squishes under his feet—

Knock-knock-knock.

Scott curses, wipes his hands off on his dressing robe, and has his hand on the doorknob before he realizes he isn't wearing his veil. He curses again, doubles back to his closet. He doesn't have time to pin the whole thing on, he doesn't have time for any of his—

Scott pulls a veil on over his head and doesn't even bother with any of the pins and ties. It's a long one, meant for trips out, but he just adusts it until his eyes are in the eye-slit and hopes that he doesn't have any hair sticking out.

Then he can get back to the door (he trips over the trailing veil, it wouldn't be long enough to trip over if he'd tied and pinned it properly) and crack it open, sticking his head out.

Surprisingly, he finds not a servant, but Galidre, a junior member of his council. Galidre bows, black robes sweeping the floor.

"Your majesty," they say, straightening. "A representative of the Undergrove is here to speak with you."

"Shubble?" Scott asks, a little bewildered. What does she need?

"Not—not the ruler herself, but an ambassador. I believe they are requesting sanctuary, Milord."

Sanctuary?

That doesn't make any sense. The Grimlands haven't really mobilized anything concrete yet, and as far as Scott was last aware, Mythland and the Lost Empire were both still attacking the Ocean Kingdom.

But Scott doesn't ask questions. He just withdraws and gets dressed (properly pinning his veil this time), then grabs all the towels from the washroom and lays them on his bedroom floor to try and soak up some of the water. Hopefully nobody comes in to clean his room or gather his laundry while he's out.

Last of all, he steps into his very normal boots, pulls on his black gloves, and sets his crown atop his veil.

Perfect. He looks the pinnacle of 'king-mourning-his-fiance', no doubt about it.

He misses Jimmy.

And just as Galidre had suggested, in the meeting with the representative of the Undergrove, Shubble's people are looking for sanctuary.

"There's so few of us, your majesty," the gnome implores, twisting his mushroom hat between his hands. "Less than eight thousand at our last count. We do not ask for you to provide for us, but if we could come to just the foothills of your lands, someplace safe for our children, we promise all able gnomes will serve in your armies."

That isn't asking much. It's asking far less than Scott would have asked, had the situation been reversed, and Scott's bruised heart aches at the humble plea. Can he even bear to turn them away?

"I will . . . I will discuss this matter with my council," Scott tells him, glancing between Galidre and Aphoras, the two advisors present. "I don't wish for any to be harmed while it is in my power to stop it."

If Shubble's worried, it means fWhip is getting ready to attack. Or maybe that Sausage and Joey are leaving their battle, hoping to strike Scott in his complacency. Something's happening soon, and the Undergrove cannot protect itself.

He doesn't want to uproot the gnomes from their new home. The gnomes had appeared in his childhood, three or four thousand of them moving from some unknown, conquered land to take up residence in their own small corner of the world. They've nurtured and cultivated that corner, built a city and begun farms and families, until it became what it is—a lovely little civilization beginning to thrive. To take that away from them would be cruel.

But he has to do it. To save them the destruction of their entire culture, he has to pull the gnomes away from everything they have.

He could make the decision here and now. His mind is already made up, he won't need to discuss this with his council.

But as the gnome hops down from his too-big chair, bowing deeply, Scott knows that there's another way.

He has to end the war.

Ending a war is easier said than done. For one, Scott still doesn't really know how to use the artifacts. The crown remains stubbornly unforthcoming with what its use might be, and the boots. . . . Well, the boots don't stop. The next morning when he wakes up, his room is frozen again—and the morning after that. Scott stops bothering to melt it and just pins a 'do not disturb' sign on the door, before moving to sleep in Jimmy's almost-untouched bedroom. That one freezes, too, as well as the sitting room, and Scott gives up on trying to stop the boots from freezing things and just piles blankets onto his bed and puts pans of hot coals in between the sheets for when he needs to sleep. Otherwise, he just stays out of his room and pretends like it isn't covered in ice.

(He doesn't notice, but frost spreads under his desk, and his untouched cups of tea ice over, and every tear he cries freezes on his face.)

(Others notice, though. Ilphas stares when a wave of Scott's hand sends a streak of frost along a wall; a servant cleans his office and is bewildered by the ice everywhere; the eldest of the palace begin whispering rumors of Aeor's Champion, remembering the old songs.)

For another, Scott doesn't really know how or where to meet Xornoth to defeat him. Does he just go outside? Call his brother's name? Hope the demon shows up, despite the wards around Rivendell preventing his entrance?

He really doesn't want to summon the demon. Somehow, that seems like a poor idea. Some part of Scott is certain that demons have the most power right as they've been summoned, and whether that's true or not Scott doesn't want to test. And he'd absolutely rather not have Xornoth in Rivendell.

The only thing he can think to do is meet Sausage's armies at . . . well, at the border of Mythland. It would be a bold show of support for the Ocean Kingdom—he would have either to march his army through Mezelea or sail across the ocean to reach Mythland. It should only be a move to make if he's certain that he's ready to fully enter the war, or if he's certain that Xornoth will be there.

And suddenly it doesn't really matter, because three days after the ambassador from the Undergrove arrives, he receives communication that fWhip has set out for Rivendell, thousands of soldiers at his command.

His hand is forced. Scott sends Gem a quick message, asking if she's been able to create the crystal. When she responds by gushing excitedly about the properties, he tells her to meet him at No Man's Pass, on the far East border of Rivendell.

It only takes two days to mobilize the advance party of his army, prepared as he has been to enter the war. He can but hope (and dread) that Xornoth will be there.

So Scott swallows down his anxieties about not being able to figure out the artifacts (and he really has tried, but he's only had them for a little over a week), swings the Codmade bag with both of them inside over his shoulder, and rides out to meet Xornoth.

With any luck, Aeor will guide.

It's a cold morning when Scott steps out of his tent, ready to treaty with fWhip.

Their armies had met the day prior, and both of their generals had agreed to a meeting between leaders to see if they couldn't come to an arrangement of some sort. So Scott steps out, dressed in his most moveable mourning clothes (a short veil tight enough to be almost a scarf around his face and head, a hood pulled over that, billowy black trousers and a belted tunic with an open-front surcoat) and the Boots of Alinar on his feet, the Crown of Alinar a conscious weight in the Codmade bag at his side.

And when he enters the treaty tent, set on a cliff overlooking a rushing river in the shadow of one of Rivendell's mountains, with Ilphas at his side and two guards behind him, there are more people in the tent than he expected.

fWhip he notices first, dressed in his usual black coat and scarf, standing between two guards of his own, elytra clicking idly. But next to him is Sausage (naturally Scott wants to kill him), and next to him is Joey.

Which is entirely unexpected, because as far as Scott is aware, neither of them brought their armies—or any sort of guard—with them. They must have flown over for this confrontation in particular, as if a war wasn't currently happening, as if their own soldiers aren't dying right now.

Scott can barely muster disgust past the fear (fear of what will happen, fear that it won't work, fear because these three men tortured him again and again and if all fails, he'll be at their mercy again).

Also present is Gem, wizard's staff in one hand, a leather bag swung over her shoulder, and Katherine, wings fluttering anxiously behind her.

"I'm here to keep the peace," Katherine says immediately. "I don't know why everyone else is here."

"I'm here because Scott asked me to be," Gem pipes up.

"I'm here to see my Xorny," Joey says obnoxiously.

It's less the idea of Joey dating a demon and more the idea of Joey dating his brother that makes Scott want to vomit. Out of all the men in the world, he picked Xornoth? And out of all the men in the world, Joey is his potential brother-in-law?

Sausage shrugs in a way that makes Scott want to kill him. "I just wanted to see it all go down!"

"Me too," a voice says behind Scott. Scott whips around—Joel's standing there, looking entirely unrepentant.

He was counting on the fact that there would be some factors within his control, such as who was present—he had only anticipated himself and fWhip and Xornoth.

"All right, this is far too many emperors in one tent," declares Scott. His feathers are standing on end, all of his nerves jangling. This isn't good. Something is going to go sour here. Especially adding Joel to the mix. Joel is hotheaded at the best of times—in the middle of a war, in a tent with the enemy? Scott doesn't trust him to keep cool.

Scott almost doesn't trust himself to keep cool.

"It's like a House Blossom meeting all over again," Sausage says, voice cheery in a way that makes Scott want to stab him through the heart.

"Hey, I'm just here—"

"This does concern me, after all, it's about—"

"Well if it concerns you, then it concerns—"

"—for everyone, so they—"

"—is that Lizzie said that—"

"My lords and ladies, your presence is acknowledged and appreciated," Ilphas steps forward, checking over their shoulder at Scott. Scott nods his go-ahead—he's never been so grateful to have political, stuffy advisors who know how to be polite.

"This is, however, a meeting between Lord Smajor and Count fWhip, and as such, no other rulers are permitted to be in the tent during the meeting."

"Aw, come on!" Sausage whines. If Scott could kill him without breaking a million laws right now. . . .

But they all clear out, even as Joel walks backward, glaring hard at fWhip.

And Scott is left alone with the man (and their combined guards and Ilphas).

fWhip nods toward the table and two chairs that have been set up in the middle of the tent, a clearly-just-unrolled red rug underneath them.

Scott waits. He doesn't plan on implying that he's at fWhip's command.

After a long moment, fWhip shrugs and sits.

It's the little things.

After waiting a sufficient amount of time to establish that he is the one running this conversation, thank you very much, Scott sits across from him.

He's about to speak. He's about to open his mouth and demand a conference with Xornoth. He's about to end this war.

But fWhip leans forward, a small smile playing on his lips.

"I heard it wasn't exactly quick," he says lowly, and Scott has a moment of confusion—quick? what wasn't quick?—before fWhip continues.

"Not as long as Xornoth was gonna make it, of course," he says, eyes fixed on Scott (and goosebumps spontaneously appear all over Scott's body as he flashes back to those six days in captivity). "If Xornoth got your little fish boy, he was gonna make it long. I heard some of his plans—something about making you watch as he slowly skinned him—?"

Before he even knows what he's doing, Scott's on his feet, hand dragging fWhip up by his collar, pulling him halfway across the table as the man lets out a surprised, choked noise.

"Milord," says Ilphas sharply, tugging on the back of Scott's robe.

Scott shoves fWhip back in his chair (which rocks onto its back legs from the force), hands shaking—whole body shaking, trembling with something like the grief-stricken rage Lizzie had shown at Jimmy's funeral. He—just to casually—casually mention torturing his dead fiance and—and Scott knows he's doing it on purpose, he knows it's to get a rise out of him, and he finds that he just doesn't care.

fWhip's guards step forward, though, weapons raised, and with Ilphas firmly pushing down on his shoulders, Scott sits back down, his gloved hands balled into fists.

He isn't going to stand for this. He isn't going to let fWhip sit there and just speak such filth about his beloved.

But he can't do anything. Not yet.

It gives him a bit of satisfaction to see fWhip ruffled, collar upturned and hair out of place. But fWhip just fixes a stupidly smug look on his face and crosses his arms.

"Scott, we both know you can't threaten me anymore," he chuckles. "Not since I beat you, whipped you, branded you with my own signet . . . there's absolutely nothing about you that I find scary. You've literally begged me for mercy way too many times for that, my friend."

Scott forces himself to breathe deeply, let his fists relax, even as the faded whipping scars on his back twinge in memory. He has to—he has to get control of himself, he has to conduct this in a kingly manner. It doesn't matter that he was tortured by this man, it doesn't matter that his fiance died mere weeks ago (over a month ago, his mind supplies, it's been over a month and the world has somehow gone on), it doesn't matter that he's only a hundred and nine, for Aeor's sake, he is a king and he has to act like one.

"We are here—" he starts, but fWhip interrupts.

"Xornoth only wants one thing. Well," he laughs a little, "a couple of things. World domination is pretty high on his priority list. But he wants you to give up the god, Scott. He already knows you're Aeor's Champion or whatever that is, so you are his best chance at finding the other one. After all, you've got a very rare direct connection to a god yourself!"

That . . . that doesn't make any sense.

The other one? Aeor is the only god that Scott knows of that happens to be living (other than Exor, who Xornoth is already irrevocably bound to). Are there others alive? Others that he's somehow meant to know about?

It doesn't really matter, Scott supposes. He's here to end this war and that's allowed.

"That subject is not the purpose of this meeting," Scott says stiffly, ignoring the chill that runs down his spine at those words that he'd heard so many times in his nightmares. "The purpose—"

"Yeah, yeah, you want me to not bring the war to you or something, trying to convince me to leave your people alone," fWhip waves. "Your people mean nothing to me. I'll kill them if you make me, but if you don't want me to do that, I have a couple of terms. So—"

"That is not what I intended to discuss," Scott says icily, smoothing out a wrinkle in his tunic.

fWhip raises an eyebrow. "Oh, yeah? Then what?"

Scott leans a bit closer, all of his instincts screaming for him to move further away. "I am here to demand a meeting with Xornoth," he says, forcing every ounce of cold anger that he feels into his words. "He has tormented these lands for long enough. My business is with him and him alone."

fWhip scoffs. "If you've got business with him, you've got it with me," he says. "So, go on. Say your piece."

You know what? Sure. Scott doesn't mind killing two of his tormentors in one go. First fWhip, then Xornoth. He can absolutely do that.

But Ilphas's hand falls on his shoulder, as if they know exactly what he's thinking of. It would be very, very bad politically to kill fWhip right here and now.

"You misunderstand me," Scott says, and his stomach flips because this is it, it's time to save the world and he doesn't know if he has the strength to do it, and he doesn't let his voice waver but he does let his breath catch— "I mean to kill him."

fWhip bursts out laughing. "Sorry—are you serious? You kill Xornoth? Like, I admire the initiative, but you're the weakest person I know! At least, the weakest living person."

Scott ignores the jab at Jimmy, as disgusting as it is. He just settles back in his chair, crosses his legs.

Eventually, fWhip stops laughing, and his cheerful demeanor drops into a glare alarmingly quickly, quickly enough that it unsettles Scott more than anything fWhip's said so far.

"Your funeral, Smajor," he says darkly. "It'll be nice to get you out of the way."

The lamp on the table goes out, bathing them in a cool dimness.

Scott's heart leaps into his throat.

He doesn't dare breathe in the sudden stillness.

The lamp flickers back to life, the once-yellow flame now a deep red.

The tent, which had been almost frigid for some reason, rapidly begins to heat to an unbearable temperature. Sweat breaks out on Scott's forehead, rolling down his back, dripping down his cheek. It's like he stepped into the Nether, hot enough that his head starts to feel dizzy and his stomach unsteady.

The table begins to rattle, quiet at first, then faster and faster and louder and louder. The ground begins to shake, actually, rumbling and trembling, and the tent walls are flapping in a sudden roaring wins and Scott knows he's coming he knows he's here—

The tent pulls free of the stakes and completely flies apart, the red light spilling outward over the darkening plain, much further than a lantern's light ought to go. Scott shoves back his chair and stands, surcoat whipping around him, searching the skies for any sign of his brother.

Scott's never really seen the demon up close. He's briefly seen him (outside of their youth) twice. Once was from a distance in the End, Xornoth standing atop a tower to watch the battle to save the dragon. The other time was just a brief encounter, Xornoth appearing behind him while visiting the Overgrown close to a year ago, seemingly to do nothing but spook him.

And now, as Xornoth appears before him, Scott loses sight of all his anger. He can't feel anything but cold fear.

Again, Scott's never really seen the demon up close. And as he stares now, feet rooted to the ground, he doesn't see a single sign of the brother he once knew.

Xornoth, like Scott, is dressed all in black, but where Scott's mourning clothing is carefully fashioned and clean, Xornoth's black robes are torn, his dark armor unshined and grimy. His feet are shod with armored boots, his hands with leather gloves, and upon his head is what could either be a literal pair of black antlers or the red-streaked crown of Exor's Champion, a crude mockery of the one hanging at Scott's side.

His face is distorted, blackened, eyes bulbous and entirely maroon, mouth far too large and cutting jaggedly into his cheeks. His ears are still somewhat elvish, poking through his straggly black hair (which had always been purple as a child), which trails down his shoulders and chest.

Whatever that demon is, Scott can barely picture his brother in its place.

Yet it is his brother, here and now, and Xornoth is standing atop a boulder on the edge of the cliff, dark veins of red spreading out from it through the earth, cracking apart stone and solid dirt. Soldiers and rulers that had been milling about leap back, weapons raised.

And echoing through Scott's head and bones and the stifling air around him is a voice that hasn't haunted him in decades.

"Well, brother," Xornoth says, their blackened lips stretching inhumanly, pointed teeth bared. "You think you can destroy me?"

Scott's really starting to think he can't. The very air is thick with the stench of brimstone, so much so that members of his army are doubled over coughing, and the wind is howling and the skies are dark and there's maroon smoke rising from the ground and Scott can't breathe, he's choking on his own air and he doesn't even know what he's supposed to do—

But he doesn't fall to his knees, even as Katherine does beside him. He doesn't cover his ears and squint his eyes shut, like Joel does.

Instead, he fumbles open his bag and pulls out the Crown of Antlers, which he trades out for the crown on his head.

And Xornoth's smile falters.

His gaze travels down, down to Scott's feet.

Scott taps a booted toe against the ground.

"That's right," Scott calls out, above the whistling of the furnace-like wind and the coughing of the soldiers. "I have the artifacts. I'm going to bind you and your master, never to return again."

Almost as if caused by his words, spoken with a conviction that he forces himself to feel, the wind changes directions. The sweat on Scott's back freezes. fWhip, mere steps away from Scott, coughs, his breath appearing before him in a puff of smoke.

"You don't know how to use those," Xornoth sneers, but despite the years it's been since they last spoke, despite how unrecognizable he truly is, Scott knows his brother. He knows that when his voice becomes harshest is at his moments of uncertainty, determined to command his way out of any problem.

That means he's scared. He knows what Scott can do to him.

(Even if Scott doesn't know it himself.)

"Gem," he calls over his shoulder, and within moments she's at his side. "I'll need you to hold the crystal while I bind him, all right?" he says, quieter.

She nods, reaches into her sleek leather satchel and pulls out a huge, clear crystal, bigger than Scott's own hand. It shimmers slightly, gold specks scattered throughout that somehow shine with the sun hidden by the dark grey skies. She hefts it up, mouth in a grim line.

Scott nods back to her, then takes a step forward, one arm up to shield his eyes as the wind and heat get stronger the nearer he gets to Xornoth. Another step. Another.

There's a crack in the air, deafeningly loud, and Scott only has a moment to register that Xornoth has vanished in a cloud of black smoke before a literal tentacle bursts out of the stoney ground right in front of him, sending chunks of rock flying, and wraps around Scott's middle.

It lifts him into the air, a sizzling sound and uncomfortable heat against his body and wings telling him that it's burning through his clothes and feathers, and Scott struggles against it to try and pull his wings free but it's holding tightly to him, raising him higher and higher into the air—

And then it stops.

Ice is gathering where Scott's fists have been beating against the tentacle, gathering and spreading down, and though it melts almost instantly it simply reforms, until the tentacle begins to slowly recede into the ground.

Scott stumbles out of its grasp and onto blessed solid ground (he loves being in the air but not like that), and Xornoth himself appears right in front of him.

The demon moves, arm reaching out, mouth stretching open, Scott's arms fly up to shield his face—

"Stop," Scott gasps blindly, putting as much compulsion as he can into the one word, even though he doesn't even know what he's commanding Xornoth to stop doing.

The wind calms to almost nothing. Ice crackles across the ground. The air becomes frigid, though the terrible smell still lingers.

Scott lets his arms lower from blocking his vision, terrified of what he might find. Dear Aeor, his legs are utterly trembling, but he doesn't have the time to collapse.

And he finds that Xornoth is standing motionless before him, face twisted in rage.

"Gem," Scott says, voice too loud for the sudden silence, heart pounding in his ears. "The crystal—Gem, now—"

Gem hurries forward, holds it out, and Scott musters everything he has in him and commands, making the words up as he goes, "Xornoth, Exor, and those demons within you, I bind you by the power of Aeor to this crystal, never to be free from it again."

He waits, breath tight in his chest.

Nothing happens. Xornoth glances down, eyes catching on Scott's waist, and chuckles.

"I bind you!" Scott says again. This has to work. He has the crown, he has the boots, he has the crystal, this should be working—

He shoves all the imagined power he can through the air, as if to push Xornoth bodily into the crystal, this has to work he's getting desperate—

He's knocked backward with a sudden force, a blast of frost and ice coming from his own body, and Scott hits the ground and rolls through the dust, bumping his elbows and knees and hips, his veil getting caught under him and tearing down off his face.

He lays there for a moment—he can't afford a moment, but he can't breathe—and when he gets up, pushing himself up on his gloved hands, he sees—

Xornoth is frozen, a giant block of ice encasing him. The crystal is on the ground, twinkling under a blanket of frost.

And Gem is on the ground too, slumped as if dead, hair white as snow.

No—no—

"What'd you do to my sister!" fWhip shouts, rushing forward to Gem. He kneels down beside her, pulls her into his lap, starts shaking her.

Scott struggles to his knees, tugs off his torn gloves with shaking hands. He didn't—he didn't mean to hurt anyone, he didn't mean to hit Gem—he doesn't know what he's doing, he was just trying to fix everything but he doesn't know how and he doesn't know what to do—Aeor, please—

He stumbles up, the lace of one boot getting caught under his foot and coming entirely undone.

Ice is everywhere. Great chunks of it around the plateau, coating every bit of ground in a sheet, the one tree growing in the tough dirt entirely uprooted and frozen.

Those members of his and fWhip's armies that are closest to the treaty grounds are dusting frost from their uniforms, some of them picking themselves up from the ground where the force of the blast had knocked them.

He didn't know the boots could do this. He didn't want to do this. He didn't mean for this to happen, he didn't want this to happen—

"You—!"

And before Scott can even really process everything, fWhip is barreling into him, sending him right back to the ground with an "oof".

"I'm gonna—" fWhip starts, straddling Scott's stomach, eyes wild and face red with anger, but a CRACK! that shoots through the air gives him pause.

Everyone, slowly, trancelike, turns to where the frozen Xornoth remains, and the large crack that's splintering down the ice encasing him.

With strength that must come from Aeor himself, Scott shoves fWhip off (he ignores the way fWhip's jacket goes stiff with ice) and rolls to his feet, stumbling toward Xornoth, scooping up the crystal on his way.

And then he doesn't know what to do.

He holds up the crystal beside the frozen chunk of ice that holds Xornoth, willing it to do something, anything.

"I bind you," he chokes out, pressing the crystal through the crack and into Xormoth's chest. "Come on. . . . I bind you!"

The ice shatters from Xornoth with a wave of heat that blasts Scott back, knocking the crystal from his hand as he once again hits the ground hard on his back (all the breath is forced out of his lungs and it hurts) and slides a couple of feet, feathers turning the wrong way and getting torn out.

Scott scrambles to regain his bearings—he can't breathe and everything hurts—but before he can even get from more than a sitting position, a foul-smelling boot kicks him in the chin and his head snaps backward, sending him back down.

He opens watering eyes, blinking several times to clear their blurriness, arms splayed out at his sides. Xornoth stands over him, radiating heat, the dark clouds in the sky behind him seeming to swell.

"You think you can trap me in a little piece of glass?" Xornoth growls, and when Scott again tries to get up, pushing himself up with his arms against the gravelly ground, he again kicks him down, knocking his head against the stone.

No. No, he has to save them—he can hear people shouting, he can hear screams, he's Aeor's Champion, this isn't how the story is supposed to go—

Xornoth laughs, cruel and derisive, before bending down over Scott and gripping one gloved hand in the front of his tunic. He drags him up, up to standing, his tunic tearing just slightly.

Scott can barely even struggle. His body feels like jelly, wings hanging limply behind him, legs almost unable to support his own weight.

He tried. He tried so hard.

Xornoth's face is so close to his that Scott can smell his reeking breath, see how the points of his black teeth glisten with saliva, but he can't even find the strength to tip his head back, get away from him.

"Even your little fish boy fought harder than this," sneers Xornoth, only loud enough for Scott to hear, and Scott's heart breaks.

Jimmy.

He just wants Jimmy.

Somehow, if Jimmy had been here, it all would have been okay.

A tear slips down his bare face. Scott swallows back a sob, brings up his fumbling arms and weakly pushes at Xornoth's hand.

Ice spreads across his glove, and Xornoth hisses before throwing Scott down. He lands hard on his side, feels one of his ribs crack with a flash of white-hot pain, and he can't do anything but lie there and try to breath through it.

"I am Xornoth," the demon declares, voice echoing around the cliff, and the armies waiting on either side quiet, the only sound Xornoth's voice and the once-again rushing wind. "I am the ruler of this world. The so-called king of Rivendell tried to challenge me, and has failed. If any of you who followed him wish to feel my mercy, give up your arms now."

Scott knows his people. He knows that despite his youth, despite some unpopularity among older generations, his people care too much for him (for tradition, for his family) to renounce him.

And he can't let that happen. He's done for. He failed.

Rivendell needs to surrender.

Scott raises his head, just a little bit, some grit that had been stuck to his cheek falling to the stony ground, and looks around—there.

He catches Ilphas's eye—Ilphas, standing at the forefront of his army, their grey cloak slipping from their shoulder and hair out of place but their chin held high and stance dignified—and ignores the abject horror painting their face, then gives the tiniest, most minute nod.

They blink several times, and if Scott didn't know any better, he'd think they were crying. They nod in return, though, and turn away, calling instructions to surrender.

Xornoth nudges Scott with the toe of his boot. "This is your king," he spits. "And he is dead."

Before Scott can do anything, before he can so much as move, another maroon tentacle cracks out of the ground beside him, burning hot, and wraps around his legs.

It's all Scott can do not to scream—this tentacle is far hotter than the other, burning straight through his trousers to his skin, but before he can try to squirm away, it drags him up into the air upside-down and throws him.

Scott doesn't even have time to process the wind rushing through his ears before he slams into the ground, knocking his head against a rock in a way that makes his vision flash black and grainy and sends pain jolting through his entire head.

Xornoth stalks toward him, he sees, through blurry vision red with pain, he says something—something terrible and pulsing—Scott scrambles back, his palms bleeding against the rough texture of the cliff, he just has to survive he just has to survive—

Xornoth grabs him by the right wing, pulls him up as the delicate bone strains, Scott tries to even out his weight to his feet but he can't find his footing—

The bone in his wing snaps and Scott doesn't have the energy to scream, his breath releasing in a little gasp. No . . . no. . . .

He meets Xornoth's eyes, the world hazy.

There's no pity to be found in those dark pits. No mercy. Only satisfaction.

And Scott knows, right then and there, with a clarity that cuts through all the pain and haziness, that he's dying.

He failed.

He failed all of them.

And with a burst of hot power from Xornoth, Scott is once again flying through the air and then he's falling, down, down, the wind buffeting his back as he goes over the cliff, his right wing thrown uselessly this way and that as his left wing tries valiantly to save him but his weight is too much, and with a gross clunk and a white hot burst of pain, it slips out of the socket.

Before Scott can scream, before he can pray, before he can do anything but twist his body in the air to face nose down, he hits freezing water and blacks out.

The last thing he thinks, mind desperately spinning, is that at least he won't have to live so alone anymore.

His body aches, pulsing up and down, from the tips of his fingers to the ends of his toes, traveling up each limb and down each vein. Everything hurts, in ways that he can't quite understand.

The stag steps carefully through the forest, over gnarled tree roots and clumps of grass, each step rocking him from right to left.

Scott takes in a slow breath, body slumping further against the stag. The fingers of his right hand loosely grasp its hair, his left arm hanging at his side.

He just wants to fall asleep. He's so tired, and it all hurts so much that he can't even think. He just wants to sleep.

But he blinks slowly instead, watches as a squirrel skitters up the bark of a huge oak tree. A deer pokes its head out from behind a birch, its ears twitching curiously. Somewhere in the branches above, a chickadee sings its repeating song.

Scott lets his breath out in a long sigh. His body rolls with the slow trundle of the stag, jostling his various uncategorized wounds.

He swallows, throat dry.

Maybe he can sleep here. On the back of the stag. Let it carry him to wherever it intends to go.

He's so tired.

The ground below gets softer, bit by bit, the dirt becoming darker, the grass more frequent. The stag's hooves begin to leave impressions in the ground, the grass springing up after every step. A frog croaks from nearby, low and long. The leaves on the trees start hanging lower and lower, dripping down into puddles of murky water.

And then, the dirt now mud and squishing with every step, the stag stops.

Scott should see why it stopped. He should lift his pounding head, see what's before them, because surely if it's important enough to stop the stag he has to see what it is.

But he doesn't have the strength.

As his body is pushed, further and further—

After a long moment, the stag bends its neck, head dipping low in an arc, and Scott begins to slide forward, his fingers slipping from their limp grasp, his body leaving streaks of red in the brilliant white hair.

He slowly slides further, further, until he rolls between the stag's antlers, his tunic catching on a sharp antler and pulling a long tear down the side, before he slowly falls into a clear pool of water.

He sinks, red billowing up in the water around him—

Sinking, water filling his lungs, so much weighing him down and down—

Down and down, until his toes meet silty mud at the bottom.

He hangs there, in the water, letting it wash away his aches and pains and all the blood, and he sighs, bubbles spilling from his lips.

He's so tired.

A fish swims up to him—a cod—

Hands under his arms and pulling at his tunic, dragging him up onto a rocky shore scraping his back—

It noses at him, pokes him hard in the chest—

Pressing on his chest, harder and harder, again and again and it hurts—

And then swims up to between his eyes (it takes a moment to come back into focus) and stares at him, eyes large and somehow desperate.

And he sees, wavering in and out, desperate and beautiful brown eyes.

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whitherwordswither · 4 months ago

Text

05: Wrapped Up For Your Dreams, Again

Old Town, one of my favorite districts in the whole city. I had a lot of fond memories here. From hanging out at the local pizzeria and brew pub, to wandering aimlessly along the waterfront. The cherry blossoms in spring, late drunken summer nights and questionable choices.

Today, the streets were empty. Abandoned. That should have been somewhat concerning, but the sun was sparkling in the sky and a nice breeze was drifting along. It wasn't my focal point, so it didn't come off as out of place at all. My attention was glued on the two sophonts I was walking with.

These were friends I hadn't seen in I don't know how many years. We were idly chatting about our thoughts on the latest animatronic body horror jazz club ghost inception movie, Hyperbole, while we made our way toward one of the city parks. That was where Rachel's new house was. In a tree. She was very excited to have the owls over for tea and board games. My other friend, also Rachel, said we should all form a book club and read Derrida.

I wasn't sure he had all the words to keep the water wheel turning.

It wasn't long before I found myself losing focus, the Rachels faces becoming blank and featureless as their words turned from coherent to muffled gibberish. The world slowed and my vision tunneled toward an alley up ahead. All manner of vegetation and vines crept around the sides of the buildings, spilling out in to the streets like a thick viscous sewage from an old drain pipe. Pink and purple flowers blossomed between large, leafy fronds. Thorns pierced concrete and asphalt. Time froze. Everything aside from myself and the plant growth turned lifeless and gray, a scene of cement statues. My friends crumbled to dust.

The city followed suit in a cacophony of screaming birds. The vines beckoned patiently despite the collapse and chaos. I raced ahead to greet them as the dream destabilized behind me. They seemed delighted as they reached out, wrapping around my wrists and ankles, my waist, lifting me up and pulling me in to the alleyway. A very large, voluptuous venus flytrap was growing out of a pile of nondescript rubbish. It opened its maw in a yawn as I was brought toward it. I felt no fear response. No panic rose with bile in the back of my throat when the gaping mouth closed around me. The trigger hairs on the inside of the plant's lobe tickled my exposed skin and… I happily let it swallow me whole.

My next moments were spent tumbling down a membranous sinkhole of darkness, walls of silk squeezing around me, pushing. Further. Deeper.

The world turned upside down and inside out. Scenes and places from dreams I had superb recollections of… and also ones that I had forgotten through the years spiraled around me. I felt the distinct impression that I needed to choose one. I reached a hand out and grasped at the first scene that called to me. Ironically enough, it was a dream I had as a child. The setting was the house I had grown up in, my father's residence on the outskirts of the small town where Trimixthis had saved me from myself. The only difference was, in this dream, exactly as it had been before… the interior of the house was covered in wonderful and vivid flora. Small pools surrounded by crystals and minerals were in the spots in the living room where the furniture would have been. The windows still looked out over the deck and the pond below.

Thick fisherman's netting stretched across the arch leading to the kitchen, the island table strewn with all manner of urns, vases and pots of varying color. Succulents of all sorts grew, shivering and breathing in a more animate living state. The scene was so very surreal. I imagine I had chosen it because it reminded me of Trimixthis. It felt right.

And there they were. In the middle of the living room, connected with the dreamflora, smiling that strange and wondrous smile of theirs. I settled before them, looking up in to their all at once reflective yet depthless eyes, a few of their thinner vines caressing my cheeks and tracing the line of my jaw. When they spoke, it reverberated through the entire foundation, rippling outward. It made my skin crawl in a uniquely tantalizing way. "I am always amazed at how certain things remain so elegantly engrained in the human psyche. You haven't had this dream in…"

"Twenty-nine years or so…" I found myself answering, tethering on the entrails of their words.

"Fascinating, truly~" Trimixthis emitted what I took for an approximation of a chuckle as they smiled down at me.

A silence stretched between us, each caught momentarily admiring the other. I did notice a difference in the dreamscape then. It was much more than it had been, where as I only could recall the particulars of the scenery, how things looked and felt. Trimixthis presence seemed to add another level of life and flourish to it. Their song permeated through everything. If I wasn't careful I knew I would lose myself in that music, so I let my perception branch out… almost as if I could feel along their vines as they could. The house hummed its own song of being. Plants rustled in a calm wind that blew in through the open windows. The trickle of the stream that fed the pond and the bluegill grazing the surface of the water. Even the gentle sway of the large pines along the water's edge.

I ended up losing myself in a multitude of different songs until another rhythm broke me from my expanding absorption. A single vine tapped my left shoulder. I didn't notice it at first, but its continued persistence eventually brought me back to the living room and Trimixthis. They were still smiling. That same vine caressed my cheek. "My, my~ How easy you get tangled in the whirling essence of everything~"

I felt a heat rise on my cheeks as I dropped my gaze to the floor, hands idly occupying themselves with a still tendril that rested upon my lap. "Sorry," was all I could think to say.

"Don't be, sweetling. It's quite pleasant to observe. And quite a useful skill to have if you hone it correctly and not allow yourself to disperse in to obscurity." Trimixthis seemed to ponder something for a span of seconds. The notion was filed away as they shifted closer. "Earlier I asked if you had any questions. I believe you were a little too… wrapped up… to answer?"

My face scrunched in thought. Questions? I tried to retrace my morning despite the brainfog. Once I was able to pull apart the sparse memories of clothing myself and climbing up on to the couch where things really started to fuzz out, I found the inquiries I had not voiced at the time. They all jumbled together and came floundering out of my mouth at once. "Are we on… and the terminal… ship… space and… the doors lights?"

After that mess my mouth hung open in utter disbelief of its own transgression. How did words even? My brain hurt itself in its confusion.

The boisterous, beautiful sound that echoed through the dream was Trimixthis laughing. Flowers blossomed along their figure, vibrant and glowing. The sound carried on the wind and once more reverberated through the dreamland. They set a leaf beneath my chin and closed my mouth proper. "Oh, my stars… you darling thing~ Lets try that again. One at a time, shall we?"

Their vines smoothed through my hair and patted my head and I giggled sheepishly. It wasn't entirely my fault I was a pastiche of hazy recollections! But, oh what a joyous thing to feel their laughter. Every hair on my body stood on end. It was like being hugged by static that was giddy with warmth.

I cleared my throat with a nod and tried again to piece my words together in an order that would make sense for the both of us. "On… your terminal. There was a… ship. Departing…?"

"Yes. We are that ship. The terminal was displaying our trajectory leaving Earth. We should be arriving in orbit around Venus soon. I had Maraxus throttle our speed so we had time to get you a little more acclimated to things. I am afraid I have been… slightly careless with your xenodrug regimen. Honestly, I'm somewhat surprised you've maintained a modicum of self in all this. It was not my intention to foster an entirely vacant floret~ I only wished to pluck all the…" Their vines shifted much like I did with my hands when I couldn't conjure up the words I wanted right off the bat. "…unsavory petiole from your stem. Give you a… fresh start, so to speak."

I wondered about all that. Really. It took some effort, but a cursory poke around my addled mind revealed some disquieting blank spaces where I'm fairly sure, at some point prior to all this, existed… something. At the same time though, I wasn't overly concerned. The tiniest speck of a voice not unlike my own screeched pitifully from a far off void, begging for remembrance. I paid it no mind and even gave it the nudge it needed to plummet deeper and disappear. I didn't like the vibe it held. I didn't want to feel whatever it insisted I needed to feel. Instead, I beamed up at Trimixthis and clapped my hands together. "I thought never I'd get to going space!"

My head was patted again. I liked having my head pat. Trimixthis continued to smile. It was a such a lovely smile. "Chloe?"

"Yes?" I tilted my head and gazed up at them.

"Rephrase." They tapped my head once more.

Oh. Right. The words belonged in particular spaces in order to be understood. I licked my lips and thought real hard before allowing the words to leave my mouth again. This time though, I plucked them out of the air and arranged them accordingly. Because this was a dream and I could physically manifest my words if I felt like it! "I… thought… I would… never get to… go to… .." I hung on the last word, looking back over my sentence to make sure it was correct. "Space."

"Very good!" Trimixthis nodded. "I thought a nice trip off planet might be healthy for you. Now, do you want to know why we're traveling to Venus, sweetling?"

I had been curious about our destination. Venus was in no way shape or form hospitable for human life. But the affini were essentially plants, weren't they? Did Venus have something plants liked? A useful resource? I was trying my hardest to remember what compound Venus was in excess of, making strained little mouth noises as I tried to pluck the answer from the empty space between our bodies. Trimixthis pulled me on to their lap, and I cuddled up against them as I shrugged my shoulders, giving up. They seemed excited about it so all was well in my world.

"We've begun construction of an orbital platform for the collection of planetside resources. Primarily concerning the rich carbon dioxide in the atmosphere. Along with the sulfuric acids present in the cloud layers, these two compounds are highly beneficial to promoting cultivation. We've developed some lovely technology that allows us to utilize them in regenerative growth." They spoke as they let their vines worm around my dreambody, stroking and petting as they saw fit. "Carbon dioxide is by and large considered a waste product by your species, I believe. What is that cute little Earth saying? One organism's trash is another organism's treasure?"

My head bobbed with affirmation. Ah! Venus was rich in those things, wasn't it? Humanity, to my knowledge, had a passing interest in the second planet for a while. The abandoned HAVOC project from NASA came to mind. Which really hadn't gone past the theoretical stage… and after further discovery, any deep exploration ideas were scrapped for other ventures. I was intrigued by the idea of a station though, my brain immediately wandering off to dredge up fragmented memories of the first anime I'd ever seen in my grade school days that had featured an orbital ring that surrounded the Earth. Tekkaman Blade, I think it was. I wondered if I still had those DVDs somewhere…

"That is not an entirely incorrect vision of what it may come to look like, sweetling~" A light trilling fluttered in Trimixthis' throat.

I just blinked up at them. Wait. Could they read my…?

"Oh, petal~ We're in your mind. Of course I can. Silly thing." Their delightful laughter trickled across the scene, this time causing the vegetation to shift through an array of pleasing colors.

I guess that made sense. I wondered what the station was going to be like.

"Currently, there is a sizable portion that is cozy and habitable. More is being grown as we speak. I'm sure you will find it quite incredible! It is also, however, part of my job. I am an interface engineer. One of my primary duties is to make sure all our systems can connect and speak to one another. So I may become rather busy. But… not to worry." Trimixthis lifted me up above their head like a puppy, smiling up at me. I more or less dangled there and grinned down at them. "I have arranged for you to meet a number of playmates to keep you out of trouble while I'm working. While I am able to do most things remotely, I prefer onsite inspections when it comes to the more delicate bundles of sensory passthrough and~"

A distant chime sounded, something foreign. Trimixthis' attention was instantly pulled away. I could feel it. Like they were suddenly in another place, only faintly tethered to this dreamform. I tried to focus on the sound myself, because it felt so out of the ordinary. This just led to me getting caught up in the web of sensations, the flux and flow of the dreamscape like before and this time there was no tapping vine to bring me back from the ledge. I felt myself disconnect and dissipate in to the whole of everything. It would have been an ultimately strange experience had I been able to maintain cognitive recognition. Alas, the fog began to roll in through… the trees…?

I blinked, looking around. I found myself laying on a bed of soft, sweet smelling grasses in the clearing of a forest. Tiny yellow flowers dotted the small glade. I knew this place. It was usually a buffer space I envisioned on nights where I needed to coax myself to sleep. The trees stood like guardian silhouettes, the fog a comforting shroud.

Trimixthis was gone. I felt a bit of sadness that began to well in to an awful sense of desertion. Their song still echoed in some awkward proximity, but it wasn't quite enough. It was like the entire foundation of being had been suddenly ripped out from under me. I curled in to a ball and shut my eyes, rocking back and forth on my side as I began to hum the song. To keep it near. To not forget. I didn't want it to go. Why had they left me alone here?

The forest was beginning to not feel like the safety net it was supposed to be. I couldn't concentrate, the song fading by degrees. The abrupt snap of a twig had me bolting up and scanning the immediate area. Fear began to blossom within the tiny beads of sweat on my brow. I could wake up now, right? Please?

"Trimixthis…?" I whimpered under my breath.

Another twig snapped to my left and I whirled about in attempts to keep whatever it was in front of me. A huffed breath and a faint clicking noise echoed off the bodies of the trees. I couldn't tell where it was coming from. The temperature dropped like my mood, my breath expelled in wispy ghosts that drifted up toward the fractures of night sky barely glimpsed through the canopy before the fog grew more dense and only a few feet of grass remained visible.

I didn't like this at all.

A soft, almost chittering-like noise came from my right. I turned again, scrambling backward as a shape took form in the fog and crept closer. The chill I was feeling was pushed back by an intense warmth extruding from whatever it was. In its own way, it was calming and my rising panic was lulled to a more manageable state. I sat up on my knees, trying to wipe the fog away by waving my hands through the air. A futile effort. I just… I wanted to be able to see…

That thought alone spawned a decrease in the atmospheric obfuscation. Oh, big words. My brain was working.

Crouched no less than two feet before me was a creature I'd never seen before. Certainly nothing I'd ever dreamed up before, either. I tilted my head to one side and it mimicked the movement. The elongated muzzle curved with a toothy grin as we locked eyes. It had a very canine-esque appearance that was somewhere between a quadruped, giving the look of its hindlegs, and a full on anthropomorphic embodiment, noting the more humanoid forelegs. It brandished six limbs altogether. A slightly smaller set of arms accompanied their main pawsy-grabbers. It also had a rather short tail that barely touched the grass that was currently twitching back and forth. That was a good sign, right? Not that I should be applying terran-dog logic to this dream-canid. I took a breath and managed to find my voice. "Hello…?"

"Hello?" It repeated. The voice was strangely pleasant. Just this side of sultry. Playful even, with overtones of mischief. Or maybe I was projecting because of the uncanny way the entity was smiling at me. It had a double set of triangular ears and two antenna upon its head.

"Who… are you…?" I asked, and unsurprisingly, it echoed the inquiry right back at me.

When it moved forward I found myself frozen in place, either severely unwilling to take my eyes off of the creature, or entranced in its gaze. I couldn't determine which. It circled once around me, leaning in close to sniff as if we weren't in a dream and scent was real. Could you smell things in a dream? I wasn't sure if I ever had olfactory senses in any slumber-space.

The dream-dog-thing settled back in front of me, raising its forepaws and placing them under my chin, tilting my head up as it looked me over. It tilted its own head from side to side as if inspecting a specimen. It's front bappers were more like hands than paws, I noted. It's smile widened, and my eyes did the same. "M-m-my… wh-what um… sh-sharp teeth you have…"

I had always wanted to use that line in some version of reality. This was probably a good enough place as any for it to be utilized. Mostly because I had no idea what to say and had more or less just blurted it out as I remained motionless in the creature's hold. The smile faltered on its twitching lips before it leaned back and barked a laugh. Before I knew what was happening it had plopped on its haunches and wrapped all four arms around me in a tight hug as it cackled, one of the paws petting my head. A series of trill-growls, strained crackling squeaks and chuffing noises were made. It sounded like an organic dial-up modem. But then the caniform spoke.

"Eeehee~ Mixi said y'was aaaaah-durable~ Rrrright as usually, they is!"

My brain completely glossed over the usage of a nickname for Trimixthis as I wriggled in the canid's grip, managing to gain enough leverage to lean backwards in its arms. I rather wanted to look at it while I spoke than mumbling in to its… distractingly super soft chest-fluff. Which my hands were totally, definitely not playing in. So warm. So soft. So inviting! Oh, right. I needed to focus. "Heh… I don't know about… um… any of that, but. I'm…"

"Chloe, yessss? We are Viremia! Pleasurable greetings!" Any fear that had cropped up in the last few minutes was all but washed away at this point. The manner in which the entity spoke and enunciated was oddly uplifting. I quickly found its demeanor to be infectious, in a good way. Even stranger was my inability to keep my hands to myself, as if I needed to explore every soft nook and cranny of this awkward alien-canine-valley of fur. And the smell! It weaved between peony and roses and fresh earth and something else that was indescribably enjoyable to breathe in. I guess that answered my question of dream-scent.

I buried my face in Viremia's neck as we tangled together and flopped over on to the grass. Trimixthis had said there would be playmates. Was this one of them?

Viremia made a content murring noise, stretching out and allowing me to more or less entertain myself in the daze of sensations their body offered. "We's been assigned t'keeps ya company while Mixi dealsss with ssssomethin' came-up-bruptly like. If y'wants t'bein'in th' waking-place, jus' say words. Rrrf~"

A reply of mumbled nonsensical acknowledgement sputtered from my mouth, my brain simply registering that I had been given a wonderfully soft waggy-tail organism to snuggle with while Trimixthis was doing Trimixthis things.

I could absolutely live with this.

#writeblr #queer writers #writing community #human domestication guide #hdg #sci-fi #creative writing

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