#WHAT A TIME IN INCLINE GOD WAS SHINING ON ME | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

ikkyfics · 1 month ago

Note

Hello! I saw you writing for vronsky and I was wondering if I could make a request. :) Vronsky is like my comfort character so I was wondering if you could do; vronsky with wife that has a hard time eating; afraid that he might not find her attractive anymore or something. Ofc he notices whether that is that her dresses are suddenly getting too big for her or not remembering the last time they had dinner together.

If you don't feel comfortable writing this feel free to decline! Also don't push yourself to write!

Sending loveee!! (⁠ ⁠◜⁠‿⁠◝⁠ ⁠)

Perfect As You Are

Count Vronsky x fem!reader

Summary: "I just… I wanted to be perfect for you." He shook his head, his eyes shining with unshed tears. "You are already perfect for me. You always have been. You always will be."

Warnings: hurt&comfort, body image issues, fluffy - a madly in love Alexei showing how perfect his wife is

N/A: hey darling, i hope what i wrote can bring you some comfort when you read it <333 aaw, I made some small changes to the request, buuut nothing that changes things much - and i would like to say that each and every one of you are wonderful, so please be kind to yourself

Masterlist

The journey had been exhausting, and the month away felt like an eternity. Alexei Vronsky, usually impeccable in his composure, could hardly maintain it as the carriage drew closer to his estate. He had imagined this moment countless times, but now that he was mere steps away from seeing you again, his chest felt too small to hold the longing that had been building inside him.

Upon entering the house, he left the luggage to the servants and was greeted by the housekeeper. The woman hurried to welcome him, but Alexei raised his hand, courteous yet firm. “Dinner will be served in the bedroom tonight,” he said, his voice steady but laden with expectation. He didn’t intend to waste a single moment away from you. With that, he ascended the stairs briskly, seeking the one person who had occupied his thoughts from the moment he had departed.

When the bedroom door opened, you were there. And the entire world seemed to stop.

You turned at the sound of the door creaking, surprise flashing in your eyes before it was overtaken by something else: a mix of relief and emotion only he could evoke in you. Alexei stood before you, more striking than any memory your mind could conjure. The blue uniform you so admired looked as if it had been tailored specifically for him, every line and detail accentuating his natural elegance.

Before you could say anything, he was already by your side, crossing the room with a sense of urgency that made you forget how to breathe. His hands found your waist, and in an instant, he pulled you against his chest. The unmistakable scent you had missed so many nights enveloped your senses, and before you could even react, his lips captured yours.

The kiss was intense, a mixture of longing and need. Alexei didn’t seem inclined to hold back, every gesture of his conveying just how much he had yearned for this moment. He tilted his head, deepening the kiss, his hands sliding up your back as though he needed to feel every part of you to believe you were truly there, real and within his reach again.

“My God,” he murmured against your lips when he finally pulled back, just enough to catch his breath. “You have no idea how I dreamed of this… of you.” His thumb brushed against your cheek, and his gaze met yours with an intensity that made your knees weak.

You tried to speak, but the words wouldn’t come. He, however, seemed full of them.

“I thought I remembered everything,” he continued, his voice low and smooth, like a whisper meant only for you. “But I was wrong. Nothing I imagined could compare to you like this, standing before me—so beautiful… so mine.”

His words made your face burn, and you averted your eyes for a moment, unable to withstand the weight of his gaze. Alexei noticed, and a small smile played at the corner of his lips—that same disarming smile that always left you defenseless. He knew the effect he had on you, and he seemed to savor every second of it.

But then, something shifted. Alexei’s eyes, which had been locked on yours, began to drift, taking in details he hadn’t noticed at first. He saw how the dress that once hugged your figure now seemed slightly loose. Your shoulders appeared thinner, your collarbone more pronounced than he remembered, and there was a pallor to your face that wasn’t usual.

A faint furrow appeared between his brows, so subtle you almost missed it. But when he stepped back slightly to look at you more closely, the concern in his eyes was unmistakable.

“Alexei?” you asked, trying to sound casual, but your voice wavered, betraying the nervousness rising within you.

His gaze snapped back to yours, and the intensity from before gave way to poorly masked worry. He hesitated, as though searching for the right words. But before he could say anything, you rushed to shift the focus.

“You should have let me know you were coming,” you said, forcing a smile and stepping away slightly, as if trying to create some distance. “I would have prepared to greet you properly. The house is a mess, and look at me…”

You tried to laugh, but he didn’t. Instead, he took a step closer, closing the distance again, and his hand moved to your waist, stopping any attempt to escape.

“Look at you,” he repeated, his voice low, almost a whisper, but so heavy with emotion it made your stomach turn. He cradled your face with a tenderness that contrasted with his earlier urgency, and his eyes found yours again. “I am looking. And I see the most beautiful woman who’s ever existed.”

The sincerity in his voice was overwhelming, and you felt a tightness in your chest. You wanted to believe his words, but the insecurities that had grown in his absence wouldn’t disappear so easily.

Alexei tilted his head, his thumb tracing the line of your jaw as he spoke. “You are everything I thought you were… and more. No absence, no time, no distance could ever change that.”

His words had barely left his lips before Alexei stepped closer again, his hands finding your waist with a firmness that spoke of a fear you might slip away. Before you could formulate a response, he lowered his head, and his lips met yours once more.

This time, the kiss was more urgent, almost desperate. Alexei seemed determined to convey everything words could not: the longing that had consumed every day of his absence, the desire that only grew with every thought of you, the insatiable need to have you as close as humanly possible.

His hand slid up to your nape, fingers threading into your hair as he tilted his head, deepening the kiss. Your knees weakened under the intensity of the moment, and the only thing keeping you upright was his arm, still firmly wrapped around your waist, holding you as though the world depended on it.

"You have no idea how much I missed you," he murmured against your lips, his voice rough and laden with emotion, barely audible amidst the kisses he seemed unwilling to break.

You tried to respond, but it was impossible. He gave you no room for words, and, truthfully, you didn’t want to speak. Every touch of his was a confession, every movement a silent declaration. When his lips left yours only to trail along your jaw and down the curve of your neck, you closed your eyes, warmth coursing through your skin in waves.

“My God, I dreamed of this,” Alexei continued, his breath hot against your skin as his lips drew an almost reverent line along your neck. “Every night I spent away from you… All I wanted was to be here, with you, like this…”

His words were a mix of love and longing, each chosen as if to carve them into your very being. But there was something more. Even as his desire was palpable, there was a vulnerability in Alexei—a sense that he was trying to make up for lost time, to reassure himself that you were still his, as entirely as he was yours.

His fingers slid along your waist, moving up to the small space between your back and your dress, a touch that sent a shiver down your spine. You wanted to give in. To sink entirely into his passion, letting him chase away all the thoughts that had consumed you in recent days. But at the same time, the unease that had settled in your heart over the past months stirred like an unwelcome reminder.

“Alexei…” Your voice came out almost as a whisper, broken by the rapid rise and fall of your breath. He paused, his lips still close to your skin, before lifting his gaze to yours.

His eyes were dark, intense, but above all, they held a tenderness that always made your heart falter. He didn’t say anything, waiting, as he always did, allowing you to set the boundaries.

You gently pushed his hands away, your breath still unsteady, though you tried to mask your unease with a small smile. “You must be exhausted,” you said, your voice slightly shaky as you met his gaze. “You should bathe… and rest. Tomorrow, we’ll have more time together.”

Alexei’s brow furrowed slightly, confusion flickering across his features, but he stepped back. Even as the intensity still burned in his eyes, concern began to take its place.

“I waited for you for weeks, and now you want me to rest?” he asked, his tone almost playful, yet carrying a certain weight.

You smiled, looking away. “It’s because I want you to be well. Besides, I imagine the journey was long.”

For a moment, Alexei didn’t move, as if trying to decipher something in you. But then he sighed, always willing to respect the space you asked for, even if it pained him.

“As you wish,” he said at last, though before he released your waist entirely, he leaned in and pressed a lingering kiss to your forehead, tender and full of affection. “But know this, my love—I am not a patient man by nature. And my absence has only made it worse.”

Heat rose to your cheeks again, and Alexei’s lips curved into a faint smile as he noticed, a glimmer of mischief lighting his eyes before he stepped back completely.

“I’ll bathe, as you’ve asked,” he said, already heading for the door. “But as for resting… that depends entirely on you.”

He cast one last look over his shoulder, so full of longing and tenderness that your heart quickened all over again. And then he disappeared down the corridor, leaving you alone in the room, your lips still tingling from his touch and his words echoing in your mind.

The silence Alexei left behind as he exited seemed to echo through the room. You took a deep breath, trying to calm your racing heart, but the feeling of suffocation only seemed to grow. Hesitantly, you walked to the mirror in the corner of the room, almost fearing what you might find.

The image reflected back wasn’t comforting. Your eyes lingered on your narrow shoulders, now accentuated by the loose fabric of the dress. The outline of your collarbone seemed more pronounced, and your face sharper. But it wasn’t enough. It never was. Your gaze drifted to your waist, slimmer than it had been a few months ago, but still nowhere near the silhouettes of other women. Even the corset couldn’t fix the problem. You bit your lower lip, feeling a knot tighten in your chest.

He didn’t notice, you tried convincing yourself. Or, if he did, he said nothing because he loves you, because he’s happy to finally be home. But what would happen when that initial happiness wore off? When he started noticing the details?

The memory of Alexei talking about the ladies he encountered at social events came to mind like a restless ghost. He’d never said anything malicious, but his comments — “a charming young woman, slender like a ballerina” — lingered in your thoughts. And now, standing before the mirror, you felt as if you’d never be enough.

Still, he had come back. He loved you, didn’t he? You closed your eyes, taking a deep breath, trying to cling to the happiness you should feel for his presence, but the tightness in your chest refused to subside.

Several minutes passed before you heard the sound of the bathroom door opening. Turning, you saw Alexei standing in the doorway, and the sight made your heart falter.

He was no longer in his uniform, but the simple clothing — a white shirt open at the collar, revealing part of his chest, and linen trousers — did nothing to diminish his presence. If anything, there was something so intimately seductive about the way his damp hair fell messily across his face, a few strands sticking to his forehead.

You couldn’t help yourself. Your eyes traced the outline of his chest, the line of his jaw, the way the muscles in his arms were evident even beneath the simplicity of his attire. He was absolutely stunning, and the heat rose to your face before you could stop it.

“Admiring me, kroshka?” His voice pulled you from your thoughts, low and teasing, with a satisfied smile playing on his lips.

You opened your mouth to deny it, but the look in his eyes told you he knew exactly the effect he had on you.

“No need to explain yourself,” he continued, walking toward you slowly, each step filled with a natural confidence that always left you breathless. “I remember very well how much you like looking at me like that.”

“Alexei…” you began, trying to sound reproachful, but his name came out more as a sigh than anything else.

“Yes?” He stopped right in front of you, so close you could feel the warmth radiating from his skin. One of his hands rose to your face, his fingers gently tracing the curve of your jaw before holding your chin, tilting it slightly so you had no choice but to look at him.

His eyes were locked on yours, and the smile he wore now was different—less playful, more serious, almost possessive. “You have no idea how beautiful it is to come home and find you here,” he murmured, his fingers still holding your face with tenderness.

Before he could say more, the sound of knocking at the door interrupted the moment. You instinctively stepped back, your heart racing for an entirely different reason. Alexei frowned slightly but turned toward the door with a casual ease.

“Come in,” he called, his voice returning to its usual calm, authoritative tone.

The door opened to reveal a maid carrying a tray. She seemed slightly nervous upon seeing Alexei there, but he only offered her a faint smile, a gesture that seemed to ease any tension.

“Leave it here, please,” he said, motioning to the small table near the fireplace.

The maid obeyed quickly, setting the tray down before offering a slight bow and leaving, closing the door behind her.

Alexei turned back to you, his smile now softer. “I asked for dinner to be served here,” he explained, his eyes gleaming with a mixture of affection and mischief. “I want to savor every moment with you, uninterrupted.”

You tried to smile, but the weight in your chest didn’t completely lift. Still, when he extended his hand to you, there was something so earnest in his gaze that you couldn’t bring yourself to refuse.

You sat at the small table with Alexei, the aroma of dinner spreading through the room. He was seated directly across from you, so close that his presence was almost palpable, yet his gaze was even more intense. Alexei didn’t hide it; he was watching you, examining every detail with a focus that was both endearing and unsettling.

“Try this,” he suggested, carefully placing a piece of the nearest dish on your plate. “It reminds me of something you liked when we were in Moscow. I had it specially prepared for you.”

You smiled, or at least you tried to. The happiness of having him back and the guilt of not fully meeting his expectations waged a silent battle within you. You picked up your fork with slightly trembling fingers, brought a small bite to your lips, but as you chewed, something felt off. It wasn’t the taste—it was the sensation, as though the simple act of eating was something your body refused to cooperate with.

Alexei noticed. He always noticed.

“You don’t like it?” he asked, his tone casual, though a flicker of suspicion underlined his words.

“No, it’s wonderful,” you replied quickly, trying to sound convincing. “I just… ate earlier, I suppose I’m not that hungry.”

He nodded slowly, but his eyes didn’t leave yours. “I see.”

Dinner continued—or rather, he ate while you barely touched your plate. Your posture remained stiff, shoulders tense, your movements restricted by the corset pressing tightly against your ribs, making every breath feel deliberate. You tried to focus on Alexei, on the small stories he shared about his trip, but even that felt heavy.

“Are you all right?” he asked suddenly, breaking the brief silence that had settled between you.

“I’m fine,” you answered too quickly, with a smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes. “Just tired. You know how hectic these past weeks have been.”

His eyes narrowed slightly, and you knew Alexei wasn’t convinced. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table, his gaze pinning you in place as if trying to unravel you.

“You’ve barely touched your food,” he said softly but firmly. “And there’s… something different about you.”

You averted your eyes, your heart hammering in your chest. “Alexei, please don’t start. You just got back, and I want to enjoy this moment, not turn it into something uncomfortable.”

“Uncomfortable?” His brows furrowed, irritation flickering in his expression, though concern softened his voice. “What’s uncomfortable for me, kroshka, is seeing you like this and not knowing why.”

“Like what?” you shot back, trying to sound defiant, but the tremor in your voice betrayed any semblance of strength.

“Thinner. More… distant.” He gestured toward you with a subtle motion, his strong fingers seeming to hesitate. “You’re trembling. You can’t even eat. What happened while I was away?”

“I told you, I’m just tired,” you insisted, trying once more to avoid his gaze, but he wouldn’t allow it. Alexei stood, moving around the table until he was kneeling beside you, his commanding presence somehow feeling tender in that vulnerable position.

He took your hand, his fingers warm as they enclosed yours, firm yet gentle. “Please, tell me the truth. Don’t hide this from me.”

Your chest tightened at the intensity in his eyes, the rare vulnerability Alexei almost never allowed to show. He was always the strong, confident man, but here, kneeling before you, there was something almost desperate in his posture.

“Alexei…” you began, your voice wavering. “It’s just… I just wanted…”

He tilted his head slightly, his gaze locked onto yours, patient yet urging.

“I wanted to be enough,” you finally confessed, the words slipping out before you could stop them.

The silence that followed was deafening. Alexei remained still, but you could see the way his jaw tightened, his eyes darkening with a mixture of emotions you couldn’t fully decipher.

“Enough?” he echoed, his voice so low it was barely a whisper. “You think you’re not enough for me?”

You didn’t respond immediately, unable to meet his gaze. But Alexei wouldn’t allow the distance. He lifted your hand to his lips, pressing a long, warm kiss to your trembling fingers.

“Look at me,” he commanded softly, though there was undeniable intensity in his tone. When you finally obeyed, his eyes burned with something that looked like anger—but not at you.

“You are everything to me,” he declared, his voice rough with emotion. “Everything. And it hurts me to think you spent even one moment believing you weren’t enough.”

His words, the passion in his eyes, hit you like a blow straight to the chest. Tears threatened to spill, but you held them back, shaking your head slightly. “You don’t understand… all those women you meet, so… so…”

“So irrelevant,” he interrupted, his voice growing firm again. “So insignificant compared to you. I could be surrounded by a thousand of them, and none would come close to you.”

He leaned closer, his face inches from yours, his words a warm caress against your skin. “If something about you has changed, it’s not because I wished it. Not because I wanted it.”

Alexei remained kneeling in front of you, as though the ground was the only place where he could bear the weight of what he was hearing. His eyes, always so full of an almost arrogant confidence, now held something that bordered on desperation.

"You don't understand," you murmured, your voice low and hesitant. "I just… I didn’t want you to look at me and see someone lesser. There are so many women out there, so… perfect. And I—"

"Stop that," he interrupted, his voice firmer now, though no less gentle. He leaned forward, taking your hands in his, his grip steady and grounding. "I’ve told you before, kroshka. You are everything. There is no one who can compare to you. Not in beauty, not in strength, not in anything."

You tried to look away, but Alexei wouldn’t allow it. One of his hands rose to your face, his thumb brushing over your cheek with a tenderness so profound it felt as though it could break down every wall you'd built.

"Please, tell me you know this," he implored, his voice trembling slightly. "Tell me that, deep down, you know how precious you are to me."

The tears you’d been holding back began to surface, burning at your eyes, but you shook your head stubbornly. "I wanted to be better," you whispered, the words bitter as they left your lips. "I wanted to be everything you deserve."

Alexei took a deep breath, closing his eyes for a moment as though steadying himself against a torrent of emotions. When he opened them again, they burned with unshakable resolve.

"You don’t need to be anything but who you are," he said, his voice firmer now, though still laced with tenderness. He leaned closer, his hands cradling your face as his gaze bore into yours. "And if anyone dared make you feel otherwise, tell me, because I—"

Before he could finish, a sob escaped your throat. You tried to stifle it, but it was too late. The tears began to fall, and the weight of the pain you’d been hiding finally broke free.

"Alexei, I’m so sorry," you cried, your shoulders shaking as the words spilled out between your sobs. "I just… I didn’t know how—"

He didn’t wait for you to finish. Alexei pulled you into his arms, enveloping you with such care and tenderness it was almost overwhelming. Your face pressed against his chest, the steady thrum of his heartbeat grounding you as his hand moved gently along your back.

"Shhh, moya lyubov’, it’s okay," he whispered against your hair. "It’s okay now. I’m here."

But as he held you, the trembling in your body and the uneven rhythm of your breathing became impossible to ignore. It was as though each inhale was a struggle, the corset squeezing the air from your lungs and turning every movement into an act of endurance.

"You can barely breathe," he said suddenly, the worry flooding his voice. He pulled back just enough to look at you, his hands steady but his eyes brimming with concern as they scanned your face and frame.

"Alexei, what are you—" you began, but he was already undoing the ties of your corset, his fingers moving with the precision of someone who had done this countless times before.

"Stay still," he instructed, his voice low but commanding. "I need to get this off now."

"But—"

"No buts," he cut in, his eyes gleaming with a mixture of determination and worry.

The bindings began to loosen, and as the pressure around your torso released, relief flooded through your body, accompanied by a sense of raw vulnerability. When Alexei finally removed the corset completely, he sat back slightly, his gaze falling on what the fabric had hidden.

His eyes widened, shock and pain darkening his features. The deep red marks left by the constriction seemed to haunt him, his normally steady hands trembling slightly as they ghosted over the impressions on your skin, careful not to hurt you further.

"My God," he murmured, almost to himself. "What have you done to yourself?"

You tried to speak, but the words wouldn’t come. The lump in your throat was too large, the shame too overwhelming.

"Why?" Alexei asked, his voice breaking as his eyes found yours again. The anguish in his tone was almost unbearable. "Why, kroshka? What made you think you needed to do this?"

The tears returned, but this time, you didn’t hold them back. Alexei leaned in closer, his forehead resting against yours as his fingers traced the marks softly, as though trying to erase them with his touch.

"I failed you," he whispered, his voice thick with guilt. "Somehow, I failed you, and you suffered for it."

"No, Alexei, it’s not your fault," you managed, your voice trembling. "I just… I wanted to be perfect for you."

He shook his head, his eyes shining with unshed tears. "You are already perfect for me. You always have been. You always will be."

The weight of his words, the intensity of his gaze, filled the space between you, every touch and every whispered assurance brimming with raw emotion. Alexei pulled you back into his embrace, holding you as though he could shield you from any pain, even if he couldn’t undo what had already been done.

"I will never let you feel this way again," he vowed, his voice steady despite the emotion. "Never again, moya lyubov’. I swear it."

Alexei held you with a tenderness that seemed meant to mend all the broken pieces inside you. He pulled you close again, as if wanting to erase any distance—physical or emotional—between you. The warmth of his body was a silent reminder that you weren’t alone, that you had never been, even in the moments when your heart insisted otherwise.

His fingers continued tracing invisible lines across your skin, now free from the suffocating grip of the corset. Each touch was delicate, almost reverent, as if he wanted to ensure you understood just how precious you were to him.

“You have no idea how much it hurts me to know you felt this way,” Alexei said, his voice low but filled with emotion. He pulled back just enough to look at you, his blue eyes shining softly in the room’s light. “And worse, to know you did this to yourself because of me.”

“Alexei…” you tried to protest, but he shook his head, a sad smile curving his lips.

“Let me finish,” he gently requested. “Because I need you to understand.”

His eyes roamed your face, as though he were committing every detail to memory. The way his golden hair fell slightly over his forehead made him seem almost unreal, like he had stepped out of a painting. The intensity in his blue eyes was undeniable, as if every word he spoke came from a deep, unwavering place inside him.

“I will never stop wanting you,” he said, his voice soft but laden with sincerity. “No matter how you see yourself, no matter what you think needs changing. To me, you are perfect exactly as you are.”

Your face warmed under the weight of his gaze, and you looked away, trying to suppress the flush rising to your cheeks. But Alexei chuckled softly, a warm sound that wrapped around you like a blanket.

“Don’t look away from me now, kroshka,” he teased, tilting his head to capture your gaze again. “I want to see those flushed cheeks. They’re one of my favorite things about you.”

“You talk too much,” you murmured, your voice tinged with a rare shyness.

“And you deserve every word,” he replied without hesitation, a smile spreading across his face in a way that stole the breath from your lungs.

His fingers rose to gently caress your cheek again, his eyes studying every nuance of your expression. “I could stay here for hours, just looking at you. Do you have any idea how beautiful you are to me? How every little detail makes me want to be closer?”

You bit your lip, trying to stifle the smile threatening to break free. There was something about the way he spoke—so direct, so earnest—that made it impossible not to believe him.

“Alexei,” you began, but he tilted his head and pressed a kiss to your forehead, cutting off your protest.

“You’re the only thing that matters to me,” he murmured against your skin, his lips warm and sending a shiver down your spine. “Nothing in the world could make me want someone else. Not your appearance, not your attitude, nothing. I love you, kroshka, exactly as you are. And if you ever doubt that again, I’ll spend the rest of my life proving otherwise.”

His words washed over you like a tide, enveloping you completely. You couldn’t help it; tears filled your eyes again, but this time they weren’t born of pain or sadness. They were tears of relief, of joy, of something deeper than you could name.

He smiled as he noticed, leaning in to press another kiss, this time to the corners of your eyes, as if capturing each tear before it could fall.

“See?” he murmured, his voice dripping with tenderness. “Even when you cry, you’re beautiful.”

You let out a shaky laugh, lightly pushing his shoulder in an attempt to hide your bashfulness, but Alexei only laughed again, a warm sound that seemed to light up the entire room.

“I love when you try to hide it,” he teased, his eyes glinting with what could only be described as pure adoration. “But you don’t have to. Not with me.”

The way he looked at you, as if you were the only thing that mattered in the world, was almost unbearable in its intensity. But at the same time, it was comforting. It felt, for the first time, like you could let go of all your insecurities and simply be.

When he pulled you back into his arms, you found yourself relaxing against him, your heart slowing to a calmer rhythm. The warmth of his body, the safety of his embrace, the softness of his words… everything felt right, as if this was exactly where you were meant to be.

“Promise me you’ll never hide from me again,” Alexei softly requested, his lips close to your ear. “Promise that next time something weighs on you, you’ll let me carry it with you.”

“I promise,” you replied, your voice quiet but genuine.

And there, in his arms, as the night wrapped around you in its tranquil embrace, you felt like you could finally believe it.

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godhandler · 3 months ago

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underground boxer!geto x always-bets-on-him!gojo

“Gonna meet him today at least, champion?” Shiu, boxing manager ever unflappable, leans against the lockers. Cigarette butts, mannerless spit, crushed energy drink cans, orphaned underwear littered about the dingy greenroom. Showbizz cheapness. Suguru doesn’t look like he belongs here. You don't, Shiu had told him, pressed-shirt schoolboy who’d showed up to fight for a couple hundred yen. Grab the money and fuck off the second you can.

Suguru’s hair is longer now. College scholarship, parents he doesn’t talk to, steady paycheck from the steady boxing wins. Right now, Suguru wipes the sweat off his shoulders and re-fixes his bun. Fine then, if you don’t want to leave. Go professional, kid. You’ve got what it takes. Shiu still doesn’t get it, does he? That Suguru Geto enjoys it? The disgusting stale-sweat smell, the filthy betters, the peanut baskets and the puking outside the rails? Growing pains, he calls it, the genuine delight of broken ribs and bloody mouths writhing on the ground of the ring, begging for his mercy, the crowd chanting his name, calls for execution, the god-like adrenaline of the moment?

Suguru would sooner acknowledge that private tinge of insane evil in his constitution than leave the underground arena where he indulges in it.

“Hey, boy!” Shiu snaps his fingers. “I said, Gojo-sama’s outside again. I’m telling you, meet him once, it’ll be good for us all.”

“Didn’t you tell me not to mess with the rich folks?” Suguru is adamant. “Heir of the Gojo clan? Nah, he’ll want some weird shit. For the last time, Shiu, I’m not gonna fuck any of their ugly asses.”

Shiu drops and crushes his cigarette out with his shoe.

“Or their wives either. Now,” Suguru pulls his sweatshirt on. For a famous (as in, famous within the wrong circles) underground boxer, he had his head on straight. “Pay me out and clock me out. I’m gonna soak in an sauna, Nanami fucked my right arm up.”

“Some rinky-dinky sauna like this room? I own a better one, you know?” Young Satoru Gojo, peeping uninvited through the door, wasn't of the sort to cast favourable first impressions. Or the second, or the third, to be honest. He was of the sort to rely on his dashing doll-shine looks and wallet fatter than Somalia’s GDP to overcome his personality. Unfortunately, Suguru Geto wasn’t so inclined.

“Is knocking going out of fashion, sh–?”

“– Gojo-sama! What an honour!” Shiu bowed politely. He didn’t like Gojo any better than Geto did, but at his age, he could smell the money (and beer) on the heir. He plays this correctly and he’ll be vacationing in Majorca next week. “I suppose you two boys haven’t met each other?”

“Satoru Gojo, big fan.” Hand extended, teeth-fangs grinning.

Impolite. Annoying, Suguru assessed. Interesting. “Suguru Geto, thanks.” Firm handshake. Confident…too confident.

“Would you want a good sauna? I could take you to one in Shinjuku, it’s a bit late but hey, you’ve made me a fortune today!” Gojo pats his pocket happily, a dull rustle of stashed cash.

Just like the others. Typical. If Suguru was even a little interested in Satoru, that was the end of it. “Pardon me, but I haven’t the time tonight.” And just to twist the knife further into the boy’s falling smile, he added, “Other patrons, you see.”

Suguru packed his duffle bag up and left. The air out the arena was cold, the feeling of Satoru’s eyes watching him everywhere.

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kayharrisons · 1 month ago

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enchanted to meet you [Louis x fem!Reader]

You're not sure what you've ever done to make him hate you. Louis is convinced he's doomed to suffer (pine) in silence.

A/N: branched out for a quick cutesy drabble bc Louis is POOKIE BABY so have this lil Tell Me Everything drabble 🤭 I've also only seen one episode LMAO so if anyone is outta character then my bad!!

Warnings: fireworks, underage drinking!

You're pretty sure Louis hates you.

You're not sure what you've ever done to your classmate beyond be friendly, and Zia constantly reassures you that you've done nothing wrong, babes.

But he never looks at you. Always gives you one word replies and lets silences hang on to the point of it being incredibly fucking awkward, where he will then flee back to Neve or Jonny, the former of whom will shoot you an apologetic smile and the latter who will roll his eyes and say something that gets Louis's face a bright red.

You wrack through your interactions with him constantly, trying to figure out where you went so wrong with him.

\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/

Louis wants to jump off of the nearest fucking bridge.

He speeds away from you, you with your cute hair, your twinkling eyes, your toothy smile, the way your jeans hug your-

He groans, hiding his face in Neve's shoulder as he slumps beside her on the couch, face burning with embarrassment.

"How many words did you manage this time?" Neve asks him, patting his head. Meekly, he holds up three fingers. She hisses a little through her teeth. "Jesus, Louis. Regressing a bit, aintcha?"

He hears Jonny laugh as he sits across from them. "I'm tellin' ya, mate," his friend slurs, grinning at him. "Just gotta act like you've fucked more girls than you already have. Remind me again, what's that number at now?"

"Horrid advice," Neve snips, shooting him the finger. Jonny gasps sarcastically, holding a hand to his chest. "Ignore him, for the love of all that's fucking holy, Louis."

He was planning on it!

"It's remarkable, actually," Louis sighs as he pulls his head out of Neve's shoulder. "I'm so shit at talking to her. The words just- jesus christ they're stuck. I don't think I've ever actually told her my name and- she probably thinks I'm so fucking dumb or something, coming up to her and not saying a word and just fucking walking off-"

"Every time, without fail." Jonny smirks, taking a sip of his beer. "It's actually quite impressive."

"Cheers, mate," Louis seethes, jumping at the sound of a boom outside, at the bright colours filling up the living room.

"Oooh, they've got the fireworks going! C'mon!" Neve grins, tugging both boys up and out the door, just as the next firework goes off. The trio watch the fireworks illuminate the chilly night air, a kaleidoscope of colours against the dark November sky.

You're shivering.

He can't help the way his eyes always seem to fall on you, instinctively seeking you out.

You don't have a coat.

You're shivering because you don't have a coat.

His feet are moving towards you on autopilot, already shrugging off his flannel and praying to god he hadn't been sweating in the damn thing.

"Oh!" You jump, as a flannel is shoved into your periphery by a trembling hand. "Hey, Louis," you smile, and his throat bobs hard as he swallows.

"Cold?" He asks, inclining his head towards the way you rub your arms.

"Oh! Yeah, a bit, jacket's somewhere inside, but uh... might sound stupid, I didn't wanna miss the fireworks.

"It's not stupid," he says gently, and you turn to face him, grinning wide and eyes shining. He damn near collapses at the sight, heart pitter pattering in his chest.

"So you can say more than one word at a time!"

Louis stammers, face going pink with embarrassment, illuminated by the sparks exploding above the party. You giggle, taking the flannel from him and sliding your arms through the sleeves.

"Sorry, sorry. Thanks for this," you grin, wrapping the flannel tight around you.

"...I'm Louis." He says, somewhat helplessly, his eyes soon screwing shut with embarrassment.

You smile gently, taking half a step closer. "I know," you hum, looking up at the fireworks. "I've fancied you for two years."

"You what?" Comes his squeak, blue eyes round with horror. "I- you mean to tell me you fancied me back-"

"Fancy, present tense. But I didn't realise you-" you blink up at him, surprise covering your face. "I thought you hated me-?"

"What? No! Do I look stupid?" He asks, before pausing, smiling sheepishly. "I'm not, I promise. I just... I've been told I'm a little socially awkward."

"You? Socially awkward? No!" You gasp sarcastically, to which he smiles and ducks his head down.

"Deserved that, didn't I?"

"Little bit." You grin, rubbing your neck, watching his face as it's illuminated blue, then gold, then pink. "For what it's worth, Louis, it's nice to finally meet you."

He looks at you then, a smile tugging at the lefthand corner of his lips.

He's fucking freezing. It's November, after all. But as he looks at you, in his flannel, your eyes sparkling brighter than the fireworks...

God, is it fucking worth it.

#spike fearn #tell me everything #louis tell me everything #louis green #louis green x reader #louis x reader #tell me everything itv

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mara-xx217 · 4 months ago

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"Where you go..." (The Unknown/Fem!Reader DbD Commission)

A commission for @hexheathen. A sequel to A Grave Misunderstanding.

It wants you. Why, you don't know, and maybe you'll never be able to understand, but there's no way that something like the Unknown could ever feel something akin to care for another creature, especially for a human being such as yourself, right?

Right?

xxx

Terror and horror had twisted your perception of time and state of being. What you saw slump out of your bedroom, covered in the blood of your boyfriend and in a shape that was unrecognizable as human or any other creature that you have ever seen with your own eyes or could possibly imagine within your mind.

Was it trying to mimic the human form, or was it a blatant mockery?

Limbs elongated, twisted, contorted. A neck that was broken, skin wrung almost to the point of splitting, bloodless and yellowed through leaking fat. Purple veins criss-crossed across every inch of the creature’s body, not raised but merely resting under the surface, almost delicate in spite of the skin being bloated and soft, as though it would slough off its bones in wet chunks. Every slight movement elicited a symphony of pops, cracks and sounds of joints and tendons straining against the confines of the creature’s body…

That smile…

Everything was a blur except for its body. You don’t remember blinking or even breathing until the blare of a horn shocked you out of your stupor. No longer in your house, you were in the middle of the road, palms collapsed onto the hood of a car that nearly ran you over as you ran screaming through the streets. Even then, you only stare in shocked awe, as though you had never seen such a thing before in your entire life.

Sound was only muffled air on your ears, giving you no inclination of what it even could be. Voices were foreign, practically alien to your ears, and the high pitched whining of police sirens reminded you of a near deafening sound you thought you heard as you escaped from that thing.

“...?”

“....”

“...?”

You stared at the opposite side of the road, where the street met the pavement. Your pupils painfully constrict as a light shines in your eyes, causing you to wince and hiss in pain as you blinked.

“What is your name?”

“W-What…?” Hearing another human voice made your skin crawl.

Was it real or was it another mimicry?

“H-He’s- You need to- to go to my house! He might s-still be- Fuck, I hope he’s-” You couldn’t get the words out. You wanted to tell the police to hurry up, to save your boyfriend, to get that- that thing before it escapes but you already knew it was utterly useless.

“Calm down and talk to us, okay? What is your name? Are you injured? You are covered in blood.” What-?

You look down at your body and instantly you feel your nervous system revolt against you.

A blood curdling scream echoes through the early morning streets of Greenville. The only thing that you could hear was that low, incessant whine that you kept hearing over and over again, the only thing you could focus on being the dark stains that not only stretched up from the bottom of your pants legs all the way to your knees but that was also on your hands and arms, smeared all over the chest of your lightly coloured uniform’s shirt.

“No- No-! N-NO! NOOO! STOP IT! STOP IT! STOP IT!!!”

You fought and were wrestled to the ground, ultimately restrained to a stretcher and hauled into the back of an ambulance. Your arm stung. Your body felt hot and the sounds around you began to fade once again, all but that terrible noise that wouldn’t leave your ears. Ringing, squealing, singing. Your body was forced to relax but your mind continued to race, even as everything became muddled and confused.

“Relax… Relax… I didn’t mean nothing by it, baby…”

“I thought- you wanted it?”

“P-Please… C-Come! PLEASE! …don’t leave me here…”

“You’re probably one of the only people to actually talk to me, you know-?”

God.

Please-

You can’t hear the hospital staff talking to you. All you can do is focus wide-eyed in terror as your tinnitus worsened with each passing hour. You never noticed it before, when talking to it. It was there though, a soft noise, barely noticeable, perhaps totally unperceivable to the human ear but now it was utterly deafening. There it is, a tap, tap, TAP that grows louder each time the metal frame is struck. From the side? From underneath? No one notices this, only you, and they try to focus your attention on them.

“...?”

“....”

They turn away. No, no! Don’t leave! DON’T LEAVE-!

THUD!

…ringing.

This can’t be happening, right? This isn’t happening…

“...hey?”

It’s not happening.

“Hey- It’s not funny!”

This is a bad dream.

“Hello-?”

And you’re going to walk up any second.

“Why- aren’t you answering me?!”

Probably back at the movie theater.

“...why…?”

At your shitty job.

“Why are you- doing this to me?!”

And your shitty boyfriend is at home, alive and well and ready to ignore your existence.

“What did- I ever do to you?!”

All will be okay when you just wake up!

“Please-”

Wake up.

“I’m sorry… -just stop-”

Wake up…

“PLEASE-!!!”

WAKE UP!!!

Everything changed. The blaring white fluorescent lights flickered and dimmed, until everything around you faded into light grey, then grey, then to utter blackness. There was… Nothing.

Nothing.

No. There was you. There was something else, too. No hospital room, no bed, no I.V., no restraints, nothing else but you and it, somewhere in the darkness, obscured by something or perhaps so terrible to behold you didn’t even realize you were looking at it until things began to slowly bleed back into your vision.

The place you were taken to wasn’t your home, but it was. Another imitation, so far from the real thing that you couldn’t see it as anything other than a cruel joke. Was this what hell was like? To suffer in a place so familiar but lacking in all the warmth and comfort that it once provided. The blood splatters were gone but a darkness remained there that you refused to cross. You didn’t want to be in that room, where he- where h-he- but you couldn’t bring yourself to walk across the floor.

It was everywhere.

Everything was tainted. This place wasn’t your home. Was it even anywhere? It was so dark you could barely see, but you could always see it, whenever it lurked close by.

And it always did.

“Hey- Hey-”

“...ut up.”

“Hey- Hey, you there-”

“...shut up-!”

You covered your hand over your ears as you heard your own voice be parroted back at you. God, you are so fucking stupid- How could you think you could trust something that always hid itself in the dark?! How could you trust-?!

“Hey-”

It was more distorted this time, sending a chill down your spine. Perceiving your upset, it tried to change its approach. To be more honest? To try to get you to lower your guard again? You were at its mercy, and yet it didn’t try to kill you, like the stories all claimed that the Unknown creature would do to the victims that it would take to… wherever this place was.

“Please just stop-” Your voice came out in a barely audible whisper. Tears fell from your eyes freely, only freezing along with your breath as you heard that sickening popping sound and the scraping of fingernails against the wood floor.

Here it comes again-!

You screwed your eyes shut as gnarled fingers appeared from underneath the bed. You draw your knees to your chest and try to hide your feet underneath your body, as though that is what would matter when it came to the boogeyman that threatened to take you away. The Unknown thing didn’t really breathe, but it pretended to, though if it was trying to do it for your benefit it only made you more on edge as it was wheezing in labor.

“Hey… Can you help me?” Its tone warbled, as though spoken with vocal cords that were ill suited to speaking the human language. You heard it shuffling, pulling itself out from underneath the bed and positioning itself directly in front of you so there was nowhere for you to run.

“W-Why…? You- You- I thought that…” You felt a bitter chuckle rise to the back of your throat. You squeeze your eyes tightly, tears streaming down your cheeks as you try to will this madness away.

“I thought that you were my friend.”

“...”

The silence was deafening. Bones cracked as the Unknown shifted in place, or perhaps it recoiled, as though struck. Its body settled again, as though sagging, slumped upon hearing those hurtful words.

Are you really supposed to care what it feels?

“...-didn’t mean for this to happen-”

“SHUT UP!!!”

You cry out and cover your ears as the ringing becomes too much to bear. Your head-! It’s going to fucking explode! You can’t hear yourself scream as your leg is touched by a twisted hand. The touch was fleeting, gentle, like knuckles brushing against your skin, but it is retracted the second you curl in on yourself and begin to sob.

Its presence shrinks away, though it doesn't disappear. You don’t know how long it lasts, but your tinnitus begins to fade, though it was also a part of you now and wouldn’t leave you. What did it even want with you…? Does it really… care about you? How could it think that killing would make you happy…? The wood floors began to smooth, changing as though it grew longer, until there was nothing at all left underneath you. The Unknown doesn’t try to pretend to breathe anymore, letting the nothingness consume the panicked breaths that left your lungs so that it fell back to silence the moment they left your mouth.

You had nearly forgotten just how crushing silence could be. How could you have forgotten such a thing with it around? It… It was kind to you. The Unknown was… kind. Was it real? No, it was a killer! It murdered your boyfriend and expected you to be… what? Happy? Relieved? It couldn’t possibly understand what you wanted, what humans wanted, so why bother trying?

Why… Did it try to please you?

It was something you couldn’t reconcile. It wanted to hurt you, you told yourself. It wanted to torment you, you thought. Something like this, so utterly inhuman couldn’t comprehend something like kindness, or friendship or- or-

Love.

You felt it touching you again, and while you withdrew, it chased you this time. Touching your leg, gently, tracing up and down your shin as though trying to coax something out of you. Maybe… Maybe you felt something. You were still so angry at it. So, so angry for killing him… But yet… you found yourself pulling away from its touch less and less. You were becoming more tired than you were angry… You told yourself that you were just waiting for it to grow tired of you, for it to kill you, like it did your boyfriend. Your shoulders sagged and you felt bitter resignation take hold of you.

“Would you like to- to see- the stars?”

The tightness that held your eyes shut had already been waning, but now they slipped open in spite of the halfhearted effort you used to keep the shut. You stared at your knees, heart pounding in your throat as you could make out the Unknown’s misshapen body in your peripheral vision.

“W-What…?” Your throat squeezed as you spoke. The Unknown shifted in place, as though it was cocking its misshapen, elongated neck to the side in anticipation.

“Would you like to- to see- the stars?”

It asked again, louder this time, as though it wanted to be sure that you heard it this time. Its tone was different, you thought. Lighter, almost hesitant, as though it was shy. Was… it a trick? You wondered if this was a trick, one final trap that you would walk into before you would finally be ended in a sudden, short, violent attack.

Would that be so bad?

“...y-yeah… Yeah, I- I want… I’d like that.” Your voice cracked as you struggled to swallow thick, dry saliva. When’s the last time you ate or drank something? You were so tired… If… If you do see the stars again, one last time before you die…

You’d be happy, you think.

The Unknown twitched suddenly, so violently that it made you jump and your breath seize in your chest. The blackness that surrounded you became… lighter, as though the nothingness was being pulled and kneaded into a new shape. Things manifested around you, four walls, a rough wooden floor, tables, a simple, metal bed. It was more distinct than your bedroom was, more… tangible. You hiss as your eyes constrict, met with more light than you have been exposed to in… who knows how long. You rubbed your eyes wildly, tearing up from the discomfort and blinking rapidly as you tried to regain your sight.

“D-Damn-! W-Wait- W-What…?”

Was… Was this real?

You had no idea where you were, but you weren’t even sure that you cared. It was some kind of tower, out in the middle of a vast expanse of an evergreen forest that stretched for as far as the eye could see. And the sky… God, you have never seen such a clear, star-filled sky before in your entire life. There must have been no artificial lights for miles, for miles and miles, leaving the night sky to be utterly untouched, perfect to be viewed by the naked eye and to be enjoyed and fuck, did you enjoy it…

Have you ever seen so many stars before? You don’t think so. You wondered where you were, if you were still in your state or if you were even in your country, anymore, your world, but you don’t really care about that at the moment.

It… It kept its word. It showed you the stars…

Why?

“You- like? -Like it? …Happy?”

Your skin crawled as its voice tickled the back of your neck. You were leaning out of an open window, gripping onto the ledge with all your might as though you feared you would be pushed out to your death. Nothing happened. The Unknown didn’t touch you, only hanging over your shoulder as though it was looking at the night sky just as you were.

“...Pretty. Pretty- like you.”

Your heart throbbed as it skipped a beat.

“W-What…?” The hairs on the back of your neck rose as you felt something brush lightly against your hair, like fingertips grazing against the outline of your head. Your back arched and you squirmed, instantly dropping to the floor as dread washed over you.

What…? What did it say? W-What…?

“Pretty. Beautiful. Pretty. Understand me? Do you understand me?”

You stared at the wall as its words dripped into your ear. What was it saying…? You- You didn’t understand. It played with your hair, gently picking at individual strands that stood out and laying them back down on your head. It made your scalp crawl and your heart skip a beat. Your breath trembled and you screwed your eyes shut again, confused by its gentleness and the words that it repeated over and over again.

“You- You’re pretty…”

“Beautiful.”

“Do you understand me?”

“Can you hear me? You- You’re pretty…”

“Beautiful.”

“Can you hear me? Do you understand me?”

This… This is too much. This is fucking too much for you! Was it serious…? Was it- No, it couldn’t be, right? There is no way in hell that it even understands the words it's spewing over and over again, right?

It took you to see the stars… It kept its promise.

It kept its promise…

It made your boyfriend go away.

Just like you asked it to.

You asked and you received.

You asked…

It- It only wanted to give you what you wanted…

You crumpled into a heap on the floor. Tears filled your eyes as you struggled to reconcile what you have done. It’s… all your fault? You… You asked it to- You said you wanted him to go away… and he did. How could it have possibly understood what you meant…? What the fuck were you thinking?! It really did just wanted to help you!

“Hey…”

But it didn’t understand what you wanted. You just said ‘go away’... You didn’t tell it what you actually meant! You should have known that it wouldn’t understand conventional human speech! It was a shadow monster, for all you knew! And- And-!

“Hey! I-It’s not funny, you know!”

It’s all your fault. Your boyfriend’s blood is on your hands! It just wanted to make you happy! You… Did you use it for your own gain? No! You didn’t want this! …but it didn’t really know any better, did it? Maybe it did… So what if it did? It was acting on what it thought your wishes were! So that means-

“Hey!”

-that means you’re a murder… You- Your actions lead to your boyfriend’s death… You were the driving force behind it. You- You-

“Hey! Listen- Listen to me!”

You cringed at the harshness of its tone and its volume. The air around the voice drops off immediately, and silence is all that you're left with. You lay on your side, facing the wall, hands over your eyes as the Unknown looms over you.

“Hey…”

Its tone is gentle again, a little singsong as it begins to stroke your hair again. You feel a shiver course through your body, some revulsion from its broken fingers combing through your hair but also a feeling of utter guilt wracking your frame.

“You’re okay… You’re okay, aren’t you?”

You curl in on yourself as you hear your own voice. You shudder, hugging yourself. The hospital gown you were in didn’t provide much warmth, and it left your entire back exposed to the elements.

And to the Unknown.

“Look- at me?”

You shake your head and tuck your chin into your chest.

“Please.”

You grab at your partially open gown and shiver. It isn’t until you feel its fingers shift from your hair towards your face that you stiffen and gasp in surprise.

“Let me- see. I want to see-! Let me hear your voice…”

Your cheeks were caressed roughly by boney fingers. It was awkward, as though the Unknown was blindly feeling around your face, unsure of how to properly give affection. You were squished in its hands, skin gently twisted around, pinched in between broken fingers that popped from every slight movement. Your nose was tickled slightly, though you think it was unintentional. Did it even know what ‘tickling’ was? You doubted it, but it was sort of… Nice.

“Will you show it to me? -Talk to me!”

The Unknown still used quips from other people’s speech, likely from the victims it hunted, you thought. How… morbid. Its tone always wavered, always flickered in between panic and confusion, to anger and apprehension. None of it was directed towards you though. It was an aftereffect, something that lingered even long after the words’ purposes had changed. The Unknown shook you slightly, then a little harder, not causing any discomfort but more than enough to get its need across.

“N-No…” You shook your head. It felt so weird to leave your back exposed to this creature but it didn’t take advantage of it like you thought it would.

“Just a little-? -Say something?! P-Please don’t leave me…”

You cringed again. Where would you even go? The whole town probably thinks that you’re a murderer… Or at least totally disturbed by what you saw in your house which, to be fair, wouldn’t exactly be wrong. You had to be some kind of fucked up to even allow this thing to touch you, let alone actually lean into it and think that it truly liked you. Maybe…. Maybe you liked it too, in spite of everything.

Can you condemn a predator for killing its chosen prey?

“What… Do you want from me? I- I-” You felt your body being shifted as you were pulled onto your back.

Your face scrunched up as the Unknown flipped you onto your back. Your heart freezed in your chest as you got a totally unobstructed view of its face. God… Holy shit- You had to look away. It wasn’t even a conscious decision on your part, your mind literally couldn’t handle looking at its twisted, malformed face. It was so… unnatural. You couldn’t tell if it was offended or not, it didn’t even seem to react to the fact that you couldn’t look at it and you felt your fear numb as the whining in your ears returned with force.

“Pretty… Such a- a pretty face… Talk to me!”

You felt yourself blush a little.

“You… You really like me, don’t you…? A-All those talks we had? When I- I said that you were my only friend and you said it back to- to m-me…” You remember the fear you felt when it said those words to you, but the horror of the moment began to slip away from you.

How could you be scared of your one and only friend?

It was only trying to help you…

“-You are-! You are my only friend… You are the only one that talks to me, you know?”

The sound of your own heart beat began to fade from your ears. Why have you been so upset with it? You felt your eyes slip as you felt its fingers tangle in your hair once again.

The air began to chill around you as you felt your heart rate return to normal. You took a deep breath and then slowly opened your eyes, no longer feeling the revulsion you once did when you looked upon the Unknown’s twisted face.

“-Are you? -Are you- mine? Mine? Mine?”

The grip on your face suddenly became tighter. The Unknown was leaning over you, nose to nose as it wagged its head side to side. You felt yourself smiling back at it.

“Of course I am… I’m not going to be running, not anymore.” The Unknown pressed its thumbs into the corners of your mouth and pulled your smile up higher, until you could feel the pull in your cheeks.

“You won’t- leave! Leave me alone! We’ll do it together…”

You didn’t know what it was talking about, but you didn’t really care. It nodded your head in agreement and pulled your smile even tighter.

“Where you go, I go.”

The chill in the air became cutting, freezing you to the bone and causing your even breaths to come out in rhythmic puffs.

“Where you go, I go…” You repeated as a thick fog began to creep into the tower’s interior.

“Where you go, I go…”

“Where you go… I go.”

@prettycutebunny, @infinitewhore, @kennbb, @cherrysodalite, @space-arsonist, @pink-soft-shadow, @sinlessdesire, @hoemine, @memoryofheather @horny-3

#dead by daylight #dbd #dbd the unknown #the unknown x reader #dbd x reader #sequel #paid commission #mind break #body horror

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thatlongspringnight · 1 year ago

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A Moment of Jealousy

Pairing: Jung Hoseok/female reader

Rating: M for mature

Genre: Historical au, Regency era

Warnings: Smut, rough sex, dirty talk, foul language, a ring goes in a place rings shouldn't go, outdoor sex, jealousy

Summary:

Seeing another woman even dare to touch him sets you ablaze, but luckily, Hoseok is always there to quench that fire.

Word Count: 1667

Tagging: @xjoonchildx @hobi-gif @miscelunaaa @vintageroses10 @wwilloww @vyduan @minisugakoobies @augustbutwinter @sahmfanficbts @hamsterclaw @starlostjimin

“You’re a lout!” It's almost shrill…actually, no, it is shrill - tearing from your lips as you walk down the hall, clutching tightly at the skirt of your riding habit as your feet carry you into the garden.

You’re making a scene, happily dragging the servants into this, even happier to drag your husband’s *noble* friends into it as well. “You’re a rake, I should have never let you have me!” and then he’s behind you, not even bothering to respond to you in kind - his cold fury only serving to make you boil, a teapot hissing in simmering rage.

He must think he’s better than you - he does think it, you know it, and that’s why Hoseok has always driven you mad.

Mad with fury, mad with lust.

Now you’re just mad -

“Nothing but a rake.”It's more of a grumble, and only for your own ears this time, as the stableman - expecting the both of you for an afternoon ride, seems surprised to see only you.

Yes of course, no doubt Hoseok had stayed behind, more inclined to calm his surprised sycophants than come after you, even if that is all you want.

All you want is for him to choose you, for his eyes to find your own…and only your own. Is that so much to ask? That the man who married you covet you and you alone?

“Ah - my lady where is - “ “My lord husband can surely ride his horse on his own time.” You snap. “Or perhaps his whores, I care not either way.” and then you are hoisting yourself up, cursing the side-saddle that would have been lovely on a leisurely stroll, gripping at the pommel with your thighs for some semblance of balance and control.

The comment is cruel, and truly, likely false. Hoseok - even if his eyes had shined today - at that simpering little fool who had the audacity to bat her eyes at him, to giggle, to place her hand on his arm -

“My lady, I really insist - “ “Truly, you can insist your way to the seventh hell, Taehyung.” And your horse, handsome gelding he is, is quick to respond to your cue to go, and then go faster at your insistence.

God in heaven, how you loathe the feelings swirling in your chest, the feeling of inadequacy that builds in your chest at the idea he’d dare to glance at someone else. How his eyes could ever darken in a way you recognize from when they fall onto you.

Fucker - Heartless bastard. The fast trot of your horse sets your fiery blood nearly to ash. How dare he -

The more you ride, the angrier you get, your heart set on the one place that can give you peace, that damned grove where he had first asked you.

“Dammit!” and there is a call in the air, just loud enough you can hear it, and it drives you forward. “If you don’t - !” You can’t hear the rest but you can imagine it - Hoseok - on his horse…yelling into the wind.

Yelling for you -

You stall your gelding, quick to murmur a soft stay as you toss his reins over a tree branch, letting your feet carry you.

Just because you want him to catch you doesn’t mean you have to make it easy. And…you do want him to catch you, of course, feeling giddy as you dash into the woods, uncaring of the way the tree branches catch you, or the way your too-fussy hairstyle begins to unravel.

All you care about is the heat under your skin, the burning excitement as you hear his curses, as he calls for you, the feeling of anger so akin to the feeling of longing you aren’t even sure what dominates you -

“Got you - !” and his arm shoots out, around your waist before you can even protest, and protest you do, a squeal on your lips as he all but shoves you into the trunk of a tree. “Don’t you dare even move.” And when you meet his eyes, they’re burning, as searing as his grip on your wrists, holding you more than still.

“Surprised you even noticed I left.” You answer, feeling the heat of his breath, watching the way his chest rises and falls as he pants from exertion. “You seemed content enough just to be petted and praised -” “My God woman, your jealousy will end us both.” Hoseok grits through his teeth, shifting a hand to your neck, then gripping at your bun, more than eager to tear it down, sending your hair cascading.

Well - as best it can with his grip on it, wound ‘round his palm, as he tugs roughly enough that you whine, head tilting up. “You made me look like a fool.” “You are a fool.” You answer, hoping to goad him into more, and you can see the way his eyes narrow, how his jaw tightens. Now, the anger has shifted, boiling turned to simmer, the heat warming you till you want to melt under his grip, sting turned to honey. “And a dandy.”

“And you are a parrot, all screech and no teeth.” He counters, and God does he paint a portrait - his grip so firm, his black riding coat cut to fit his form like a fine glove.

Everything about him screams power, the sinews of his lean form as obvious as the way he’s looking at you. Fond and furious. “You made a scene, you shamed us both.” And his face is close now, so close your noses almost touch as he presses you harder against the tree trunk. “People talk.” “Let them talk about how mad I am, then perhaps they’ll stop sending their daughters to pine over you, Hoseok.” You’re prim enough that he laughs, a darkened chuckle.

That laugh, so airy when in the company he liked to keep, is even better now, dripping from his lips like a threat. It's so rare that he shows himself as he truly is. Not the sun in the sky, but a raging forest fire - the type of brightness that could swallow you whole, incinerate your very being.

“That is what you want?” And it's the drop of his head against your skin, the graze of his teeth against your jaw. “You want me to show you your place? At the head of the line of pining women, first to throw yourself at me?” “I am your wife - “ but it's cut off, his mouth hot against yours, silencing you, finally.

“My wife, my ill behaved creature.” He hums. “My jealous, jealous girl.” and he is hiking up your skirts. “Where is your place? If not on my cock.” And that is enough, your hands meeting his as you snatch your skirts higher, legs already parting at his hand sliding up your thighs, meeting your cunt with those damned fingers of his.

HIs fingers slide into you like a sword to a sheath, and you gasp. There is a coldness, a fullness towards the end as you realize he is still wearing his signet ring. If you still your muddled thoughts, and your aching body, you imagine you can almost feel the outline of the crest emblazoned on it.

The ancient crane motif of his family, now your own.

“I won’t have to do much work.” He is sly, his tone almost teasing in its dryness. “You’re more than ready.” “Then don’t put in the work - spear me already.” You answer, far too heated to even care for his fingers inside of you- delicious though they are .

“You’re no better than a courtesan.” He answers, but his breeches are undone before you can even fathom it.

His cock, glistening, the darkened skin drawing a shudder of ache around the fingers he still has buried inside of you.

“Fuck.” He curses, and now you’re empty, his hand slick with you as he pulls your leg up, as he sinks into you.

No more pretense. Finally. “Fuck, you feel -” And he grunts, tilting your body till your feet are struggling to maintain their footing, till he’s the only thing keeping you up, the bark digging into your back every time he thrusts into you.

“Y-You’re going to rip my dress.” You are clutching at him, your fingers digging into the fine material of his riding jacket. “You - I will have to walk back half naked.” “Good - that is what you deserve for the scene you made, walking back half naked.” He means it too, and there is a piece of you that wishes he’d make due on that promise, and tear your dress down the seam.

Make it clear to everyone what he had done- how he had gladly taken you. How he’s fucking you, right now, each thrust of his strong hips making you whine and whimper.

You love it when he fucks you like this, when he is rough, like the tree behind you, making you beg for him, and beg for more. “Don’t you think they can hear you back at the manor?” He asks. “Don’t you feel even an ounce of shame for how loud you are?”

“None.” and you truly ARE shameless in how you call out for him, his name echoing loud enough to frighten even the birds into calling. “You did not marry me for my shame, husband.” And that seems to break the solid sort of scolding he’s been giving you, a sly grin breaking through as his mouth finds yours, almost like he’s trying to stop you from noticing it at all.

But you let him distract you, let him have you till you’re quaking, trembling in the aftermath of your want for him, till he’s filled you to bursting, a satisfied sound on his lips, satiated with you, with how you took him.

“Perhaps.” and it's said with no small measure of pleasure. “I should take you in the parlor next, in front of those women you despise so much, hm?”

#jung hoseok #hoseok fic #hobi fic #hobi x reader #historical fiction #historical au #regency fic #bts fic #bangtan seonyandan

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thislovintime · 30 days ago

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"Dear Peter, I love you with all my heart- here's sending you many good, healing thoughts. I'm pulling for ya! I'm a spiritually inclined person. I have a Master's in Nursing Education since '79. Until 18 months ago I worked three jobs. Not because I had to, but because I love my profession, I love teaching and I love helping people. I feel my life's work is/was a calling to which I had much success. I also managed to have a couple of husbands (not so successful there!), raised two talented, brilliant kids, became a Reike Master after having Ovarian cancer in the 80's. That was a real learning experience. I had no doubt I would be healed and that what I learned on that journey would be wonderful in teaching students and ministering to my patients. "18 months ago, as a result of the very high dose of radiation therapy during the cancer, I developed severe circulation problems and ended up having a leg amputated to save my life. I haven't worked since- had to give up my jobs as I spent 63 days in the hospital and the jobs had to replace me. I've had to give up nearly all my play-time activities as well. Now, on to the real problem. I am so ANGRY at this recent load of bad Karma. I realize no one is perfect but I have always tried to be a good person, I have tried to see the good in all people, I am forgiving and thankful. I can't figure out the lesson to be had in all this. My life just really sucks right now and it makes me furious. I can't even meditate anymore 'cause I just sit there seething. My prosthesis fits like crap- it's horrible. I can't seem to communicate the proper fit to the prostheticians and so that sucks, too. My question is how can I get back my peace and joy when all I hold dear, excepting my kids/grands and my music have been snatched from me? I am not depressed, not sad. I am angry!! I don't mean to be ungrateful that I am still here but I can't get past this one. Your joyful and caring attitude really shines through and I so admire that in you. Can you give me some advice to help get me out of this rage I am feeling? I am really worried. Thank you so much for your time and wisdom you will share with me. Sending you love- Sherry" "Dear Sherry, I'm sorry for your situation. Let me say, tho', that I am not one of those who believes that everything is for the best. The only thing I'm sure of is that I can bring the best attitude possible to the situation. It seems to me that you believe you had a bargain with the forces of Karma, and that you feel betrayed. Betrayal is very infuriating, to be sure, but the laws of God and/or Karma are not actually known to us, merely guessed at. I've learned recently to ask myself one question: Would you rather be right or happy? I urge you to let go of what you thought was your due, and find the best way to live with what you got. There's still a lot of joy to be had regardless, I am sure. BTW, as to the prosthesis, get an advocate, somebody who can help you get the fitting and comfort that should be available. Don't settle for distress there, for goodness sake. Thanks for asking, Peter" - Ask Peter Tork

“I enjoy passing on wisdom — it’s a big part of my life. Everybody has different character traits and it’s how you use them that counts. I used to be a busybody but now I help people by listening to them and helping them work things out and it’s a virtue.” - Peter Tork, Lancashire Telegraph, May 23, 2008

#Peter Tork #Tork quotes #00s Tork #10s Tork #more for the solid Tork advice files #Ask Peter Tork #The Monkees #Monkees #Shoe Suede Blues #Two Man Band #can you queue it

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heyidkyay · 1 year ago

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And I'm petrified of being alone, now |

Part Six

Matty Healy x reader

Summary: She’s just trying to get by, really. What with being a single parent to her four year old son whilst simultaneously trying to kick start a successful career as a radio presenter. She’s got everything she’s ever wanted though, friends close by, a mum who’s merely a phone call away, and of course her baby boy. What else is there to wish for? But then, it’s not long before her relatively normal life gets upended and turned on its head, and she’s suddenly forced to deal with situations she’s never even thought to imagine.

What happens when one mention of a certain controversial singer on her show sends a flood of unexpected challenges her way?

Authors Note: AHHH I am honest to god obsessed with this part, been excited for it since the idea came to mind and I also love surprises so, take that as you will... Hope you enjoy! Thank you sm for all the love on this series too, means a whole lot!!

Warnings: again lil bit of self-consciousness, mentions of scarring, heights!

Masterlist

"Mind if I join you?"

I swivelled around on my heel to peer over my shoulder at the sound of the unexpected oncommer.

It was a surprise to find Healy there. Striding across the expanse of roof with an effortless elegance, as though he knew how much he was worth, like he didn’t care who was watching. I sort of envied that.

I opted for feigning nonchalance and simply shrugged in reply, jutting out my chin before forcing my gaze to return to the skyline.

Healy fiddled with something in my peripheral though and the ruffle of cellophane separated the sound of the city below from my smoky exhale.

"You got a lighter?"

It was a needless ask, Heally could already see that I had a cigarette lit in hand but that didn't seem to defer him. It felt as though he was actualing aiming to start up some kind of conversation, which was strange considering how standoffish he’d been during most of his visit.

I spared him another short glance as I went to dig my free hand into my back pocket, noting that his sunglasses were still wired into his curls which meant that I could actually see the way he was watching me now.

When he’d first walked over, Healy had stopped a comfortable distance away, but he closed it when I lifted the lighter up in success. The makeshift patio creaking beneath his weight.

He had his own cigarette dangling loosely from his lower lip, the butt stuck to the inside of the soft flesh as he invaded my space, indicating that he had no intention of taking the lighter from me. I couldn't quite help the way my gaze flitted down to his mouth and then up into his valourous eyes when he did, their colour darker now that his hair had fallen from behind his ear to shield a portion of his face from the sun's shining light.

I looked away almost as soon as Healy met my curious stare and swallowed sparsely before proceeding to flick the sparkwheel. It took two tries before it caught.

The warmth of the iridescent flame tickled my cheek as I held it up, and Healy cupped a hand between both our faces in an attempt to waylay the whistling wind as I moved in to light the cigarette's end.

The lighter was a tacky thing, cheap, and coloured an illuminous orange. I never usually thought much of it, tended to nick them right off of Finn's kitchen counter, or from strangers in the street whenever I needed a light.

But being this close to Healy, I could literally smell just how expensive the man's aftershave was, how it clung to the gentle curve of his neck. It reminded me of how different we were. Healy was obviously more inclined to the finer things in life- probably even had someone hired to light the poxy things for him.

I was quick to bite back the snort that bubbled within me at the sudden picture that painted, shaking my head as I dropped the lighter down to my side. Though I still wore a small smile when my gaze trailed back over to meet his, almost involuntarily now. And this time I couldn't bring myself to look away just yet.

Healy’s lips twisted into a rueful smirk once he’d inhaled a lungful, unblinking as he observed me once more, and I had to force my body to take a step back when I noted that neither of us had yet to move.

I cleared my throat and raised my hand again, but Healy’s smirk only grew.

"Meant to be quitting, you know." I quipped like many liars before me, hoping to ebb some of the remaining tension that had adhered itself to the air around us as I sucked some life back into my fag's dying flame.

Healy humoured me.

"How boring."

I huffed a breathy chuckle, a grey trail stuttering out with it.

"I know it's what everyone says, but for me it's true. Been trying to kick the habit ever since I started, to be honest."

I peered back over at him long enough to witness the way he directed an arched brow my way, smoke pooling from his mouth. It was second nature the way he did it, so casual, as though smoking was akin to breathing.

"Why haven't you then?"

The question caught me a little off guard. But only in the way that it was a first for him, at least from how I saw it, to pry into another's life. My life, my brain supplied unhelpfully. A big-shot singer like him to be prolonging our encounter more than necessary, surprised me even more.

Nonplussed, I found myself replying, "Life?"

He snorted pleasantly, "Cheers to that."

I watched on as he hoiked up his hand in a false toast before dropping it weightlessly to his side, dislodging the ash that perched at the end of the cigarette when his hand bounced off his hip.

Mimicking the showy gesture, I dipped my head before I chose to take another long drag, mostly to occupy the silence that enveloped us again more than anything else.

It was then that my mind began to wander. But before I could overthink this entire situation- because, let’s just be honest, I would’ve have to have been fucking barking not to have found this whole ordeal anything other than strange- my head snapped up at a scuffling sound and my eyes instantly tracked the way Healy had all but pounced his way up onto the roof’s ledge.

"You aiming to off yourself, or you simply tempting fate?" I blurted out before I could think better of it, unable to look away. He truly had my full focus now.

He grinned and my jaw ticked as Healy's snazzy boots kicked carelessly at the brickwork that lined the edge of the studio’s building, his soles walking a fine line, prancing along like the three story drop wasn't that much of a threat.

"Fate's far too busy to be fretting with the likes of me, love." He retorted, one hand buried in the jacket he adorned, the other holding his cigarette to his mouth. He paused about a foot away from me and leant forward to peer over the side, causing my poor heart to falter and just about fall out of my arse.

"The hell are you doing!" I snapped, immediately jumping forward to grab at his sleeve before he could tip any further. "You got a fucking death wish, or something?"

Healy only cackled as he rocked back into my tight grip, grinning so widely now. My breath stuttered at the very sound of it, amused but tinged with an edge of mania. And the lazy smile he shot me from over his shoulder after didn’t at all help the way my pulse was now thumping wildly through my veins, the parent in me having sent every nerve-ending into overdrive.

"Or something." He answered, a wily expression dawning.

He did jump down though and once his feet were firmly planted back on the decking, I shoved at his shoulder. "You're a right prick, you know that?"

"Awh, come on. Live a little, Squeaks!"

I shot him a lurid glare, far from amused by the mocking tone he’d taken on or the way he’d poked fun at my name.

"Honestly, what have you got to lose?" Healy went on to say, not paying my reaction any mind at all. I ignored his efforts, but couldn't stop my eyes from following after him when he recklessly returned to the edge, only this time he decidedly took a seat there. "Come on!"

He gestured for me to join him with a jerk of his head and I merely blinked. Stressing over whether or not he was being serious.

Healy’s buoyant grin was fast fading now though, but I wasn’t really too focused on that fact, all I could see as he glanced back at me was how lost he suddenly seemed behind all that bravado. It was hard to notice in truth, but I could see it there, ever so slight, in the hazing shadows casted behind his eyes.

"What, you just gonna leave me here on my lonesome?" He goaded once he'd deemed that I’d had more than enough time to respond, wiggling his brows from across the patio.

I was forced to blink away my tangent of thoughts then as I inhaled a deep breath.

After hesitating for the briefest of seconds, gaze flitting from Healy’s slumped form to the fire escape and then back again, I was sure that I saw his shoulders visibly tense. He’d noticed my uncertainty and had immediately raised those shackles back up, preparing to be let down again.

And for some reason, I found that I didn’t want that. So catching the inside of my cheek between my molars, I finally tossed the butt of my cigarette to one side and ambled over.

Healy smirked, all too pleased with himself as I nervously settled in beside him, leaving only a few centimetres space to separate us.

Not wanting to chance anything, I kept my hands plastered to the wall’s ledge, fingertips digging into the rough brick as I leant forward the tiniest little bit to scrutinise the time it would take my body to ultimately hit the asphalt below, if I so happened to fall.

I knew it was unlikely, but still pressed my lips firmly together, knowing it would likely be entirely Healy’s fault if something were to actually occur.

After a minute or so my heart calmed and I started to observe the way our legs dangled over the edge, side by side, swinging aimlessly above the narrow street way down below. The toes of Healy’s boots only just skimmed the jut of my ankle whenever his heels would hammer against the building’s hard exterior, close but never touching. I counted the beats.

There was a long few minutes of silence that passed between us sitting there, before Healy finally broke it, kicking the remnants of his fag far away and watching as it blurred from view.

"You come up here often then?"

A laugh broke free from me at that and I looked over.

"That a line?" I teased, unable to help myself nor the smirk that had worked its way onto my lips, whilst Healy’s eyes widened involuntarily, clearly not having expected the cheek from me. I decided to leave the ribbing there though, not wanting to push my luck, and smiled softly at him, deciding to give him an honest answer. "But I don't know, really. It depends."

"On what?"

"On whether or not I've got shit to do."

He hummed, fingers tapping at his knee. "Important shit?"

I couldn't quite stifle my laughter, "Yeah, important shit. Not all of us can live a lavish life up in Beverly Hills."

Healy pursed his lips at that, "Makes two of us then, fucking hate The Hills."

Surprised, my eyebrows shot up.

"Really?"

"Yes, really! It's a right shit show- the whole of fucking California is." Matty scoffed, almost stubbornly whilst shaking his head. I could see how much he meant his words though, even if they did somewhat confuse me.

"Least it's sunny though, right?"

Healy barked out a short laugh, turning his head towards me to meet my gaze head on. From this angle, I could see just how much brighter his eyes grew when he smiled, and wondered if he even realised. If anyone had told him.

"Least it's sunny." He mimicked, sounding all too amused.

I tore my eyes away. "What's so bad about California then, bigshot?"

The volume of Healy's snort actually surprised me but mercifully, I managed to hide the way I flinched before I turned my head back to face him.

"You could ask me anything, anything in the world, but that's what you settle on?"

My mouth drew itself into a pout as I furrowed my brow and shrugged. A little put out. "Always wanted to visit the National Park?"

"Oo, got a proper little adventurer on our hands, have we? California! Home of Venice Beach, Hollywood, and the planet's fittest stars- but all you wanna do is have a quick peek around at a mound of mouldy trees and old mountains?"

Tutting at his jeering, I rolled my eyes and hummed, "I mean, it looks sort of sick, don't it?"

"Sure. If you're going on eighty."

"Fuck off." I chuckled and knocked into Healy’s shoulder, throwing him off balance slightly.

"Oi, don't think I won't push you off this roof!" He warned and a giant grin threatened to overwhelm my face.

"Do it. I'll be sure to take you with me."

"That a threat?"

"It's a promise." I smirked.

"Oh, I don't much like those, Squeaks. You'll have to think of something better." Said Healy, tearing those eyes of his away upon noticing then just how close we'd gotten during the short span we'd spent taunting one another.

I licked my lower lip and watched him for a moment. "What's wrong with a promise?"

"What isn't?" Healy’s eyes looked vacant as they stared hard at the skyscrapers that littered the view. "They’re simply made to be broken, aren't they?" He shrugged, his blank facade quickly returning, that glaze in his eyes fading. "Anyway, why would I take your word upon only hearing you promise? Promises aren't truth, they aren't law. They're simply empty."

There was a long pause before, "Christ, who hurt you?"

My eyes widened upon hearing my own stupid insincerity, always putting my foot in it, and was hasty in the way I immediately opened my ginormous gob to apologise, but Healy’s soft laughter stopped me short.

"Now that's a question, Mouse."

I couldn't really bring myself to reply after hearing the sadness that fuelled his words. Didn't know if I even could. But I couldn't stop my lips from quietly mouthing my own name either, sure that it had been the first time Matty had ever used it.

The studio felt much quieter now without Jamie’s amiable laughter or Healy's all-consuming presence to fill the space. I found myself simply standing in the centre of the room long after they’d departed, half way between the booth and the settee, wondering what to do next.

I didn't have to pick Teddy up from the nursery for another half hour and the journey there would only take me five minutes or so. That meant that I was now somewhat at a standstill and those were rather rare when you had a toddler hanging about.

It had just started lashing it down outside. I could hear the heavy raindrops as they splattered their way across the windowpanes and formed a shallow pond on the skylight a few feet above my head.

It had only started spitting just as Matty and I had re-emerged from our little breakaway. My unfiltered mouth had been the beginning of an untimely end as I hadn't been able to sit there and stomach the silence much longer, having mentally scolded myself enough.

So I'd talked Matty off the ledge (literally) and hummed softly to myself as we’d descended the stairs in a desperate attempt to break up the awkward tension that drenched me. Adi and Jamie had been waiting up for us by the window when we'd returned and Healy's manager had been in a hurry to whisk him away, grinning happily as he said his goodbyes, a mobile pressed to his ear whilst he coerced Healy down the stairs. He went without much bother.

"That went well, I reckon!" Came Adi's voice as she exited the kitchenette, holding another round of tea in her hands and a plate of bourbons too.

She settled herself down onto the sofa and motioned for me to come join her, clicking her tongue whilst her many rings clattered against her ceramic mug. The same one she often favoured.

"Come on, sit down! I want to know the ins and outs of everything you two talked about up there! Twitter's been going positively mad ever since the show went live!"

I sighed but followed the order, taking up a perch on the edge of the settee beside her, enjoying the warmth that blanketed my hands upon being handed my own brew. The heat of it tingling my fingertips.

"It turned out okay then? No one’s started up a riot, or threatened to have my life, have they?"

Adi rolled her eyes good-naturedly in reply, laughing at my melodramatics. "Nah, you're all good, babe. Think a few of 'em actually liked you. Fancy that, hey?"

She winked at me from over the rim of her mug but I merely hummed in return, knowing that Ads didn't miss the underlying scepticism that accompanied it.

"I'm serious, M! Apparently it's been a while since Matty's acted so genuine! Hang on, reckon that’s the right word for it?" She shrugged, answering her own question, and then barrelled on, "Either way, they're already petitioning for us to have him on again. Here just look, I'll show you."

I watched on as Adi tried to balance her scalding hot tea on the knob of her knee whilst she fumbled for her phone. I stilled it just in time before it could start tilting and she grinned up at me in thanks, now brandishing a bright screen. "Aha! Here you are. See there, babe? They adore you!"

With a scrunch of my nose, I leant in closer to peer down at the illuminated text, watching as a stream of tweets continued to flood Adi’s neverending feed. I placed my mug down onto the coffee table not long after and stole the phone from out of the girl's grasp.

M @/user1 15s Lovedlovedloved today's show!! #MouseOnAMic

13 @/user2 23s The smiles?! How cute, he looked like he really enjoyed the interview!

Pol @/user3 29s Missed seeing Adi’s lovely face:(( But I honestly think this was one of the show's best releases!!!

Robber @/user4 37s AHHH what was that??

Bean @/user5 46s Um imma need a minute bc I don't think I've heard Matty talk that much in a while

197die @/user6 51s Why are they so adorable?? My heart!!

AM @/user7 1m Please bring Matty back!! @/petitesouris @/AdelineWells_

"Shit."

Adi cackled whilst I chucked her back her phone, surprised by what I’d read.

"Told you, babe! They seem to love the two of you together."

"Why are they spouting all that crap?"

Adi shrugged, exiting the app with a swipe of her thumb before switching the whole thing off. "Just the internet, ain’t it? Besides... they're not really wrong."

She laughed loudly at whatever expression must have crossed my face then and I huffed to myself, picking up my mug and shuffling over to settle further into the cushions.

"He's so painfully male though, Adi. I mean, you must've seen all the models he hangs about with."

Adi’s eyes lit up at that, looking as though I’d just mentioned that Greggs was currently handing out free sausage rolls on the nearest street corner, I raised a brow.

"Oh, I have, babe. Just didn't realise that you've been keeping tabs on him too!"

Helplessly I spluttered, almost spilling my tea in my rush to sit up. Ads tittered away, so obviously entertained by my reaction.

"I have not!"

Adi hummed sceptically, mug cradled close to her chest now, "Sure, hun, and the sun doesn’t shine out of my arse."

I flicked her arm, "I'm being honest with you- I just had to get a little background information on him for the interview! That's all."

With a slow nod and a shitty attempt to dampen her ever growing grin, Adi replied, "What, so you don't think he's fit then?"

My eyes widened and lips parted at her question.

I couldn’t outright deny that Healy was nice to look at- he fit a certain esthetic, alright? But I also did not want Adi teasing me anymore than she already had. Especially after seeing what all of Matty’s fans had to say about the pair of us online. Was it too late to switch careers?

Besides, it was just a passing fancy sort of thing, and Healy obviously didn’t view me in the same light. That, and I had Teddy to worry about. If anything this was just a fleeting thing, I could admit that at the very least.

"He's-"

"Fit as fuck? Hotter than a rubber ring on a summer's day? Mysterious enough to lure just about any one in?" Adi interrupted, filling in the blanks.

I blinked at her before snorting a laugh, my breath fanning the steam that slipped from my tea.

"I was going to say nice."

"Nice? Nice! Mouse, that boy is not 'nice'! Far from it! Broody and bloody stubborn, those I can get behind! But nice? No. Nice looking, sure- maybe if you were an eighty year old woman complimenting her grandson on his birthday. But not nice."

"That's the second time today I've been compared to an OAP." I acknowledged, frowning at what it might mean.

Adi's eyes snapped over to meet mine, earnest and impenetrable. "I'm bein’ serious here, Mouse."

I rolled my eyes.

She groaned loudly in return. "Come on, just admit it! He's a right looker."

I hung my head against the back of the settee, emitting a heavy sigh as I stared up at the ceiling. “Yeah, alright, he’s fit.”

"I knew it! You so fancy him!"

My head snapped towards her at that and I narrowed my eyes, “I didn’t say that.”

"Didn't need to." Adi beamed all too happily, pulling a knee up to her chest, eyes gleaming. "It's called reading in between the lines, babe!"

"Ads, how- you know what, forget it. I'm not even going to begin to tell you how stupid you just sounded."

Adi harrumphed and waved off my efforts to preserve some of my dignity. "So, what are you going to do about it then? Cross your heart and hope he's down to fuck you sideways?"

I truly couldn’t help the way I grimly spat my tea back into my mug whilst I started to shake with a startled laughter. Adi, the cow, had to pull what was left of my drink away just so that I could wipe at my chin, laughing all the while.

"You're such a twat, you know that?"

Adi only grinned at me from the other end of the sofa and shrugged. "You love me for it."

I couldn't deny that, grinning right back at her. "That I do, my love. Fancy keeping me company whilst I pick up Teddy then?"

Another week dragged by and my days had been nothing short of chaotic, filled with stress, tears, and toddler tantrums.

Teddy had fallen ill on the Wednesday, all snotty nosed and high temperature. I’d had to take the day off work just to pull him out of nursery early when the school had called, leaving Adi to fend for herself for a long while. The little tike had refused to eat or drink the entire time he'd spent recuperating in my bed, and I’d been forced into bargaining with him to simply get him to take his medicine. Who claimed too much tele was bad for you anyway?

Teddy's temperature spiked on Thursday night though and I had struggled to hold back sobs of my own whilst on the phone to my mam, listening to my son shriek and cry in the background as she tried to instruct me on what to do.

But thankfully, things had finally started looking up for us on the Friday afternoon. Teddy had asked for some toast that morning and, although I had been fearful (the sight of sick having been something I’d been forced to get over this past week), the boy had managed to keep it down. And we'd spent that evening together on the sofa, swaddled in a sea of blankets, singing quietly along to The Lion King.

Saturday and Sunday had been a whirlwind. I had spent so much time cooped up in the flat with Teddy that Finn came round Saturday morning to all but shove us out the front door. Ever the angel though, he'd treated us to a greasy fry up down at the local cafe and had even taken Teddy off of my hands for a couple of hours when Adi had texted to ask if I'd be around later on to help out with Monday's show.

Sunday was spent keeping an eye on my rowdy four year old, who had all but bounced back to the image of perfect health- as though the previous few days had been nothing but a bad dream. Humoring Adi and I whilst we’d conjured up new ideas at the studio.

Healy’s management team had emailed about mid week, sharing some statistics and thanking the show for our ‘aid’, but it had all sounded far too condescending for my liking. Then again, most emails tended too and my mood had also been depleting rapidly ever since the segment had aired. So there was that. Adi did get a few minutes spare to email something back for me though, which I appreciated.

Jamie had also taken the time to message too, which had brought a shocked smile to my face. I’d figured that the man must have picked up my number from Adi whilst he'd been visiting, or from someone else on his team. But I’d texted back, wishing him well, not wanting to be impolite.

But the thing is, Jamie hadn’t left it there. Which had been a somewhat welcomed surprise. Throughout the week he'd taken to messaging here and there, asking about the show, my day, taking the time to fill me in on all the good and bad parts of his own. His job seemed more than fucking stressful, but I should've guessed that much, what with him having the pleasure of having to keep up with Healy all day. I'd wondered on more than one occasion how that dynamic typically played out, but never asked.

It was around four on Monday afternoon when I found myself leaving the loft, finally having caught up on most of the crap I’d missed the last week.

Adi had long since departed, having had a commitment to get to. Something to do with helping a mate find the perfect dress for her big day, which was fast approaching, and had abandoned me the first chance she'd got, leaving me to wrap and lock up all on my lonesome.

Teddy was also off with Finn after school today, as he was most afternoons when we had to film for the show. So I’d planned to pick up a takeaway to surprise the two of them with on my way over, then stick around long enough to pester my best mate before he finally grew sick of Teddy and I and sent us on our merry way.

I was just locking up, humming a soft tune that had been stuck in my head all day, when I heard a scuffle sound around the corner. I only looked up once I'd tugged on the handle hard enough to make sure all was well, but was startled to find a familiar face staring back at me.

"Shit. You proper scared me!" I breathed out heavily, a hand coming up to rest over my beating heart whilst my eyes wandered over Matty’s hunched form.

The singer was clad in the same heavy jacket he'd been wearing the last time we'd met, an oversized hoodie and jeans too, as well as a pair of dark sunnies which blended effortlessly into a black beanie that hid his hair from view.

"What are you doing here?" I questioned and could hear the shock that lined my voice as I stepped out onto the pavement to join the singer, who had since propped himself up against the side of my building.

"Was in the area." Was all Matty gave away, but he kicked off of the wall to shove his hands into his trouser pockets when I approached.

"You were in the area and just so happened to end up here?" I asked, bemused. My eyes glanced up and down the narrow backstreet to see if anyone else was mulling about long enough to recognise ‘the singer from that one band’ before they retreated back to him.

Healy tilted his head to one side, "That alright?"

He looked far too nonchalant, as though he had a tendency to drop in at every radio station he'd wound up commandeering over the years, making me feel stupid for not having expected it.

I had to force out a little laugh, unsure on how to reply exactly. "Yeah- I mean, sure. Just, I don't know, I didn't expect to ever see you again."

Healy's mouth quirked ever so slightly to one side at that but he hid it in the way he cocked his chin towards the highstreet a way ahead. "Where you off to?"

"Um," I swallowed, pausing for a moment to tug at my jacket sleeve so that I could take a quick look at my watch. "Well, I've got about an hour before I've got to be somewhere, but nowhere right this minute."

Maybe I was being presumptuous. Bold even. But why else would he be here?

I lifted my head back up and found Healy already watching me, and if the man had noticed the scars that marred my wrist he didn't say anything, simply nodded.

"Got time to grab a coffee then?" He suggested and I, even in my dazed surprise, somehow dipped my head in slight agreement.

"Sure." I answered, albeit a little breathlessly.

We walked together, me just a step ahead as we emerged from the sidestreet which housed the studio. I caught himself waiting for someone else to catch onto the fact that the infamous Matty Healy was walking amongst us commoners. But no one seemed to be any the wiser, Matty's all black get-up allowed him to move about the city almost inconspicuously, letting me shepherd him into a nearby bakery without any fuss at all.

"Why don't you go grab us a table and I'll order?" I found myself saying as we stepped into the shop.

Healy stared at me for a long moment before he finally nodded. Quietly asking for a simple coffee as I wandered over to join the queue.

Joanna's bakery had been around for decades now, or so I’d been told, shacked up between ever changing franchises and fast food chains. It had become a long loved favourite of mine since having moved to London, I'd found it during my time at uni and it had truly been a godsend throughout the first few weeks of having baby Teddy. Joanna's coffee had been the only thing keeping me afloat way back then.

I gave a bright grin when the woman’s greying hair came into view, eyes catching mine from behind a pair of spectacles Teddy, for some odd reason, seemed fascinated by whenever we dropped in.

"Hello, you." The ageing woman greeted me with a sweet smile. "Good to see you're doing well, and how is young Teddy?"

"He's doing fine, thank you, Joa. Just overcame a bout of flu." I informed her, hip checking the wooden counter that housed a row of cabinets. "Been a hectic couple of days."

Joanna's brows lifted and her thin lips pursed in concern as she tucked a tea-towel into her navy apron. "I can only assume so. He's doing well now though, I hope?"

I waved off her unnecessary worry with a fond smile, "Right as rain, racing around without a care in the world today. Me though? I’m still trying to get over it- not that he realises.” I chuckled, “He gave me quite the scare, if I'm being honest."

"Kids tend to do that. But Mouse, my dear, you should have called! I would have had some soup sent over for him."

With an appreciative grin, I thanked her, knowing that there was no falseness in her offer, "I'll remember that for next time, I'm sure Teds would've loved it."

Joanna returned my sentiment with a gentle nod before the sound of the shop's bell rang over the door, announcing another customer. "Well then, what can I get for you, dove?"

I exhaled, glancing up towards the blackboarded menu mostly out of habit, "One regular coffee, please-"

"Isn't it a bit late in the day for coffee? You'll be up all night." Joanna scolded lightly, cutting me off, I couldn't help the soft chuckle I gave. Forever humoured by the women in my life constantly telling me what to do.

"Not for me, Joa, don't you worry." I hurried to assure her before prattling off the rest of my order without another interruption once Joanna had hummed in a quiet understanding.

"Takeaway?" She prompted, but I shook my head, gesturing over my shoulder towards the many tables behind.

"We'll sit in, if that's okay."

Joanna blinked in surprise, obviously not having seen me enter with anybody. "I didn't realise Adeline had come in, I usually hear her."

I gave a peel of laughter at that but was quick to press my lips together. "No, no. No Adi today, I'm with a new friend."

The older woman smiled at me as she pushed her glasses further up her nose, "I see."

My head tilted in confusion at odd her tone but left it be. "Could I also get some of that famous chocolate cake of yours while I'm at it? Two slices, please."

"Of course, I'll have it sent right over."

I grinned and waited until I'd paid and Joanna had turned her back on me before shoving my change into the tip jar.

It was an ongoing thing between us, the first time I'd tried to leave anything behind she'd sent me on my way with an entire tray of carrot cake. I had been more than grateful for the unexpected gift but it didn't take me long before I realised what the older woman had been up to. So I'd taken to sneaking my tips into the jar whenever she wasn't looking. Joanna though, it seemed, had eyes in the back of her head, so she chose to repay this act with a multitude of free treats, often gifted through Teddy so that I was unable to decline.

Picking up the two mugs Joanna set down on the counter, I was then promptly shooed away. So, shaking my head and chuckling softly, I turned without another word said and bypassed a crowd of customers that had since entered the bakery, in search of Matty.

I found him seated at a booth in the very far back, having shucked off his jacket and glasses now that he had his back turned towards the rest of the room. Though he’d kept the beanie, I noted.

Steeling the nerves I felt, I settled the drinks down on the table and smiled apologetically when I saw that Matty had startled at the sound.

"One plain black coffee. Didn't know whether you wanted any sugar or not, so I stashed some sachets away just in case." I laughed before upending a supply of sugar packets from my pocket onto the table.

He simply laughed as he reached out to take two. "Cheers."

I dipped my head and worked on pouring a few splashes of milk into my own brew. I was just stirring when someone approached, almost instantly I found myself grinning at the sight.

"Mouse! My, it's been a while, what ever did we do to deserve such a pleasure?" Cassie greeted me with a delighted smile, settling two small plates onto the table before rounding it to pull me into a hug.

Laughing softly, I wrapped an arm around her neck and enjoyed the way she squeezed me tight, a fixture that accompanied every one of her hugs, before we parted. "Only been a week since you last saw me, Cas. Don't act as though you've missed me."

Cassie gifted me with a wink and beaming grin before she pivoted and turned to catch a glance at my tagalong.

I watched as her eyes widened briefly, obviously not having expected this particular visitor to be staring back at her, but she was professional enough to conceal her shock.

"Well, this is a first." Cassie announced, still smiling away whilst she looked between the two of us sat at the table. "Can't remember the last time you brought us a new visitor, Mouse. You must be special- I'm Cassie, by the way."

Healy's eyes darted between the hand the waitress had extended out and myself. I tried for an encouraging smile but wasn't exactly sure if I’d managed to pull it off or not.

Cassie, as lovely as she was, was definitely a shock to an introvert’s system. I’d learnt that lesson all too quickly. But Healy had handled Adi with ease and she was levels above Cassie, the bright eyed woman standing before us now almost seemed shy in comparison, in truth.

"Matty." He forced out as he took Cas’s hand in his own, "Great to meet you."

He cleared his throat when his palm returned to cradling the inside of his cup and Cassie smiled sweetly at him.

"Good to meet you too, Matty. I hope you enjoy the cake, it's a favourite of M's." She chuckled, nudging the plate closest towards me. "I hear it's all she ever raves about."

I grinned impishly as I picked up my spoon and bit down on a mouthful of chocolate delight. "And it's all I ever will rave about. Nothing compares to Joa’s gâteau."

Cassie rolled her eyes at me but tittered, "I know, I know, we've heard it all before! I'll leave you both to it then, the life of a waitress waits for no one. Hope you enjoy the food though- and again, it was nice to meet you Matty, don't be a stranger."

With that she waltzed off, but not without throwing a gleeful grin over her shoulder that only I was meant to see.

I wrinkled my mouth to keep from reacting outwardly before deciding to focus back on my dessert.

"Sorry about her." I felt the need to murmur, glancing across the table.

Healy shook his head, smiling slightly. "Don't, she seemed nice."

I couldn't help my short laugh, recalling an earlier conversation had with Adi. "Oh she's nice, all right."

Healy didn't comment on my strange reaction, only arched a questioning brow and pulled his cake in closer.

"You know, you pronounced that in perfect French."

"Pronounced what?" I quizzed, already scooping up another spoonful.

"Gâteau." Healy informed, botching the imitation, fingertips poised over the rim of his plate.

"Yeah, and?"

He shook his head again, "Just caught me off guard is all. You speak it then, fluently?"

Tongue in my cheek, I nodded. "Mam's from a tiny village in Alsace."

"Wow. So how'd you end up with that accent then?"

I breathed out an airy laugh, "What's that meant to mean, Manc? Is it too crass for the likes of your wellbred ears?"

Healy's eyes, honest to God, bulged as he fought not to trip over his own tongue in an attempt to mend his minced words.

"No, no, I just meant-"

"I know what you meant. Don't worry." I chuckled, taking pity seeing as I’d already shot back. "I’m only having you on. She met my dad there when he was visiting, but the two of them moved when they married."

"Oh. That's good, I ‘spose. She loved him enough to follow him home."

I hollowed my cheeks and focused my stare on my chocolate smeared spoon.

"Wouldn't put it quite like that, but yeah she loved him. Even after he fucked off."

With a cluck of my tongue, I pushed the cake away and focused instead on my drink.

"I'm sorry."

Frowning for a split second, I forced out a breath and the emotions that had roused back down, then put on a brave face. Determined not to think about it any longer than I had to.

"No, don’t be. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to say that. Just, hard to talk about is all." I scratched at the grain etched into the wooden table.

"Nah, I get that." Healy assured with a shrug, "Don't have to apologise for it though, you have a right to your emotions."

For some reason, that reply surprised me and I had to fight back the urge to say whatever was on the tip of my tongue. I merely nodded instead and went back to picking at the cake.

"Fuck. That's good."

My head snapped up at the audible moan that Healy emitted and found the man pulling a chocolate coated silver spoon from his lips.

"What the fuck do they put in this?" He questioned me, eyes wide as he heaped another helping into his mouth.

"No idea." I laughed, watching closely now.

"Whatever it is, it's fucking good."

And with that, the tension was broken. Healy practically inhaled his serving of cake whilst I portioned mine, smiling around every mouthful. We made small talk as we sipped our drinks quietly, ignoring everyone else bustling about the bakery.

It wasn't long before I finally found the balls to ask the question I'd been meaning to ask ever since Matty had shown up outside the studio though.

"So, can I ask why you decided to pay me a visit now? Or, is it all top secret? Like hush hush."

His lips twisted before he replied, "Don't have an actual answer for you. Had a shitty day and ended up storming off, didn't even realise I'd wandered so far from the recording studio until I caught sight of one of the backroads we'd taken to get to your loft the other day.” He shrugged, finger toying with the near empty cup. “Was faced with the choice of finding the nearest pub and getting pissed, or seeing if you were in. It was a toss up."

"And I won?" I found myself asking, a small smile tugging at the corners of my lips.

"Would seem so."

"Happy I could help, then. The former wouldn't have done you much good."

Healy’s eyes met mine then and his gaze flickered across the length of my face.

I couldn't really place the expression he wore and almost had a small fit when I wondered over whether or not he was looking at my scars, but found that I didn't care much. Which was odd and had me feeling self conscious all over again.

"No, I don't suppose it would've."

It took a second for me to connect the dots, to remember what I’d even said, but when I did I smiled.

Not long after polishing off our drinks, I suggested we take a walk to burn off the cake we’d piled on. But in reality, I had just realised that without the big jacket and sunglasses it was hard to miss the marvel that was Matty Healy sitting in an old Islington bakery.

Matty had been all for the idea and so together we’d exited the bakery, me calling out my goodbyes to Joanna and Cassie when I passed. The older woman’s gaze lingered on Matty’s retreating form but she bid us nothing but a soft nod with her quiet farewell.

We wasted what was left of the hour I had wandering down backroads, just taking in the city and talking between ourselves. I picked up on where Matty had been raised, in a large house in a town just south of Manchester. He hadn’t lingered too long on the topic of his family, either reasoning that I already knew about it or preferring not to, but I was more than happy to tell Matty about my mum. Recalling stories of my youth, of Christmases spent in our tiny cottage, and summers down by the creek.

It was to my own wasted effort, not trying to focus too many of my questions on Matty’s career, because a lot of what surrounded him came from or was to do with being in the limelight. From his friends and social circle, to his everyday life. Matty’s hobby had and always would be music, that much was incredibly clear to me, only he’d just been lucky enough to make a career out of it.

Before long, I realised that our time was finally up and I was left observing the way Matty toed the edge of the curb just outside of the busy train station.

Surprisingly, Matty had wanted to walk me all the way there, just to make sure that I could arrive and board the train with all my limbs still intact. And, to his credit, he’d done exactly that, even with all of my amused reassurance that I’d be fine and did it daily.

But in truth, it was just me being overly concerned about someone recognising who Matty really was and starting a crazed frenzy. In my head all I could see was him disappearing into an ocean of teenage girls that suddenly swarmed him, calling out for help.

I would be well and truly fucked if something were to happen to Matty whilst he was under my watch.

"You know," I began, staring up at the dark haired man before me. Noticing then that Matty, although older, looked an awful lot younger in that very moment. "I am glad you picked me."

He stared back at me, dark shades tucked into the lining of his jacket now. “That so?”

My cheeks bunched as I tried to dim my smile.

"Yeah," I confirmed with a soft chuckle, "Strange as it was at first, I surprisingly enjoyed myself."

"Surprisingly? I'm glad." Matty smiled, a small thing that wrinkled the corners of his eyes as he tugged at his ear. "I did too."

I returned the gesture, chest tightening.

The pavement rumbled beneath our feet then, meaning yet another train had pulled into the station beneath us and the Underground didn't wait around for anyone. I knew, somewhere in the back of my mind, that I’d best be on the next one in hopes of making it to Finn's at a decent hour but I was unable to leave Matty just yet.

"You gonna be okay getting home?" I wondered, gaze skirting over the many heads that crowded the street as a dozen other people filed out of the station doors. "I mean, have you got money for a cab or something? Someone to call?"

I flushed when Matty laughed at my unnecessary concern, suddenly embarrassed by the thought of sounding like my mother. I bit back the urge to outwardly cringe.

"I'll be alright, babe. I'll have someone pick me up. Thanks though."

I dipped my head in understanding and then shoved my cold hands deeper into the pockets of my coat, rocking back and forth slightly. "So I'll be seeing you then?"

"Would you want to?"

I blinked, surprised by the question. Or maybe by the way Matty had phrased it.

“What d’you mean? What, did you just figure I'd spend an hour with you, dash off, and then never speak to you again? If it's alright, I actually wouldn't mind keeping in contact. It's not like Jamie doesn't already talk my ear off everyday, so what's adding you into the mix gonna do?"

“Hang on. Jamie? As in my Jamie? Jamie, Jamie? Manager Jamie, he actually messages you?” Matty immediately quizzed and at my mirthful nod, he shook his head in disbelief. “The dickhead!”

"He never mentioned it?" I thought to ask, unable to stifle my growing laughter.

"No he fucking didn't!" Matty replied with his tongue pressed against his top teeth. But his mouth was still curled upwards as he continued to shake his head, and so I took his reaction with a pinch of salt.

"Well, sorry to have been the one to break it to you then."

Matty snorted and lifted his eyes, hazy brown holding my stare. “Nah, it’s fine. Honestly just fucked off he got your number before I even had the chance to ask."

My eyebrows shot upwards, unsure on how to take that. "Um, well. I mean you could still ask?"

The minuscule smile Matty had been wearing switched into a full blown smirk at my stuttered words and I saw the challenge in his stare when he stealthily stepped closer.

"Well then, Squeaks. Would you do me the honour of giving me your number, or you gonna have me beg in front of all these people?"

I huffed a breathy laugh as I pulled my mobile out, handing it over to him without a second thought.

The way his face lit up caught me off balance and I could only watch on whilst Matty rushed to type an assortment of numbers into the device.

“What are you doing?” I suddenly asked, ginning when Matty angled the phone out in front of him.

He paused to glance over, shooting me a mischievous grin, one that had my stomach flipping at the very sight- and shit, if that wasn't a bad sign. But I could only focus on Matty now, on the way his grin changed his entire face, the haughty arrogance he had once carried fading alongside the sharp, sunken lines of his profile. It brought a pretty colour to his cheeks and brightened the shadows that stormed his eyes.

It was hard to look away.

“Need a photo, don’t I?” Matty retorted easily, “How else you gonna know it’s me phoning?”

I was honestly somewhat startled by the sudden difference I saw in Matty then, in the confidence he now held, the very same that appeared in the videos I’d seen of him up on stage. In the good natured teasing and wit he shot out that had me struggling to form a valid response.

“Messaged myself too,” Matty explained, pulling me from my observation. “So all we need now, is a photo of you.”

Sure enough, when I pulled my full focus back to Matty, or on what he was now saying rather, I found him there holding his own phone up towards me.

"Come on, give us a smile then, mardarse." Matty mocked and I scoffed in return, the corners of my mouth twitching at the sound of his accent becoming more prominent.

“God, you’re a right prat.” I rebuked, but it was softened by the mad grin I wore as I knuckled Matty’s elbow. “Fine, go on then, but make sure you get my good side, Healy!”

"But every side is your good side!"

I simply rolled my eyes at the exaggeration then leant in as near as I could to the camera so that it could get a close up of the face I made. Hands still tucked into my pockets and eyes now staring directly into the lens, I pooled my tongue out like a panting dog as I tilted my head to the side.

Matty’s bark of laughter echoed out across the highstreet, loud enough that it had a few heads turning, but no one paid much mind to a man who now had his face buried in his phone, gazing down at the picture he had just snapped.

"Good enough?" I asked, rubbing at my nose and glancing about as the self doubt began to seep in now that the fun was over.

Matty raised his head, and I reckoned that my pulse must have stuttered when I caught a glimpse of his wide eyes and bright smile.

"Perfect."

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birdfriend-theband · 3 months ago

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SOMEWHERE YOU DID, SOMEWHERE YOU WILL: Bird Friend's Our Gods at 10; or, Last Thoughts on the Albuquerque House Show Scene

Author’s note:

Okay - bear with me on this one. Ten years have passed since the events in this piece occurred. In those ten years I’d like to think I’ve picked up a few scraps of wisdom here and there, and while our culture has built an industry around depictions of untamed youth, I’m inclined to believe that those years aren’t always what they’re cracked up to be. I was far from perfect as a young man, and this memoir is not designed to suggest any differently. It is, however, partly an attempt to express gratitude towards those folks who gave me the opportunity to live something like the rich life of an artist. If this work has found its way to you, I will say this: my inbox is always open.

G. Himsel

Funeral Hill, Portsmouth, New Hampshire

Autumn 2024

Halfway through the last-ever show at the old Vassar house, someone called the cops.

Cheap Time was playing in the living room when the police banged on the door, and when the hostess took over the mic to warn the crowd, the whole place fell apart. The music shambled to a halt, and the living room - which was painted floor-to-ceiling in graffiti - became the scene of a mad scramble for the exits. Young punks spilled into the backyard, clambering over the cinderblock walls and into the alleyways, or sprinting drunkenly past the squad cars blocking the driveways. Underage kids tossed bottles and dime bags onto the neighbors’ side of the fence before disappearing into the darkness themselves. The band stood around, dumbfounded, as the room cleared, their audience disappeared, and a pair of tired-looking cops wandered into the house with their hands on their hips. The night was over, prematurely - and while the old house’s closing ceremonies were supposed to have some sort of significance, the chaos of the evening was befitting of the chaos of its era. The street was full of wasted kids, running from the cop lights. With three beers in my body, I ran, too - into the cool bronze night of the neighborhood, past the bungalows and pueblo revivals, holding my half-empty pack of cigarettes in the breast pocket of my flannel shirt. It was the fall of 2013 in Albuquerque, New Mexico, I was nineteen years old, and it was the first house show I’d ever attended.

II.

Albuquerque is about a day’s drive from anything; eight hours east of Las Vegas, seven hours out from Phoenix. Denver lies six miles to the north, and Mexico five hours south. The city rests on a massive alluvial plain and straddles the Rio Grande at its midpoint, where droughts and water-rights battles often reduce the river to a trickle. It’s bright: the sun shines four out of every five days, and at a mile above sea level, the sun can feel intimately close. Isolated by miles of Southwestern desert, it’s nonetheless a city of intersections - intersections of North American cultures, of rivers and railroads, and of highways. I-40 and I-25 collide here at the “Big I,” an engineering feat that doubles as a towering monument to the car culture of the American West. Nearly thirty percent of residents speak Spanish, and another significant portion speaks Navajo or Vietnamese. In the last hundred and fifty years, it’s grown from a railroad depot to nearly two-hundred miles of low-density urban sprawl - and many parts retain an odd 1960s or ‘70s feel. Outside of the city, they make movies and television, and test weapons for the military. Passenger trains still clatter through downtown, and bands play under gazebos in the historic district. In Barelas, Chicano pride shines. In Rio Rancho, suburban tract homes bump up against the stark, high desert. But while the city glows with a sort of mid-century American-ness, it more often feels far, far away from the mainstream culture and customs of the rest of the U.S. It’s a weird place, especially if you - like me - grew up amidst the urban renewal and suburban gloom of post-industrial New England. Out in New Mexico, you sort of get the feeling that you’ve traveled off the map.

I lived in Albuquerque from 2012 to 2016. I wanted to make art and play my guitar, and I got my wish; I spent most of those years submerged in the city’s weird subculture of underground house shows. Our neighborhood of University Heights - more generally known as the Student Ghetto, due to its huge population of off-campus UNM students - was the kind of starving-artist paradise peculiar to college towns. The neighborhood was made up of cheap, low-density rental housing. Landlords and neighbors were generally tolerant of the 18-25 crowd and whatever noise and chaos it generated. Homes were usually single-unit, with spacious yards and a sense of relative privacy. Rents were in the high hundreds, and we often had more space than we needed. The infrastructure supported public transit and cyclists and the whole area was anchored by a commercial strip with cheap food and plenty of intellectual resources.

But while while the Student Ghetto was typical of any neighborhood near a big college campus, the fact that the college campus happened to be located right in the middle of a major city - a city that, in turn, was an isolated stop on the way to the rest of the world - meant that a disproportionate amount of creative energy was funneled directly into the laps of the people living there. In 2014-15 a five-block stretch of Gold Avenue alone boasted five house venues, each with distinct programming, that sometimes threw shows on the same nights. The most important of them, Gold House, changed hands countless times but survived for over a decade as a magnet for nationally-recognized punk and indie acts. I saw Kid Congo play at Gold House, in the living room; I saw Kimya Dawson play on the porch. The loudest show I’ve ever seen in my life was at Gold House: the Cosmonauts blew my eardrums there, on a Sunday night in the summer of 2014.

A culture existed around these places. Different houses were home to different sub-families of the city’s greater punk community, and often had one or two of their own house bands in addition to a few touring favorites. My immediate neighbors hosted murky, reverb-washed psych rock bands like L.A. Witch, while the legendary Bungalow was something like a fraternal organization for strange, outer-limits outsider punk.

Beyond that, different houses had different philosophies about live music, different levels of permissiveness surrounding drugs and drinking, and varying levels of preparedness for interactions with the police. At some venues, “rules” were looked upon suspiciously. At one Fourth of July show in 2015, the entertainment options were split between outdoor American flag-burning and a basement set by a band that played completely naked. But there were more often attempts to establish some order. At the Bungalow, there was generally a volunteer at the door who checked IDs and marked hands accordingly; this protected the house and its inhabitants when the cops were called, as they were during the second Mountain Blood Fest when one hardcore punk vocalist ended up on the roof.

My Albuquerque experience eventually reached its zenith at the Bungalow, where Bird Friend recorded Cibola and I probably attended more shows than anywhere else, but it was Wagon Wheel - a miniscule pueblo house on Stanford Drive - where I first found my footing as a writer and musician.

III.

Wagon Wheel’s house band was Arroyo Deathmatch, an insane hardcore/folk-punk band that played a weird assemblage of uncommon and handmade instruments and acted as the essential masthead for the local Goathead Record Collective. Besides being the band that I most closely identify with this space, they were the first group I encountered in the Southwest who really completely embodied a DIY ethic. A lot of people coming into music feel as if they need to gather a certain amount of abstract necessities in order to reach a performance level - things like promotional materials, or a clear idea of genre, style, influence, etc. These guys didn’t even need proper instruments. They played a kind of shambling punk on a frankenstein lineup of homemade drums, bass guitars, flutes and ukuleles that was nonetheless really literary and challenging and rousingly political. They hand-printed their own CD jackets, did all their own distribution, and created their own music network before Spotify was a thing and when social media as we now know it was in its infancy.

The first time I caught them was at Wagon Wheel, on their own turf - in the sweaty, postage-stamp sized living room that felt like it was ready to burst with bodies dancing, jumping, singing along. I have no idea how long they had been a band before I encountered them, but the scene that I wandered into felt completely fully-formed by the time I arrived. Folks knew the words to their songs, knew the breaks, wore the fashion and participated fully in the music. The audience was committed to this local band in a way that I had never considered, let alone encountered, in the fragile, decentralized, conservative and suburban music community back home in New England.

Seeing Arroyo Deathmatch for the first time completely reordered my idea of what was possible as a performer - instead of meeting the expectations of an entrenched music scene, as most fledgling musicians attempt to do, they created their own scene, with its own internal logic and set of rules. Obviously this wasn’t the first time this had ever happened in punk history, but to see it happening on such a grassroots level - and with an audience that was so ready to be a part of their thing - was incalculably influential on my soft, teenage brain. I sent them an email, asking how to be a part of that thing, and they set me up with my first show in town. It was the first Bird Friend show - a last-minute addition to the opening ceremonies of the first-ever Mountain Blood Fest. I banged my way through six or seven solo songs, completely unamplified, met our lifelong friend and collaborator Nikki Barva, and was at a Goathead Collective meeting two weeks later.

IV.

Goathead Record Collective was an non-hierarchical affiliation of artists and musicians that organized gear shares, music promotion, and operated a sort of mobile recording studio whose equipment was free to use amongst collective members. They organized a weekly meeting - on Wednesday nights - where participants drew up show schedules and local promo stuff and organized workshops on everything from tour booking and zine-making to discussions about scene politics and self-policing. The location rotated, sometimes taking place at the Bungalow, sometimes at my own place, Coffee House, and most often at Wagon Wheel. A ton of stuff came out of the GRC: an organized network of merch sales, three iterations of Mountain Blood Fest, countless shows at venues ranging from living rooms to warehouses, clubs, and karate studios. That’s not to mention the recorded output: GRC was involved in early releases by bands like Days ‘N’ Daze, and a distinguished list of Albuquerque artists like the Leaky Faces, Manuka Piglet, the Vassar Bastards, and Arroyo Deathmatch themselves. Using the DIY studio setup and a refurbished 10-CD duplicator from the flea market, the collective did hand-made CD releases and promoted them in local newspapers.

If it sounds utopic, it was - and the collective disbanded after a few years. But when I stumbled into it, it was in its halcyon days. At Wagon Wheel and the other houses it felt as though there was an endless parade of bands who, although now fading into history, left a permanent impression on us. Far from the cultural centers of the country, and far even from the curated, “professional” music community of Albuquerque, the weirdest bands in the world summoned magic, effortlessly, night after night. These houses glowed with creative energy, and the more music they contained, the more their myths assumed legendary proportions.

I hoped that some of that magic would rub off when Alexster, of Arroyo Deathmatch, invited Bird Friend to record an album at Wagon Wheel. Our band was - as it’s always been - a pretty loose unit. I had one record out already, a self-titled release that I’d cobbled together with my high school band. It was a gloomy, navel-gazing collection of bummers and breakup songs that nevertheless featured “Parting Gifts,” a song that’d soon become a singalong staple of our years in Albuquerque. I’d been playing solo shows in the city for about six months, and had recruited Cody and Peach of the Leaky Faces to play with me when they were available. My then-roomate (now wife) Carson would sit in on harmony vocals every now and then.

I booked a weekend at Wagon Wheel to bang out some songs I’d been working on; I’d recently read Hesiod’s Theogony & Works and Days and some of Edith Hamilton’s classic Mythology and become really interested in the weird, flawed gods and heroes of ancient Greece. I was a young dude, very far from home and trying to figure things out pretty much completely on my own; I was very aware that I was going through a transitional period, twenty years old and particularly susceptible to self-mythologizing. I began to think of myself as entering a new epoch of my life, and through my involvement in the Collective and the music community I felt as if I were making a full break from the expectations and orthodoxies of my “old life” in New England. It became very important to me to write down what I was seeing unfold all around me.

Reading the ancient stories - which really feel so contemporary at times - pushed me to mythologize what I was living through. The writers, artists, strangers and cities of the Southwest lived on one hand, with the folks I left back in New England on the other. I started to try and fit them into the contours of very, very old stories. I may have been trying to make some sense of the weird new world I found myself in. But I was more certainly writing to my older self; caught in that present utopia, I had the bright idea to create a sort of Myth of Ages that would elevate that fleeting moment to the status of folklore. After all, the excitement of the music community back then felt so much bigger than the sum of its parts. If this radical moment of mass self-actualization was, in its essence, just a bunch of people hanging out in living rooms, it felt huge, important, essential. That meant the only way to write about it was mythologically.

Once again, it’s not like this idea was itself a radical development. Storytelling and tall tales are as old as anything in the folk tradition. But if Bird Friend’s love for the folk tradition has often pitted us against the prevailing currents of popular music, it was - in this instant - the most appropriate vessel.

We only had two days to record the material that would become Our Gods. Some elements of my music life never change, and the matter of scheduling is one of them. Alexster had a day job, a venue to run, and other groups to record; Cody had his other band, Carson was still in school, and I worked nights at the 66 Diner. Peach, who at that point had already played shows with us, may have been out of town or otherwise occupied, and didn’t get to join us at all. As it were, we had two days back-to-back in mid-October to crank out whatever songs we could. We planned a double release with the Leaky Faces in December, so the feeling was that whatever we committed to tape that weekend would pretty much be the album. The “the studio” was set up in the empty living room, and was limited to two microphones and a dining room chair. Alexster’s bedroom served as the control booth.

VI.

A few days before the release, the Collective got together in the basement of the Bungalow, and we had a CD-making party for Our Gods and the Leaky Faces’ Freak Tree. We burned blank discs ten at a time on the duplicator, and cut album covers that we’d printed for free with someone’s UNM library card. We did some beers and carefully glued the covers onto plain black CD jackets, each one stamped with the Goathead Records logo. It was December, and it was cold; in photos from that night, everyone’s wearing jackets and sweaters indoors. I wonder now if the heat was on, or if it was ever on in that house.

We did the show at Wagon Wheel a few nights later - something like eight bands played, and our resident videographer Isaac “Boose” Vallejos got the whole evening on film. That night was Wagon Wheel as I remember it: packed, sweaty, and electric with creative energy. In those days, getting a show at all felt like a blessing - every single performance felt vital, essential, and to attach a whole album to it felt triumphant. I have the videos of the Bird Friend set, and we’re loose, sloppy, full of humor, and backed against the wall by a big crowd of happy people.

The Goathead thing began to splinter apart a few months after Our Gods. Social friction amidst the growing proportions of the scene, not to mention the exhausting undertaking of Mountain Blood Fest II, contributed to a slow drift towards other projects. The atmosphere of idealism was hard to sustain as more people joined the fold, and the collective itself felt more beholden to a sense of expectation and accountability that quickly overwhelmed it.

It was tough to let it all go. It’s not like the shows and the bands simply vanished, but a growing sense of dislocation and disunity began to take over. The essential loss of a mutual support network returned the music scene back to a landscape of unfocused cliques. At this point, I was 21 years old, totally untethered and spinning my wheels. I started drinking a lot, and entered a dark stretch, turning out songs that were long, desperate, and heavy with a sense of doom. I fell down for a while. Eventually I left Albuquerque, in order to hit the reset button before I went too far down an ugly path.

A friend of mine once said that writing is a selfish act. Before he passed away, I often thought about asking him what he meant - and now that I don’t have the chance, I meditate on it often. And writing down these memories so long after the fact, I find myself meditating on it all over again. Maybe it’s selfish to attach too much significance to this brief period of my life. Or maybe it’s selfish to view something that touched so many people through the narrow window of my own, meager experience. After all, the world of New Mexican music was so much bigger than the record collective. Or perhaps it’s selfish to talk about those days like they belonged to some perfect, unspoiled era; for they most certainly did not. All of this history took place against the confused, chaotic backdrop of about a thousand peoples’ early twenties - not generally known as a peaceful or self-assured time in life. Not everyone got out in one piece, or even alive.

Yet I’ve been playing my guitar in front of people for a long time now, and Bird Friend has been around in some form for over a decade. And though I’ve started to suspect that we’re not going to be famous (not that that’s the point), in navigating a whole range of music scenes I’ve started to double back to the questions leftover from the days of Goathead. How do we celebrate each other, and our art? How do we inhabit the role of audience, critic, and creator all with the same grace? And now, in a world whose modernity is more disenfranchising than ever, how do we do it all with dignity?

As musicians, we’re constantly being assaulted by statistics: our plays, our listeners, and their level of engagement is constantly being tracked in extreme, granular detail. Promoters use these numbers to gauge your marketability, an important task in a world where the profitability of a music venue is considered life-or-death. Less people are going to shows, less people are consuming physical media, and the network of music discovery is essentially in the hands of algorithms and AI. The context of a piece of music is often lost when a “user” only spends a few seconds with it on a reel or social media post. The act of creation is its own reward, yet I sometimes find myself asking the most frightening question: what’s the fucking point?

What are we supposed to do as artists? Why do we make music? Who’s it for? In a perfect world, it’s one pathway to building a shared philosophy. That’s what the Goathead era was for me: a forum in which a little music scene was foundational to ideas about culture, community, and mutual support. But what’s the benefit of creating a shared philosophy, if it only exists in a digital space? The town I live in now is supposedly full of artists - and I don’t see a united front against the behemoth of corporate development that’s shuttered a frightening number of venues these last few years. Art as content, art as corporate culture, art supposedly made “accessible” by an internet machine designed primarily to make money are all more dominant than ever - and I sometimes wonder if the concept of an art community actually stands a chance. When I worry, I think of the extremely unlikely success we had in Albuquerque. If it warms me just a little, I also remember that it was all a very long time ago.

Our Gods is not the greatest album ever made. It’s not even the best album Bird Friend ever made. But for myself, and my own personal history (here comes the selfish act again), it represents a little glory that we got to participate in, if only for a while. I wonder if I’ll ever experience that intensity again, but if your time is still yet to come, hear this: somewhere you did, somewhere you will - somewhere you are all together still.

VII. Belated Liner Notes

Listen to “OUR GODS” on Spotify or Bandcamp.

Overture (Muses)

The idea with “Overture” was to start the record with a reference to Greek poetry and to Hesiod’s work by including a rip-off of the kind of invocation that would commonly begin a piece of ancient literature. This little prayer was meant, in the old days, to set the tone and context of a piece and to assure the audience that a storyteller knew what they were talking about. Performed a cappella in one take, I don’t think this song was ever performed again. I still like the concept, and still think it’s clever to flip this old convention on its head by admitting in the first line of the album that the writer of these songs is an unreliable narrator.

Where Are You?

I spent a lot of my younger years wandering around the woods of New England. This is the oldest part of the country, and if a historical site isn’t preserved, it’s quickly swallowed up by nature. The area I grew up in was clear-cut in the 19th century for sheep grazing, and by the early 1900s was completely forested again. There are really no such thing as historical ruins out here, and if you do find something abandoned out in the forest, it’s probably only a few decades old. I saw some coincidence in the idea that, in both the Mediterranean and the Southwest, researchers are constantly finding throwaway evidence of really old civilizations - potsherds, petroglyphs, architectural stuff that’s all just been sitting out in the desert for hundreds or thousands of years that gives you an idea of the everyday lives of people who lived and died generations ago. You can actually just wander out into the desert and see this stuff. It doesn’t get washed away by the rain or the ocean or torn up by a tree root after fifty years. That’s the idea behind “Where Are You?,” a song that supposes what will be left of our lives a thousand years from now. When you’re young, you feel things so, so intensely - how much of that intensity lives in the objects we leave behind? What kind of half-life does it have?

Oh, Pilgrim!

This is a pretty straightforward song, message-wise. It was most likely written before I began to fixate on the “concept” of this album, and it’s more of a clear-cut celebration of my independence and my Big Desert Adventure than anything else. It’s very important in our catalog, however, as the first-ever recorded Carson performance. Her natural gift for harmony is obvious here, and I remember Alexster being somewhat stunned that she pulled her part off in one take. Recording vocals can be the most nerve-wracking element of the studio experience, and her fearlessness in performance and ability to write complex vocal harmonies is as stunning now as it was then.

The Wheel

I haven’t talked much about the dominance of folk punk in the Albuquerque scene of those days. It had already been around for years by that time, and the blank-canvas nature of the genre was well-suited to the limited resources of our little scene. For a while, it felt like folk punk was all there was in the neighborhood, since it could be played convincingly on cheap instruments, by folks with limited chops, and didn’t require anything as burdensome as an amplifier. The minor-key inertia of “The Wheel” owes something to the prevailing folk punk conventions of the day, and seems to be particularly indebted to The Leaky Faces’ “Steam,” even if it doesn’t match the energy of that band.

The Road (Forever Returns to the Heart)

“The Road” flirts with bluegrass, a style whose strict conventions and average level of musicianship are completely foreign to a band as ramshackle and inconsistent as Bird Friend. This was one of the songs that was supposed to include percussion, which is blasphemous in the bluegrass world, and there are live recordings out there that include Peach on the drums. Nevertheless, any listener of “The Road” can probably tell that I’d discovered Ralph Stanley by this point. This is one of the songs from Our Gods that I vividly remember working on; I recall flipping through Tom Robbins’ Jitterbug Perfume as quietly as I possibly could while Cody recorded the freewheeling banjo parts. “The Road” is probably only second to “Parting Gifts” when it comes to its popularity, as well as the number of times it was caught on video during this era. It’s featured in the Before You Burn documentary and on the Mountain Blood Fest II compilation.

Granite & Gold

This is an interesting track. I don’t remember much of what motivated me to write this one, although it strikes me now as some hand-wringing over the future legacy of the Goathead scene. Ten years later, Goathead is long gone, and the artists that are still active have completely evolved. Looking back at that time in such depth feels like going back to a place you used to live in; everything’s different, and a lot of people are gone, but the light still falls in the same way. An uncanny feeling, I guess. Like visiting your old elementary school.

The Fear, The Fear

“The Fear” is a weird composite of a lot of my influences at the time of recording. The title is, of course, ripped from the Defiance, Ohio album of the same name. The guitar part is totally indebted to Bob Dylan’s version of “House Carpenter,” which I played often back when I spent my Sundays busking in Santa Fe. I’m not entirely sure where we got the idea to attempt the weird, sitar-like banjo part, but I suspect it was from Mark Fry’s “The Witch,” which was on heavy rotation at Coffee House. I do also remember Cody joking that the banjo part came out “sounding like Donovan.” Our Gods is a pretty spare record, and I think this is the most ambitious we got during those recording sessions. It’s another comment on the fleeting nature of the community and the anxieties and social pressures that motivate people to choose a life of convention over a life of art.

Our Gods

The title track features Kylee Jo on fiddle. Kylee was staying overnight at Wagon Wheel during the Our Gods sessions; it wasn’t uncommon for house venues to host traveling musicians (or just travelers) even if they weren’t performing there, and Kylee was just on the way to somewhere else when we met. Having never met us before, and certainly never hearing of our band, she agreed to play fiddle on “Our Gods.” I played the song once through to teach the changes, we recorded one fiddle track, I wrote her name down on a piece of receipt paper for the album credits, and we never saw each other again. Some of the most intimate exchanges of ideas happen in your own home, far from performance spaces, and Carson and I have always tried to keep our home open to other artists. It’s a tough world out there, and a little sanctuary can go a long way. Sometimes you even make new friends, or collaborators.

Sucker & St. Joan

Sometimes you look back at a song you wrote and surprise yourself, and in revisiting Our Gods after so many years, this song seems to stand taller among the others. The intent behind this album is clearer here than anywhere else, and the composition, harmony, and structure are all about as highly-developed as I was capable of at age 20. The playing’s good, too; but what really strikes me on “Sucker” is its clarity. Hearing the chorus again, recognizing that even a decade ago we were aware of our community as a temporary junction of lives, is awfully moving - and revisiting this song is what encouraged me to write this piece in the first place. When listening to this song, I can feel my present self looking back, my past self looking forward - and we meet each other somewhere in the middle. I do my best to catch up with people from the old scene, engage with their art, listen to their bands and see what’s going on in their lives. Some folks are still permanent fixtures in the Bird Friend family, while some are like distant relatives. Still others I check in with once a year or so, or catch their shows when they’re in town. Others just cross my mind from time to time, or pass by in the social media parade.

IIX.

Spotify, music streaming, and social media all belonged to a very different landscape a decade ago. Many bands of the Albuquerque community never made it to Spotify for logistical or philosophical reasons; others never recorded much at all, or produced anything that sounded like their live performances. Practically none of the bands of those days are still active - although most of the artists involved are still working, the vast majority of them have moved onto other projects. Much of the Goathead Record Collective’s web presence has been lost over time.

Below, I’ve listed a few songs that are representative of Bird Friend’s world during the 2013-2016 era. Some of it comes from bands we played with, and most of it comes from Albuquerque. All of the bands featured were, in some significant way, affiliated with the house show scene. Bandcamp is still the best way to listen to these artists. If you have the paper edition of this piece, the QR code on the bottom will take you to the web version where you can listen to the music.

If you want the authentic experience, you can download these songs as mp3s, drag them into an iTunes playlist, load them onto an iPod Mini with a cracked screen and listen to them on a skateboard.

The Leaky Faces - Steam

Arroyo Deathmatch - Swimming the Witch

Bella Trout - Coffee Stains

Human Behavior - Crag

Smoke & Mirrors - The Godslayer

Manuka Piglet - Mr. Kelp

Crushed!? - Ethereal Horizon

Soviet Science Fair - Toast (Live 2014)

lemurtween - pee van/no one understands me

Lindy Vision - Bad Things

The Vassar Bastards - Dead Cat

Nobody Particular - Cage Wreck

Colour Me Once - 10,000 Miles to Graceland

Marissa. - Running For The Gates

Klondykes - BTSD

#diy music #folk #folk music #anti folk #folk punk #music #bird friend #new mexico #goathead record collective #personal history #essay #writers on tumblr #digital zine #punk #diy punk #2010s #playlist #Spotify

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arialice · 6 months ago

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Hey malevolent fans, let me tell you of the most malevolent coded album, Counterfeit Arcade by Shayfer James.

So many of the songs either in lyrics or vibes remind me so much of this show, so in a few words I'm going to attempt to explain my thought process about each song (be prepared, it's long)

Weight of the World - I don't have much to say about the lyrics. They kind of fit.

"That's just the weight of the world/We do what we must to stay alive/That's just the weight of the world/And we'll all be the weak and the weary sometime"

The instrumentals, tune and vibes is what really makes this song shine for me. Piano (obviously), the general deranged vibes and so on.

For the Departed - reminds me so much of part 20, thought I can't personally decide who's 'singing' the song. It lowkey works from both John's and Arthur's perspective.

"Save yourself/I am far beyond repair/They will bury me alive/But I'm not inclined to care"

More inclined to think Arthur because of the lines:

"Now I must finish what I started, oh-oh/I'll write a symphony for the departed/And I have no time for second chances/So I survive on bourbon, blood, and backward glances, oh"

"And so, the scene begins/Your cries become the wind/A desperate plea best left unheard/Then my contrived goodbye/A poet's pantomime/A drunken jester's final words"

Where we belong - this song. It's literally malevolent in a song. This is the most literal one. I would quote the entire song if I could, but here's some key lines:

"I know we're far beyond the point of no return/Let's say we light a fire and be the first to burn"

"Do you recall the day when we went wrong?/Time is flying/Ease your weary mind, we'll be alone"

"There's a freight train coming, barreling around the bend/There's a red light flashing, oh, ladies and gentlemen, this is the end/I do believe that we've a lesson left to learn/So take your seats, your salutations, and your turn"

"And on the way to our salvation, we'll be making plans/To overthrow the king and pick apart the promised lands"

L.V.S (Your Lady Waits) - makes me think about Oscar, specifically BlindFaith. Very much "you are my reason" vibes. I think it's the overall softness of the song, the emotion in it is so palpable.

"Oh, the mountains bow before ya/Oh, the clouds are open wide"

"Oh, and we, my friend/Will meet again"

"Upon this Autumn morn/Your laughter lingers on"

Villainous thing - This song is so, so, so obnoxiously Kayne to me, as in it feels like a song thats meant to be sung by him. The kinda cheery tune mixed with the lyrics sell it for me.

"Welcome, won't you come inside?/Oh I fear the passing year did not deserve you"

"Soaked and shivered from the rain/You have always been a delicate disaster" - singing about Arthur

"Waste no worry for the world/Let it be a tragedy of love and glory/While they wait by gates of pearl/We'll be building palaces in purgatory" - makes me think of him pitching the the deal with John in like a reverse psychology way. "Oh I'm sure Arthur is fine you can keep building your empire here in the Dark World, king."

Battle Cry - Works in general considering the 'monster of the week' trope this podcast sometimes falls into.

"Hear my battle cry, hear that mighty sound/They've come before and many more will try to strike me down/Hear my battle cry, hear that mighty roar"

The second verse is what really stands out to me though.

"I met a stranger on my way to here from God knows where/He won my lover in a dirty game of solitaire/He stole my crown and placed it crookedly upon his head/He turned around, I took him down and this is what I said" - again, thinking about part 20 (can you tell its my favorite?) The 'stranger' is The King/Hastur/Yellow/Whatever. 'But he's not a stranger?' He kind of is. After Arthur and John are together for so long, even the King admits that he doesn't know why his other half would pick Arthur. John himself had been making small steps at redemption, and just those baby steps made him pretty duffrebt from the King.

"You'll sacrifice the truth to justify your sins/But I don't need an excuse to let the darkness in" - again Arthur and the King. The King does 'bad' shit simply because he wants, yet when Arthur does something moraly 'bad', he has to justify it to himself.

Peace - Very part 31, aka Arthur's Scratch induced nightmare.

"I'd rather live alone than live a lie/I will never deserve peace" - the confessions we get from Arthur about how he felt about Bella

"I spoke to the ghost on my way to asleep/But the boards in the floor called my footsteps a thief" -reminds me of the argument with James. My line of reasoning is that James is the 'boards', and he's calling him a thief because he 'stole' Bella's life by stepping into it, marrying her when he didnt love her, if that makes sense.

"I will never deserve peace/I will never deserve peace/I will never deserve peace" - general self deprication

Diggin' Up Hatchets - makes me think of Larson or in general season 3. A little bit cult-y. It's mostly tune and vibes but the lyrics kind of work

"We're diggin’ up hatchets today/And sharpening the blades/In case, a stitch of hope remains/In this hell that we've raised"

"Hey! We're witnessing the waking of the dead/We’re ripping all the wires from our heads"

"We're burying mercy and grace/In unmarked shallow graves"

"There’s a plan for us lunatics and liars/We have faulty gears and wires/They can't save us, but they’ll do the best they can"

Under the Willow - John theme song in my mind, can't convince me otherwise. Song about discovering one's self and purpose.

"Mother, mother, I think I found my soul/While I was hiding under the willow"

"I've been the portrait of despair/Despite this hat and badge I wear/I've been a captive and a coward" - 'hat and badge' in this case is the crown and robe of the king

"I met a wise man under the willow/Lover, lover, look for me no more/I've been right here under the willow" - Arthur, obviously

"I've been a bastard and a fool/Rewritten nearly every rule/But I believe I'm worth redemption" - the redemption line alone is perfect.

Godspeed - the Jarthur divorce song. Arguing with someone but knowing that in the end you'll find each other again.

"There’s many ways to hide a heart that bleeds/But I prefer the ease of rolling up my sleeves" - might be imagining bit I sweat once John told Arthur that he wears his heart on his sleeve, if not I apologize.

"You’ve got some nerve to be coming/around with that card up your sleeve/And those thorns in your crown" - I think 'card up your sleeve refers to a plan, a secret, which John had many of

"Funny how the night is not as long,/when you depend upon/The dark before the dawn" - John deceiving Arthur many a times. Works well with the repeating line "I used to be someone that you could belive", Arthur starts ignoring and going against John (see, the entire thing with Oscar)

"Good luck, godspeed, I know I’ll see you again/I’ll always call you a friend indeed" - They always get over it and play nice again, until the next argument of course.

Have a Seat Misery - Coda and Intermezzo vibes. Short and sweet. Reads like a conversation between Kayne and Arthur.

"Have a seat, misery/Lord how I’ve missed you/Don’t go crying to me/That I kept you away for too long/Just put your feet up, friend/cause I read all your postcards/And in a way, I am happy to say/That you’ve never been gone"

"Let me light that for you/Seems your hand’s a bit shaky/We’ve got damage to do/And I know you’ll need smoke in your chest/So have a seat, misery/And don't ever mistake me/Of all of my friends, you know/You are the one I like best"

Conclusion/TLDR: Counterfeit Arcade by Shayfer James is, to me, THE malevolent album. Are some of these conclusions a stretch? Probably considering some of the lyrics I didn't present do actually go against the messages of the show, but I had fun writing this and the good(things matching up really well) outweighed the bad(some contradictions). Also go listen to the album or just Shayfer James in general

#long post #malevolent #arthur lester #john doe malevolent #oscar malevolent #shayfer james #harlan guthrie #forgive me if this is incoherent #i wrote this across a long car ride and at the beach

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oathkeeper-of-tarth · 1 year ago

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Moon Above And Stars Beside Her

Me, rising from the dead after a hundred years to post fic? It's more likely than you think! These specific characters were laser-targeted and lovingly crafted to activate every single one of my neurons and I am immensely grateful for them. Please enjoy the result of me endlessly rotating them in my mind ever since I met them.

Be warned that this fic is pretty much made up entirely of spoilers for Act 2 of the game.

Fandom: Baldur's Gate 3 Characters: Dame Aylin/Isobel Thorm, Ketheric Thorm, Balthazar, Withers, and a smidge of Selûne herself Length: ~11000 words Rating: M, for canon-typical violence and sexual content

Hurt/comfort, dealing with trauma, an overabundance of righteous anger, a smidge of Came Back Wrong, and some pretty complicated and peculiar parent/child issues.

Summary:

What of the gnawing in thine holy gut, the rage clawing up thine throat? A great weight, inclined to tip the scales once more. Which way shalt thou cast it? When you had nothing else, caged in darkness, you learned to cultivate your anger like the finest of crops. And yet there seems to be so little for you to reap.

The Nightsong is no more and Dame Aylin is returned to her most holy duties. Isobel Thorm is free of her grave. How they handle their past, present, and future is, perhaps, up to them.

Also on AO3.

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Moon Above And Stars Beside Her

"And what of thee, god-child, moon-graced, silver-blood?"

It is the Scribe who addresses you one entirely unremarkable evening, looking up from his scroll to arrest your gaze with his deathless one. They introduced him, a camp guest most unexpected, by some nonsense name you cannot even call to mind. But you would know him anywhere. And so you stop in your path, as you are bid, and listen.

"A tipping of the scales most severe: thine mother freshly spared mourning her daughter, her dark sister's triumph snatched away at the very last moment."

"You have guided these adventurers well, Scribe," you incline your head in respect and a small measure of thanks.

"I do not guide," the grave-wind voice is raised just enough to convey something resembling annoyance at a minor inaccuracy he simply must correct. "I offer what services I am bound to, nothing more."

You arch an eyebrow at him. "And yet you wish to speak to me, who did not ask any service of you."

"Yes," he responds, and leaves it at that for a few moments that feel like an eternity. A timescale he is used to, one would imagine.

"Dame Aylin. Thou art a curious creature, I admit - immortal, yet appearing in my records many times over. Moreover, thine fate stands indelibly entwined with one whose name has been freshly struck from the archives in a manner most uncommon and highly questionable."

A tension floods you as you realise he talks of Isobel, and your hands tighten into fists at your sides.

"What of her, pray tell?" It comes out more curt than you intended, perhaps, but the words are spoken before you can properly settle on them.

"She lives, and shall do so for the time that is given to her, as it is to most. And still," he nods, unnervingly calm, all taut paper-thin skin, a being of unlife if you've ever seen one, "thou wouldst cleave thine malefactors in twain and rejoice in their screams. Thou, who burnest so deeply to reflect back upon them every spear-strike, every lash, every cut, every shattered, twisted bone and sinew, every drop of blessed blood they dared spill."

You breathe in a leaden breath, knit together as you are, the divine birthright of your Mother lacing your scars with shining gold, proclaiming that the testament of your newly ended immeasurable suffering is something to be proudly displayed. You know the marks on your face glisten in the firelight much like the woven gold that decorates his skull, his sunken cheeks, as he looks upon you half-expectantly.

"I would, and I do," you can but confirm through grit teeth.

"What of thine anger? What of the gnawing in thine holy gut, the rage clawing up thine throat? A great weight, inclined to tip the scales once more. Which way shalt thou cast it?"

"I would destroy them. I would scorch the very traces of them from the world. Some, I already have - as you are doubtlessly aware, Scribe. Much like they tried, and failed, to destroy me."

"Or did they?" There is the infuriating calmness again, and a question meant for no answer, or perhaps merely a word of caution aimed at you.

His withered countenance is as utterly illegible as a weather-worn tombstone, but if this was meant to stir hated doubt in you, it does. For you have grown well aware it is not just the bright, righteous blaze of justified anger that fuels you now, but something relentless that stings and cuts you as it wants out, out, out. This is not the way of Protection, of Devotion, of measured Justice. This is not the duty you were once sworn to, the sacred oath that has resounded in the marrow of your very bones since the first breath you ever drew upon this land. No, it is something new, and yet Vengeance has served you just as well - better, perhaps - in this brief time you've been free.

"For all their infernal efforts, I have pieced myself together over and over and over again. It is my nature to do so, not a choice to be made, nor a conscious effort. Their betrayal and their sins against me are but a chapter in my tale, nothing more. My task is not done, and for as long as it is so, Dame Aylin will not stop, will not falter. You know this as well as I."

The calm of the tomb refuses to be disturbed in any way, least of all by your tirade. "And yet, along the way, a piece of thee was lost and replaced with another, ill-fitting. Many stand to win from this, as many stand to lose."

You frown as you scrounge around for a reply, and find yourself lacking one. He looks not at you, but into and through you, and it is uniquely discomfiting.

The Scribe raises his hand in dismissal, and offers solemn parting words. "A godling thou art, but no god. It is in thine nature, too, to wonder, and question, and change in response. As it is in mine to observe, and take note, and stand witness to the weaving of fate. Forget not: thou art not near as tide- and cycle-bound as thine divine moon-mother."

You are given little time to contemplate the Scribe's weighty, ominous statements. Yet another comes seeking, coveting, poaching. Craven-clever mouth full of honeyed praise for your "gift" and only ever wanting to take, take, take, all for himself.

How dare, how dare he, how dare they how DARE--

A thousand echoes of deaths upon deaths swarm and you take the vainglorious fool, lift him bodily up and--

He breaks upon your knee like a dry kindling scrap and your breaths come loud and half-choked and heaving. What was once a vile wizard is now nothing and for a moment, the briefest, most fleeting of moments, neither are you.

Until the world rushes back in, exhausting in its sheer weight. There is no glorious, triumphant rush of battle-roused blood singing through you. Vengeance didn't taste sweet. It didn't taste like much of anything.

When you had nothing else, caged in darkness, you learned to cultivate your anger like the finest of crops. And yet there seems to be so little for you to reap.

As the sounds of the city far, far below slowly fill the enchanted tower, competing with crackling magic and bubbling potions and a complete absence of words spoken by any of your present companions and allies, all you can pinpoint whirling within you is a rising despondency.

One more, and then another, and another after that, extending before you all in a line, down the endless, endless years that await you, immortal and eternal. Magus or sorcerer or ruffian or necromancer or halfwit charlatan, it won't matter much, will it? Because they will try.

Do you dare ever again let your guard down for even a few precious moments of respite, when another villain with designs on your person could be lurking, scheming just around the corner?

Worse yet, far more chilling - what if they, conniving, decide to aim their ambitions at a different target, at your soft underbelly, and come for Isobel in turn?

When you draw yourself out of the crowding thoughts and return to camp at long last, subdued, tired, painfully aware you are far removed from your usual mighty bearing, hours have flown by and the sun has already set. Isobel is there, and for a moment that is all you know. She is there, and whole, and alive, and it is all you can do not to drop to your knees once more and offer prayer upon prayer of gratitude.

She looks at you, eyes brimming with a potent mix of concern and questions, then rushes towards you and wordlessly takes you by the gauntleted hand to the small sanctuary you've carved out for yourselves in the midst of your newfound allies: a simple tent, a soft, warm rug, a comfortable enough cot. A small washbasin Isobel keeps filled with conjured, moonlight-laced freshwater.

"It was a glorious victory, my love, worry not," you rush to reassure, though even you can tell your heart is not in it. "Yet another villain slain, his devilish designs denied - as has become the habit of our merry retinue. The battle has tired my mind somewhat, that is all."

You can see the doubt writ plainly on her face, but it is no lie you tell her (never, never could you bring yourself to lie to her). It is more that… you do not know the reason yourself, or, rather, that it feels too manifold to ever encompass in simple words.

"I wish you would give yourself time, Aylin, let yourself rest," Isobel says, soft, endlessly caring, achingly perceptive, and only slightly disapproving. She starts taking your armour off piece by piece as you sit on the small campaign stool you appropriated recently, then dampens a washcloth to wipe the traces of recent battle from your face. "Please. You endured more than a hundred years of horrors I can scarcely imagine."

You grit your teeth at the mention and try, foolishly, to hide from her the tension that runs through you at the mere evocation of the thought. She palms your cheek and tilts your face to look up at her - her, standing above you and yet barely exceeding your height, though you remain seated - and oh, how you adore the sight!

Isobel frowns as she notices a scrape on your temple, slightly singed in a near-miss from one of the mage's commanded elementals. It is nothing, you want to insist, no need to fuss over it, but you know how to recognise a battle lost before it has even begun. "In Her radiance, you are made whole," she murmurs, and you feel the familiar tingling and slight warmth of the gash knitting itself closed.

Her incantations are perfect and as subtly melodious as ever. There is healing even before her spells take hold simply by the fact she is here. It is Isobel's touch that has ever been a balm when you returned from a skirmish, feathers ruffled, just as it is now when you feel burning echoes of abuse tear through you at some unintended motion or runaway thought.

Satisfied for the moment, she dips the cloth in water again, and runs it gently over you, in a cycle as regular and comforting as that of the Moon itself: brow, nose, cheek, jaw, neck, then brow again, and again. For a little while the gentle, refreshing, cleansing caress is the only thing that exists in your world, and you let go of the death-grip you only half-consciously had on her other hand.

"I confess… I hate to see you throwing yourself back into the fray like this. I understand why, and that it is necessary, but…" she trails away and pauses for a heavy moment, cloth in hand. She resumes, more determined, now scrubbing at a stubborn mark on your chin. "I wish it didn't have to be so soon. Duty or not, you shouldn't have to. You should be allowed to recover in your own time, to heal in peace, until you are ready."

You cannot help but bristle at that. "You would deem me unfit for my purpose? My duty and my self are so entwined, it is not possible to have one without the other - would you call into question a sword's place in battle?"

"Listen to yourself," Isobel snaps, harsher than you can ever remember hearing her, stopping her ministrations and standing tall to face you down, cheeks reddened. "Can't you hear what you sound like? Like a misguided Sharran, making yourself out to be nothing but a tool to be used and used and used until you are useful no more!"

You gape at her, useless, wordless. "Isobel…"

"Yes, you are the resplendent Sword of the Moonmaiden, performing great deeds in Her name… but you're so, so much more than that, and I treasure all that you are." The words are so impassioned and so openly honest you are struck silent in pure awe. Isobel, clutching a dripping, bloodied washcloth in the middle of a patched-up tent, might as well be a queen making proclamations before her devoted court assembled in a lofty palace. And oh, devoted you are, endlessly, endlessly. This can never change.

"My Aylin, my angel. You always have been, and always will be, and if it takes me years to remind you of all of these things I know you once knew, I promise I will." Her palm is back on your face, a gentle caress that soothes many wounds long invisible, never healed.

She speaks her promise as solemn as any vow you have ever made, and you bow your head to kiss her hand.

"There is no need for recklessness, after all," Isobel smiles, the slightest wry twist to it, as she tips your chin back up, leaning down to press a kiss to your forehead and murmur against your freshly washed skin. "The Moonmaiden's shield is mine to wield. You know its strength, the blows it can take. Let it be a sanctuary for you as well. Give me - give yourself a chance. Slowly, step by step - there is time."

You have time, she is correct, even if you've never managed to have a very good grasp of it. All the time in the world, and then some.

Isobel does not.

You've already lost her once, had her ripped from your arms by whims of fate, or rather something far more sinister. There is no way to know, but you suspect, oh, you do. Your Mother's dark twin schemes ever on, and Moonrise, beacon that it was, surely seemed to her a provocation, Ketheric Thorm a crown jewel to be poached, and Isobel, your Isobel, a mere means to an end.

Isobel, brought back, a miracle paid for so very dearly. It would be foolish to count on another.

You stand up and reach over and almost crush her to your chest in an embrace - one she returns not a moment after completing her surprised exclamation. You hold her and hold her and allow yourself to lose track of time again.

Moonlit, timeless, subdued in her glory, you listen to Isobel recite the Words as she pours fresh milk into the small silver ritual bowl before her.

"Our Lady of Silver, whose light falls upon us all, hear me."

Her reverent voice is barely above a whisper but carries impeccably, harmonising with the gentle bells and chimes surrounding the private little altar.

"Sheltered by Your radiance, guided by Your hand, I come not to entreat, but to reaffirm."

Motes of moonlight buoyant around her dance in the rhythm of the prayer you've heard and repeated so often it feels like breathing itself. It would feel stranger not to join in, so you do, if only in your mind.

Ever-changing, ever-returning, as the silver Moon waxes and wanes, so too does life.

You lurch back into awareness in a place you have never seen before, but that you recognise without a shred of doubt. The utter absence in the dark dome of the sky above you, the storms that swirl and rage all around, the assault on your ever-heightened divine senses - the reek of the Shadowfell feels like it has sunk its claws into your lungs already. You shudder, then startle, scrambling to stand when you realise your armour is gone, your sword nowhere to be found.

Your feet are bare on the cold, cruel rock; your mind reeling, disoriented. Half-blinded by the glowing runes that encircle you, your tunic still stained with the fresh blood of your latest, very recent death, you come face to face with the two men you made the mistake of believing and turning your back on mere moments ago, in what must have been a different pocket of the dark realm.

And so, the last time you see him for what is to be more than a hundred years, Ketheric Thorm locks gazes with you and wordlessly draws a dagger. Then he cuts his palm, deep and deliberate and unflinching, and your own muscle and sinew feel the slice.

The hideous grin of savoured success on his pet necromancer's face upon witnessing your startled, pained reaction chills you to the bone. It is then, perhaps, that you begin to grasp the scope and shape of what they have in store for you.

You try to rush at them, charge and claw them into submission with your bare, bloodied hands if needs be, but the boundaries of the sickly-bright rune-inscribed circle flare up, the cage tightens around you, phantom hands grasp and wrench and restrain and keep you in place, your foes and would-be tormentors only just out of reach.

"What are you doing, you dog ?" You roar at Ketheric, your insides twisting at the sight of the dark disc newly burnished on his armour, Sharran symbols adorning his brow, his chest. "Oathbreaker! How dare you conspire against Dame Aylin, against Selûne herself! How dare you so betray Isobel--"

A heavy gauntlet smashes into your jaw as soon as the beloved, yearned-for name leaves your lips, and Ketheric's voice rises above the ringing in your ears.

"You do not get to speak her name, thief. I am the one betrayed, abandoned. By your witch of a mother who hoarded my misguided service for far too long."

Ketheric steps back and calms, somewhat - or merely restrains his rage into something crueller and colder, while you recover enough to speak.

"Shar will not help you, Ketheric Thorm. Oblivion does not heal, does not mend - and oblivion is all she offers. But what she will ask of you in return will damn you forever."

He waves a claw-armoured hand in mock-dismissal of your warnings.

"Do what you will with her, Balthazar, as long as it doesn't impede my Lady's plans. Break her, if you can. Let her rage and pace and fume and rot, if not. But I want her to know," he steps closer again, so close, almost close enough to touch, if not for those accursed hands holding you back, "when our Dark Lady's acolytes come calling, when her wretched silver-stained blood fuels the creation of an army the likes of which the world has yet to see - I want her to know and never forget: it was on my orders."

You calm your breathing enough to answer, the burning rage within you forging your words into steel - the only steel you can aim at him, for the moment. But the tides will turn, as they inevitably do. "The Moon shows many faces. Our Lady of Silver is ever-changing. You should be careful, traitor, lest the Hunter's Moon marks you as Her prey."

Ketheric scoffs, unimpressed. "Let her try! Let her come, let her send all her legions after me, when she would not lift one holy finger to help me when I needed it most, for all my decades of faith and devotion. No, you will see," the quiet conviction in him is chilling to behold, in all its sheer wrongness. "This place, this bond, will sustain me, and it will take everything from you, piece by piece, until you whine and cry and beg your moonwitch mother for salvation. And when you are met with the same merciless silence as I was, perhaps I will consider it payment enough for the precious hours of my daughter's presence you dared steal from me, interloper."

You cannot reach him to wrap your hands around his worthless, treacherous throat and wring. But the trap, the cage, is imperfect, and you spit silver-flecked blood at his face easily.

He flicks his cheek clean, all dismissal, then motions to his foul, death-reeking companion to come forward. "Start with her wings. She has no need for those anymore."

"I would be delighted, General," comes the sickening, rot-sweet voice of Balthazar from somewhere behind you, along with the deceptively gentle sound of him tinkering with his ghastly tools and implements. "How very appropriate, how symbolic, to start by clipping our little bird's wings."

You roar your rage at Ketheric's back until he is out of sight and your throat is raw and bloody and capable of nothing but a hoarse whisper. You strain and pull and beat your wings in great gusts with all the desperate force you can muster; you burn, entire, with a scorching radiance unlike any you've manifested before. But the newforged bonds persist, and drag you down, down, down, merciless, until you see and breathe nothing but dust, the magic of one of the caging runes stinging against your cheek as the sounds of what can only be termed butchery fill the stale air.

It is the perhaps unfortunate attribute of your particular strain of immortality that you are obliged to feel every wound, every hurt, every blow that seeks to lay you low. That you rise to fight again only after you have been truly felled. That your memory is one made to suit your long life - blade-sharp, exact, and infallible.

You lie there afterwards for a long, long, quiet while; unmoving, though the spectral hands loosened their grip and vanished along with Balthazar, a minute, or an hour, or a day, or a year ago. There is too much pain still, you think almost idly, feeling quite far removed from your own self. Too much for any of it to have been a killing blow.

It is the first time in your storied existence you dare to think of death as a possible mercy and wonder if you might ever welcome it.

Let all on whom Selûne's light falls be welcome if they desire.

You do not see Ketheric after that, except in gory fantasies produced by your mind's eye. But you do get to know, intimately, each and every battle he deigns to fight personally, each scrape and cut and bruise and jab, arrow and spear and sword - all unseen, but far from unfelt.

Then comes the steady stream of misguided Sharrans, would-be Dark Justiciars.

You try to speak to them, at first. Reach out. Try to make them see their terrible error while retribution might still be within their grasp.

You fail, each and every time. And each and every time you pay for that failure with a death. Some of them are more decisive about it, quick, almost merciful. Some stretch it out, savour it. Some can't bear to meet your eyes.

But all of them, in the end, do it. And you choke back to life over and over and over again, knit together anew, as the murmurings mount.

Descend to her. Look upon her. Listen to her.

Kill her.

You remember the first time you died: out on a quest taking you through a steep mountain pass, falling into an ambush, peppered by poison-tipped crossbow bolts. You remember also the slight fear, the uncertainty of what exactly would happen to you - the fact of your Moon-blessed immortality until then only a suggestion, a curiosity somewhere in the back of your mind.

You remember the gradual change into certainty over several misadventures and the ensuing determination - you were indestructible! Indomitable, as befits the Sword of the Moonmaiden, put upon this earth to enact Her will. Who would dare stand before you, resplendent, eternal, uncowable?

And you remember the long, slow slide into being utterly used to it, down in these seemingly bottomless shadows, stuck on another Sharran spear, listening to your own blood drip drip drip as the darkness grew even heavier, laced with increasingly triumphant whispers.

As we turn to the Moon, we trust She will be our true guide.

Exhaustion overwhelms even the most righteous of furies, and you fall into a fitful sleep now and then. You dream of Isobel, soft, warm, brilliant, alive, and it makes the cruelty of awakening all the worse.

Balthazar comes, sometimes, your most frequent and most despised visitor by far. He delights in letting you know how much time has passed - impossible to tell, in the umbral pocket of your prison. Regales you with tales of Sharran tyranny being visited upon the land and the people you were sent to watch over and protect and guide, your one mission and the purpose written into the very blood flowing through your veins. And yet you did nothing but fail. Precious Isobel, dead; Ketheric, lost, determined to tear down with him the world entire.

Balthazar rejoices in the disgust you cannot help but bear openly upon your face as he expounds on his experiments, hands unbound by any trace or suggestion of morality and propriety and with Selûnite victims in abundance. He crows endlessly over his successes, his sick triumphs - but oh, none as impressive as you!

He does much worse, later, and you learn you do not need a tongue to curse him.

You know nothing can come of it but even more pain and sick retribution, yet you goad the corpse-rotted bastard every chance you get. The necrotic embodiment of every foul undead creature you would have wreathed your sword in radiance for, if only it were at hand. Whom you would have longed to smite until nothing but ash remained.

There is nothing else here. Empty shadows, as befits the Lady of Loss. A void without and within, yours to fill with gnawing, searing, holy wrath. Nothing left to sustain you but the thought of a long-distant but inevitable escape and vengeance.

One day.

"I keep a tally just for you, Balthazar." You pace the infuriatingly familiar bounds of your cage, precise in your steps in order not to trigger the wretched closing in, the grasping--

He looks up from the stitching he is doing, morbid handiwork on some poor Moon-devoted stonemason he wanted you to see. "Aylin! I did not know you cared so."

"Why, yes," you bare your teeth at him in mockery of a smile. "When your little spell inevitably fails and this game of yours runs its course, I will come find you first. I will tear you apart, limb from mismatched limb, into your grave-robbed constituent parts. And then I will mince them further, until there is one rotting morsel of you for each and every hurt you have ever visited on me."

"You will find," you prowl closer, just out of reach of the necrotic claws, "I have an excellent memory."

Infuriatingly, the corpse only smiles, laughs in your face.

"I was expecting just a touch more creativity, but then I suppose that has never been much of a strong point for you moon-followers."

You scowl and swallow back a growl and want only to provoke him further, itch to make him react, to make a mistake.

"So very boring and predictable. Painfully straightforward. Laughably easy to trick."

He waves a hand and conjures a muddy image of the lost Selûnite child you were made to chase down here what feels like a lifetime ago, the perfect bait they contrived just for you.

"You were nothing, Aylin. A meat-headed little errand girl for your useless mother. I, well, I have made you into a treasure."

Balthazar's smile splits the corpse-bloat of his face. The stench makes you want to gag, makes you yearn for the duller senses of one not trained from birth to be a paladin.

"As thanks, let me leave you with a thought you will doubtlessly appreciate. Do you know, I wonder, how very little it would take for you to be freed? What little effort I had to invest to ensure your captivity? One friendly touch would break the confinement spell, a mere moment of kindness. Nothing more."

He steps forward, waving your clawed shackles into existence. Then he moves as if to pat your head or caress your face - but instead pulls at your hair, whipping your head back, and sneers.

"How lucky for both of us you will never find such a thing here. There is not the slimmest hope of reprieve, not for you."

And for a hundred years, he is right.

The Moonmaiden will never allow us to bear a burden we cannot carry.

The burning flare of indignant rage sours somewhere deep in your belly along the way. You are not of Ilmater's stock, made for the rack, proud to endure all pain, indignities, and abuse, for oh, good things would come to those who waited! With idle waiting you were long done. There was no glory to be found in suffering. No, you were made to be a beacon soaring through the sky, driving away shadows and fear and doubt, illuminating with the stark, silver light of your Mother's truth all the myriad lies your foes so loved to wield.

What have they done to you? When it might be easier to ask what haven't they, over the months, years, decades, uncountable. Tongue, eyes, wings, heart. Yours to lose, all of it, when it was never theirs to take. And then, darker still - what use it all, when your heart's love had gone already? Isobel, most cherished of all, taken so suddenly and cruelly - you always knew you were going to be painfully parted, for your nature made that an inevitability. But not so soon. Not cut so short so abruptly, when she had so much still to give, and do, and be. When you were supposed to watch her grow old and say goodbye slowly and gradually with every precious day.

You try to fill the hours between deaths with something kinder: memories of her gentle smile, her soft touch, her grace and her wit and her light. But all you can picture here among the accursed shadows is the beautiful, heartrending serenity of her laid on her bier, awaiting her final rites.

Your own words to Ketheric resound in your mind. "Dear Isobel," you whispered, reverently, words you now know fell on deaf ears, "in my Mother's care at the Gates of the Moon, no doubt, with noble Melodia by her side. One day you shall be reunited on the silver shores. One day, my mission will be deemed complete, and I will be released from my duty… and I shall be permitted to join you." A tentative, tender smile to the bereaved father, and a hand on his shoulder. Trying to meet the man's grief with your own and perhaps thus relieve both your burdens.

In a kinder world, you could have mourned your mutual loss together. But it wasn't to be. Instead - this. Instead, you, here, caged, tormented, made to carry more than just the hurts visited upon Ketheric's flesh and bone. Though in your mind it seems it has all done little to soothe his own pain, instead merely doubling it and vomiting it back into the world.

Your contemplation is cut short by a sudden agony. This in itself is nothing new - Ah, you think, Ketheric has run afoul of a Harper's blade or a druid's claws again. You know enough from Balthazar's boasting to distract yourself with dreamed-up possibilities, a comfort as meagre and thin as the rags that clothe you. As if you could will his own hurts back onto him.

No, the pain is nothing new. But there is something different about it this time - it feels like it has no end, it does not ebb, and you take such a very, very long time to die. And when you awaken again, the crushing in your chest continues, then stops so abruptly you feel like you can breathe for the first time in years. This was clearly no normal battlefield injury and it makes your entire being burn with hope that, for all the unusual suffering it is foisting upon you, it means that something shifted --

That perhaps, somehow, miraculously, even with leeching off of you, fat and silverblood-gorged, Ketheric failed. Was defeated.

That perhaps your torment is reaching its end, and soon enough some enterprising hero, a fellow Selûnite perhaps, will find themselves guided into your prison to help you pry the bars wide open--

And then, a roar. A quake of the very foundation of your unseen cell so strong it knocks you down, and a surge of darkness and fury greater than anything you've ever seen. An entire storm of shadows, howling, screaming with a thousand enraged voices, ever-wretched Shar's above all, rushing up and up and up and blasting through the black dome that stood for the sky in this abyss.

You dare not think of what this could mean: the Shadowfell pouring out its umbral essence over the world so suddenly and violently.

It is a moment, perhaps, of ultimate weakness - for a precious few seconds you had the nerve to think it might finally be over, but instead… this.

"Hear me, Mother," you rasp out against the ground stained over and over with your own blood, unable even to lift your head and address the words up high, where they belong. "Hark, Moonmaiden Selûne, Your blade is dulled, stolen. Your will delayed, undone. Your daughter… begs for Your aid…"

"I need… I pray… a boon. Bless me with Your help, so that Your bright sword can once again be lifted as an instrument against the darkness. At Your service, as I ever must be, I incur this debt gladly. Let us answer this invasion with all our might."

There is no response to your prayers. Not a glimpse of your Mother's ever-changing face. Not a single droplet of silver moonlight penetrates these shadows, and no other voice reaches your ears.

The thought rises, unbidden: is this what Ketheric meant?

There is no shadowy shroud of Shar that a moonbeam of Selûne cannot pierce. You have staked your entire being on this belief, a thousand times over. And yet not a mote of light reaches you in all your years of captivity, and you, curse you, you wonder. The swirling shadows whisper and tickle your mind and your very soul and you despise this intrusion but--

If she can, and yet she does not - does that mean she does not want to? Does not care to?

Among the wild shadowy storms and the gusting winds and lashing lightning, the silence is deafening. When you repeat your prayer, a year later, then a decade, there is still no answer.

An incredible loneliness stretches before you, a nothingness so profound and so very, very long you think you might even miss Balthazar's rancid presence.

And then, a sudden crushing in your chest again, and an agony exploding behind your eyes. Mercifully brief, as far as these things have gone before, but igniting such unspeakable anguish in you that you bellow and pound your fists against the ground until they are raw and bloody. For you know this can only mean one thing: the cycle is starting anew after all this time, and what you took for Ketheric's defeat had somehow only been a temporary setback.

As Your starglow soothes and bolsters, so we promise to aid our fellow faithful, and guide those whose path is not yet clear.

You've flown over these lands countless times, but now, as you rush forward to your long-promised reckoning, you might as well be flying over one of the hells. The ruin and desolation drains away even the heady rush of newfound freedom, the sheer relief of feeling the wind on your wings once again.

It is hard to reconcile the shadow-swollen horrors below you with the magnificence of Moonrise Towers as you once knew them, striking pillars of faith without question. Reithwin itself and the land entire have changed, twisted, in the end but a mirror to the devotion of their ruling family.

There is nothing here of what you remember, nothing left of the simple, blessed life you got but a taste of, not even an echo to be found of all that you once came to treasure alongside your beloved. Fields and orchards you helped work; vineyards you helped bless; fine, silver-wrought fountains you helped make ever-pure, all in your role as your Mother's emissary.

Ketheric Thorm, now False twice over, in whose throne room you stood in audience, promising your fealty and your aid, as recognition for his family's long list of deeds in Selûne's name.

And Isobel, his daughter, still fairly young for one of half-elven descent, but an accomplished cleric in her own right. Her mother's daughter through and through.

The first in Reithwin to stop being star-struck when faced with you, made of far sterner stuff than she might have at first seemed, and insisting on meeting you as an equal. Wise, caring, and skilled. And achingly beautiful, with a soft face and rosy cheeks meant to be bathed in the gentlest of moonlight.

It was odd, but meant to be - clearly part of some plan you happened not to be privy to, but had no desire to question.

All love alive under Her light shall know Her blessing.

Isobel, living and breathing before you, is a miracle if you've ever seen one.

Isobel, still hurt, bruised from what you are told was a kidnapping attempt ordered by her own father - you bristle, and bite it down.

"It is nothing," she insists when you belabour the point, and you want to chastise her for never thinking of herself enough, even after a century, always putting her own wellbeing last, knitting everyone else's wounds closed and leaving no salve for her own.

Instead, you take her face between your palms, trace her cheeks with tentative fingers and carefully, carefully tap into the healing magic you've ignored for a hundred years. The face of the Moonmaiden is ever-shifting - the fierce, warlike guise of martial prowess is but one of many in Her exalted repertoire, and so, too, in yours.

Then, in the privacy of the spacious upstairs room granted to Isobel as the haven's pivotal goddess-touched protector, the very embodiment of the Last Light, you do the same for the rest of her.

Her body is warm, though she complains of a coldness she cannot be rid of.

You fall before her, on your knees as if in supplication, as has always felt like the most natural thing in the world. Face buried in the softness of her bare stomach, a dam in you breaks, and you weep for the joy, the relief beyond all hope, of her real and breathing and whole before you.

She leans down to press a kiss to the top of your head, like a benediction, hands running through your hair and cradling you ever so softly until you regain yourself.

"My darling, my angel. I can hardly believe you are here."

In this, she speaks for the both of you, and spurs you to action.

"Then let me banish all doubt," you murmur, trailing kisses all the while, reverent hands on soft thighs. "I would taste of you, my love, if you allow it."

There is a fleeting moment of hesitation that was never there before as her hands and lips still. But then her shiver becomes one of anticipation as she murmurs into your ear. "I welcome it."

It is yours, then, as ever, to do as you are bid.

You wish to touch every inch of her, impress upon her again and again in a thousand kisses the affection and adoration welling within you inexhaustible. You crave to recommit to memory what you once studied and learned like the most fastidious of students. You need in a way you never have before. And she obliges - no, answers, just as eager and driven by your age-long separation, though her experience of it has been so wildly, incomprehensibly different.

The sounds you draw from her (familiar, dearly missed) are like a balm, a private song you were certain you would never hear again.

You hold her as close as is possible, and she returns the favour. Her caress is familiar, warm, healing in ways few things could ever be. After the hundred years of emptiness interspersed with biting, death-inviting pain and foul, crushing hands holding you in place, after unspeakable things visited upon your body, your person, a gentle, loving, careful touch is a treasure unmatched. The sharpness of the contrast makes your throat tighten.

"Isobel," you breathe into her shoulder, neck, and can think of nothing holier to say than her name.

She holds you entire in her gentle hands, heart and soul and body, and whispers fervent vows to never let you go, never allow you to feel hurt and harm again.

Isobel is slight compared to you, small and soft, for your strengths have ever lain in different areas. Treasured and safe in the circle of her arms, in the sanctuary of her embrace, finally, finally, you find rest.

You are back in your circle-cage, face down, limbs leaden.

The bloated corpse-face of Balthazar leers over you and you launch upwards, swipe at him, near-desperate to drive him away before he continues his wretched work. Aching to make him pay for every insult he has dared commit upon your blessed flesh.

Only to find yourself gasping, gulping down cool night air, seated on the bed in the pleasantly twilit room on the upper floor of the Last Light Inn.

You focus for a moment and effortlessly as ever manifest your wings and take stock of yourself. You know you have not escaped unscathed, unchanged, but your strong limbs are still there, as if nothing had ever happened. Shoulders wide and sturdy, downy feathers, wings. Every sleek vane and fine bit of plumage in their place, pearly white-silver and perfect.

Yet any human rosiness that used to reside there is long gone out of your skin, grey like marble, criss-crossed with precious gold. If you look down, there is a severe, pronounced crack lying right above your heart. It makes sense, of course, if you think on it, though you so desperately prefer - try - not to.

And the dream - nightmare - insists on sinking vestigial claws into you, leaving you with a burning, torn sensation between your shoulder blades.

Isobel stirs beside you, and you curse for having woken her from such hard-won and rarely granted serenity. She sits up, sleep-cottoned, and traces gentle fingers down the tensed, trembling part of your back, though you have said nothing. But Isobel, wise, insightful Isobel, always seems to know at least part of what ails you.

"One of the Flaming Fists encamped here... a traitor. Marcus," she speaks somewhat haltingly, cautiously. "We were all struck by his betrayal, but I... when I saw him, when he came for me, when he was sent for me..."

Her eyes meet yours, almost reluctantly.

"He had wings. Hideously warped, blackened, rotten things, but..."

A question is raised, a mirror of one you've asked yourself, during long hours-turned-days of morbid contemplation in your prison.

"Balthazar. He got them from that wretch Balthazar."

"And he got them--" Isobel cuts herself off, fully awake and alert and wincing at the confirmation of her fears.

You swallow, throat parched and burning as if the screams from then still scrape against it. Harvesting, he called it.

"He got them from me."

It is simply not something to be thought about. The bile of wrath rises, crawls up your throat instead, and you spit out words almost in a growl.

"He has been dispatched, I trust? The traitor?"

Isobel understands.

"He has, of course," she rushes to reassure. "Jaheira and the Harpers made quick work of him and the horrible creatures he called to his aid."

You hum, move to sit back against the headboard, then change your mind as soon as it touches your skin. "It seems I have much to thank High Harper Jaheira for."

Your hand is still tightened into a fist in the coverlet, and Isobel reaches over, pries it open, to hold it ever so gently between both of her palms.

"We both do. We'll see them all come morning, exchange tales over breakfast. Outside, perhaps, in the sun, at long last." Her smile is as bright as this promised dawn, but there is a note of silver-filigree steel behind it. "We can thank her then. Make sure she knows she can count on us through whatever is to come."

She reaches over to cradle your chin, tugging you down, and kisses you softly. "Let us get some more rest, my love."

The both of you slip back under the moth-eaten but soft covers and she burrows insistently into your side, under one wing. You lie - and, blessedly, sleep - on your stomach, Isobel's arm thrown over your lower back in that perfect balance she is mastering of being reassuring while not calling too much to mind.

When we are beset with shadows, You mend our hearts with the silver thread of Your radiant loom.

You let Isobel braid your hair, one idle evening in camp. You can sense she is just as starved for simple contact as you are - her hands seem restless, even more so than usual, and flit over your back, shoulders, arms... so you let her occupy them, as she perches in your lap and peppers you with kisses, and speaks not a single word.

There is no mirror at hand to see her handiwork when she is done, but she looks pleased with herself, and with you, and you feel like this should be... enough.

But another memory stirs and inches through, of the times you knelt, crouched, sat in that glowing circle that your world had seemed shrunken to, and, for want of anything to do with your hands (now past punching, past clawing for the freedom that was out of their reach) you set to braiding your hair, as if preparing to don a helmet and march off to glorious combat. It was something to do, and pretend.

You undo the braids as soon as Isobel falls asleep.

The city, that meeting point of fates, draws ever nearer.

Isobel's cough comes and goes. Nothing as bad as the fits that sometimes awoke her while you were still in the cursed lands, but it persists, frustratingly.

"Isobel, I--" you barely get to begin to voice your concern before she brushes you away.

"Please, it's nothing. Don't worry about me, dearest."

"I find I cannot," you state simply, as it is a very simple truth.

"I- I don't want to burden you. You've enough on your plate as it is." She gives a small smile so forced you almost feel insulted. "It'll pass, I'm sure."

"Burden…? Isobel," a mess of words past her cherished name stick in your mouth, awkward, nigh indignant, and you take a moment to calm and order them. Simple and earnest is what you settle for, in the end. "Isobel, my love… You are first in my thoughts, always, you know this. I would gladly bear all your burdens if I but could, if you were to allow it - each and every one."

She frowns, shakes her head, and you hate that you seem to have somehow displeased her. "That's just it, isn't it? I don't want you to. I don't need you to. You've born more than anyone's fair share."

"Ah, but Dame Aylin is hardly anyone, is she?"

You aim your most winning, blinding white grin at her, but fail to induce the reaction you were once used to getting on a whim. No blush or giggle hidden behind a dainty palm at your deliberately overtuned charm being pointed at her, no smirk and tease in return.

No, Isobel is subdued, troubled, and, most vexing of all, everything you say seems to only serve to make it worse.

There is something new behind her eyes, too, those beautiful, wise eyes that won your heart entire the first time you met them. A darkness, you would dare call it, a shadow not unlike the curse once fallen upon the land. A question, a yearning for some understanding that never seems to come, a futile grasp for something in an emptiness that was not there before.

"Please, my love," you say with the utmost tenderness, reserved for Isobel alone, "do not hide your heart from me. You know I cherish it as if it were mine own."

"I haven't felt… myself," she haltingly begins in answer to your plea, as you step forward and encircle her, first in the embrace of your arms, then in the shelter of your wings. A treasured sanctuary saved for the two of you alone.

"I cannot… the death, it clings, I..."

She buries her face in your chest as she struggles to pick out words one by one, plucking them out like painful thorns. You let her rest tucked under your chin, restrain yourself to quietly running one gentle, slow hand through her hair.

"I am afraid," she settles on, finally, almost a whisper, hiding still, refusing to look at you. "I am afraid there is no fixing this wrongness I feel day after day, that's been… in me, over me, ever since I awoke. That something has been taken from me, and now there is no way to remove this vile mark that's been left on me instead, whatever it is. Not even by the grace of the Moonmaiden."

She shivers, and you tighten your hold on her, even as the sentence after that tears into your very heart, sharper and more jagged than any Sharran knife.

"I am afraid, most of all, that no matter how much I pray or plead, that whatever I do to try and prove myself worthy, I… cannot be. Ever again. I will never be worthy of Her light again. Or of yours."

"No," it comes out far rougher, angrier than you ever intended, ever wanted to aim anywhere near precious, beloved Isobel - not at her, never at her. But she is wrong, because it is an impossibility, unthinkable, ridiculous to even suggest. Her, treasured, cherished, held high above all in your regard, and lofty in your Mother's.

"Please, Isobel," you move a half-step back, if only to make it possible to cup her face, tilt her chin up and look at her. "Do not ever, ever think such a thing again. You could never be unworthy, not you. Not you."

The hitch is back in her laboured breath as she moves to protest, the haunted look shadowing her eyes. "How? How can you be so sure?"

And that is the question, isn't it? Your love for Isobel and faith in her intertwined, utterly certain and utterly relentless. Like the rage that sustained you through a century of torment, settled heavy and deep in your bones. You don't know any other way to feel, to be.

"I will prove it to you, I will drive away any shadow of any doubt. Her light, through me. For you alone, Isobel."

She acquiesces, at least, to being led over to the bed and sitting down. You lower the shoulders of her tunic. Place a gentle, reverent kiss on the revealed skin, trying to press in with it all the love and devotion you desperately need her to be aware of.

You lay a hand on her bare back, palm flat and flush with warm skin. The rush of joy and slight disbelief that she is once again yours to touch is still fresh, and yet the familiarity of every freckle, shift of shoulder blade, and light shiver of gooseflesh is ancient and deep and right. From the outside it is the same, perfect, unchanged Isobel. But you believe her unquestioningly when she says something is wrong.

A mere moment of focus has a silvery glow bathing the room, unwinding from underneath your fingertips and sinking into Isobel's back. She breathes in deeply, breathes out, then in again, shifting under your touch, until she seems to find at least some relief.

"Thank you, that's…" she murmurs, barely above a breath.

There is a dawning, deeply saddening comprehension rising in you - Isobel, insisting on pouring all her heart and soul into taking care of you, healing and protecting and doting on so devotedly, driven not just by your love most mutual, but also by fear. By a desperate need to prove herself worthy of Selûne's grace again, prove her return to life was not a horrifying mistake. Chasing redemption where none was ever needed, not for her, clinging to the thought like a lifeline.

"Whenever, whatever you need of me, however many times." You allow your fervour to seep into your voice as you feel your eyes burn, and continue trailing moonlight-dipped fingers down her back. "If you but say the word, I will provide what relief I can, I swear it, until you are free of any shadows haunting you, or until there is no light left in me - whichever deigns to come first."

Isobel smiles wryly, turning to steal a glance at you over her shoulder, a tiredness in her that she has only ever shown you alone. "I promised I would take care of you. And yet here you are, taking care of me. After… after everything."

She knows enough not to specify. Even this brief almost-mention is enough to make a darkness creep at the edge of your thoughts, but you swallow it back hastily, and focus only on the treasured countenance before you, on brushing stray silver locks behind her ear with your free hand.

"A fair and just exchange, I would think, if you are amenable."

Isobel hums something that is neither agreement nor disagreement, then turns to face you fully, sombre in the circle of your arms.

"I always thought that when the time came, I would be ready," she begins, slowly, as if every word was a trial. "Foolish and naive of me, probably. But I thought I knew what to expect, what I would have awaiting me, after a life of service. The City of Judgement, as awaits us all, and then, hopefully, and - I pray - deservedly, an audience in Argentil after being Claimed."

She stops, swallows, looks at you so pleadingly you cannot help but pull her back into your embrace.

"But instead…" you hold her tighter as she shudders, "...nothing. Darkness. A void."

Nothing. Like the black hole of your prison. And it seems fitting, for a moment, that fate has decided to match you in this, too.

"It is I who failed you. When it truly mattered, when it was of most consequence, I wasn't there. And you… you were lost to me. To us."

A small frown furrows her brow as she grasps around for something, anything. "I don't remember."

"Perhaps… perhaps that is for the best," you exhale, half-sick of dredging up shadows you would prefer remain buried. "My own memory is prodigious, and yet how I wish I could forget much of the past century."

But Isobel looks at you longingly, searchingly, and you oblige, at least for a little bit, calling to mind what should have been the darkest days of your long life. "For all our efforts, we were never able to capture your attackers - the cowards struck so suddenly, fled so swiftly. You were laid in state, for a while. The entirety of Reithwin mourned - the Silverbrow Priestess conducted the funeral services most beautifully. The very Moon, full to bursting, cried over it. And your father…"

Your throat seizes up. Her father, your tormentor. A wretched man you feel the two of you have to speak of, some day. The man who gave the world Isobel twice over, but selfishly, impossibly, wanted to keep her all to himself both times.

Her countenance grows steely and determined in a way you have yet to get used to. "My father was lost to me far before he died at your hand. I mourn the man I remember, not the monster you killed. A loving, kind, generous man, who should never have been capable of such horrors as Ketheric brought down upon my home, upon you. And yet... if I was all that was keeping him from such a fall, I cannot help but think--"

Isobel's voice cracks and you wonder when, in your absence-captivity, he stopped being Papa and became Ketheric. Your anger towards him tastes bitterer still.

And you think of Isobel, fleeing her own grave and the twisted visage of what was once her beloved father. Dragging her own burial shroud across a land of shadow and horror, full of echoes of a life half-remembered.

Isobel, alone, convinced of your demise, mourning you as you endlessly mourned her, both of you unknowing.

Isobel, left to desperately and single-handedly guard the only meagre surviving pocket of her childhood home, doomed and destroyed by her father's violent, misaimed grief over her own death. A pillar of light in an all-encompassing darkness and one final, crucial defence against it, without even a fair promise of hope or future to sustain her.

It sounds, at first, like a noble task you would think worthy of a cleric of Isobel's most excellent calibre. But you can't help but think it a test of devotion far too harsh, and entirely superfluous. Such incredible weight to place on any one person's shoulders. And for what?

Needed and necessary she once called herself and her efforts when you asked, insisting on dismissing it all in a way you perhaps understand entirely too well.

Perhaps, together... you, hollowed, and her, overflowing. And, in turn, her aching for something that is missing and you fit to burst with wrath and vengeance and violence. Perhaps there is hope yet, and healing to be found for both.

Together. Only ever together.

We trust in Your radiance, Moonmaiden, even when it is out of our sight.

The battle you were waiting for is over - won, by most reckonings, but not without great cost. What is left of the city now needs care and careful restoration. There are still stray cultist enclaves to root out, remnants of the illithid army, as well as mere opportunists who always show their vile selves in such circumstances. As part of an array of unexpected, colourful allies, you make short work of them all, whenever any come to light.

But rebuilding takes precedence, as does healing, and Isobel has taken point among Selûne's devoted in a way that is nothing short of awe-inspiring. The situation seems altogether more suited to her talents rather than yours at the moment, so you follow her readily, without question, and provide whatever aid you can.

It is a cycle as old as time, after all, as reliable as the phases of the Moon. Building, destruction, rebuilding - the world will always need both of you.

But tonight is the night of a full Moon, and Isobel has gone to conduct the requisite rituals with the rest of the Selûnite encampment that has been so welcoming to you. Isobel, death-touched but untainted, no matter what she may fear, will excel in whatever role they set out for her, of this you are certain.

You, on the other hand, have begged off, your own communion awaiting you elsewhere.

Your path leads you away from the outskirts of the city and up into the hills, your back turned on the Chionthar. Through remnants of farms and hunting lodges, up and up to cliff and brush and down again to sparse woodland, your steps are guided, as is your birthright.

It is becoming easier to hear Her voice once again. She does not always speak in words, but Her presence She makes felt.

And so you stop in a clearing, before a pond, crystal clear and fed by a jolly, clamouring stream. It is quiet, otherwise. Peaceful.

You dismiss your armour, letting it dissipate into motes of moonlight. You remember with a touch of warmth and immense fondness how sweetly Isobel would pout whenever she did not get to take it off you piece by piece.

The air is crisp and the water, once you touch it, is almost icy. The moonlight on your skin cleanses and soothes, combining with the chilly water into a refreshing blessing. It is the sensations of the world that you so dearly missed during your captivity, that you now allow to rush over you, all at once.

It is the first time in over a hundred years you stand and behold the full silver face of your Mother, the trail of Her Tears beside Her, and wonder, idly, if She shed any for you.

Please, you beg as you step into the pool, without shame, without words. A kinder fate for Isobel, this time.

A kinder fate for the land she still calls home.

A kinder fate for me.

The cool silver water seeps into every crevice of your being and washes away with it some ichor of darkness you didn't even know still clung to you. You lie back and let yourself float, the rush of water in your ears drowning out even the small nighttime noises of the clearing and surrounding woods. In the soft waves you hear your Mother's voice, and She sounds kind, inviting, forgiving.

Why, you want to ask, why would you allow…

There is new dampness on your cheeks, and you realise haltingly that it is tears. "Hello, Mother."

The light of the Moon is caring and compassionate, and bathes you in love. It is the only embrace She has ever been able to give you, here. It is almost enough to forget a century of sorrow and the cries that went unheard.

No more, She says.

Rest, the murmur continues, soft and sad - a familiar melancholy, though not one you would expect during a Moon so full and bright. Earned, a hundred times over. My Sword, tempered to perfection. My Daughter, put through trials undeserved. Lost to me for so long. You are welcome here. Safe. I would have you know peace once more.

"Not… not yet. There are still too many, I cannot--" You sit up, rivulets of water running down your face, following the crevices of your scars. It is unlike you to struggle so with your words. You proclaim and vow, you do not stammer and hesitate.

What would you have for yourself, then, daughter mine?

"I would seek and extinguish the tyrants, the oppressors," your hands tighten into determined fists as you channel and reflect all that has been done to you, aglow with silver, wings unfurled. "Those who would bind, capture, enslave, who would subjugate and rule another for their own gain - let them sleep with one eye open. Let them know: Dame Aylin sees their deeds and offers no mercy."

Your cause is righteous, and I bless it as my own. But a burden should be shared. And you are not the only champion at my call.

It is true, of course, and you grasp the intent, but you cannot help but bristle. You may not be the only one, but surely you are the most--

--fearsome? Reliable? Accomplished?

Doubt creeps in, that most rare and hated of sensations. There is a shift, then, into a plea for you to understand, from a mother to her child.

A broken sword can accomplish little. And even the finest steel has a breaking point. Do not too eagerly seek your own.

You sink back into the pool, water up to your chin, as if bowing in acceptance.

If you crave a task, I task you: offer aid in healing and rebuilding, and thus rebuild yourself. Worry not - I will call upon you when the time comes. But for now, shore up the bulwark within you.

A smile, a tender grace.

And let each and all know yours is a blessed union.

The last fading words leave you puzzled for a few moonlit moments. And then Isobel is next to you, bare and glowing and embracing you, holding you to herself as if she will never let go.

"Isobel," you start, a host of questions forming on your tongue, but she places a finger over your lips.

"Guided back to you, as you were to me. As I promise I will be, for as long as I can."

A shiver runs through you at the undercurrent of steel and sheer devotion in her sweet voice.

"Then I vow I will never let myself be torn from your side again. And any who seek to part us will meet a swift end by my hand."

You spoke such promises to each other once already, what feels like a lifetime ago, even though it should by rights have been nothing compared to your eternal years. It is a heavy lesson to have learned so well in breaking them, though - that no tomorrow can ever be guaranteed. Not even for you.

Not near as tide- and cycle-bound, the Scribe had said, and you wonder at the recalled words. No endless rise and fall for you, then, perhaps. No waxing and waning. No rote repetition of tragic history in this world changed and strange, but instead something altogether new, hewn by the two of you.

Isobel takes your face between both her hands and kisses you, putting a swift end to your reverie.

In response, you pick her up out of the water, twirl her around, splash the both of you back down happily. Your smile turns into a grin, then a laugh, open and simple, and her giggle is crystal-bright and utterly free of the grasp of the grave. You feel lighter than the feathers you leave behind like a snowy trail.

You hold her and kiss her again and again and again and allow yourself to lose track of time.

#baldur's gate 3 #dame aylin #isobel thorm #aylin x isobel #bg3 #fanfiction #bg3 spoilers #oathkeeper writes things #my fic #i love them and wish them all the succor in the world #cross-posted on ao3 if you prefer to read there #poor unprepared me starting the game salty that they didn't let me play my aasimar paladin staple

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blackjackkent · 2 months ago

Text

Ask prompt fill for @astreamofstars for this ask meme: Major Arcana Tarot Rakha + the Emperor (card, not character) (Authority, establishment, structure, a father figure) Bit of a stretch from the prompt tbh (and I might have another idea for this one as well) but took this opportunity to get these two to talk. c:

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"What is it," Rakha growls, "to be the child of a god?"

Dame Aylin's wings are spread, nearly eight feet from wingtip to wingtip. She stands between Rakha and Isobel, her weight carefully balanced, her eyes narrowed and hard.

"Yes," the aasimar says coolly. "It has come to our ears that your blood carries a taint some might call divine. Dame Aylin has not been blind to a darkness in you - so keep distance, lest you prove a target for my blade."

Rakha doesn't move, except to spread her hands at her sides, showing them both empty of any weapon. "If I wanted you dead," she says bluntly, "you would have died long ago. My blood calls for it. Be grateful I stand against it."

Aylin's nostrils flare and her wings lift, giving a sharp and threatening flap. "You dare threaten--"

"Aylin, please," Isobel says in a low voice. Ducking beneath Aylin's wings, she rests a hand gently on her lover's arm. "She speaks the truth." She turns her eyes to Rakha, watching her with an expression that is guarded but calm. "You have struggled a long time, have you not?" she asks gently. "As far back as Last Light. I noticed you would send Wyll to speak to me, instead of yourself."

A muscle works in Rakha's jaw. She nods. "Yes."

Isobel nods slowly. Her eyes flick to Aylin, then back to Rakha. "What would you have of us now?"

Rakha's weight shifts from one leg to the other, a subtle fidgeting motion. "I would have her counsel," she says in a low voice.

There's a long silence. Then Aylin relaxes her wings a fraction and inclines her head. "Speak, then."

Rakha releases a long breath. "I must learn how to be what I am," she says. Her eyes fix on the hinge point between Aylin's left wing and shoulder. "Does Selune speak in your mind? Command your actions?"

Aylin frowns. "My mother's voice is a beacon of guidance," she says gravely. "It sounds within my heart and shines out from the silver of my shield. She need no more compel me to honor her than command the stars to move; it is in both our natures."

Rakha's eyebrows knit in concentration. "And Ketheric..." She remembers the splatter of blood as Aylin's boot crushed into the Myrkulite general's skull.

Aylin flinches. "An action my mother would not lay claim to," she says, slightly too sharply. "A fit of my own anger, to which I would not ascribe her silvered name."

"A choice, then," Rakha says slowly.

"My choice. Yes." Aylin narrows her eyes. "To what point are you driving, tainted one?"

Rakha says nothing for a moment. Then she shrugs. "My Father is... not like that," she mutters. "His voice... burns. It drives everything. It is everywhere. It is a goad, not guidance..."

"A parent not worth the name," Aylin growls.

"But I have no other." Rakha inhales sharply, grinding her fist into her palm with a sudden spasmodic jerk. "I think I envy you. I have never made the choice to kill. I have only ever chosen not to - at great effort. At painful cost. You say your nature is plated with honor. Mine is soaked in blood." Her jaw works. "I would like to make a mistake by choice. I would like to be kind without thought. But I can do neither."

Aylin's wings have relaxed back to her sides. The defensive anger slowly fades from her face - replaced by an air of pity that Rakha finds much harder to bear.

"Do not look at me like that," she growls. "Tell me if you can help me."

"I think I cannot," Aylin says quietly. "But know that I would, if it were within my power." A slight pause. "It is no easy thing, to carry divine blood. Your path may be darker than mine, but I know what it is to feel the weight of Her eyes upon me. In that... perhaps you may consider me a comrade, if not a counselor."

Rakha considers this, then nods. "Very well," she murmurs. "Thank you."

A pause. Aylin's wings flick wider again. "Know also that should you again threaten Dame Aylin's beloved, she will make another choice, and see your path, dark or light, ended by her own hand."

Rakha barks a sharp, humorless laugh. "A choice Selune would honor much more, I think."

#astreamofstars #ask meme #rakha the dark urge #bjk plays bg3 durge #durge #durge bg3 #bg3 durge #augh this one made more sense in my head than i think it came out :P #i just wanted to write *something* tonight #hopefully it makes some kind of sense #ty for the prompt friend :)

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anonymousewrites · 1 year ago

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Portal to My Heart (Book 1.5) Chapter One

Loki x Reader

Chapter One: To Asgard

Summary: (Y/N), Loki, and Thor arrive on Asgard for Loki's trial.

(Y/N) stumbled as she, Loki, and Thor landed on Asgard. A man with golden eyes and a large sword gave them a glance. (Y/N) was disconcerted by how knowing the look in the man’s eyes were, like he already knew everything about her.

“Welcome back, Prince Thor,” said the man.

“Heimdall! It’s good to be back!” laughed Thor.

“And Prince Loki. You’ve returned,” said Heimdall.

Loki sneered beneath the muzzle. Thor removed the device, finally off of Earth and the nervousness of the mortals. “Heimdall. What, no words of ‘wisdom’ for me? No gloating about my capture?”

“Odin will have enough to say to you,” said Heimdall.

Odin. King of the gods of Asgard. (Y/N) nearly groaned. She forgot that she would have to deal with another man in power. That would be annoying, and she would have to be careful the entire time. Damn.

“Oh, how lovely. A nice chat with Odin,” said Loki.

“Come, Loki,” said Thor before pulling him forward. “This way, Lady (Y/N).”

(Y/N) followed, nodding to Heimdall. He inclined his head in acknowledgement. (Y/N) followed Thor and Loki across the rainbow bridge connecting Heimdall’s room to the floating rock Asgard rested on. (Y/N) couldn’t stop her eyes from widening at the iridescent shine of the bridge, the glittering gold spires of Asgard’s palace, and the flowing waterfalls cascading into space. She had to admit, it was a bit intimidating to be walking in as a regular human.

But I’m not regular, thought (Y/N). Not anymore. I have abilities. She considered. Granted, I have no idea what the hell I’m doing with them, but still.

(Y/N) was silent as she walked behind Loki and Thor into the palace. Guards glanced at her, as did various patrons, but (Y/N) kept her gaze firmly forward. She wasn’t going to cower away, not even in her dirty clothes and bruises in the midst of all the gleaming beauty.

So even when the guards moved around them and the doors of the throne room opened to reveal the King of Asgard reclined on a golden throne, (Y/N) remained steady.

Loki’s chains clanked as he walked forward. His features were ice cold, even as Thor and (Y/N) walked to the side, even as Odin stared down at him disapprovingly, and even as Frigga watched him sorrowfully.

“Loki,” she called out.

Loki paused. “Hello, Mother. Have I made you proud?”

“Please. Don’t make this worse.” The words were firm but caring, barely containing Frigga’s continued concern for her son.

“Define ‘worse,’ ” responded Loki.

“Enough.”

Odin spoke, and all other sound finished. (Y/N) glanced between Odin and Loki, wondering what was about to happen. “I will speak to the prisoner.”

Frigga stepped to the side. Even though Thor, (Y/N), and the Queen were still in the room, it was clear that this matter remained between Loki and Odin.

I mean, there’s no doubt Loki is guilty of…nearly every crime I can think of, but this is a strange trial. I don’t think Asgard’s legal system makes a lot of sense, thought (Y/N).

Loki took another step forward before chuckling. “I really don’t see what all the fuss is about.”

(Y/N) rolled her eyes. There Loki went with the pompous tone he used for bragging, building up his image. It was so dramatic it was nauseating.

“Do you truly not feel the gravity of your crimes?” challenged Odin. “Wherever you go, there is war, ruin, and death.”

Loki’s face fell for a moment, but his façade was up once more before it could be caught. “I went down to Midgard to rule the people of Earth as a benevolent god. Just like you.”

(Y/N) nearly snorted contemptuously but managed to maintain some decorum.

“We are not gods,” said Odin. “We are born, we live, we die. Just as humans do.”

“Give or take five thousand years,” retorted Loki.

“All this because Loki desires a throne,” said Odin.

And because some strange aliens gave him a scepter than transformed that desire into an obsession to kill for, thought (Y/N), remembering the cold tendrils of magic the scepter had pushed onto her when she held it. She knew such power had been eating at Loki. So why isn’t he mentioning that he was partly mind-controlled? Pretty good legal defense, in my opinion.

“It is my birthright,” said Loki sharply.

“Your birthright was to die!” said Odin, his voice raised and clear in the silence. It cut through the air like a knife. “As a child. Cast out onto a frozen rock.”

Loki’s face was carefully calm. Whatever emotions that lay beneath the surface were locked away. He wouldn’t cry out or weep or do anything so weak. He’d stand Odin’s words.

“If I had not taken you in, you would not be here now to hate me,” said Odin.

“If I am for the axe, then for mercy’s sake, just wing it,” said Loki, almost taunting Odin. “It’s not that I don’t love our little talks, it’s just…I don’t love them.”

“Frigga is the only reason you’re still alive,” said Odin. “And you will never see her again. You will spend the rest of your days in the dungeons.”

The guards pulled Loki back with the chains, and Loki’s eyes narrowed. “And what of Thor? You’ll make that witless oaf king while I rot in chains.”

“Thor must strive to undo the damage you have done,” said Odin. “He will bring order to the Nine Realms…And then, yes…he will be king.”

Loki’s eyes narrowed as he was pulled back. (Y/N) was surprised when Thor pushed her forward slightly and joined her before Odin.

“Father,” said Thor.

“Thor. Who is this?” said Odin.

“This is Lady (Y/N),” said Thor. “Due to the Tesseract and Loki’s actions, she was exposed to magic and gained abilities of her own.”

“The people wanted to experiment on me, and I don’t think of myself as a science project,” said (Y/N), shrugging. “Thor offered to take me here, and I accepted.”

“Yes! She was of great help during the battle! And she was strong against Loki throughout! She has the makings of a great warrior,” said Thor boisterously.

“Uh, no, no, I don’t,” said (Y/N). She had jumped ship from SHIELD; she didn’t intend to be drafted to another organization.

“You went against Loki?” said Odin suddenly.

Damn, I didn’t want to discuss that. thought (Y/N). “…Yes.” She glanced at Loki, and their eyes met. (Y/N) felt a phantom of the pain of his spell on her skin and narrowed her eyes.

“He performed a spell on you,” said Frigga. She could sense the vestiges of her son’s magic on her.

“Yeah.” (Y/N) wasn’t a liar. “But I’m fine now.” He released it.

Frigga smiled and turned to Odin. “Husband, if our son has wronged her, it is the least we can do to allow her to stay here if she is in danger on Midgard. Besides, I could help her with her abilities.”

(Y/N) blinked in surprise. She raised Loki? She seemed reasonable and polite. Loki was illogical and so annoying (Y/N) wanted to slap him whenever he spoke. Or, almost whenever.

Odin narrowed his eyes. “Indeed, I suppose some sort of reward is in order for assisting in returning Loki to see the consequences of his actions. Perhaps a knighthood.”

Loki rolled his eyes.

“Just some food…a room…” (Y/N) glanced down at her dirty sweatpants and shirt. “…and clothes. That’s all I need.”

“Of course, my dear,” said Frigga, swooping in before Odin could say anything else. “To talk about fighting after you just finished a battle is quite tiring, I know.”

“Yes! Let’s look forward to a brighter future! Glory for us all,” said Thor.

“And the dungeons for me,” said Loki bitterly.

That did dampen Thor’s mood, and Frigga’s gaze turned mournful. Odin’s eyes remained sharp.

“You brought this upon yourself,” said Odin.

“No. You brought it when you stole me as a relic, as a pawn,” spat Loki.

Odin waved a hand at the guards. “Take him away.”

(Y/N) watched as Loki was pulled away. Why didn’t he actually defend himself?

“I’ve brought a selection of clothes for you,” said Frigga, guiding (Y/N) into a room. “I hope you are comfortable. Dinner will be served later. I will send some servants to assist you.”

“…Why are you doing this?” said (Y/N). “I’m one of the reasons Loki is in the dungeons. You seem to care about him. It doesn’t make sense for you to be kind to me.”

“You are a victim. Loki has made mistakes, clearly,” said Frigga. “I will not hold that against you.” She smiled softly. “Besides, you seemed…lost. And I do not throw women to the wolves from whence they came.”

“Thank you,” said (Y/N). She knew she’d like Frigga. The Queen smiled and turned to leave. “Frigga-I mean, my Lady.”

Frigga turned. “Yes?”

“Loki…He took the spell off of me. Of his own free will.” (Y/N) clicked her tongue as she tried to find the right words. “He’s not a hero. A lot of people died because of him. But, uh, I thought you should know he did one thing right.”

Frigga smiled. “Thank you. It’s good to know my son is still in there somewhere.” And then she left.

Right. In there under the mind control over him. (Y/N) frowned. She needed to know why Loki hadn’t defended himself. Even though it didn’t excuse all he had done, (Y/N) still felt it should be shared. Justice and fair trial and honesty and all that drivel was surprisingly important to her.

He’s going to be insufferable… She groaned. But I guess curiosity killed the cat and satisfaction brought him back, so off I go.

She glanced down at herself. But not in these clothes. Stupid superheroes with their costumes. What do I get? Sweatpants. I’ve got holes and blood and bruises and who knows what.

(Y/N) crossed to the wardrobe and opened the doors. It seemed it was time for her to blend in on Asgard, one uniform for another.

(Y/N) wandered through the halls of the palace. She really had no clue where she was going, and she doubted that it would go well for her if she asked a random person “hey, where’s the prison, I want to talk to Loki.” So, (Y/N) had opted to wander around and take any staircase she found that went downwards since, usually, jails were below everything else. Hopefully Asgardians followed the same logic.

Luckily, they did, and (Y/N) walked down a flight of stairs to find a long room with pure white cells on either side of a wide hall. Each cell was blocked with energy shields, keeping the prisoners within.

(Y/N) stepped towards the only furnished cell around. Loki stood within, dressed in more casual green clothing, his armor gone.

“Well, well, well, someone’s adjusted to her new position quickly,” said Loki, glancing at (Y/N)’s outfit.

She wore a traditional Asgardian outfit, long and flowing. (Y/N) rolled their eyes at Loki’s jab. “They gave me Asgardian outfits. God forgive me for wanting to be clean.”

“Oh? All done up for me? I’m honored,” said Loki, sarcasm dripping from his words.

“The day I dress up for you is the day you become humble,” said (Y/N).

“Well, then, to what do I owe the pleasure of your presence?” said Loki. He sneered. “Here to gloat over my predicament and your freedom?”

“That’s what you would do,” said (Y/N). “And surprisingly, I’m here because I felt a slight bit of concern for you.”

“Concern for me?” Loki grinned widely. “Poor Midgardian, did you get attached?”

“It is a tiny bit of concern. Tiny. Insignificant. Miniscule. Microscopic. Infinitesimal,” said (Y/N).

Loki winced as they continued on. “Yes, yes, you’ve made your point clear.”

“Then you’ll take me seriously instead of being an ass?” said (Y/N).

“I don’t take pitiful Midgardians seriously,” said Loki.

“You’re going to take this one seriously after you put a spell on me.” (Y/N) crossed her arms. “You owe me.”

“I already released the spell,” said Loki, almost defensively.

“Well, I also released a spell from you,” snapped (Y/N).

The scepter’s control of his mind.

Loki froze, knowing to what she referred.

(Y/N) took the moment of silence to speak. “Why didn’t you tell them?”

“Tell them what?” questioned Loki, feigning ignorance.

“That you didn’t have control of your mind. At least, not completely,” said (Y/N). “I could feel that scepter’s power when I held it for a few minutes; I can’t imagine what you felt. So why haven’t you told anyone?”

Loki smirked. “Why? Do you wish I was free of this cage?”

(Y/N) rolled her eyes. “No, I want people to get the help you need. On Earth, we have something called therapy. I think you would benefit from it. Just locking people up doesn’t fix any problems.”

“I don’t have any problems,” said Loki, turning away.

(Y/N) pinched her brow. “God, are you seriously not saying anything because of your pride?” She sighed and looked at him seriously. “I hope you get over yourself. There are still some pieces of a good person in you.” She turned and walked away.

She muttered under her breath as she stormed out of the jail. “Unbelievable. Prideful ass if going to get himself killed. And he’s just going to get worse stuck in that cell. Stupid Asgardians and their stupid inability to see reason. Adopted family my ass, they’re all stubborn. Only Frigga has a proper head on her shoulders. Unbelievable.

In his cell, Loki watched (Y/N) go. He hated being called out, and to have the Midgardian who had stood up to him before still be causing him more trouble than he would have liked was frustrating. However, he couldn’t deny the surprise, a bit pleasant after all the disappointment in his mother’s eyes and Odin’s anger, at (Y/N) having a bit of concern, no matter how small they said it was.

Loki supposed that if he had to choose someone to divert him while he was stuck in this cell, he’d choose (Y/N). She was entertaining and wild. Yes, stuck in the cells of Asgard, having someone to strong-willed would be nice.

And someone actually looking for solutions to “help” him wasn’t bad, either. Not that he needed help.

Taglist:

@alexpangender

@technikerin23

@kikster606

#portal to my heart #x reader #loki fic #loki fanfic #marvel loki #loki odinson #loki #loki laufeyson #loki x reader #loki laufesyon x reader #loki odison x reader #loki of asgard #marvel x reader #marvel cinematic universe #marvel #mcu x reader #mcu loki #loki mcu #loki marvel

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