#black soil plains

[testormblog]

The Outback

I thought Dad’s annual family rail pass to be a tremendous privilege.  So did he.  If only, he and Mother would visit interesting places.  I no longer wished to wade in Southport’s still water to Mother’s allowed depth of twenty centimetres.  Regrettably, Dad didn’t like leaving the local area except to go to his beloved races or Southport.  Perhaps, he believed he needed government permission.  Mother though wished to see outside our small corner of Queensland.  She had visited relatives scattered further afield.

Once, Dad did relent to Mother’s wishes.  He agreed we could take the train from Brisbane to Dirranbandi, though without my five year old brother.  I found this funny named place on the map in my purloined Queensland Rail Country Timetable Book, my Railway Bible.  We were going to the Outback!

The two days, we’d be away, didn’t seem a long time.  How wrong I’d be!  I was excited to be travelling a great distance, further than Toowoomba to where Mother and I had previously travelled.  I didn’t worry about where I’d sleep.  Afterall, one didn’t sleep on an adventure.

At 6 am, we caught the first City train, took a tram across the bridge from South Brisbane to Roma Street and connected with the mixed goods and passenger train to Dirranbandi.  The long train had goods wagons and first and second class carriages.  The carriages were identical except first class cost more.  Posh people didn’t want to sit with the riff raff, which was nearly everybody.  Dad’s pass entitled us to first class tickets and a whole compartment to ourselves.

The train’s C-16 steam engine made good time until it reached the base of the Great Dividing Range.  I loved the train’s rhythmic motion, its constant chugging noise and the whistles its engine driver blew.  I didn’t mind the coal soot that was sucked into our carriage.  I glued myself to the window.  I didn’t want the train to reach our destination.  That meant the wonderful sights flying past my window would end.

The Lockyer Valley’s market garden farms passed by.  Draught horses with ploughs toiled in paddocks.  Potatoes, cabbages and cauliflowers grew in orderly rows.  The pumpkin vines were disorderly, occupying whole paddocks.  The train crossed flowing creeks.  Everywhere was picturesque and green.  At Helidon, men coupled a second steam engine behind the guard’s van.  The front engine pulled and the rear engine pushed the train slowly around the mountain range’s bends.  I saw rainforest and waterfalls.  At Spring Bluff Train Station, close to the range’s top, I had a vast view of the valley below.

Then the train picked up speed until it arrived in Toowoomba.  At the city’s station, the second engine and some carriages were uncoupled.  Goods wagons were exchanged too.  A new crew started.  My family sat on a bench eating our packed lunch for the couple hours.

The train pulled out at dusk.  Darkness surrounded it; yet inside, it was dimly lit.  It crossed the Darling Downs wheatlands.  I had the strange sensation of moving through the blackness without having any sense of direction as to where I was going.  The train’s motion rocked me into a fitful sleep.  Each time it stopped at a station or a siding, I awoke with a start.  I peered through the window at wooden place name signs.  By the middle of the night, it chugged into the city of Warwick where more wagons were exchanged.

On and on the train travelled further west.  Just when I thought the night would never end, the sun peeped on the horizon at Inglewood.  I watched its fiery ball rise to heaven and paint the sky in brilliant orange.  The sky seemed wider here than at home and the sunrise more magnificent.

I was in the Outback!  The countryside was foreign to me.  Parched yellow grass and spangly grey bushes of lignum dotted the flat plains of black soil.  These stretched far and wide.  The creeks were dry beds of sand and the rivers mere streams.  The rivers’ names, the Macintyre, the Weir, the Moonie and the Balonne, meant nothing to me but later in life they’d indelibly inscribe themselves in my memory.

I thought the environment was inhospitable.  Yet, it was crowded with animals.  The land appeared to be rolling with mobs of hundreds of kangaroos hopping across it.  Before, I had only seen a kangaroo on the Australian penny.  Crows picked at the unlucky dead ones that had been caught in the railway fences.  Thousands of sheep grazed on the plains too, right up to the tracks.  Flocks of birds flew overhead.  To my delight, I saw a whole flock take off from the ground at once.  I identified galahs, budgerigars, cockatoos and quarrians.  If only I could trap some of these birds to take home.  So much money flew above me!

The train took on water and exchanged mail bags with stockmen on horseback at sidings and tinpot stations.  At Noondoo, it pulled up beside a huge homestead to offload supplies.  Amidst nowhere, a stockman waved the train down and boarded it carrying a saddle over his shoulder and meagre belongings in his hands.  His craggy face resembled the cracked earth of the plains.

The new day brought heat I hadn’t experienced before, and by midmorning, was burning hot.  When I jumped from the train in Dirranbandi at eleven o’clock, my eyeballs fried from the heat and glare.  On the platform, wool bales were stacked ready for loading.  The large station was a major hub in Australia’s wool empire during the 1950’s wool boom.  We were at the end of the line.  Dad felt homesick.  He had been away from home just over a day.  Fortunately for him, the train would depart for Brisbane in three hours’ time.

The town, if it could be called that, had two pubs, a few essential type businesses but nothing for us to see.  Dad went to Mc Gregor’s Hotel to quench his thirst and ease his homesickness whilst Mother and I found a cafe.  Good fortune shone on Dad there.  He stumbled upon the local police sergeant, whom he had gone to school with.

We departed on time at two.  Sunset happened at the same spot as sunrise.  Thus, I didn’t see the wheatfields on my return either.  After sixty hours travel, we arrived home in the clothes we started in.  Mother was keen to tell her clients she had travelled to places they hadn’t.  Dad swore he’d not leave home again.  I thought I’d never be lucky enough to go back.

Alas, those black soil plains wove a spell on me.  The saying, ‘Go west young man.’, wedged itself in the back of my mind.  When the chance to return came, I did.  Next time, I’d drive and would travel the route many times.  Thankfully, the round trip by road would be a shorter fourteen hours.

The Outback was a hot blooded temptress with a coin.  One side was marked fortune and the other, hardship.  I didn’t fear it.  The four years, I’d later spend in it, would determine how lucky I’d be in life.

[evieolo]

Panty Thief

Pairing: Chris Sturniolo x Fem!Reader

Contains: SMUT!!/ Male masturbation / Handjobs / Male!Receiving

“Chris, can you check if my laundry’s done for me?” You call from behind your door, catching his footsteps in the hall. Chris sighs dramatically, his voice loud enough for you to hear, and stops at your door, pushing it open. “Why can’t you do it?” He proclaims, shooting a playful glare your way. He’s dressed in low-cut gray sweats and a plain black t-shirt, carrying a mix of shirts and hoodies, folded messily in his hand.

You stretch your arms out, feigning tiredness. “I don’t want to get up.” You yawn, draping your comforter more over your torso and immersing yourself further in your social media. Chris sighs, realizing since he has to do his laundry he has to get yours out of the washing machine. Begrudgingly, he heads to the laundry room, as if he wasn’t already on his way there.

The smell of fresh laundry fans Chris’ nose as he walks into the dull room, a boring room contradicting the rest of the house, with white walls—no decor, only a window with a drapy shade over it that, on sunny days, beams light into the room, the only exception of furniture being the washer-dryer.

Chris inhales, shamelessly breathing in the fumes of your coconut-scented detergent, a scent he’d grown happily accustomed to after your many years of friendship. In Chris’ mind, you had an excessive amount of clothes. You’re not a messy person if you subtract clothes from the mix; your room is always littered with your latest clothing hauls, mixed but in separate piles from your dirty laundry. When he’d gone down to the laundry room an hour ago your clothes were cycling through the wash; still now you now had one snug load to the side in a circular hamper. The hamper adjoined the running dryer which had a second batch of clothes in it.

He approaches the shaking dryer slowly—there are two minutes left in the cycle—he might as well stay in the room while he waits for yours to finish.

Chris absentmindedly picks up the detergent you use and out of boredom reads the many labels on the bottle, giving up when he reads too many ingredient words with over twenty letters in them; the bottle’s sticky at the top where Chris holds it, he doesn’t realize this until it's slipping out of his fingers. The detergent bottle falls from his hand and spills into the hamper of your clean clothing.

Chris curses silently and snatches the bottle off the haphazard mix of clothes. He sets the bottle atop the drier and inspects the pile, pulling the soiled short on top of the pile off, wincing at the damp stain. He presses a palm to the next shirt down, realizing detergent did seep past the first top. He lets out a dramatic sigh of frustration and pulls the shirt off the top of the pile—discarding it into his basket of dirty laundry, deciding he’ll wash it with his own clothes and return it to you afterward.

He peeks to the pile of your laundry now without your baggy T housing the rest of the apparel. An orange piece catches his attention. It’s his favorite color, plus, he’d never seen you wear this specific shade before. He’s curious.

Chris saunters back to your hamper and pulls the orange bottoms out of the basket. He flushes when he realizes the bottoms are not shorts. They’re panties, peachy orange with a navy frill along the hems.

The man practically freezes in place, the panties were innocently simple—nothing relatively showy but they were his favorite color. There had to be some meaning to that. Right?

Chris runs his wrist along the hem of your bottoms, meshing the fabric of them between his thumbs. The fabric is light and delicate, almost weightless to touch, running his fingers over the hem he feels the jagged texture, so thin it's almost translucent.

He imagines how they’d sit on your hips; flaunt the curve of your ass. The thought of this—of you, shifts the looseness of his pants and he feels a recognizable stiffness arise against the fabric of his boxers.

“Chris?”

You enter the room tauntingly and Chris mutters a ‘fuck’ under his breath. He realized he’d look like a pervert in any situation so he quickly bunches your panties in his fist and pockets them.

Your eyes narrow as you realize he neglected your request and didn’t tell you that your laundry was done, “What have you been doing down here for the past ten minutes?” You ask skeptically.

Chris’ features flush red and he sucks his teeth, his mind blank of any witty remarks. He pauses for a second before speaking, “Wishing your laundry would disappear…Okay, but seriously, why do you have so many clothes?” He whines, alleviating the tension he’d created in his mind.

You laugh, opening the dryer that’d just finished its cycle with a ‘click’

“You’re just mad that I have style.” You rebuttal, a wide smile on your face.

“Mhm”

Chris swallows harshly, standing stiffly as he watches you bend down to spoon your clothes out of the dryer. His eyes focus on the curve of your ass, the way you teeter on your knees to reach the clothes in the very back. It’s not soon before he feels harsher tightening in his abdomen.

He mentally curses himself. Asking himself if he seriously got a boner from watching his best friend do laundry.

Chris makes a light grunting noise—his begrudging goodbye—before he leaves the room. You turn your head at the diminishing sound of footsteps. “Chris, I thought you were doing your laundry?” You press, curious as to why he’s leaving so soon.

Chris continues out of the room, only turning his head slightly to respond to you, “I-I’ll do it later.” He stammers, making his way up the stairs making a beeline to his bedroom.

When he reaches his room he’s flustered, his cheeks are red and you’re running through his mind. There are only two things he can think of: your ass and your panties.

Your panties that are in his pocket.

He pulls his fist out of his pocket and holds your undergarments again. The sight of the frill only turns him on further, making his hard-on tent his pants. Chris curses under his breath for the nth time before retreating to his bed, shooing away his self-accusations of him being a ‘pervert’ and deciding to do something about his boner.

He sits on his bed, scooting back against the headboard and shimmies his sweats down, pushing the band of his boxers down to reveal his hardened-cock.

Feathering a hand down to his base, he groans a sigh from the pressure his hand brings. He pumps his length upward, coaxing pre-cum from his angry tip, smearing the drops in liquid down his base as he pumps himself; picturing you as he does so.

He imagines you—bending down for him instead of a washing machine. How your hands would wrap around him, your small hands; small but oh so gentle. And fuck, those panties, he wished he could see them around your hips, how they would flaunt the curve of your ass perfectly. He’d push the cloth to the side and fuck you with them still on.

He palms your pocketed bottoms, pushing them against his cock and thrusting against the fabric, hips roiling into his hand as he moans your name.

“Fuck Y/N, fuck, yeah just like that.” He whimpers, rutting against his hand so desperately he doesn’t realize how his door creaks open.

“Chris, did you take…” you pause, unsure how to ask if he knows where your missing undergarments are, “Uhm - did you take something from my laundry bin?” You question shyly, too embarrassed to blatantly admit you can’t find your favorite panties. Your eyes are down, and you teeter on your heels, until you grow impatient with Chris’ lack of response and look at him.

Your eyes widen, and you yell out a loud “Fuck!”, meekly covering your eyes with your hands and turning away.

Chris then notices your presence, his jaw drops and his cheeks burn bright red. He tries to shuffle under his comforter, but it's to no avail; he’s sitting on top of it.

You continue to conceal your vision with your hands, only peeking through a small crack at his face until you realize where your panties are. Wet and bunched up in his hand. Your mouth falls slightly ajar in surprise, and you stop hindering your vision.

“Chris, were you jerking off to my underwear?” You ask wide-eyed.

Unsure of what to say, Chris simply nods out a quiet “yes.”

Chris stays silent. You watch his Adam’s apple bob as he swallows harshly. “Are you going to stand in my doorway like that for the rest of your life?”

You take this as an invitation to join him in his bed, sauntering to the bed’s foot, and kneeling yourself onto the mattress, crawling over his sprawled-out legs and leaving your hand dangerously close to his hard-on.

“Can I?” You hum, meeting his eyes. He nods eagerly, watching you intently. “If I had known you were this big I would’ve done this a long time ago,” you coo, feathering a hand down to his needy tip and running a thumb over in a circular motion. With this, Chris leans back and lets out an opened-mouth moan.

“Fuck Y/N,” He sighs, lazily running a hand through his hair as you start moving your hand down his shaft. Running your palm up and down and squeezing gently once you reach the tip.

“Wanna suck you off, baby.” You hum, pressing a kiss to his tip. Chris shivers at the contact, groaning at the sloppy peck, “Please.” He whines.

You puff your cheeks out, readying yourself for his size and kitten lick his tip before wrapping your lips around him, sinking your head down slightly to test the waters before speeding up a bit, filling the room with sounds of erotic spit and Chris’ loud groans.

“Fuck, you’re so hot,” Chris moans, knotting his hands in your hair and pushing your head down further every time you bob down. The sound of your lewd gagging nears Chris’ orgasm.

Looking at you sets him over the edge, the way your back arches towards him, to get easier access to him, how tears prod your waterline every time his dick hits your throat, the hums you let out as he knots your hair tighter and tighter.

His dick twitches in your mouth, signaling to you his upcoming release, and before you can get a breath through your nose, he's rutting his hips into you, pushing your head down to his base, breathing heavily, as his cum sloppily trickles into your mouth.

He holds your head down sternly as he comes down from his high, pushing you down against his base. When he releases his grip on your hair, you pull back, chest heaving as you gasp for air.

“Holy shit.” Chris mumbles, threading his fingers through his hair. You straighten your spine, positioning yourself back in a sitting position on your knees and meet eye level with Chris.

He smirks when you meet his eyes. Your face is red, and your throat is sore from the way his tip bruised your pharynx. Chris watches intently as you wipe his dripping cum off the corners of your mouth with the back of your wrist. “Where’d you learn how to suck dick like that?” He heaves, a playful undertone to his words.

“I dabble,” You smile, shrugging off his question as you give him a crooked smile.

Chris pauses for a second, opening and closing his mouth twice before he actually speaks, “Why’d we do that?” He asks, pinching his eyes shut in embarrassment.

You sense his awkwardness and scoot closer to him, rubbing his shoulder soothingly. “Chris, this doesn’t have to change things between us; best friends fuck all the time.” You say, delicately pressing a kiss to his jaw.

Chris meets your eyes, pulling his boxers back on to leave him less exposed. “You can’t call me your best friend after sucking the life out of my dick.” He laughs.

Meeting his gaze you fold your arms in your lap, “If I shouldn’t call you my best friend, what should I call you?”

“How about boyfriend?” He winks, shifting off the bed and heading for the shower stopping to toss you your dampened panties. “Can you wear these for me tomorrow?”

[aoioozora]

Brown Eyes

Simon had always been conscious of how boring his eyes seemed. They were just brown, plain ol' boring brown and he hated it. He didn't have Johnny's sparkling bright sky blue or Price's ocean blue. His was just plain, boring, brown, the color of dirt.

Not until you came along, you sweet little thing.

"You have pretty eyes," you told him when you first met him. He was shocked.

"Uh, thanks," he could only muster without appearing affected by the compliment.

But whenever you'd speak to him, he'd notice you peering into his eyes with no thought behind your own. You were so distracted by figuring out the shade of brown that his eyes were that you'd not hear a thing he said. Simon was glad that his blushing cheeks were masked.

You were fascinated by his eyes. In the shade they were inky black, an abyss and you found it befitting his mysterious persona. But one day when you were in his office, a ray of evening light slipped in through the cracks of his blinds, settling gently over his eyes. His melanin-rich irises didn't seem bothered by the light in the slightest, and again, you stared.

The brightened abyss was a rich, chocolatey brown, light enough to reveal his normally obscured pupils. His eyelashes fluttered as he blinked, the golden threads of silk delicately shimmering.

"Are you listening to me?"

You snapped out of your daze. "Sir?"

Those same gentle eyes stared back at you; his voice hinted mild annoyance but his eyes reflected an unusual softness, like he wasn't willing to reprimand you.

"Why aren't you paying attention?" he demanded anyway, crossing his burly arms over his chest as he sat back.

You pursed your lips. "I got lost in your eyes, Lieutenant," you admitted with a sheepish, lopsided grin.

He let out a grunt, feeling the heat rise to his cheeks again. He was not going to admit that he was affected by those same words you told him when you first met him and you continued to tell him by always wordlessly staring at him.

He could not lie that he liked your attention; that your relentless gazing was the key wriggling and turning in the lock that kept his heart caged away.

"Why d'you like them so much?" he leaned forward.

You could not help being honest. "They're beautiful," you answered, your voice heavy with genuineness, "They remind me of chocolate, and coffee, and unfrosted cakes." You paused, but he waited.

"Like dense forests, the color of wood," you explained, "Like soil..."

His brows furrowed. Soil that is stepped on. His insecurity filled in.

"Like soil that is the foundation of both massive trees and for the little saplings," you continued, "your eyes are the color of something so important."

The tinge of animosity in his eyes softened.

"You know, in the shade, your eyes are dark and it really suits how mysterious you can be sometimes," you said with a gentle smile, feeling a little embarrassed at this point, "but when in the light," you lifted your eyes to meet his, "I can almost see the gentleness and care that is normally hidden."

He could almost hear the click of a key turning and a lock opening. He knew that the eyes were the window to the soul, but never had he seen such an unprecedented act in action, and him being the victim of such sweet an analysis.

So this was the outcome of all your relentless gazing: to figure him out, to make sense of him, to understand him, to appreciate him.

And for that, his heart was now yours.

[masterlist]

[florencemtrash]

The Shadowsinger & The Inkbird: Chapter Twenty

Summary: Y/n's clairvoyance is a gift from the Mother, but it feels more like a curse. With the power to gain knowledge through touch alone, Y/n holes herself up in The Alcove and hopes her powers and parentage will remain a secret. But things will change after the Summer Solstice ball and a chance encounter with a certain Shadowsinger.

Warnings: Canon typical graphic depictions

The Shadowsinger & The Inkbird: Masterlist

Masterlist of Masterlists

You were running on coffee and willpower, and both were in short supply. You cradled what you promised would be your last cup in your hands, feeling your fried nerves inch closer to bursting into flames with every bitter sip. 

Azriel had one arm looped protectively around your waist, propping you up against his side like an overworked bookend. You both sat huddled over the map you’d spent the last day and night laboring over until you could picture every stark line pressed behind shuttered eyelids like an afterimage. Until your cramped hands shook while clutching the mug like a vice. 

Feyre, Rhys, Mor, Nesta, Lucien, and Cassian similarly hovered over the innocuous sheet of paper. Pale parchment glow flickering over expressions of intense thought. 

You traced the outline of the lake, its form vaguely star shaped and pointing abstractly towards the north, south, east, and west.

“Here.” You tapped the northeast edge where a greyed out huddle of shapes formed the forest and a collection of scribbles marked the Death god’s home close to the waters. The lines swirled in your mind like a thousand snakes locked in battle, swallowing each other whole and getting eaten alive in an endless, vicious cycle. 

Koschei’s portion of the continent lay flat and unassuming, seemingly vulnerable with the flatlands peering at his back with limitless entry points for enemies from the Continent. But the seductive ease of access through that region was a guise. Koschei was a death god, and a powerful one at that. Magic grew in and out of the soil there and what walked those woods had a strange habit of toeing the line between life and death.

The western corners swam in seas of grasslands, flat and open and unprotected save for the expanse of water a mile wide. 

And the lake. The lake was the most curious thing of all. A black shape on paper, still and foreboding. 

You knew from Andrian’s memories that enchanted swans flocked there — women layered with curses that kept them bound to the region in animal form — but nothing else. No creatures floundered in the salty dark. No animals came to drink from it as if they could sense the power that tainted it with decay. 

“The boundaries of the Koschei’s power lie somewhere along here.” You pointed to the lazy line sketched down. “But I wouldn’t trust it. When Andrian was first sent off from the lake he crossed the plains towards one of the harbor towns on the coast and he felt that Koschei’s influence scaled with the distance away from the source of his power.” 

“Any weak points? Places we could slip in unnoticed?” Feyre’s eyes scanned the page, reimagining your weak swirls of ink into something more layered. Something with more meaning that could only come about from the mind of an artist and a warrior. 

You pointed to one of the star points and then to another toward the south. “Here and here. Don’t ask me how and don’t ask me why but these are the only two blind spots. Andrian used to sneak away from Koschei’s house to these two places.”

“To do what?” Cassian asked. He lumbered towards the back of the war room, easily peering over everyone’s shoulders to the flattened parchment and eyeing the wooden pieces strewn across the map, his own piece being tipped with a glistening red stone. 

“To plan his escape.” 

A hush fell over the room, thick and suffocating. 

The boy had never succeeded.

Feyre’s lips flattened to a pale line, the air around her reverberating with heat as the temperature in the room rose — a drop of Autumn’s power magnified. She nodded to the second map, this one gathered from Azriel’s contacts on the Continent. Whereas your map had laid out Koschei’s land in detail, Azriel’s was suspiciously empty where the lake was concerned. The two fit together like puzzle pieces. “What’s the nearest harbor town?”

“Tournnes.” Azriel replied without needing to look down. You’d memorized one map, he’d memorized the other. “It’s a small fishing village located twenty-three miles to the southwest. Most of the inhabitants are men that come and go with the season and travel west from Slairn and Friesieg. It will be empty this time of year.” The fish would have gone south in search of warmer waters. Even here the Sidra had turned frigid, crusts of ice lapping up against grey sand shores. 

Cassian shook his head, examining the map with a scowl. “There’s poor coverage getting from Tournnes to Koschei. And an abandoned town’s too obvious a place to hide any soldiers. It’d be better to come in from the east, through the woods.”

“Then we’d need to take the long way around Koschei’s territory.” Lucien argued back, “Our soldiers would need to trek through foreign lands for weeks and we’d lose any advantage Tarquin could give us by staying close to the coast.” 

“You can’t trust those woods,” you gasped, your eyes flashing with fear that didn’t wholly belong to you. 

Never enter those woods. Henna had once warned her Andrian. Never. Do you understand me?

Azriel tightened his hold on you, pressing his lips into your hair to brush against your ear. “Breathe, my love. Breathe.” 

You hadn’t realized you’d stopped. 

It was a heavy burden carrying the memories of others. Like a weight tied around your belly that hadn’t been properly woven into flesh. Something both part and apart from you. And you’d been feeling too many of Andrian’s memories in the past week since his death. 

Silence flung itself over growing irritation and anxiety as everyone circled back to the same conclusion. 

They wouldn’t be able to bring their armies abroad. And with limited numbers, brute strength would only go so far when forced to bring a fight to a foreign land against a foreign god. This would be decided by few. It would be as intimate as lovers. As ruthless as enemies. 

“There’s still the other plan.” Nesta reminded them, glancing first at Feyre and you with the faintest of nods. 

“I hate that plan, Nes.” Cassian gripped the back of her wing-backed chair and she reached up to take his hand in her own. She looked like a queen in her own right — harsh, pragmatic, unwavering. And he her mirror — a roguish knight, rough and wild and raw. 

“I know. Unfortunately for you, it’s the best one we’ve got.” 

“It’s the only one we’ve got.” Mor said with a sigh, rubbing her temples to alleviate the ache there. “We’re asking for a blood bath one way or the other.” 

“Ione is still with us.” Rhys squeezed his cousin’s knee. “Without her, he can be killed.” 

“But for how long, Rhys? How long until he finds someone else? Some other way?”

The question hung in the air like an ax ready to fall. An invisible clock ticking its way towards doom. Koschei had read the book’s contents. He had to know the secret to freeing himself was sheltered in Ione’s veins. So long as she was alive and breathing she was a threat as much as she was a tantalizing prize for him to tear his teeth into. 

Feyre’s fingernails clicked on the glossy tabletop, eyes narrowed in on that splash of black on paper. Through the golden string tied to her lower ribs, she felt the tug of her mate’s silent agreement. Her eyes flickered upward for a brief moment, as if she could see through the layers of the House to the skies above. “For as long as we have Ione, we have the upper hand. But we can’t rely on it forever.” She looked at you, “ We go with the first plan. It will have to be enough.” 

You shivered. 

Four years ago, when the Day Court had first opened its borders to foreigners from other Courts, you’d encountered a male in the market. He’d been young and reckless and glamoured himself to live amongst the humans for six months. In that time, he’d learned their version of magic — the sleight of hand tricks and elaborate games of misdirection humans played on one another. Caped entertainers bedazzling crowds with obvious moves, while the real work happened just out of frame. 

You thought of him now. You pictured him in the marketplace as he made a hand-painted playing card disappear from his hand into the fold of his suit jacket, only to reappear under an overturned teacup. 

Yes. 

It would have to be enough. 

The crisp blade flashed in the dull light as you moved your feet back and forth in a practiced dance. 

Left, left, right, duck, keep your wrist straight and slice up. Just like Azriel had instructed you. He stood off the narrow mat, hazel eyes tracing every slow movement of yours with a critical gaze. 

“Practice makes permanence.” He’d reminded you earlier. “Get it right first, then we’ll worry about speed.” 

Magic hovered over the House of Wind’s training gym, warping the air like a soap bubble as it shielded you from the frigid rain. Even so, the scent of petrichor and the cleanliness of frosted wind hung close to warn of the storm churning its way down from the north, carrying with it the promise of rainfall or the first true flakes of snow. 

How poetic that winter should come with death chasing its heels while you were learning a dozen ways to kill a man. 

“Here.” Azriel took your wrist in a loose grip, arching your arm and sticking the point of the knife into the training dummy’s jugular. Hay crinkled and burst out from the burlap covering instead of blood and you stepped away, locating the points in the liver, the lungs, the heart, the throat, under the arms, and more. Gruesome things made digestible by the motionless, fake body propped up on wooden poles. 

You didn’t need to imagine what it would feel like for your blade to meet flesh. 

Your arms ached. Hot, unfamiliar stretches of muscle trembling while slick with sweat. You could taste salt on your tongue as Azriel repeated himself. 

“Be precise. Be quick if you can. Then run like hell.” 

Incapacitation and speed. Those were the only two things you could rely on if things went south on the Continent. 

Precise. Quick. Run.

“Emphasis on run,” You muttered beneath your breath. You adjusted your feet to match Azriel’s stance, feeling the strength of his muscles close to your body and imagining some of that power seeping into the ground for you to drink up. 

The corner of his mouth twitched, then rose in a smile. “Exactly.” He stepped in, hands twisting your hips to be straight and then drifting up to your wrist. “Too much.” He corrected your bones with a feather-light touch. He wasn’t smiling anymore. 

It should have been romantic. Him touching you like this with his front pressed against your back and his breath sliding over your skin as he taught you to wield a knife. Instead his insides churned relentlessly. Visions of you, blood-splattered and motionless on the ground, flashed through his mind. He’d be damned if he let that happen again. 

You practiced on him next. Blunt, stone knife gripped in your hands as he moved in slow-motion. Azriel must have had everything custom made for you. The balance felt right in your hands, the movement as fluid as your awkward limbs could manage. 

You clasped a hand around the back of his neck, dragging him forward as you swung up. 

Where the head goes, the body will follow.

He didn’t so much as grunt as the stone wedged itself into his ribs. 

You locked eyes with him and saw his pupils blown wide as a doe’s. “Good.” He murmured. “Again.” 

On and on you went for hours, Azriel’s panic fueling the training he put you through, as if he could fit a hundred years of combat into a handful of hours. 

You grunted when Azriel easily flipped you over onto your back, a scarred hand catching the nape of your neck so your head wouldn’t slam into the floor. The knife slipped out from your sweaty fingers, skittering away and disappearing beneath one of the weapons racks along the wall. You breathed heavily beneath him, feeling the grit of the ground and the sweat sliding into your hair and the leather brushing your chest with every breath he took. 

In a real fight, Azriel would have killed you a thousand times over and he knew it. There was not a single moment where you could have saved yourself. 

You saw the tell tale flicker in his eyes, the tensing of his jaw before he gritted his teeth and swore beneath his breath. 

You felt shame seep into your stomach again. “Az—”

“I want you to take my memories,” he said. “Everything I’ve learned over 500 years.” 

Metal whispered against leather as a tendril of shadow retrieved the knife and slid it into the thigh sheath Azriel had tied around your legs only hours ago. It felt strange to have such an unfamiliar weight against your thighs. To know that only leather kept the wicked blade from slicing you to the bone. 

“We’ve been over this before, Azriel. I can take however many memories I want from you until I can picture every way to take down an enemy in my mind’s eye. But that doesn’t mean my body will obey or follow through correctly. Knowing things mentally isn’t the same thing as knowing things physically.”

Azriel huffed in frustration, dropping one hand to your waist like he often did and gripping the flesh there to ground him. 

“If we had more time—”

“When this is over we’ll have more time.” 

If I make it. 

Because if there was anyone who would survive what was to come. It was Azriel. And you could find a great deal of comfort in that.

Azriel must have read your doubt because his eyes hardened and his hands came up to cup your jaw. “We will have more time. We’ll have time for everything, do you understand me?”

“Like what?”

“Whatever you want. We’ll travel the Courts. I’ll take you dancing and—”

“You’ll teach me a dozen new ways to kill someone?” 

“Exactly.”

“Should I start keeping a tally?” 

“If that would help, then yes.” He dipped his head down, kissing you firmly on the lips, the taste salty and warm to the touch. Kissing you came easy now. Touches were a comforting drug he craved daily. 

“If things go wrong—” He whispered, flicking a strand of hair out of your eyes. “Promise me you’ll find me.” 

You blinked up at him, tracing fragments of gold in his eyes. 

“Find you,” you echoed, your voice tinged with sadness. “You’re not going to convince me to run?”

He laughed bitterly. “I know you too well, my love. You wouldn’t listen even if I did. If anything, it would make you want to stay and fight even more, just to prove me wrong.“ “Then is this some reverse psychology? You tell me the opposite of what you want, so I end up doing what you intended all along?”

“You’re thinking too deeply about this.” He slid his arms around the small of your back, dropping his weight until you were flush against him. Until you could feel his heart beating beneath his skin in time to yours. “Find me, so I can protect you. And so if anything happens, we won’t be alone. I want you to promise me.” 

You caressed his cheek, the coarse bandages he’d wound around your wrists and knuckles scratching the skin of his jaw and the faint stubble that had grown there over sleepless nights. “I promise I’ll find you, Azriel. We’re better together anyways.” 

He could never disagree with you. He lifted you back onto your feet, kissing your forehead. “Three more drills, then we’ll be done for the day.” 

He made you run five. The bastard.

You’d dreamed of what might come. Nightmares filled with glassy-eyed children and skeletal forests where the dead roamed free. A black lake with stones of bleached bone to fill your lungs and choke the life out of you. 

You wanted to make Azriel proud. You wanted to be the kind of warrior who could match him physically, not just mentally. The kind of female he’d never have to worry about protecting in that way. But violence had never been beaten into your bones and you could only hope that the skills you did possess would see you through to the end. 

You and Azriel would make it. You’d all make it. 

Some way. 

Somehow. 

Then there would be time for everything you had ever wanted and everything you’d never had the courage to ask for.

You woke up to a world shivering beneath a dusting of snow. Frost creeped up the windowsill, trying to slither inside before the House’s magic burned it away. A grey, ashen sky hung low over the mountains, mist blowing over and gathering in valleys until they were transformed into pools of smoke. 

So this is it. You thought wearily, tasting the change in the air. Winter’s finally here to choke the world into submission. 

You burrowed further under Azriel’s wings, chasing the heat that rolled off his skin. When you looked up at his eyes they were already trained on the weather, some similar tangle of thoughts running through his mind that had his grip around your waist tightening. 

“The other death gods. Have you met any of them, Az?” You whispered your question into the hollow of his neck, feeling the blood rushing beneath your lips until he answered.

“I’ve met a fair few. The Bone Carver, Stryga, and Bryaxis joined our side in the final battle against Hybern and Nesta was equivalent in power when she first emerged from the Cauldron.” 

“Nesta?” You asked questionably. 

She was a collection of sharp edges wrapped in silk and cunning, but a death god? 

Azriel smiled ever so slightly. “You didn’t know her then, but she was a terror to behold. You could feel her presence in a room like a knife in your back or a flame licking at your heels so hold it starts to freeze. Only Cassian was foolish and lovestruck enough to approach her at the time.” 

You tried to imagine it — Cassian’s wild, borderline arrogant mannerisms going toe-to-toe against Nesta’s magnified sharp grace. “That sounds about right.” 

“Feyre knows the most about the death gods. Has come face to face with the most. Rhys sent her into the Weaver’s cabin to retrieve her engagement ring — don’t give me that look, my love, I don’t understand it either — and she’s the one who convinced The Bone Carver and Bryaxis to fight for us.” 

“Feyre has a penchant for endearing herself to monsters.” 

Azriel smirked, pearly teeth flashing. “You have no idea.” Then he said something that stuck with you. “The Bone Carver was especially close to her.” 

Anytime the Bone Carver — Thanatos — was mentioned, you could only think of Bethsevah. The one person who had ever looked upon his true face and never flinched.

“How so?” 

Shadows swarmed around his ears, as much a sign of his thinking as it was a sign that whispers beyond your own understanding were reaching him. 

“When Feyre met with the Bone Carver, he made a bargain that he’d only fight for her if she could descend into the Court of Nightmares and bring back an enchanted mirror without going mad. Feyre said she saw her true form when she looked into her reflection, and that it was only by accepting this form that she was able to keep the madness at bay. The Bone Carver was impressed with her and pledged his loyalty to her from then on.” Azriel shook his head, wings flaring out in another sign of his thinking. “It never made sense to me why a being like him would even make that bargain to begin with.” 

“Even death gods can be surprised. We should consider ourselves lucky.” 

“It wasn’t just that though. I was watching when he died. He… he turned his face up to the field at Feyre and he smiled at her. It felt like a bittersweet ending to a story I didn’t know. Like he was saying goodbye to more than just this world.” 

You draped your arm over his chest, tracing the black ink swirling across his chest and over his shoulders like ocean waves. The Bone Carver was more myth than legend to the few fae that had known of his existence and you knew with each passing century his story would be steadily wiped from the earth like wind shaving down stone. His name would become a whisper. His story, and Beth’s, a tragedy for no one but the stars to weep to. 

But you were still here, and your time with Bethsevah’s book had left you with no small amount of fondness for him. For now you would still be able to whisper his true name. 

“Thanatos.” You said. “He loved this world and the people in it. He sacrificed his life for it. I think he had many things he wanted to say goodbye to.” 

“To Thanatos then.” Azriel raised an invisible cup towards the ceiling of his bedroom, silk sheets sliding down his arms.

“To Thanatos,” you echoed. 

You eventually went through the morning motions together —Azriel helped lace up the back of your dress, and you buttoned up his shirts, careful to avoid the fragile membrane of his wings as you stood at his back.

He tugged you away from the bedroom door at the last moment, your questioning eyes softening when he cradled your face in his hands and stole one last kiss in the privacy of your room, murmuring "Beautiful," against the crown of your freshly brushed hair.

"Do the others know you're such a hopeless romantic?" You asked, finally opening the door and breaking the spell of privacy.

Before Azriel could answer, Cassian blew past the room, shockingly quiet for his mountainous size. "Yes, we all know," he shouted before disappearing down the hall.

Ione stood proud and tall in front of the windows, grey eyes narrowed at the Sidra as it wound through the valley like a snake. Cassian slid into the space beside her and handed her her cane. She knew instinctively where the warrior stood and where his hand reached out towards her. She took the cane without the second glance. A golden lion’s head roared from atop its wooden post, Ione’s fingers resting squarely between its glistening teeth as she leaned experimentally on the new device. Cassian had ordered it custom for her and she knew that hidden within the sleeve of glistening redwood was an iron rod forged in enchanted flames that rendered it near unbreakable. 

“Careful.” She reminded Cassian when she caught him staring for too long. “This body may be different, but I can still bring you to your knees.” 

Cassian chuckled, “I don’t doubt that.”

She slammed the cane against the ground once. Twice. Testing its strength and finding it worthy. “Do you think it will happen soon?” 

This waiting — it was beginning to grate on her nerves. This foreboding calm that threatened to fall away into chaos and bloodshed. She almost wished she were living three years into the future, when she was finally done healing from her wounds and the future had faded into the background of her life once more.

“If I could see into the future, I would not be here right now waiting.”

“And yet here we are.” Ione sighed, shoulders rising and falling elegantly beneath a wrinkled but slender neck.  

Cassian would have said more had Feyre and Rhys not entered the room together, bruises layered beneath their eyes as they plastered on bright smiles for their family, tension visible through the cracks in their porcelain teeth. 

The Inner Circle had assembled in their entirety at the request of their High Lord and High Lady. There was no holiday to be celebrated. No birthdays or anniversaries or special occasions. The fare that had been laid out on the table was simple and everyone filled their plates before spilling out across the sofas and the armchairs or carving out a space on one of Rhysand’s expensive hand-woven rugs. There would be no special meal around the new table devoid of scratches and watermarks and the passage of time and love. This was their family, and for their family it was the company that put finery to shame. 

Elain was a flutter of movement in and out of the kitchen, shepherding pots of tea and fruit tarts before Lucien finally caught her around the waist and made her rest. The House was equally restless. The lights strung above the fireplace mantle flickered like lantern flies. 

Mor sat with Emerie’s wings draped around her shoulders like a cape and Gwyn sat on the floor, hugging her knees close to her chest as she rested her head against the Illyrian female’s knee. To no one’s surprise, you and Azriel clung to the corner of the room, content to watch everyone’s laughter with your arm subtly looped around his. 

He still hasn’t told her, I see. Emerie noted, watching your smile stretch into place when Azriel leaned close to whisper in your ear. 

Does it matter? Mor teased, kissing Emerie’s nose reverently. The Illyrian’s cheeks turned warm. Emerie had not been granted the freedom to explore romance to the same degree as Mor, something she’d worried about when they first started their courtship. But if anyone asked the blonde, she’d tell them it drove her wild to see how such simple gestures could reduce the fearsome warrior to a puddle, even now. Mor tucked herself into Emerie’s side, throwing her long legs over the armrest. It’s probably a good thing. If they could speak to each other like this, we’d never hear from them again.

Emerie laughed into Mor’s golden hair. 

Conversations rose and fell. Plates emptied and clicked as they were laid out on the coffee table.

It was a simple peace they welcomed with open arms. 

They didn’t hear the faintest thud coming from above their heads. 

You smiled when one of Azriel’s shadows wove themselves into your hair, tickling the sensitive skin behind your ear and along your neck. 

“Sorry,” Azriel whispered, trying and failing to draw them back to him for the nth time that day. “I don’t know what’s gotten into them.” They’d been especially touchy as of late, nipping at your heels like a litter of puppies vying for attention or hiding in your pockets. It was a mixture of Azriel’s own feelings that spurred them on and their own desire to protect what they’d claimed as theirs. 

“It’s alright, Azriel. I like having them around.” 

They hummed amongst themselves, happy to see you so pleased. Sometimes, Azriel wondered if you’d be able to learn to listen to them as well. To tease apart that secret language he couldn’t begin to describe. 

Maybe you were listening to them now without even realizing it.

Maybe that’s why you and Azriel were the only ones whose eyes snapped towards the hallway before the first creak of wood sounded throughout the House.

The shuffling of a new, unfamiliar set of feet down the stairs had the hair on the back of your neck rising and crackling with energy.

It wasn’t Jurian. It wasn’t loud enough to be Jurian. He so rarely descended from the attic that he made a habit of making his presence known, tired feet shuffling along the rugged staircase with measured drags. 

You walked over to your brother and tugged on the back of his shirt. “Jurian—”

“That’s not Jurian.” Lucien said with bated breath. He was the third person in the room to hear the sound.

He’d checked on his friends less than a handful of hours ago. Jurian had been as he always was — weary but hopeful as one hand had clenched the bundle of morphine and the other had leaned against the food cart Lucien had carried up to the top floor. 

And Vassa… Vassa had been uncharacteristically quiet, slouching against the wall of her gilded cage, raw skin and thin feathers trembling with her haggard breath as she slept. 

“You should come down.” Lucien had said. “You deserve a break.” 

But Jurian had only shook his head and flashed a tight smile. “As much as I would love to bless you with my presence, I won’t leave her like this. But one day, my friend, we’ll both walk down those steps together and have a proper celebration. I promise you.” 

Vassa came down the steps. 

Alone. 

Naked.

Shivering.

You eyed the window where the mid-afternoon sun beat down on a frosted city. 

It was the middle of the day… and Vassa was human. 

You clutched Lucien’s arm, fingernails digging through his cotton shirt before he could take another step forward. Silence suffocated the room. There was something deeply wrong with the cursed queen. She trembled like a newborn fawn unceremoniously dumped into the world, her skin puckered and pock-marked from where she���d picked at old scabs and opened new wounds. The whole array hung from bones so thin they may as well have belonged to a bird. 

“Vassa…” Lucien’s voice broke on her name. 

A path of bloody feathers trailed behind her.

She grasped at strands of her fiery red hair and tugged. Hard. You focused all your energy on keeping the food in your stomach when strands fell through her bloody fingers and saliva rose in your mouth. 

“I’m so sorry, Lucien. I can’t… It won’t stop.” Her voice, which had once been beautiful, grated your ears. “My skin. It feels like I’m crawling out of it.” 

“Vassa.” Lucien held out his hands, showing her they were empty. “Where’s Jurian?” He would come down. He would help her in ways only he was capable of. 

“I don’t… I don’t know…”

“Where’s Jurian?”

At the second mention of her lover’s name, Vassa broke down crying. Fat, ugly tears streaking down tan cheeks that had turned sallow and grey. She wiped them away, fingers dripping. There was a deep, unyielding hunger evident in every stutter of her body as her eyes raked across the room. You flinched when those milky, teal eyes passed over you… and landed on Ione. 

Elderly, painfully human, Ione.

Vassa’s left eye twitched and Azriel had only enough time to tackle you to the ground and cover your body with his own before the mortal queen burst into flames.

<- Previous Chapter Next Chapter ->

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Author's Note:

^^ Visual depiction of how I've felt the last week like what in the world? I'm getting enough sleep I swear but every morning I feel like I'm dragging a two ton boulder behind me until I get a sip of that bitter goodness. Ugh. Hope y'all are resting better than I am.

Anyways, I know it's been a while since I posted, but the chapter is here! Whoop! And I hope you enjoyed :) As always, feedback is appreciated and welcome if you have burning things you need to get off your chest (doesn't even have to be SSIB-related honestly my inbox is there).

[hatsukeii]

Today I'm thinking about...haikyuu + other anime characters who think you're just a little too sweet for them.

warning(s): nothing LOL you're safe with me again today!!

To them, life should be lived silently, like slipping between cracks that emerge amidst the lives of others. Their presence is fleeting, manifesting as a helping hand in a crowded hallway that is never seen again, a coffee order that is forgotten after the next few customers, a glossary that is skimmed through once, then never looked at a second time. A presence that you know for certain was here once before, but have nothing to show for it. When you grace their life for the first time, maybe in a library, or a bakery, perhaps a coffee shop, it is as fleeting as a comet that zips across a night sky, your presence escaping from between the seams of their own life the way they do to others. A glance shared between the gaps of leathery bookends, the dropping of change in their hand, the calling out of their name for their black coffee order. He finds eternity in the gleam of your irises, the clink of coins as they fall from your hand, the sugar that leaks from their name in your mouth. You find solace in the darkness of their tired eyes, the wrinkles and calluses in the palm that collects change, the grainy, sultry earth that echoes in their thank yous. They return to the libraries, and bakeries, and coffee shops day after day, hoping to bask in the sweetness of whatever you do and say again, mellowing out pools of black caffeine with mugs of syrup and milk, neat whiskey with crisp ice, balancing the earthy, soiled ground with a star-studded night sky. They change their order from an Americano to your recommended latte, smile at you from the opening created between books on a shelf, treat themselves to a small cake once every so often along with their usual purchase of plain bread. And when you finally chat them up one day, a wink flashing across your face as you slide your number to them on a doodled-over sticky-note across the counter, or thread it through hardbacks on a shelf, or palm their hand sneakily as you hand them change, their presence becomes an engraving on the spine of a book, a coffee stain in a worn out mug, the lingering decadence of mousse and cake that dances on their tongue, impatient for the next taste. They are a bitter canister of brewed tea, a hollow body and soul worn down by the trials of life. You are a shot of espresso in the afternoon sun, golden daylight peeking through half-lidded blinds, honey in your veins and prosperous life in your eyes. Perhaps your sweetness could accomodate for two.

Characters: Kageyama Tobio, Tsukishima Kei, Kenma Kozume, Iwaizumi Hajime, Aone Takanobu, Akaashi Keiji, Ushijima Wakatoshi, Shirabu Kenjiro, Osamu Miya, Nanami Kento, Geto Suguru, Maki Zenin, Yuuta Okkotsu but specifically after training in Africa and coming back to Shibuya, Megumi Fushiguro, Aki Hayakawa, Kishibe, Shouta Aizawa, Hitoshi Shinso, Shouto Todoroki, Tomura Shigaraki

author's note:

be honest chat do i post like a scary amount and does it get annoying </3 i have too many ideas when i should be studying for externals in two months but i DON'T CARE i need to rest for like the next week after that trials period

i had hozier's too sweet in mind with this one and i initially wanted to do like just nanami but UGH too many characters work with this i can't DO ITTTTT so i made it a general drabble EE

anyways tags!!

@chuuya-brainrot @starlysama @catsoupki @fiannee @bailey-reeds @akaakeis @hiraethwa

ok bye bye until the next one which will be soon LMFAO love u all

[slayfics]

Hitoshi offers to stay.

950 words

You puttered around your new apartment tending to your guests. Having a party with the rest of your pro-hero friends seemed like a good idea to celebrate your new place. However, you failed to remember that the one thing about heroes is they work hard and drink harder.

Getting everyone together to celebrate soon resulted in your apartment being filled with drunk friends. Laughing, dancing, catching up, but also plenty of alcohol spills.

“Oh shit! I’m sorry in your new place too,” Mina apologized, eyes glazed over from the alcohol, she looked around the room for some napkins.

“It’s alright, don’t worry about it! I’ll be right back,” you assured her and quickly took off for the kitchen.

You rounded the corner too fast, in a hurry, and half buzzed. Trying as quickly as possible to clean the spill, you weren’t paying attention and crashed into Hitoshi.

His red solo cup squashed between you both soaking his shirt.

“Shit! I’m so sorry Shinso,” you apologized backing up embarrassed.

“It’s alright,” he replied, glancing down at his drenched shirt.

“I got to clean up a spill in the living room, but then I’ll come back to remake your drink!” You said hurriedly grabbing the napkins.

“You don’t have to,” he replied, but you had already vanished back into the living room.

Mina continued to apologize as she bent down to the floor with you to soak up the spill.

“Don’t worry about it, accidents were bound to happen with all of us together again,” you laughed.

Mina giggled, “Guess we both need another drink, don’t we?” She suggested.

“I actually bulldozed into Shinso so, I’m going back to remake his drink. I’ll bring you back one too,” you offered.

Mina glanced up at you, ready to make a joke but you had already grabbed the soiled napkins and headed back to the kitchen.

When you entered the kitchen, Hitoshi had already remade the drink you spilled.

“I told you I’d remake it for you,” you spoke, alerting his attention.

“It’s fine, seems you got your hands full,” he commented, noticing your out of breath appearance.

“Let me at least get you a shirt and dry that one up,” you offered. “I’ve got a clean oversized t-shirt somewhere.”

Hitoshi smiled; it was sweet you were so persistent. He really didn’t care about his wet shirt, but he didn’t mind you wanting to tend to him.

“Alright, if you feel so inclined,” he agreed.

“Ok come with me,” you motioned for him to follow you to your room.

You poked around the room searching for a shirt that would fit him, while Hitoshi gazed around your room. Most of your things still in boxes. Very few items decorated your room, but on the bed a stuffed animal was laid out neatly. Something about that was cute and innocent. It made him feel as though he was stealing glances into your private life.

“Here you go! I think this one should fit, at least while I throw yours in the dryer,” you declared, holding up a plain black t-shirt that you sometimes used for bed. “I promise it’s clean.”

“Hold this for me for a second?” He asked handing you his drink. You grabbed the solo cup from him, and Hitoshi pulled off his soaked shirt.

“Oh,” you mewled out accidentally. Maybe it was the buzz you had going, but the sight of Hitoshi shirtless made your fingers tighten around the solo cup. The spill from the alcohol caused his toned abs to glisten in the low light of your room. Hitoshi peered up at you, an eyebrow raised at your reaction.

“Sorry!” You blurted out, “You um- must be doing a lot of hero work, you look good.” You said honestly.

“Thank you,” he replied, cheeks turning rosy at your compliment.

“Oh, uh here,” you handed him the dry shirt, hands shaking. It was clear you were nervous.

Hitoshi thought it was amusing. A beautiful woman like you nervous because of him? He couldn’t deny how much he loved it.

Grabbing the shirt from you, your bedroom door suddenly bursts open.

“Ops,” Mina giggled. “Was wondering when you were coming back with my drink. Didn’t realize I was interrupting,” she commented glancing over at Hitoshi who was still shirtless.

Your face darkened with embarrassment, “No! I was just giving him a dry shirt!” You explained.

“Uh hu, sure sure,” Mina laughed, leaving and closing the door behind her.

“I’m sorry!” You said to Hitoshi, face completely scarlet.

“Do you always apologize this much?” he asked, finally grabbing and putting on the dry shirt. “I haven’t seen you relax since I got here. Everyone seems to be letting loose but you.”

You let a sigh, and what felt like the first time since the party took in a breath. “To be honest I thought it would be fun to celebrate my new place with everyone but- it’s turning out to be overwhelming.”

“Mm,” Hitoshi hummed understanding. “It’s definitely a rambunctious group. Hard to keep up with all that energy.”

“Exactly! I’m trying to be a good host but I’m exhausted.” You confessed.

“If you’d like I’ll stay till everyone leaves and help clean up,” Hitoshi offered.

Your eyes flashed to his. Was that an innocent offer, you wondered? If his kindness had an ulterior motive, his lilac eyes gave nothing away. His gaze rested on you lazily, with a calmness that you envied.

You swallowed as your mind raced at the possible implications, deciding to accept his help.

“Yeah… I’d like that,” you smiled, part of you hoping Hitoshi did have another reason for wanting to stay.

sinners: @unofficialmuilover @maddietries @fiannee @derangedmango @reneinii @zanarkandskylines @abadbitchblogs @deluluforcarlos55 @that-one-fangirl69 @pinkpurpledreams

[thesassypadawan]

Puck Slut 3.5 (Hayden x FemReader)

*Blurb*

Summary: It's just a harmless Devil's Night prank...what's the worse that can happen? (Takes place after Puck Slut 3, which will be cumming soon)

Warnings: 18+ (mdni), because there's sooo much of the smut.  Dom moose, anal (what what in the butt), bad puns, improper use of a hockey jersey and, as always… Hayden’s big, fat dick.

Notes: Happy Kinktober all you, lovelies! 🖤🧡

Hope you also enjoy Puck Slut .5, Puck Slut 1, and Puck Slut 2!

- It’s a stupid prank.  Something that you're not really proud of, but, regardless, fun to do.  Because, well, not only is it Devil’s Night and just plain old tradition to cause some mischief, mayhem.  It’s pretty damn enjoyable to get Hay all pissed off  and worked up (in more ways than one).  Plus, you’re still…

- “Really?  Are you really still that butt hurt over your boys’ loss?”  Smearing, circling your puckered hole with his creamy cum.  Thick cock slick, glistening with your juices.  “What a bad ghoul.”

- Finger teases, pushes past the tight rim.  “Using MY good jersey.”  Curling, scissoring…spreading you open.  “Putting that damn skeleton out on MY front porch for everyone to see.”

- Making you whine, whimper into your little black cat plushie.  Poor overstimed cunt fluttering, clenching around nothing.  Fat drops of your mixed arousals trickling down your plush thighs.  “Said…said I was so-sorry.”

- “Nope, not good enough.”  Pulling them out, landing a hard smack on your great pumpkin.  Squishy globes bouncing and jiggling.  “You messed up, messed up frightfully.”  He grips your sides firmly, pillowy flesh spilling out from between his long digits.  As he ruts, drags his girthy length between your round cheeks.  “Now it’s my turn to have a spooky time.”

- Angling himself, thrusting forward…you wail out from the pleasuring pain.  Fists gripping the soiled, ghost white sheets from the burning stretch; the lewd squelching sound from him pounding ruthlessly.  “H-Hay…FUCK…”

- Muscled arm wraps, bicep curls around your throat.  Breaths come out in shallow pants, lungs stinging for air.  While he squeezes, bruises the tender skin.  “Haaay, slo-slow down-n!”

- “Not happening,” he growls in your ear.  Sweaty chest pressing against, pushing down on your back.  Legs buckling, shaking from bearing his almost full weight; weak with exhaustion and fatigue after several terrifying rounds.  “You want to still be butt hurt…”

- Plowing you into the mattress, pushing his cock somehow impossibly deeper.  “Then I’ll make sure you are…  Over and over…”  Prominent veins scrapping your insides, heavy balls slapping your ass wetly.  “Until you can’t fucking sit or walk straight…  Until the fucking neighbors at the end of the street think I’m murdering you…”

Tag List: @espinathena-17, @myheartwillgoon2022, @laylaplease, @princessswifie, @kenobiskywalker16, @loverforoldermen, @jediavengers, @anisangeldust, @fredswrite, @xhunnybeeex, @vaderswifey

[elfgirlcraftworks]

Let America Be America Again

By Langston Hughes

Let America be America again.

Let it be the dream it used to be.

Let it be the pioneer on the plain

Seeking a home where he himself is free.

(America never was America to me.)

Let America be the dream the dreamers dreamed—

Let it be that great strong land of love

Where never kings connive nor tyrants scheme

That any man be crushed by one above.

(It never was America to me.)

O, let my land be a land where Liberty

Is crowned with no false patriotic wreath,

But opportunity is real, and life is free,

Equality is in the air we breathe.

(There’s never been equality for me,

Nor freedom in this “homeland of the free.”)

Say, who are you that mumbles in the dark?

And who are you that draws your veil across the stars?

I am the poor white, fooled and pushed apart,

I am the Negro bearing slavery’s scars.

I am the red man driven from the land,

I am the immigrant clutching the hope I seek—

And finding only the same old stupid plan

Of dog eat dog, of mighty crush the weak.

I am the young man, full of strength and hope,

Tangled in that ancient endless chain

Of profit, power, gain, of grab the land!

Of grab the gold! Of grab the ways of satisfying need!

Of work the men! Of take the pay!

Of owning everything for one’s own greed!

I am the farmer, bondsman to the soil.

I am the worker sold to the machine.

I am the Negro, servant to you all.

I am the people, humble, hungry, mean—

Hungry yet today despite the dream.

Beaten yet today—O, Pioneers!

I am the man who never got ahead,

The poorest worker bartered through the years.

Yet I’m the one who dreamt our basic dream

In the Old World while still a serf of kings,

Who dreamt a dream so strong, so brave, so true,

That even yet its mighty daring sings

In every brick and stone, in every furrow turned

That’s made America the land it has become.

O, I’m the man who sailed those early seas

In search of what I meant to be my home—

For I’m the one who left dark Ireland’s shore,

And Poland’s plain, and England’s grassy lea,

And torn from Black Africa’s strand I came

To build a “homeland of the free.”

The free?

Who said the free? Not me?

Surely not me? The millions on relief today?

The millions shot down when we strike?

The millions who have nothing for our pay?

For all the dreams we’ve dreamed

And all the songs we’ve sung

And all the hopes we’ve held

And all the flags we’ve hung,

The millions who have nothing for our pay—

Except the dream that’s almost dead today.

O, let America be America again—

The land that never has been yet—

And yet must be—the land where every man is free.

The land that’s mine—the poor man’s, Indian’s, Negro’s, ME—

Who made America,

Whose sweat and blood, whose faith and pain,

Whose hand at the foundry, whose plow in the rain,

Must bring back our mighty dream again.

Sure, call me any ugly name you choose—

The steel of freedom does not stain.

From those who live like leeches on the people’s lives,

We must take back our land again,

America!

O, yes,

I say it plain,

America never was America to me,

And yet I swear this oath—

America will be!

Out of the rack and ruin of our gangster death,

The rape and rot of graft, and stealth, and lies,

We, the people, must redeem

The land, the mines, the plants, the rivers.

The mountains and the endless plain—

All, all the stretch of these great green states—

And make America again!

[webshooterrr9]

merman diary

[TRANSLATED INTO ENGLISH FOR HUMAN CONSUMPTION. ORIGINAL WRITING IN THE LOCAL LANGUAGE OF THE MERFOLK]

w.c: 0.6k

content warning: none (yet)

Diary Entry - 10/15/24

I swam further from the colony than I should’ve the other day. But I don’t regret it. I moved my way swiftly through the deep sea towards the land. I had never been up there - nor had anyone I knew. Growing up, I heard tales of what happened to us when we made contact with the land. Large, monstrous creatures, with rough hands and jagged teeth, were up there lurking. You could sense them coming; with their loud roars and deadly stench, it was advised to stay as clear away from the dry land as possible - these were not creatures you’d want to meet. I had seen glimpses of these creatures on large vehicles that floated on the surface of the water, cutting through the currents. But the vehicles were far too grand for me to see over the sides - I had only gotten a peek of these barbarians.

However, I’ve always been the curious sort. My peers would describe me as a troublemaker - but mischief was never my passion. I simply wanted to learn, and I see no reason why I shouldn’t. Besides, I know what I’m doing. I’m strong, I can handle myself out there. And yet, no amount of hunting or sparring or exploration could prepare me for what I saw that day.

I encountered an alien. At first, only seeing her top half, I thought she was one of us. A lost mermaid stranded on the beach. I rushed over, ready to warn her of the dangers of the land, of the treacherous monsters that lived up there, until I saw her fully. She was no mermaid, no creature of the sea at all. Rather than a nimble tail, there were two long limbs attached to the bottom of her hips - crossed over each other while she sat. Her skin was a shade somewhere between the most blinding white and purest black - evening out to a beautiful earthy tone in the middle. She was a mix of tans and browns, with her eyes darker than her skin and her hair darker than her eyes. In terms of color, the girl was very plain - but that made her all the more special in my eyes. She looked as if she sprung from the land, letting the soil of the Earth paint her body on her way up from her roots in the ground. Land. Soil. Earth. All things that I had never seen before. Her body was a mix of textures. She had skin like mine, but un-littered with scales that aid a smooth glide through the water. Her hair seemed to be soft like mine as well, but it flowed longer than any hair that sprouted from merfolk heads. And there were accessories on her;  large fabrics made of cotton and leather draped across her frame, shielding most of her body from the surrounding elements. Oh, she was gorgeous, wasn’t she? Truly a remarkable creature. I was so blessed to meet her on that day.

I know I shouldn’t. I know it’s dangerous. But I want to see her again. I know there are evil creatures up there, but she wasn’t one of them. And if someone like her, who looked so fragile, was able to lounge around alone with no worry, I assumed that all was safe. I wonder what her species is like. Are they all solitary, or did she wander off just like I did? Was she even a female, or was my perception skewed based on my experience with my own people? If this gorgeous bipedal creature is common up on land, I must return soon. I promise myself that I will steer clear from the monsters, but I cannot contain my interest in this new world. I must go back. I will return tomorrow. I hope she is there.

a/n: will update this whenever i feel like it. no regular schedule set. technically its oc!merman x oc!afab human, but you can interpret it as whatever you want. no actual names for the characters so it can be reader x your fav character

dividers by @cafekitsune

[knightjpg]

landslide | chapter 2

Tommy is smiling at the camera. He's wearing a chunky knit pullover, holding up a glass (“A toast!”). Beth is half-turned away, just reaching out to a little Joseph covered in sauce. Simon is there, too, just cut off on the right— so who took the photo? 

tags: ghost/reader, finding each other again after years have gone by, reader has a toxic boyfriend

prev | next

Ghost's hands are stained black with soil. Dirt caked under his nails. He breathes in the debris until it's part of him, burrowed into the pit of his lungs, his eyes, his stomach. He's not alone— 

(the corpse clings onto him on bad days) 

—a terrible comfort. 

His fingertips scrabble against wood. Darkness presses against him from all sides. The promise of lithification looms—unstoppable force, immovable object. Rock forever chained to its place in the natural order of things. It'd be so easy to give up, to accept he's always been nothing but a stain against the dirt— 

“You set me straight, yeah?” 

Simon grits his teeth. The jawbone comes loose in violent, painful tugs—forearm skin burns against the rough grain cage trapping him underground. Decaying flesh squelches between his fingers, muscle and sinew snapping, bending, come on— 

A way out. Teeth dig into his flesh when he grips it hard and fights— 

(c'mon, his dad's voice goads. show me you're a man, boy) 

—the desire to give in. He'll make his own way through. Dogteeth biting so deep he can't be dislodged, holding on even when he's the one bleeding. Never knew when to let go and he refuses to learn, because Ghost— 

Simon— 

Ghost— 

still has something to do. To get back to. 

When he bursts through the surface the low evening light is blinding. The sun sets over deserted sloping plains, catching a dark figure in its glare— 

A photo camera clicks and flashes. 

“You two look sweet together,” Beth says, smiling. She lowers her Nikon. No, not hers—borrowed. 

Simon looks. He and— 

The clock on his nightstand reads three in the A.M. Ghost is exhausted. 

Enough. 

He gets up, throws on a shirt, and opens his closet. Shoved deep in the back is a box— 

(a coffin) 

—with the remnants of another life. Tommy's lighter. Simon's first knife. Collectible football cards, scuffed at the edges. And— 

Sun-faded photographs with dates scribbled on the backs in slanted cursive. 

Ghost rarely looks at them. Makes his head hurt, his chest constrict so tight he can't breathe. He won't ever toss them; can bear the pain just enough to know that they exist, here, safe under lock and key. 

He takes the stack of photos and lets it rip him open. 

Tommy and Beth's wedding. Tommy dressed in handsome black, perpetual stupid grin on his face. Beth, beautiful and smiling, stomach showing the first signs of swelling if you know to look for it. 

Joseph, newborn, swaddled in blankets. A young Simon without tattoos holds him, looking stiff and unsure and utterly reverent. 

Ghost swallows. Skips ahead—birthdays, mum's funeral, Christmas— 

There. 

Tommy is smiling at the camera. He's wearing a chunky knit pullover, holding up a glass (“A toast!”). Beth is half-turned away, just reaching out to a little Joseph covered in sauce. Simon is there, too, just cut off on the right—so who took the photo? 

You two look sweet together. 

Ghost flips through the next few photographs slowly, and then his heart stops. Breath slows. Pupils dilate, fixated;  

“He's so little, isn't he?” 

You sit down next to Simon on the sofa, smiling at Joseph. 

“Yeah,” Simon says, shifting to make room for you. Joseph looks up at you with his big round eyes—then swats Simon on his chin again. 

You smother your laugh behind your hand. “Oh, sweetie, no. Your mumma said no hitting. Here—do you want your stuffie?” 

Joseph garbles when you hold it up to him and latches onto his little plush rabbit immediately.  

Click—flash. 

“You two look sweet together,” Beth says, smiling. She lowers the Nikon.  

Fuzzy edges sharpen, filling in the corroded pathways. Bokeh, reversed—the photo in Ghost's hands is grainy and dim, but the memory breaking through the surface is clear.  

Ghost quickly—greedily—flips through more photos, finds a pattern; a red thread. With a reference you're suddenly everywhere. Maid of honour, flowers in your hair. A party, can't remember what for, but you're dancing, smiling, wearing a short dress. Ghost's eyes linger on your legs a moment longer before shuffling to the next print. 

Joseph's first birthday—you baked the cake yourself, Ghost suddenly thinks. A missing memory clicking in place, tethered by context clues. 

...He would've turned twelve in a few months. Just started secondary school, life full of possibility. Pathways that were never traversed. These snapshots of happiness are just that; are a blip on the radar, there and gone again. 

Ghost grits through the pain and continues until he reaches the last snapshot in the stack. 

It's another wedding photo; of him, this time. Or rather, of the back of his head. Best man. He's holding a glass, and so are you. Your face is tilted up to him, open and sweet. Smiling. 

“Okay, I know what people say about the maid of honour and the best man, and I just wanted to tell you that you have my blessing.” 

Simon's brows rise on his forehead. The reception is in full swing; there's drinks and cake and finger food. People are dancing to a playlist blasting from speakers in the corners—Simon burned the CD himself per Tommy's request. 

Beth has joined him on the sides to watch their guests get shitfaced on cheap liqueur. Tommy is getting her a more comfortable pair of shoes because “these heels are killing me, Simon.” 

“Where's this comin’ from?” 

“From me,” Beth answers pointedly. “I'm tired of the shitty boyfriends.” She looks up at Simon and tilts her head, mouth curling up into a coy smile. “Also, I think you're a bit taken by her.” 

Simon chokes on his champagne. He looks away while he coughs and pounds his chest, hoping the heat crawling up his neck doesn't show on his face. 

“Baseless accusations,” he manages through a wheeze. Beth laughs. 

“Sure, honey. Whatever you say. Just make sure to dance with her at least, alright?” 

Ghost doesn't remember ever asking you for that dance. He remembers talking to you, making you laugh, and feeling like that should be enough. 

He regretted it all the way home. 

A heavy weight trickles down on him, from the crown of his head to the pit of his stomach. Wishes. Regrets. Could-have-beens in another lifetime. With a sudden snarl he shoves the photos back in the box, locks it, and throws it back into his closet. 

The closet door closes with a smack. 

This is why he never looks in here. There's nothing waiting for him but pain and disappointment, distractions from the here and now. What use is there in thinking about Beth's pretty friend? You don't even know he's alive. Have forgotten about him entirely by now, are probably married with kids— 

Another wave of nausea.  

Ghost just barely makes it to the bathroom to retch into the sink. 

----------

“How was work?” 

You transfer pasta onto dinner plates and garnish with a sprinkle of chives. You serve Dave first, then turn back to the kitchen to get water and candles. 

“Great,” Dave says around a mouthful of pasta. He's dug in immediately. You try to feel like it's a compliment to your cooking. He works hard. He's hungry. You like cooking for people, so that sinking little feeling in your chest must be from something else. 

“Our department's been doing really well. Making top sales for half a year now, so they did this raffle thing,” Dave continues, pausing to take a glass from your hands and down a few big gulps of water, “and guess what?”  

You open your mouth to ask “What?”, but Dave answers before you can.  

“I won!” 

You sit down, trying to muster enthusiasm. “That's great, baby. What was the raffle?” 

Dave leans forward. “One round trip to Bora-Bora, paid in full.” 

“Oh my gosh,” you say, and your smile doesn't feel so forced anymore. “That's amazing, congrats! That's such good timing.” 

Dave's vacation is coming up, and these things are usually plus-one. Right? Maybe that's what you've been needing. Some time away from it all, just the two of you spending time in sun and saltwater someplace beautiful and warm. 

“Sure is,” Dave says with a self-satisfied smile. His plate is half-empty; you're just taking your first bite. 

When he doesn't elaborate any further you hedge carefully, “So... Is it a solo trip? Or...” 

Dave furrows his brow apologetically. “Oh, babe. Yeah, it's a plus one, but it's for people from the company only. I'm sorry.” 

“Oh.” You bite the inside of your cheek and try not to look too disappointed. Guess that's on you for getting excited without knowing all the details. “So then who are you going with?” 

“Allison from Marketing.” 

Allison from who—? 

You pause mid-chew, looking at Dave with wide startled eyes. When he quirks an eyebrow you quickly swallow. “Do I—do I know this person?” 

“’Course you do, babe, c'mon. I've told you about her—she's like a work wife. Sales and Marketing are pretty much joint at the hip. When we go out for drinks it's always both teams together.” 

Your stomach curdles at work wife. “I don't remember ever hearing her name.” 

“Yeah you do, don't be silly. I talk about work friends all the time.” 

When he was out for drinks on your anniversary is that who he was with? Work friends? Allison from freaking Marketing? 

“Were you going to ask me if I was okay with that?” 

“What? Allison going on the trip?” Dave sounds incredulous. You're being crazy. You're being unreasonable. “Why, don't you trust me?” You're being demanding. Trust issues. Crazy bitch. 

“I do,” you say out of habit. “I do, but that's still—I would want you to ask me.” 

Dave sighs. Your stomach tenses. The pasta feels tacky in your mouth. 

“If it makes you happy, sure. You okay with me going on a trip with Allison?” 

Would you cancel if I said no? 

You can't bring yourself to say the words, but you also can't bring yourself to say of course, baby, you two have fun. 

“...Are you sure there's really no way I could go with you instead of—” 

Dave makes an impatient sound in the back of his throat, pushing his empty plate away from him. “Come on, don't be difficult. I already told you, it's work only.” 

“Right. Okay.” 

“So that's a yes, yeah? I don't want you to call me crying about this later.” 

“Yeah,” you say, looking down at your hands. “Yeah.” 

When Dave makes attempts to draw you into the bedroom after dinner you claim a headache. Tired. Long day. Looking forward to turning in early. 

Dave shrugs. “Sure, okay. Actually—mind if I just go home early then? There's a match I was wanting to see, could still make it in time...” 

You should feel disappointed. Offended, maybe, that if sex isn't on the table Dave's no longer interested in your company. 

But all you feel is relief. You don't want to be around Dave right now; you feel your skin crawl and your stomach turn when you think about him sitting under palm trees next to some stranger. Your body feels like one big strain, trying to walk and talk and smile like normal. 

Dave gives you a wet cheek kiss before heading out the door and leaves you with a sink full of dirty dishes and a pensive mood. 

Kettlebell breaks you out of it with a chirp. He's come out of his hiding spot, winding through your legs with a purr. Mim hides no matter who is visiting, but after Dave tried to pick Kettlebell up like a sack of flour on his first time here neither of your cats show themselves when you have him over.  

“Cats,” Dave sniffed derisively. “Guess it's true. They're all little assholes, eh?” He'd laughed and given you a playful nudge you did not return. 

You bend down and scritch Kettlebell behind the ears. “Hi little angel baby. You're such a good boy, aren't you? Hmm? Does this little kitty want a treat?” 

Kettlebell's meows skyrocket to opera volume at the word treat. Mim materialises next to him, making high-pitched little cries that make you fuss and coo and plant kisses on his little forehead before giving them both their promised snack. 

You find that now that Dave's gone you weren't even lying; you are tired. The last thing you're in the mood for now is sex you pretend is better than it really feels.  

You rub your temple and eye the dishes.  

Tomorrow. You'll do it tomorrow—tonight you're allowed to be upset and re-watch Pride & Prejudice for the nth time to drown out Dave's mouth shaping the words “work wife.” 

“I hate men. I hate them all,” you cry. Your nose burns from blowing it so much; the skin chafed raw to match your heart. 

Beth rubs your back, nodding. “They're bastards, the lot of them.” 

“You're not allowed to say that,” you sniffle. “Tommy is so—he's so sweet.” Your eyes well with new tears, and you bury your face in your hands again. “Why can't I meet a Tommy? Why am I so dumb and so bloody naïve—” 

“Okay, hold on—if I'm not allowed to say all men are shite you're not allowed to say mean things about yourself.” Beth hands you a new tissue, brows furrowed. “You know this isn't your fault, right? 

“I just feel so stupid.” You dab the tissue against your eyes. Every time it feels like you can't cry any more a new wave comes on, and you wish it'd stop. Your eyes feel swollen and puffy already, and you know you're going to look terrible in the morning. “Like I should have seen it coming. Should I have seen this coming?” 

You look up at Beth anxiously, lip trembling. When she opens her mouth you interrupt her. “Don't answer that. I don't want the answer to be yes.” 

“Aw, honey.” Beth pulls in for a side-hug, and you rest your head on her shoulder. She smells like the oatmeal cookies she made this morning. “Don't be so hard on yourself. I mean, he was a real cunt and he called you names, but no one would fault you for not immediately jumping to “he's going to cheat on me with your co-worker”.” 

You sigh. A stray tear trickles down your nose. “I just feel like it's my fault. There's always something, and I'm never satisfied, and you remember Cameron?” Beth nods yes. You continue, “When we broke up he said I wanted a fairytale, and t-that—” A sob breaks through, and you hiccup. “That I should—I should start living in reality.” 

Beth purses her lips like she's just bitten into a lemon. “Cameron also cheated on you with his cousin, so I think we're going to have to disregard his general judgment.” 

You give a begrudging shrug. Maybe, but what he said cut deep. It fed into the worry that the flaw was not in the eye of the beholder but the beholder herself, and that you're still just a silly little girl dreaming of starlight romance. 

It's quiet for a while. Rain ticks against the window panes outside. 

“I guess...” you start. Falter. Begin again. “I guess I wish I didn't want it so much. I want to be—to be the cool single girl who doesn't need anyone's approval, or love, or... I don't know.” 

“You are a cool single girl who doesn't need anyone's approval.” 

A sad little smile ghosts over your lips. “No I'm not. Because I always—I always want it. I want to find love. You know? And that makes me feel stupid.” 

Beth says gently, “Honey. You're not a bad person for wanting to be loved.” 

Your eyes peel open slowly. Netflix asks you are you still watching? on the screen. You blink, noting a warm weight on your feet; Kettlebell has made a little nest in the blankets. When you crane your neck you see the faint silhouette of Mim perched on the back of the sofa, dozing. 

What time is it...? 

You pat the cushions for your phone and groan. Six in the morning. Oh, your back is going to hurt. You really should know better than to fall asleep on the sofa by now... 

When you sink back into the cushions Kettlebell yawns and stretches, then hops onto your chest to press a wet insistent nose against your cheek. Breakfast time. 

“Okay, okay...” 

Might as well get up and shower. 

As you disentangle yourself from Kettlebell and fuzzy blankets bits and pieces of your dream come back to you. A memory distorted in sleep, but derived from lived reality nonetheless. 

The edges of it are hazy, but you know it was Beth. What'd she say...? It was something nice, to cheer you up after things ended badly with an ex-boyfriend.  

Again. 

Your shoulders sag. Maybe you don't want to be loved. If you did, you'd be happy now—because Dave loves you, and isn't that what you were always looking for?  

Someone you can be comfortable with, who knows you, who says I love you without you having to ask for it every time? 

You pull back the shower curtain and set the water to scorching. 

[inkonparchment]

Melody

Leon Kennedy x f!Reader

Cold case after cold case is enough to damper Detective Leon's motivation. So he finds himself attached to the bar, rolling cigar in one hand and swirling whiskey in the other, entranced by the allure of the singer's cherry red lips.

warnings: noir-au. alcoholic Leon. self-destructive Leon. manipulative reader. femme fatale. reader is given some physical descriptions. suggestive themes. lack of dialogue.

word count: 2.4k

a/n: sorry guys, please have this. apparently i like putting Leon in obscure aus.

The throb in Leon’s head intensifies, fuelled on by the strong inhaled puffs of his cigar and the sour taste of his whiskey. A good thing probably, the memories of his failures ebbing away. The smoke is bitter, acrid, burning the softness of his tongue, the lingering sweet aftertaste quickly drowned out by the bitterness of his whiskey.  

But the scent of rain still remains, stuck to his clothing. Its always raining in the city, the thick band of grey clouds looming over ominously, rain coming down in a steady drizzle. He reckons his fedora has never fully dried, essential in keeping the rainwater from reaching his face. It hides his face well from the families of the victims too, eyes never fully reaching theirs whenever he shakes his head in remorse, sweaty palms shoved deep into the pockets of his coat.  

Another puff of the cigar, the earthy sweetness infiltrating his nostrils and yet the metallic smell envelops him, a cocoon formed and growing over the visits of crime scenes. Yellow tape warding off the area, the sharp sound of the camera flash littering the air, emitting smoke. He would stand unmoving, eyes stuck to the misshapen corpse, the pool of blood sticking to the underside of his shoes, layering and mixing with the others . Leon doesn’t bother cleaning his shoes anymore, carrying a piece of failure with him. What’s the point? Another will join to soil his shoes anyway. 

Leon tips his head back, hair falling away from his face, blowing the smoke into the air above him. He watches it dance around, twirling and swirling, thinning out in wisps. The board of strings and photographs in his office haunts his visions, smiling photos of unsuspecting victims, mug shots of mafia bosses and criminals, torn out pages of notepad, and the inconspicuous shadings of the map of the city. He could probably draw it out from memory alone, having spent months inspecting it.  

It was pointless, all of his search and research. He would come away with nothing, every lead turning cold, slammed with dead ends at every corner. The four walls of his office had become unbearable, slowly poisoning his mind with shuddered whispers of incomprehensible words.  

And so he returns like a predictable machine to his vice. The booze and the cigar are just perks but they’re not why he comes to this establishment time and again. Its something else, someone else entirely.  

Leon’s head is a symphony of catastrophe, thoughts swimming together in a haze, the glass getting automatic refills without even having to ask. He imagines himself sitting on the stool at the bar in an upright posture, hair slicked into finger curls with precision , the black pinstripe suit without a single flaw, commanding an air of respect around him. 

At least this is what he looks like in his mind. He doesn’t think of himself slouching, head lolling about, eyelids droopy as he sloppily puts away glass after glass, the ash of his cigar dusting over his suit, hair falling loose from their usual state. It doesn’t bother him, reality is of no consequence to him. It is irrelevant, plain and boring.  

The lights begin to dim, sending chills up his spine, slowly turning in his seat to face the stage at the fat end of the room, past all the cedar wood tables, past the heads of the other patrons in their suits and dresses, their gems glittering in the new lighting. He recognizes some of them; criminals and mobsters alike in the audience, their pudgy fingers sporting their own cigars, fingers bulging against the bands of their rings. Wisps of smoke from their cigarettes adds to the haze, floating into a fog in front of the unmoving red curtain.  

Leon sits still with bated breath. The bulbs at the edge of the stage begin to glow, the silver microphone glowing underneath the spotlight. He awakens a bit, pulled out from his subdued mind, blue irises wide against the red of his sclera.  

The curtains begin to move, bundling together and moving upwards slowly. Leon squints against the blinding white light emitting from behind, a sudden flutter of his heart as a figure stands in front of it, a long shadow falling on him. His eyes hungrily rake over the figure, brain humming awake as recognition clicks, eyes satiated as they trace every dip and every curve pronounced by the deep maroon of your glittering dress.  

He is mesmerised as you walk forward into the spotlight with calculated steps, hips swaying, heels clicking and your gloved hand reaching out to the microphone. Leon swallows his spit when you come under the warm light, perfectly curled hair cascading down your back, sultry eyes taking in the crowd that’s stuck to your form, not daring to make a sound until you do. Your pearls catch the lights, sparkling underneath it, accentuating the dip of your neckline undoubtedly the centre of attention of the men at present. 

But not Leon, no. 

He runs his tongue across his lips, wetting them with the taste of whiskey, cooling the burn of his cigar as he fixates on the curl of your plush lips. They look pillowy from afar, soft and sweet, dipped in a cherry red so bright making him wonder if they’re sweet or sinfully dipped in poison, beckoning him in like the red apple in the witch’s hand. 

The band stands to attention, waiting as you wrap your fingers around the stand, the microphone picking up the slight exhalation of air from your lips, the sound dipped in seduction, alerting even those who were unaware to your presence. And then, you sing. 

Leon feels yanked from his chair, your sweet notes washing over him, floating him up in the air, tingling every inch of his skin. He hauntingly watches your lips, trapped in their allure feeling himself lured towards you. And like a sailor, he heeds to the melody of his siren. Yes, he will come. Of course, he will. He will dive headfirst into the icy waters, way from the safety of his ship, tear his skin against the jagged rocks, turn the oceans red if it means resting in your embrace. 

His eyelashes flutter, dumbfounded at the way you caress the microphone, mind wandering as he imagines himself on his knees for you. He would never stand, no. On his knees always for you. He imagines what it would feel like to have your bare fingers rake through his hair, carding through his golden strands, nails scraping his scalp, and shudders, drunk and fevered at the thought of your touch.  

He doesn’t look away when your eyes find him across the room, fire burning in him as your smouldering gaze takes him in, drinking your appearance. The whiskey tastes sweet now, achingly so. He falls deaf to every sound around him, blind to every sight around him; all he sees and hears is you. It fills him up, intoxicating him as he feels the burden loosening from his shoulders, dust riding up around his ankles as the weights fall off.  

Leon eyelids flutter, overcome with slumber, fighting to stay awake to see you, to hold you in reverie. But he is too late, too heavy in his indulgence of his other vices that when he finally peels his eyes open, the stage is empty, curtains falling back in its place, the lights glowing back in the original form. He clenches his jaw, turning away and facing the bar. His glass is full again. He drinks it all. 

He massages his forehead with his thumb, careful not to burn himself when a sudden tantalizing blend of honeyed treats mingling with the zest of freshly ground spices floods his nostrils. Leon turns to his side and nearly falls out of chair.  

It’s you.  

You sit nonchalantly, posture upright, heels tucked away neatly underneath you and hands folded on the bar. All of your hair is swept on the shoulder away from his, locks framing the fullness of your chest crowned by the glittering pearls. Your hands are bare, instead a fur shawl wrapped around your elbows. Your lips tug up in a secretive smile, looking at him from the corner of your eye.  

You don’t speak. He simply stares. 

You trace patterns onto the cool surface of the wood, bottom lip jutting out in a slight pout. “I thought you had forgotten about me.” You angle yourself towards him, holding your chin the palm of your hand, mock disappointment apparent in your words. “I thought I had left quite the impression on you, detective.” 

Leon feels himself at a loss of words, mind slow to provide him with words, making him flounder, opening and shutting his mouth with no words. It makes you giggle, turning away from him. “I...I could never forget about you.” 

You scoff at that, bringing your shawl closer. “I didn’t know you were such an expert liar, detective.”  

He tightens his hold on the glass, tapping away the ash of his cigar. “Leon, sweetheart. I told you before.” 

You hum, leaning in closer to him, relishing in the way he sucks in a sharp breath. You don’t invade his personal space but linger just enough to overwhelm his every sense with you. You don’t miss the way he stares at your lips, gaze fluttering down to your breasts before they come back up. You take pity on him, the dark circles, the five o’clock shadow, the dilated red vessels in his eyes. 

So, you reward him with a gift.  

“Leon,” You whisper for him only, voice dipped in sultriness, every syllable of his name coated in temptation and desire. His reaction is physical; adjusting himself on the chair, leaning in towards your lips, his tongue wetting his own desperately for a taste. And you pull away at the last second, looking unamused and bored. 

A chilled glass appears in front of you, filled with a bright red liquid with a cherry decorating its rim. You sip it, ignoring the upturned gaze of Leon tracing your features. All he can do is watch when you put the glass back, biting the inside of his cheek when he notices the imprint of your lipstick on the rim.  

You pluck the cherry in your fingers, pinching the stem before resting it against your lips. Leon follows your every move, adjusting to turn to him, your knees grazing against his. You part your lips, tongue moving around the cherry before pulling it inside your mouth whole. The sweetness bursts, coating your mouth as you chew and you keen in the pleasure, watching Leon’s Adams apple bob up and down his throat.  

Leon feels his heart hammer in his chest, pupils blown out and covering the blues of his irises as he watches you dip your fingers against your lips, hollowing your cheeks out and then pulling away to show the stem knotted in perfection. You discard it and shoot him an innocent smile. 

“How goes work, Leon?” 

He shivers, averting his gaze for a moment to compose himself but nothing is working in his head. “Piss poor. Every case is a dead end. There're no leads, nothing to tie the victims to the crimes or to the criminals.” He shakes his head. “I feel like a joke.” 

“You’re not a joke,” You are quick to reassure him, “You’re a man, with limits. Don’t be so harsh on yourself.” 

Leon laps it up, desperate for comfort. “Maybe so.” 

“Besides,” You bite your lips, “This means you can come around more. I did miss you. A lot.” 

He whips his head up, blinking slowly at you, voice suddenly thick and heavy. “I would only stay here if I could.” 

The smile you grace him with nearly shatters his heart, so sweet and genuine, the twinkle in your eyes not gone amiss. “That’s so sweet of you.” Disappointment paints his features when you slide out from your chair, coming to stand close to him, fingertips ghosting over his cheeks, “I will see you tomorrow then Leon. Don’t be late, don’t break my heart.” 

Never, he would never. But he doesn’t get a chance to say it, to reassure you with his broken promises because you’re walking away already, taking the scent of honeyed spices with you. All that’s left of your presence is the knotted cherry stem sitting next to the glass with your lipstick mark.  

It's still raining when you step out on the pavement, coat now hanging by your shoulders, thanking the doorman who lets you out. You stand there patiently, the heels digging into your ankles, ache blossoming in your toes. You smell of whiskey and cigar holding the fur shawl close to your nose as you breathe it in deeply. 

The sound of halting tyres against the wet road breaks you out of your reverie, the soft material slipping from your fingers. You wait as the driver hops out of the Cadillac limousine, tipping his hat to you as his white gloved hand holds open the door to you. You climb in wordlessly, settling against the cool of the leather, the sharp smell of cologne overwhelming.  

You sit in silence, hands folded in your lap, focusing out the window as the driver returns to his seat, ignoring the man sitting beside you. The car lurches forward, rain pelting the window, sliding down in streaks as you pass by the lit buildings of the city. 

“Well?” The man’s gravelly voice breaks the tension. 

You turn to him, his gaze coolly locked on yours. The silver of his suit glows under the streetlamps, scarf around his neck as you see your reflection in his sunglasses despite the gloomy night. A ring lies snug on his pinky finger, silver with the family crest and a 'W' branded on its surface.

You sigh, “All his cases are cold. He suspects nothing.” 

He hums, looking forward. “Good work. Keep an eye on him. And report to me if you find something.” 

“Yes,” You twist away, shoulders slouched as you turn back to the window, the smell of whisky and cigar haunting you, the gloom of your voice reflecting in the state of the city, “Don’t worry about it.” 

im done. i will behave now, i promise.

[dwindlinghaze]

moony's song

(remus lupin x reader)

summary: yours and remus's relationship throughout the years.

contents: the kind of fluffiness that makes me cry, little fighting, getting married at the end, two years age gap, no magic mentioned, lyall lupin (rem's father is not a bad person here), not proofread!!!

　 . • ☆ . ° .• °:. *₊ ° . ☆

"happy birthday!" the whole room cheered and urged you to blow the seven candles. it was your seventh birthday.

remus hugged you tightly, muttering birthday wishes in your ear. "happy seventh birthday. thank you for being my best friend and thank you for being you. i'm so lucky."

you hugged him back, his figure taller than yours. he loved how he can feel like he's protecting you by the tiny height difference.

you glance up at him, looking at his eyes that resembles the starry night. it shines like the stars, the pretty lights.

and remus looked at you too, feeling himself blushing and reddening.

their two fathers were on the room right besides the stairs, the two men looked at each other knowingly at their respective children.

"they're growing up and falling in love," your father joked, earning a laugh from his other companion.

"i wouldn't surprise me if they ended up marrying each other. those two are inseparable since we moved here. glad my son has an amazing best friend that keeps him alive," lyall spoke.

hearing these, hope and your mother smiled as they rolled their eyes playfully, whispering "oh my my. ". it was undeniable that you and remus are destined to be together. whether it was platonic or romantic, you two are soulmates- if there's such things as soulmates.

remus was there when you were struggling to colour a colouring book. he was there to help you. he took your pencil colours and make the plain white and black paper into rainbows.

when you were bored, he lets you draw on his arms with those markers your mother bought. you let him style your hair the way he wants. he picked plants, flowers, and leaves for you when you're running wild in your father's backyard.

you two completes each other.

your friends back at school thought remus would beat you up in every playtime days. judging by the fact that he's two years older than you and he's much tougher. but he never did. he never did.

you know him enough to know that despite his formidable appearance, he's a whole sweet and gentle person behind the facade.

"hi, angel," he calls you angel because he thinks heaven sent you to him to make the small block wide town of his world less lonely.

"hi rem," you said back. "what are you doing after school?"

"um nothing," he said as he took your books off of your hands so he can hold it for you. "i was thinking we can hang out. my mama bought a new plant and she said we can help her gardening."

"oh sure! i'd love that," you smiled. he can get lost in your eyes as simple as sinking ships on water; so inviting.

"hello! no staring!" you joked.

"sorry!" he held his eyebrows up, making a face.

later that afternoon, your mother was walking with you on the way to remus house. "bon aprés-midi hope!" your mother beamed.

"bonjour!" remus replied in a very poor french accent.

his mother laughed, nudging his side, "it's in the afternoon, remmy. bonjour means good morning."

"well, i'm saying good riddance," he replied as your mother chuckled at the boy.

"where's y/n?" remus asked. his eyes looking at every direction.

"boo!" you jumped to his back, making him fell to the ground.

"hey!" he yelled, clutching his stomach in laughter.

"hello," you replied back, unfazed.

then the four went off to gardening. you and remus were on a team, he's the one to shovel out the soil and you were the one to put the plants overtop.

after hours of work, you and remus laid in the grass, facing the sunny sky with your eyes closed and forehead glistening with sweat

"sunny days remind me of you," remus said, still closing his eyes.

you felt your heart tugged at his words. he always has his way into your heart, and you would let the door open for him every time. "hmm? why so."

"because," he paused. "because you're like sunshine. you know, i read a book once and the character told this other person that they reminded them of the sunshine because that person makes days so much brighter and warmer."

"remmy,i'm happy i've met you," you confessed, feeling slight anxious.

"rem..."

"yeah..?"

"i think i'm in love with someone," you said. his heart was jolting.

"who?" he spoke shakily.

"captain america..." you answered, much to his disbelief. "i'm gonna marry captain america."

"you can't marry him. that's impossible." he insisted.

"it is not," you replied playfully.

"yes it is. he doesn't live here and your parents will not approve it because he's as old as your grandfather. he doesn't know you. and he shouldn't too because y-" he stopped.

after few second you said, "because what?"

"nothing, never mind."

"have you ever kissed anyone?" you asked after a long while, feeling anxious at the thought.

"like they do on TV?" he blurted. now his heart was drumming out his chest all of a sudden.

"uh huh."

"no."

"maybe we should. just to see what's the big deal," you said, uncertain but determined.

"but i don't know how," remus said, embarrassed.

"me neither," you replied. "let's try."

"okay.." he lifted himself up from the grass and helped you up too. "like this?" he placed his hands on your shoulders awkwardly.

"i think we should close our eyes," you suggested.

"then i will not be able to see anything."

"just do it."

"okay okay," he said, voice trembling.

"one, two, three?"

the two leaned forward and forward until their lips met in a brief and barely touching kiss. then you two sit back in surprise, breaths unstable.

"say something, it's too quiet," you said, fumbling with your fingers anxiously.

"umm ummm," remus tried to come up with a topic.

and just then your mother called, telling you to go home because it's getting late.

"don't tell this to anyone please?" you said. "it's not that i hated it. i just don't want people to know."

"yes yes i agree uhm definitely okay."

"see you tomorrow then?" you asked, standing awkwardly besides the tree.

"okay, see you!" remus said. you turned your heels to head out the yard and just then, you heard remus calling your name.

"yes.. what rem?" you faced his direction.

"would you think of me?" he asked.

"for what?" you asked cluelessly.

"well, if you don't get to marry captain america," he sent you a sweet adoring smile.

"i would."

the he ran off to the trees, you shaking your head, admiring him as he ran.

just two kids, you and him.

time skip☆

you were now sixteen when suddenly, you weren't that little girl he used to see.

you have moved schools when you were entering middle school, now you're only able to go back to the small town once in every month.

you were now more mature. older and wiser even just in a span of nine years. many differences and maturity have shown as you got older. you held yourself in such grace that leaves remus' thought of you lingering around.

you and remus send each other messages everyday. there's not a day in which there's no message from you nor remus.

although you 'changed', he's still remus lupin. his eyes still looks like the starry night. it shines like the stars. the pretty lights.

"hi rem, i missed you a lot," you said as you reached over to him, kissing both his cheeks.

his hands flew up to the spot where your lips were, blushing underneath. "i missed you too, how is school?"

"other than us not being able to see each other every weekdays, it's going pretty well," you told him.

"well, i'm glad you're back here anyway," he said happily, not having the patience to wait to catch up on each other. "mum! y/n's here!"

"oh! gracious look at you! i just saw you a month ago and you're now like a brand new person!" hope beamed.

"trust me, i'm still the same person that feeds stray cats on the streets," you joked.

"we missed you so!"

"so do i!"

"i'll let you two have your moment," hope grinned as she walked away from the kitchen.

"hi," you whispered, feeling nervous somehow.

"hello."

"are we just gonna say greetings now?" you joked, trying to make the situation less awkward

"well- no. i think there is something, and i need to tell you," remus said.

"yeah? what is it? you can ask or tell me anything."

"is there someone out there?" he questioned, growing uneasy.

"as in..?"

"like boyfriend or girlfriend?" he elaborated.

"no. no one has made me feel things since," you said.

"since what?"

"since you," you sighed, your shoulders felt lighter, like a weight that has been pounding down at you has been lifted in mere seconds.

"oh my god- are you really?" remus asked, the uneasiness now turned into something different.

"well yes."

"well i've been wanting to tell you this for so long and you just made it a hundred times easier. angel, i'm in love with you. i have always been. i know that 'feelings' you mentioned earlier might not be as strong as love but i love you. so much every passing day. and if you're not ready for anything yet, that's fine! i will wait until you are."

"remus- i love you too," you said, crushing yourself to his figure as he wrapped his arms around your frame.

you two stayed quiet, neither one wanting to break the comfortable silence. but then remus started to laugh, shaking his head.

"what's so funny?" your head perked up in interest.

"just- how simple and comforting this is. i have been worrying for so long and you just made my worries go away by saying that you love me too," remus said.

"remus i'm not only 'saying' i love you. i do love you, really!" you clarified.

"i know, angel," remus said, rubbing your back soothingly. "this is the part where we should kiss. like in the TV."

"yeah," you laughed, remembering your first kiss with the boy. "i'm still inexperienced."

"same here," he said. "let's practice then."

"remus!" you laugh, hitting his chest in a joking manner. "i wouldn't mind if we do."

then he kisses you for the second time, nine years apart.

it was tender and uncertain but still giving butterflies.

"was that better than our first?" he asked.

"yes, but we need to improve don't you think?"

"absolutely," he replied before connecting your lips to his again in a soft and gentle but sweet kiss.

on the other room, your father and lyall was looking at the two of you knowingly. "i used to joke about the two of them, growing up and falling in love. i never believed they'd actually be falling in love."

your mother smiled, and roller her eyes. feeling happy for the two because she knew from the start that this will happen one day. and it did.

things seemed to go smoothly in the relationship. he is the best person and a gift. he loves you so much, more than life itself probably. every month you go back, he's there waiting for you at your parents house.

although long distance relationships are hard, you two had made it work. even though there are ups and downs.

at 2 am riding in his car, the atmosphere was different. there's something there that wasn't there before. and shouldn't be.

remus has been acting off these past days and you noticed. even his mum does too.

you worried that his feelings has faded and that he doesn't want this kind of relationship. one where you're constantly gone, leaving him alone on the creek bed of his town while you're back at school three hundred miles away.

"love?" you spoke up, trying not to burst into tears.

"yes?" he said, eyes on the read still, glancing at you for only a mere second.

"is there something you're not telling me?" you asked.

god damn it. you knew remus way too much. you can read him like a magazine. "you shouldn't worry about it."

"okay...," you said. then a ringing silence filled the air "do you still love me? or like even?" you asked in such uncertainty that dropped his heart.

"of course i do!" he scoffed. "why wouldn't i? what leads you to this conclusion, angel?"

"i just feel like there's something off," you admitted "please just tell me about it okay?"

"okay."

"okay," you said. "so are you going to tell me about it?"

"um, yes and no."

"why?"

"i don't want to pressure or worry you," he said nonchalantly.

"i worry about you everyday, this won't change a thing i promise. if it's something that i did, i'm sorry, and i will fix whatever the problem is."

"you want to hear the problem? well, here goes- i sometimes feels like i don't even have someone. you. you're so far away and i'm so lonely and hopeless back here. in this small secluded town. i feel like i have nothing for me on my plate.

"you're out there, discovering things while i'm here waiting for you like a dog. i'm sorry. i'm not jealous or anything. if anything i'm so happy and joyous that you've got the opportunity but what am i doing here? i'm seventeen and has no plans!"

he is now rambling, raising his voice. he has never done this.

"please calm down!" you raised your voice slightly. "you will find something, just trust me!"

"and you know what bothers me too? i have been wanting to have someone to talk to about my problems but i have no one. not even you! every time i tried calling your mobile, you always say you're doing assignments and stuff. all i want is just time to spend with my girlfriend!"

"well i'm sorry! i'm not the one that sets assignments to students!"

"well of course you're not, genius," he scoffed.

"hey what's with you? i don't even know you!"

"no, the real question is: what's wrong with you? you barely have time for me anymore and when you do it's during times like these. way past midnight at two am!"

"remus stop the car!"

"what?!" he hit the breaks abruptly.

"i don't want to be here right now. you know damn well that this is not my fault. i have things to do too! at the end of the day, i always send back your messages. i'm still trying everything to balance my life. please, let me-" you opened the car door and jumped out.

"angel, what are you doing? it's not safe to walk around here at this time!"

"just like you said, this is a small secluded town, nothing will hurt me! my house is near anyways, just don't follow!" you ran straight to your home leaving remus in the dark street.

but he didn't stay there. he isn't going to make things wrong with you. he knows what he had said was just out of stress and you don't deserved to be blamed.

he arrived at your house, knocking on the door. of course no one answered because it's past midnight and your parents are fast asleep, though he knew you're behind that wall and awake.

he didn't come home. he stayed outside on the porch, back against the wall until the morning light. he couldn't bring himself to walk home. he was ashamed. he couldn't even sleep that night.

"remus?" you asked, voice cracking.

remus jolted up from the floor, his back painfully still. "oh angel! i'm so sorry for last night! please let me fix things up! please! hear me out," he said, tears spilling down his cheeks.

"come to my room, we can talk there," you said.

"okay," he entered before following you to your bedroom. "i'm sorry okay. last night was all so stupid! i didn't mean a thing i said. i know you're busy and stuff and i'm no one to tell you what to do. you should focus on yourself and your future, i don't want to be a burden. i just missed you. i missed you so much everyday and i worry with all the things in your life that you're going to forget me one day."

"rem," you spoke softly, pulling his hands to yours. "i love you. i will never forget about you. you're ninety percent of my mind. even one time i almost write your name in my paper test because i was thinking of you. i didn't knew how much i've been pushing myself to the point where you feel neglected. trust me i don't want you to feel that way."

"i know you don't," remus sent her a weak smile. "i'm sorry for putting all that on you."

"there's nothing to be sorry for!" you assured him. "lay down, darling. your back must hurt."

"it is," he groaned.

"just come here, lay in my bed," you insisted, pulling the covers to keep him warm. you kissed his forehead, as you lay down next to him.

"i love you, good night," you said, pressing your lips to his when he closed his eyes.

"you know it's eight am in the morning and i'm not going to sleep," he said.

"did you sleep at all?"

"um i don't remember," he mumbled in your arms before he was off to dreamland.

"right.." you chuckled, pulling him closer to you as he sleep.

time skip☆

a few years has come around. now you were twenty seven and he was twenty nine.

after these years, you have graduated, renting a place near your hometown while also working on your dream job. remus was there all along.

you both were sitting at your favourite place in town. a bench right beside the manmade waterfall.

remus looked at you, searching for something in his pocket before he got down on one knee.

as he pulled out a ring, he shakily spoke. "i have been thanking the gods and whatever's up there for sending me to you. i couldn't imagine a life without you in it. you showed me colours i can't see, and secret languages i can't speak with anyone else.

you make me live. you're the one who taught me how to love myself. i remember how lonely i was back then until you came. you've been my guiding light. i want to do everything, only if i'm doing it with you. if you ask me for the moon then i will pull it to earth and set it in our bedroom. y/n will you marry me?"

"i will," you cried, taking deep breathes shakily. "remus, i love you so much, i can't even-"

"shh no need to explain. i know the feeling too," he pulled your in his arms. the world seems like it's rotating in slow motion, the only people there is the two of you. no one else matters.

the the whole town came to the wedding, though it is a very small town so it's not a lot people. you walked down the aisle with a veil over your head.

you looked perfect. you are perfect.

remus has tears glistening is his eyes as he watched you walk gracefully. your mom and remus' cried.

he said "i do" and you did too.

you reminisced the day you two met, retelling the stories back to your baby daughter while rocking her on the very front porch.

"i met your father when i was really young," you chuckled, your first born daughter in your arms as you peered over to look at your husband who was wiping the table. "we did stupid things, but we did them together."

"you know, i always thought i would marry captain america one day. and sometimes i even cry because i know i couldn't love anyone else more than i do to captain america. but remus- he's something. i love him even more than anyone and i'm glad i didn't marry captain america!"

remus overheard your conversation, a smile on his face. "hey, i should be celebrating the fact that you love me more than usa guard!" he joked as he kissed your head. "look at you! you're so pretty. you've got your mother's eyes!" he tickled the baby on your arms.

"she's got your bone structure i think," you said.

remus laughed as he wrapped his arms around you from the back, his chin resting on top of your shoulder.

seventy years passed, you still looked at remus the same way you did eighty years ago. his eyes still looks like the starry night. the stars that shine in the sky, the pretty lights.

"happy eighty seventh birthday my darling," remus said, kissing your wrinkled cheeks. all your wrinkles and your white hair doesn't matter to the love you and remus have.

he taught you how forever feels like.

and this, this love is so alive even after all these years.

[foreststarflaime]

Ok you did swords (fabulous), how about AGSZC as dragons? (Rawr)

Oh you are speaking my language!!! 🐉 You caught me while reading my beloved Loki comics so this turned out rather poetic and metaphysical lol

Angeal: There is a dragon whose scales are as indomitable as proud mountains, known to all the kingdoms throughout the land. Known, but not feared—for his hoard is not one of gold, but of love. He is strict, but fair—if your heart is true, he is quick to love you, and you go forth from his presence with his blessing and protection. It is said by the bards of old that all shields came from his shed scales, gifted so that they might protect their wielders from harm.

Genesis: There is a dragon from whose breath burns the fire of the hearth, a fire around which all storytellers sit to weave their words of glory and doom, to bring hope and awe to any who need it. His tongue is of silver and his scales of burnished ruby, glinting gold in the firelight. His fire can bring ruin to a countryside, but that ruin will also bring rebirth, with new green shoots emerging from the ashes—it will grow stronger, this time. He may kidnap a princess or two from time to time, but that’s mostly so Angeal will come tell him off (give him and his stories the attention they deserve).

Sephiroth: There is a dragon who fell to earth one fateful day. Ever since he could remember, he had soared through the stars, borne aloft on the ethereal winds of the cosmos to wonder at its vast majesty. But this day, he peered too hard in his solitude at a planet bustling with life, and in doing so he strayed too close and was drawn by its gravity to crash upon its soil. His wings, made of the stuff of stardust, could not bear him aloft again, built for the soft breath of space as they were. So now he spends his days gazing at the beauty of the night sky, and finds some solace in the stories of wonder Genesis spins for his mind’s eye, and the stalwart companionship of Angeal.

Zack: There is a dragon who is often seen running amongst the wolves, only a bit larger than them, whose hoard-instinct is fulfilled by treasuring all of life’s experiences. He loves the freedom of running on the open plain, teasing his wolf-friends on occasion by picking them up suddenly for a quick glide down from a larger hill. He is often mistaken for a hatchling, but when he or anyone he loves is threatened, you will be assured by the strength of his teeth in your throat that he is just as fierce as any larger dragon.

Cloud: There is a dragon who was hatched with coal-black scales, smaller than most and quiet. Most were inclined to think him easy prey, and he only seethed at their mistake, but did not correct it. He took each blow the world threw at him, looking to the stars and dreaming of something greater. Eventually, the pressure built up enough that his scales turned diamond-blue and sharper than anything the world had seen. He suffered no bully any longer, to him or to any other.

Um. I’m attached. I guess I have a dragon au now

[stargirlfics]

B U T T E R F L Y

Joel Miller x Black Latina Reader

Summary: Sometimes the path to healing starts with a reminder of what’s been lost

Warnings: 18+ ONLY, death tw, child death tw, some TLOU spoilers but doesn’t follow canon, post-outbreak!Joel, angst, hurt/comfort, trauma and violence mentions, fluff, slow burn vibe, mutual pining

Word Count: 5.6k

My mind has been stuck on the butterfly imagery connecting Sarah and Joel in the show, and in the game too! I grew up hearing from my abuelita that monarch butterflies are symbols of loved ones who’ve passed and I thought that would fit well here! This fic explores grief and pain but also finding hope through it too 🦋

To be soft-hearted at the world’s violent end, that’s where you’d decided to make a home for your heart with all its fragile beating.

Doomed is what they all said you were, surviving the outbreak this long sooner or later came with a price and they had been right, but still, half out of spite, half out of needing something to hang onto, the tenderness of you remained.

Surviving was a miracle and most could go on just grateful to wake up another day, but you’d seen how void life was lived here in the ruins of a former world, and as doomed as it all appeared, you tried your best to find pockets of light where you could, fighting the urge to shut yourself away. 

Because maybe one day those pockets of light would be abundant where they were once scarce, maybe one day, if you kept yourself open to it, there would be a sign of a changing tide to let you know you were finally safe. 

How strange signs could be, in plain sight but unseen until your brain could catch up with what your soul was feeling, and rarely did they ever come without complexity. 

In your case, that complexity came with a stern scowl that belonged to one Joel Miller. 

The first whispers you’d ever heard about Joel were that he was grumpy, stubborn, and not the kind of man to be messed with. He was the muscle behind trades done in shadowed alleys here in the QZ, illegal substances, weapons, extra ration cards, you name it. 

He was intimidating to most people, even you; having a reputation for being a man of few words and an even shorter fuse would do that but you knew there to be sorrow there too, etched deep in the lines of his face, reflecting like moonlight in his eyes. 

You’d never spoken to him, not in all your time in Boston, always seeming to narrowly avoid crossing paths, but you often saw him from afar. In the town square, catching glimpses of him waiting in line to collect a job’s earnings or in the pit, hauling bodies to the acrid cremation pyres smoldering hot throughout the day. 

If you thought about it, that’s where you saw the sorrow most.

That old, faded bandana he wore over his nose to block out the stench of burning gave you the clearest view of his eyes; sad, angry orbs fixated on the task like it was penance for him. 

All those hushed whispers told you he wasn’t a good man, that he had hurt people to get what he needed, and that wasn’t a surprise, you’d seen it enough to understand the grim nature of the wasteland you were in, how people often turned against each other if they thought it meant they’d live to see another day. 

Maybe that understanding was how it happened that day, the first time you’d meet, something in your soul already well tangled with something in his yet neither of you knew it yet. 

You’d been expecting someone else at your door that evening, a friend of yours with a bag of good soil snuck in from the outside in exchange for a radio of yours that was in decent shape. 

Instead, you were greeted by Joel Miller, bag in hand, a frown already on his face as he explained the switch up, even pointing to a note on the bag in your friend's handwriting to vouch for him. 

His voice had caught you off guard, a low, gruff bass in his careful cadence, Texan accent making the words go down smooth. 

“Okay, no problem, she did tell me she wasn’t sure if she would really make use of it. You can step in if you want, I’ll just be a second.”

Maybe you shouldn’t have been so trusting. 

That’s how people got robbed, taken advantage of, murdered and you weren’t going to get any sympathy from neighbors or any FEDRA soldiers in the area if something were to happen but despite that, and his reputation, you didn’t feel unsafe. 

Quite the opposite. 

Joel was certainly the grumpy type and you didn’t doubt he was capable of hurting you if he wanted but as you returned with the radio you found him just where you’d left him, his body filling your doorway in a way that reminded you of a guard dog. 

Something had caught his eye in the time it had taken you to walk back, gaze fixed somewhere behind you. 

It took you a second to realize what exactly he was staring at, eyes tracking him and following until they landed on the butterfly figurine hanging from the makeshift curtains of your kitchen sink window. 

Golden hour light warming the window had bathed the glass winged butterfly in its rays, casting fractals of color across the wall and the worn wooden floors. 

You studied his face for a moment then, a familiar kind of sadness reaching his eyes, the darkened circles underneath them a little more noticeable now. 

You wondered when the last time he got any proper sleep was. 

“I made it…” interrupting his thoughts gently you gestured towards the window when he looked at you in question, “La mariposa...took me ages to fit the glass and wire together right but I think it came out ok.”

He grunted in response, finally handing over the bag of soil when you noticed the slightest tremble in his hands. 

Oh…so he’d been caught off guard too. 

Something about your butterfly had shaken him up and you were curious, who could blame you for being tempted to cross what you were sure he would say was a line, but you pretended not to notice, trying to offer him some privacy, a second to collect himself. 

You’d appreciate it if he did the same for you in his place after all. 

The exchange was completed swiftly after, a palpable silence settling between you before he was leaving almost as quickly as he arrived, taking the fading summer sunset with him.

–

Joel barely slept that night, woken by nightmares again, a routine he was familiar with, haunted by the same old ghosts but it was different this time, the barbed wire around his heart digging in just a little extra, memories of her surfacing. 

Sarah. His Sarah.  

He didn’t realize just how long it had been since he was reminded of her this way, of what it felt like to be her father, shutting himself off to that years ago, unable to think about his life with her before because that pain was nearly unbearable. 

There is only after, the after in which she doesn’t exist, where he searches for her in his sleep and wakes knowing he won’t find her. 

Because he watched her slip away, had pleaded and begged to the skies to bring her back, had held her in his arms, hands stained red with her blood, and had to accept that she was gone and he was granted no time to say goodbye. 

Days turned to weeks, months into years and he had learned to operate on a certain level of numbness, just focused on surviving, never getting too attached, acting cold and angry, just a dead man walking. 

Until now, his chest nearly caving in with the truth that he was still breathing even after so long spent closed off. 

He wasn’t even sure why he’d considered your friend’s offer to complete the exchange at all, he knew he shouldn’t have, the radio you traded wasn’t in as great a shape as he would have liked, he knew that upfront and still begrudgingly agreed, not expecting to feel so exposed, so upended by a simple encounter.

That butterfly shining in the sunlight of your kitchen made his heart stop the second he saw it, flashes of memory surfacing, almost like his little girl was pulled to the surface of his skin again, like if he stepped inside he could reach out and she’d be there. 

A dreadful reality had washed that away after a moment, grief swallowing up the hope just as he knew it would, like it always had, but something was undeniably different this time for Joel. A difference that left an ache in his center. 

Because for those few fleeting seconds, he had felt alive again. 

–

The second time you met Joel was intentional, another bag of soil in exchange for some instant coffee this time. 

It was still early morning when he knocked on your door, quiet, hands tucked in the pockets of his jeans and a sleepy kind of softness that you hadn’t seen before around the edges of his eyes which made you wish he didn’t look so inviting then. 

It wasn’t so hard to look at him as unapproachable as he made himself seem, he was handsome, the streaks of gray peppered in his hair and along his beard lending to his rugged look. 

“About the coffee, it’s not as strong as it could be but it’s the best I’ve got,” you handed over a jar, watching him open the lid and sniff its contents.

“That’ll do just fine.” 

Relief arrived at his approval, you gathered it’d been a while since he had any and you were glad your stash wasn’t a disappointment. 

You watched as he knelt down to set his backpack on the floor, stowing the jar inside and handing you the bag of fertilizer mix you had inquired about. 

It wasn’t long now before he’d be out the door again, these things were best kept short and simple but as you thanked him for the exchange and moved to store the bag with your other garden supplies, you noticed a moment of reluctance. 

Joel didn’t plan on lingering around now that you both had what you came for but then he was reminded of what he felt the last time he’d been in your space and his mouth was moving with the thoughts that were swimming in his head before he could bite back the words.

“That’s a good amount of soil you have, got some sorta secret garden FEDRA don’t know about?”

Suddenly you felt very silly for wanting to smile at his curiosity but also recognized the significance of him asking. 

“Something like that, yeah. I…actually found a spot of flowers growing through one of the QZ fences and I’ve been tending to it. It's no garden but the flowers are in bloom now, first time I’ve seen real butterflies in years.” 

You watched him perk up at the mention of real butterflies, furrowed brows hiding the flicker of emotion mere seconds later but it was too late, you’d seen it already. 

Up until now, your little patch of greenery had been a private endeavor. 

Something for you to put some love and effort in, and just a quiet, secluded place to be, to clear your head or be alone for a while, away from some of the chaos in the streets, and yet here you were, now, carefully asking him if he’d like to see it too. 

You thought just maybe, bringing him there would do him as much good as it had done you. 

And it’s there, in that moment when he says yes that you see all that hard exterior start to slip just an inch.  

It’s an inch you can work with. 

–

Early morning dew still clings to the soft blades of grass sprouting up near the fence line, the section where you’d been taking care of the vegetation noticeably more vibrant with color and growth. 

Slowly, you’d been replacing the dirt, had saved as many roots and sprouts as possible, taking care in replanting them, and from there, a shabby little makeshift garden bed had formed. 

This would be your third week caring for it and now Joel was trailing behind your steps to see it too.

His body language was tense like he couldn’t quite be sure you weren’t actually taking him to some secluded corner to ambush him, but you get it.

Being wary was smart, but you couldn’t lie that it was satisfying to let him take it in without explaining anything first, the tension in his shoulders easing, sagging when his eyes fell upon the dusky blue flowers and rich green leaves and vines growing up from the ground, searching for the sun’s nourishment. 

Joel couldn’t be certain whether it was the day’s first tendrils of summer heat making him feel warm or the fluttering orange and speckled black wings of a butterfly nestled atop a marigold. 

He glances at his wrist, at the memento that never leaves his side, a broken watch, and there’s a moment of clarity in the silence where Joel can feel it, all the shattered parts of him spilling out, and there isn’t any way he can catch it all, he’s already too late and he knows it. 

Panic works its way into his bloodstream, causing his hands to shake, not used to being so disarmed, so flayed open. 

His fingers curl into a fist, trying to steady himself, needing a moment to catch his breath, to process. 

And there you were, your gentle voice cutting through the noise in his head and that tidal wave of emotion. 

“They’re monarch butterflies, which means they’re special,” you’ve moved a little closer now, watching another one land next to its friend on the flower. 

“What makes' em’ so special?” Joel takes a deep breath and you do too. 

You thought for a second he might shut down and walk away, there wasn’t anything keeping him here after all, he had the coffee he came for and yet still took you up on your offer. That in itself was difficult not to attach yourself to immediately but there was no denying it felt good to know you’d earned maybe an ounce of his trust. 

“In Mexico, my abuela used to say they were a sign of the dead coming to visit the living, loved ones, our ancestors, the monarchs carry their souls to us. I think they’re good luck too.”

The smile working its way onto your lips is fond, sad, one you knew he’d recognize, the silent but shared knowledge of loss was a heavy burden to carry. There was no mistake about it, but being here, amongst your flowers and your butterflies made it easier. 

Orange and gold halos shimmered around the plant life softly swaying with the wind, your own features now warmed with the climbing sun, brown skin shining deeper under the light. 

Joel was looking at you now, following your words. The meaning of what you were both looking upon hitting him square in the chest when that feeling blooms behind his eyes again, that itch of something alive, something beautiful growing again amongst concrete ruins.

And it's there, standing next to you, watching you water the soil while butterflies float around you that he works out what that feeling must be. 

Salvation. 

–

After that morning, trading goods with Joel became a regular occurrence. 

Soil for another stash of coffee or a packet of seeds for a hunting knife in need of experienced hands, neither of you quite sure how it happened but eventually the trades became more like friendly favors to each other than practical transactions. 

Your ‘garden’ also became a frequent place for you both to go, so much so that on any given day you could bet he was there, a quick stop on his way back home, or in the morning before the day started, it became an unspoken shared refuge. 

Joel helped you fix up the makeshift garden beds when it became clear your tender care of the plants called for an upgrade and you were grateful for it, dismissive at first, not wanting him to feel obligated.

You could handle yourself around a hammer and a few nails but he insisted and you relented, the two of you knelt under the setting sun, working on the task together. 

It didn’t matter that it was closing in on curfew time, or that you didn’t really have anything to compensate him for his time because, the moment itself, the small inklings of trust building between you were actually far better. 

That’s when you started to see him nearly every day, sitting against bomb-scarred concrete, always facing those marigolds, the ones the monarch butterflies you’d told him about always flocked to. 

At first you kept your distance, knowing better than to pry. 

It was clear he’d been through a lot, most his age-if you were guessing correctly-had, old enough to have lived a good portion of their lives before the outbreak, the last witnesses of an old world. You wanted to respect that and as long as he was finding some sort of peace here, you were content. 

You didn’t mind his company either, he wasn’t much of a talker, but his presence was comforting and familiar and you felt safe with him near. 

Eventually though, keeping him at a distance became impossible, both of you stumbling through the uncertainty of what to say to each other yet not giving up on trying at the same time. 

And Joel had resisted too, had tried to keep his words short, always residing somewhere in between neutral and aloof but the more he watched you in your element, amongst the seedling sprouts and vines and moss, the more it made him want to talk.

It was easy to find his voice around you. 

You were soft-hearted, he could see that and it wasn’t easy to get used to the way you looked at him, like you cared, like you understood something about his brokenness right away, had let him sit here day after day watching the butterflies because somehow you knew it’s what he needed, but he didn’t mind the learning curve either. 

His usual annoyance and reluctance to speak about feelings couldn’t keep up this time surrounded by reminders of Sarah, coaxing the small part of him that hadn’t died with her out of its state of numbness, softening him again. 

‘You were never gonna do it for yourself’ rings in his ears. 

He’d never been much good at that, doing things for himself, and Sarah was always so clever about calling it out, even now, nudging him awake again after all these years. 

It’s why he decides to tell you when you ask one day, sitting next to him on sun-warmed stone. 

He merely came by to sit for a little while and clear his head and found you already sat in his usual spot, butterfly watching, your eyes telling your secret, that you had been crying before he arrived, his first instinct carrying him forward, to your side. 

He offered you some water, even sliced an apple in half to share with you, pleased with himself when he got a smile out of the gesture but remained as quiet as you were, wanting you to feel like you could just be. 

“Who do they remind you of?” your voice was small, unsure of how he’d react to the question, overexplaining in hopes it would make him recoil less, “It’s okay if you can’t talk about it, I understand. It’s just that…what I told you about the monarch butterflies, I really do believe in it you know, the people I’ve lost…they feel so close to the surface, like they’re watching over me and I think you feel the same.” 

Joel nods after a moment and you’re exhaling a breath you didn’t realize you were holding.

It takes him a moment but he finds the words. 

“My daughter…her name was Sarah. They were her favorite, actually, since she was bout old enough to talk. I used to call her my little butterfly when she was a baby which, yeah, got real old when she started middle school but I liked to remind her anyways, just to see her roll her eyes at me. Just as long as she knew I loved her, you know, that I never stopped, not since the moment I held her in my hands for the first time.”

It broke your heart to hear. 

And it hurt him too, to speak about her and then remember that he had lost her, that twenty years had passed and he couldn’t remember what she smelled like anymore, and he hated the nightmares but without them, he was afraid of forgetting her face, her eyes, the coils of her hair, the sound of her voice calling out to him. 

It was only now that he was seeing how deep he’d pushed it all down, bottled up tight out of fear, and then somehow you’d entered his life, Molotov aimed straight at his heart, stunning him into remembering her the way she deserved to be. 

“I’m so sorry,” you extend all the comfort you can, knowing there weren’t any words that would ever make it right but you wanted to try anyway. 

“Yeah, me too. But you’re right, she feels close, and I know you’ve put it together by now but it’s why I’ve been sittin here every day, I see those butterflies and I see her, I remember her and it feels...good. I didn’t want it to; don’t really trust things that feel good but it does and I wanna thank you for that, for letting me have that.” 

He worries he’s said too much, or said the wrong thing, wanting to kick himself because he was never much good at words either but the sight of your lips pulling up into a small smile came as a relief. 

“She’s with you, Joel. And there’s no need to thank me, it’s been good for me too, doing all this. I think it helps.” 

He nods again, agreeing before asking you the same question, extending an opportunity to open up too; a big step when keeping personal histories to a minimum was the lay of the land around here. 

And it wasn’t easy, to talk about the things that hurt, baring your grief to Joel, and trusting him with it but you did and he had held it so gently, understanding it for what it was. 

Looking back you think maybe it’s there that things started to change, where your life and his started to merge. 

Sometime after that conversation you gifted him one of those glass winged butterflies like the one in your window, showing it to him one evening in the garden, earning you the first real smile you’d ever seen from him. 

It was after he told you more about himself, about Sarah, his brother Tommy, recounting happy memories; like the time he and Tommy surprised Sarah with her own soccer ball for her birthday one year, how he’d caved almost immediately the time she begged him to get her a polaroid camera, and you shared too, thinking on good times you’d had with the people in your life. 

It meant a lot to Joel that you spent time crafting the ornament, knowing just how deep the symbolism of it went for him. 

You were always doing that, looking out for him, planting tiny seed after tiny seed, slowly working your magic on him, ensnaring him deep, making him want to look out for you too. 

Under the fading sun again you sat with him, watching the marigolds, the calm, slow fluttering of wings, and it’s in that same spot that you find your hand in his for the first time. 

No words needed to be said, this was far better. 

A little while later you saw your gift hanging from the window in his living room, right next to the radio you had first traded him for.

The two of you had found yourselves escaping the heat here after some time tending the garden together, pulling weeds, clearing new soil of rocks and rubble, now sharing his couch, a rusty old fan that still somehow worked cooling the sweat prickling the back of your neck.

Curfew hour was nearing and you knew you would have to start making your way back home but Joel warned that he’d heard from a FEDRA officer he did trades with that they were patrolling the streets early the next few nights.

You knew why, it was hard to forget the hail of gunfire last night, a group of Fireflies going after a group of officers on patrol, a fight that neither one had won. 

Tensions in the QZ had been high all day since then and Joel suggested that you stay here with him for the night, saying he didn’t want you dealing with anything that might be going on out there.

He was being protective, a disapproving frown on that handsome face of his when you told him you didn’t want to intrude on his space but he was right, things had already started looking a little dangerous on your way back from the garden and you appreciated that he was trying to keep you safe. 

So you stayed. 

Curled up on Joel’s old, worn couch with a blanket that smelled like him tucked around you, the white noise of the fan still blowing and the knowledge that he wasn’t far, just in the next room over, carried you off to sleep.

–

One night had turned into two and then three and somewhere in the last couple months of summer that were left, you spent most of your days and nights with Joel. 

No label had been applied to whatever your situation was with him, you knew better than to ask, this all needed time, and you were okay with that, just content on holding onto this good thing with him. 

Because you liked being around, like sharing a space with him and sitting in the garden together, opening up to each other more and more every day. 

It was nice watching Joel come out of that hardened shell of his, watching him find it easier to talk about things, noticing him trying to live life more, not as reluctant to connect. 

Things were good, not to say that there hadn’t been bad days amongst all the progress made, there were plenty of them in fact. 

Days where old patterns became default again, stretches of nights where the nightmares returned, both of you trying to wade through it. 

When the aching of old wounds came knocking and the walls came back up again. 

You hated to fight with Joel when that happened, and you hated not being on the same page but he was so stubborn it wasn’t always easy to bite back your frustration. 

He had told you about his past, about the people he hurt in those early days and it’s something he wrestled with, believing in the goodness you saw inside him when all he could see were the bad things.

It frustrated you sometimes, how he preferred to shut himself off, to you, to Sarah’s memory because he felt like his hands were too dirty, too blood-stained to even try. 

“Que, no entendes?! Please, Joel! Stop trying to be something you aren’t. You think you aren’t a good man but bad people don’t get upset about being bad. Do you think you can just turn it off, the part of you that was always a good man, a good father? Well sorry, but you can’t, that’s who you are to your core, I saw it the first moment I met you and every time since then.” 

 “I’ve killed people,” his tone was mean, and venomous, another attempt at pushing you away. “Goddamnit, it’s not as simple as-”

“I get that! Look I know that you’ve done bad things but you’ve also spent every waking moment punishing yourself for it, do you realize that? All these years you’ve been paying your penance any way you can and I’m trying to tell you it’s okay live well, that you don’t have to torture yourself anymore because we have to try and make something out of all this pain.” 

It wasn’t easy to get him to see what you saw but you didn’t back down, even when it would have been easy to, Joel knew it too, guilt washing over him as you looked at him then, tears brimming in your eyes. 

“You’ve endured enough.” 

It’s those final three words from you that makes him ease up, a reminder you nudged him with often, that he could rest already, could make amends by making a choice to find the light. 

He lets you take some space from him, coming to find you before bed because he doesn’t want to fall asleep without fixing things. 

“I’m sorry. That wasn’t fair, talkin to you like that. You’re just tryna help my sorry ass and I haven’t thanked you enough. I’m gonna get better at that.” 

It’s the first time you ever hug him, noticing the tremble in his hands as he says the words, feeling the sincerity in his voice, unable to stop yourself from all but barreling into his arms. 

He’s still for only a moment before his arms wrap around you in return, the two of you bathed in moonlight, that butterfly still hanging in his window, pushing you towards each other again just like it had when you first met. 

–

Eventually, the day comes when the monarchs leave, the approaching fall and winter seasons carrying them to warmer places, a solemn change in what had been yours and Joel’s routine. 

The absence of the butterflies that had provided so much hope the last few months was felt, but the world was also a lot more open and wide now too. 

You no longer slept on Joel’s couch, you slept pressed against him now, and woke with your limbs tangled with his, a quiet partnership forming.

It scares both of you, knowing that you had grown to care for each other so quickly, knowing that was dangerous and reckless but also feeling stronger because you were a team. 

You think that’s why you make the decision together, one rainy fall evening when Joel comes home with a message from Tommy. 

They had gone through a rough patch recently, being apart from each other for some time and still not seeing eye to eye on Tommy’s choices but slowly, they’d started talking again and there was news that Tommy and the group he was with had gotten a hydroelectric plant that had once belonged to FEDRA up and running. 

There was electricity and a place to stay if you and Joel were interested, plus Tommy wanted you to meet Maria, said she did him a whole world of good and this was some of that good in action. 

It hadn’t been a hard choice to make even knowing how difficult the journey would be.

This was the chance you’d both been waiting for, and had talked about, a far off dream of running away from all the violence that was inescapable here in Boston, searching for something better out there, and now it was within reach. 

So you’d left your garden in the care of a friend you knew would understand its importance, and you bide your time with Joel, making deals, doing jobs, collecting and saving up supplies, and helping him map the way to Jackson. 

And then the day came when you left the QZ behind for good, watching the city fade away in the rearview mirror.

Making it to Tommy hadn’t been easy, there had been one too many close calls for comfort but the trust you and Joel had in each other didn’t waver, and here you were, finally on the other side. 

Settling in hadn’t been the easiest, especially for Joel, his guard still up but little by little, you both sank into a new way of life. 

You quickly learned how to ride a horse and hunt in the woods surrounding the power plant, even making friends with some of the families in the community. 

Joel had taken to things a little slower, but even he couldn’t hide for long, helping some of the men in the group with repairs on things that needed fixing, even cautiously attempting to make friends with you. 

Small pockets of peace started to open up the longer you stayed and the threat of raiders loomed over that peace at times, keeping everyone on alert for attacks but you all had Joel and Tommy now, always amongst the first to be out there protecting, defending fiercely.

You knew they wouldn’t let anything happen to you here.  

As spring arrived again you found a nice spot for a garden, pointing out sprouting flower buds to Joel one day, almost missing the fond smile forming on his lips, both of you knowing what this meant. 

You were happy here, and happy being with Joel, the two of you building a new garden together this time, until finally, as the chill spring breeze transitioned into summer heat and sunshine you were sat next to him like you had been what seemed like ages ago, watching the butterflies circle the flowers in bloom in what had become Sarah’s Garden. 

Joel made you a promise; to keep going for family, the family you, him, and Tommy were now. And you promised the same, not scared of how much you cared for the man by your side anymore.

It wasn’t perfect, the world was still rotten and the broken parts of you all were still raw, still healing, but this time her light was guiding the way through it and that made it all worth it.

---

A/N: When I saw that butterfly hanging in the window of his place in Boston I just couldn’t resist writing something about how he got it and here we are! This world is so dark and tragic and while this fic doesn’t change those facts, I hope it plants some gentle, hopeful little seeds of healing, because Joel deserves that and so do you as the reader! thank you for reading this, I’d love to hear your thoughts on it! 💌

some tags no pressure! @inklore @allaboardthereadingrailroad @yelenas-lova @ozarkthedog @amethystwonders11 @blkmorticia @moreofem @eupheme @obiknights @tarrenterror25 @superhoeva @buckyhoney @plumbits

[lovesby]

HOLD ME, HAND. a handmade Renchanting zine by me! Transcripts, and image descriptions under the cut. Experience it on my website! (Transcripts inline on there.)

Pictured is the cover and back cover of the zine. The back cover is the same style scribbled black vertical line, but less dense, and with a streak of red scribbled lines towards the top half of the page.

Page 1 and 2 of the zine. On the left, the page behind the cover, has a crude drawing of the Dogwarts banner in red pen. It is an almost fully red banner with three white triangles at the bottom edge. The text on the side of the page, written along the side edge, says “a hand made Renchanting zine by SBY.” Renchanting is in red text, as is SBY. SBY is circled like a signature. On page two, there is a poem, titled “how it ends”, aligned left, in plain black text. It says; Let’s try this again: You go into fruitless labor for fruitless/business for fruitless prizes in fruitless/games. No winning here, there is none./I know that. I see it. I’ve seen it all ahead/of time, I see it clearly now. Play/stupid games, play stupid pretend. No/winning. I know. But this time I’ll play along, stupid games./This time, I’ll climb up the hill and see/you there, and walk the other/way. I’ll know better. I’ll leave you to it. A gentle/nod. Magic can’t save us, in the end./Love can’t mean anything if I know -how it ends.

Pages 3 and 4 of the zine. On the left page, page 3, is a poem written diagonally down the page. Once in black, then repeated in red. It is titled “on you.”/”(on you)” and the title is both on top and on the bottom of the poem to be read with the rest. The poem reads, “on you. drawn to you like gravity draws the axe to meet its mark (on you). drawn to you like gravity draws the axe to meet its mark” On page 4, on the right, is a sketchy drawing of a handaxe, colored in slightly with blue pen and red hearts scribbled around the sharp end of the axe instead of blood. On the handle, all caps cut off text reads, “Red winter is-”

Pages 5 and 6 of the zine are in all black ink. This is a two page spread of a poem titled “puppy love”. The title is horizontal down the middle spine. On the bottom half, under the large block of poem text, is drawn the roots and trunk of a tree. On the top half, on the right page, above the text, is drawn the top half of the same tree. The text on the left reads, “I don’t fully understand what it is/about you that makes me want to/run and hide under the tall dark/oaks. Something about you makes/me scared like a child, not devoted/to some thing or another. Or another/thing. I don’t fully understand what/it is that makes my heart tug and/beat when someone else is near you./Like something or another, pulling/me closer.” The text on the bottom half of page 6 reads, “I don’t need to understand what it is/about you that makes me want to put the/wooden handle in your firm calloused hands./The hands I held in mine, planting row/after row of garden in the soil in/front of the shack your calloused hands/helped build, behind the walls your hands/helped me build. I feel it too. So I’m/putting this in your hands, now."

Pages 7 and 8 of the zine. On the right is a crude drawing of a red crescent moon with three black birds in front of it. On the right is a poem titled, “be still, be ready (steady)”. The title is written vertically on the middle spine again. In red pen, complementing the black ink text of the poem is a scribbled red cloud and red snowflakes. The poem reads: and with the palpitations in/my throat i finally/understood what it would/feel like to eat a/heart while it was still/beating. i’m holding your heart in my hands/and swallowing it whole./you asked me to, and now i am, i’m/swallowing you whole.

Pages 9 and 10 are a mostly white page space two page spread of black lowercase text, that simply reads, very spread out, on a top left to bottom right diagonal, “oh./i understand,/now.”

Pages 11 and 12 of the zine are the first part of a four page spread of one poem meant to be read from left to right ignoring the middle spine. There is a long arrow at the cutoff at the end of the page, indicating that the poem continues. It is in black ink and says; The wagon jumps --- not for joy. Executioner’s boots squeal/at the same frequency of the damn wheels creak. The same joy/peverted [sic]. I never understood an axe until I became one./Sharpen me,/deep repetitive motion, make me feel/good. How I touch/the scar around your neck and know/I made it --- mine, mine. I smell bile/feel it in my throat too, and/I look up to see one of the men,/big and strong framed/an ox/of a man and gentle like one Pages 13 and 14, continuing the 4 page spread. The rest of the text says; has thrown up onto the road. Leaving it/pieces of him in our wake. I don’t throw up/even if I feel like/I left myself somewhere else. Becoming the axe, becoming the axe. Long road home/to take it back. Bury me/in someone else’s/hand. The title of the poem is revealed on the bottom right of the last page; “Long Live the King”. Above it is a drawing of an open eye and a closed eye in red ink.

[sapphirecobalt-1]

Would You Still Love Me The Same? || S.R.

Would You Still Love Me The Same? - Chapter 1 - sapphirecobalt - Criminal Minds (US TV) [Archive of Our Own]

characters (so far): Reader, Spencer Reid, Luke Alvez, Emily Prentiss, OCs

relationships (so far): Spencer Reid x Reader

tags (so far): angst, established relationship, minor Cat Adams/Spencer Reid/Reader, Canon Divergent, AU - Mafia, angst with a happy ending, first person pov

chapters: 2/?

summary:

Shortly after her execution was scheduled, Cat Adams came up with one last plan to ruin my husband's life. As much as I hate to admit it, it was a brilliant plan, not to mention well executed.

There's just one itsy bitsy little detail she forgot to account for:

Me.

snippet:

I took a shuddering breath and it hit me that I haven’t used the bathroom in ages.

And so I finally did. And when I wiped myself clean, I could (almost) pretend the blood on my hands was period blood.

But when I went to wash my hands, I couldn’t pretend anymore. There was no more denying that the blood on my hands wasn’t from my period. It wasn’t my blood at all. The soap that smelled like it belonged in a hospital turned a sick pink color as I scrubbed, trying not to have a Lady Macbeth moment in the middle of BAU’s bathroom. But fuck, for a few seconds, I could have sworn the blood on my hands wouldn’t come off, no matter how hard I scrubbed. But it did. And I know it did because the hot water ran red, then pink, and finally clear. But I still kept scrubbing. As if the soap and hot water could wash away the feeling of her hands on mine, of her skin on mine, of the memories we made. It couldn’t, but nevertheless, I tried. Only when the scalding water nearly burned me did I stop, exclaiming as I yanked my hand from under the sink.

“Are you alright in there?”

“I’m okay!” I responded to the agent posted outside the door. I turn the knobs to make the water run on the cooler side of room temperature and all but waterboard my hands under the stream.

Sufficiently washed and cooled off, I wash my face, with water only, as quickly as possible, mindful of how sensitive my hands feel. I dry myself off with some paper towels and turn to the clothes waiting for me.

As I remove my soiled clothes and slip on the spare ones Emily brought me, the observation I made when Emily first gave me these clothes gets catapulted to the forefront of my mind. It’s like my brain won’t let me ignore it now that I’m face to face with the clothes. With Spencer’s clothes. A plain black t-shirt that reads ‘FBI’ across the chest in big bold letters and — yeah, okay, I don’t think this one is actually his. But the sweatpants definitely are. They fucking smell like him. Book pages and lavender and something that’s distinctly Spencer. The sweats are really long, not surprising given how freakishly tall he is, but still. I have to roll them up a bunch of times so they actually fit, which isn’t easy given how they’re cinched at the bottom. The hoodie Emily brought me is also definitely Spencer’s. It smells like him, yeah, but it’s also got the ‘Caltech’ logo emblazoned on the front and Spence’s the only person I know who went there.