#dead flat clear coat

[idkstudyblr]

Porch Orange County

Inspiration for a mid-sized modern tile front porch remodel with a roof extension

[kazuos]

Orange County Front Yard Porch A medium-sized island-style tile front porch image with an addition to the roof

[chocolatespacemuffins]

Front Yard Orange County This is an illustration of a small, extended front porch made of tropical tiles.

[azapofinspiration]

Okay, but we all talk about the big moments when it comes to Chuuya and Dazai’s trust in each other (Corruption, Dead Apple both during the DHC conflict and facing the singularity dragon, the fights against both Rimbaud and later Verlaine even when Chuuya said he doesn’t trust Dazai), but it’s in the little moments too.

The bickering, the way they know exactly how to provoke each other and get under the other’s skin, the teasing. It shows how well they know each other even after the 4 year separation and how they’re still the same when it comes to them. When it comes to Soukoku.

But what gets me is this:

Dazai asked for Chuuya’s knife.

And Chuuya — rightfully suspicious, guarded, supposedly untrusting to Dazai, who claims to hate him and wishes to get away from him ASAP — immediately went to hand it to him.

Chuuya was going to just hand over his knife to Dazai.

Just like, “Oh, okay.”

Chuuya, who’s been the most adamant that they are no longer partners.

Chuuya, who acknowledges the gap between four years ago and now and how things have changed.

Chuuya, who makes it clear that Dazai is an enemy even if they have to work together now.

That Chuuya was going to nonchalantly and with no hesitation hand over a weapon to Dazai aka an enemy.

It just blows my mind that Chuuya didn’t even seem to care about that because — even though he doesn’t want to admit it and even though Corruption and its lead-up were the biggest indicators of how he really feels for Dazai — he still trusts him.

And he doesn’t feel like his presence is a threat.

Because yes, Dazai managed to pickpocket it off Chuuya and he’s undoubtedly skilled in that sort of thing, but I’m pretty sure if literally anyone else tried reaching into Chuuya’s coat to try stealing it, the culprit would be flat on the ground one way or another.

But Dazai managed to get close enough to take it.

And it just never registered as a possible threat to Chuuya.

These two drive me up the wall.

[1989butcher]

All Night

daryl dixon x reader

accidentally injured on a run, daryl refuses to leave your side till you wake.

set in early alexandria era

3.5k words ! mostly fluff, maybe a bit of angst but just daryl being angry for a bit. enjoy!!

not my gif!

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You were running. Bags wrapped to your body, holding as much supplies as you possibly could as the building burned behind you. “Y/N! Come on!” Rosita yelled from the driver’s side of the truck. You were panting, and could feel blood dripping from your forehead. Just a bit further, you told yourself. You heard the dead right behind you, the ones that weren’t attracted to the fire that is. There were at least 100, maybe more. Abraham opened the door from the inside of the truck, extending his arm out for you to grab. His face was also coated in blood, but it was walker blood. You practically threw yourself at him, and he pulled you into the truck. Rosita floored the gas and sped back home.

Before you could even take the bags off, your head hit the back of the seat and you were out like a light. You had been in the building when Rosita threw the dynamite stick in. Not in an attempt to injure you, but to get the swarm of walkers that were surrounding you away. You had been scavenging the building a little longer than planned, but also none of you saw the dozens from behind the building file in. When the dynamite went off, you flew against the wall, your head throbbing and ears ringing. You were knocked flat on the ground, grabbing your head in. You shook yourself awake, hearing the growls of the dead, and grabbed your bags as fast as you could before running out.

What happened next are only the bits and pieces you remember, when your eyes would flutter open or when your hearing would return. While you were sleeping, more or less just passed out, Abraham had taken the bags off of you as your head rested against the window now. You slightly woke as he pulled each strap from over your head and the back pack off your back, but you never fully gained consciousness.

“Rosita, I’m gonna need you to step on the gas a little harder, my friend.” Abraham said, shooting a concerned look through the rear view mirror where Rosita made eye contact. She pressed her lips in a line and did just what he asked, Glenn turning to look at you. The four of you had only been out a few hours, but since the run wasn’t really planned, it was more of an exploration, you were all a little banged up. You had just unfortunately been in the line of fire. Glenn opened his backpack to reveal some gauze, handing it to Abraham. “Put this on her head to try and stop the bleeding.” He nodded, holding the gauze to your head for the entire duration of the car ride. He was the one that told Rosita to throw the dynamite in the room he had already cleared, or he thought he did. You had wandered back in there to look around a bit more, not realizing what was happening outside. It was a mistake, and you weren’t angry, you just didn’t think you were going to step so close to death today.

You remember feeling pressure on your forehead; you weren’t sure if it was pain or Abraham’s hand, but it just felt hot. The gates were pulled open and everyone opened their door to get out, except for you. “We need help! ” Glenn called out, heading to your side of the truck. Although Abraham had opened his door, he stayed inside, keeping his hand on your still bleeding head. You were losing the color in your face. “No dying today, Missy.” He whispered under his breath. Rosita slowly opened your door, catching your shoulder as it dropped. Glenn was next to her, the two of them carrying you on their shoulders. You were dead weight, honestly by the sheer amount of blood from your head and body, you looked to be dead too. The fear of losing you became all too real for the archer.

After Glenn called for help, a few people from your group came sprinting down the street. Maggie came from the garden, already coming to greet Glenn, but ran after he called out. Rick and Michonne came flying out of their house, and Daryl followed right behind them, running even faster as your seemingly lifeless body was removed from the car. His heart was pounding, it’s like he knew this would happen. Right when he lets someone in they go and leave him, happened to his brother first, then Beth, and now you. Glenn saw the look on his face when he came at them full speed as him and Rosita were slowly but surely carrying you to the infirmary. Daryl looked at him for answers after scanning you up and down. “She’s still breathing, dude. Got knocked out after a run in with a herd.” Glenn was out of breath, since his own body was aching from being hurt too. The archer didn’t respond, just nudged Rosita out of the way and picked you up bridal style.

He looked down at your face, your eyes still shut and your arm now hung over his. You were completely out of it and it terrified him. He could never stop you from going on runs, it was your favorite thing to do together, it added a little adventure after getting used to being so comfortable at Alexandria. He quickly carried you up the steps of the infirmary, kicking the door open with Denise sitting on one of the cots. “What happened?” She asked worriedly, placing her book down and rushing to your side. “Dunno-“ the archer was cut off by Rosita standing in the door frame. “A herd came when she was still in the building. We thought she was out and tossed an explosive in to distract the herd so we could leave.” Her voice wavered, she felt absolutely terrible. You were her friend, more so family now, and the last thing she wanted to do was hurt you. The fear that coursed through her veins when throwing that stick was a fear she had never felt before. Rosita didn’t see you exit the building, but if she waited another second it would be too late. Glenn and Abraham were fighting off walkers when ‘Big Red’ as you called him, cried out he was certain you exited and were making your way around. He swore he saw you right behind him.

Pure anger was all Daryl felt. He could’ve punched Rosita’s lights out right here, right now. He turned his head to meet Rosita when she spoke and when their eyes met she could feel his anger from across the room. She shook her head and broke the eye contact, but she could still feel his eyes burning into her skull. Denise listened intently to her words, before getting right to work on fixing you up. She also desperately wanted to ease the tension. “Daryl, can you please get some water. She’s dehydrated.” Denise didn’t even look at him, afraid of his eye contact in all honesty. He stood up without saying a word, walking right out the door to go grab water from the pantry, purposely slamming his shoulder into Rosita’s. Once he was gone, and would be back within a minute, Rosita sighed, and quickly came to assist Denise.

“Let me help, please.” She grabbed gauze and some alcohol, cleaning your other wounds and waiting for Denise’s instructions. You didn’t have any serious injuries, you needed some stitches, water, and rest. You maybe had a mild concussion, but until you woke there wouldn’t be much of a way to tell.

As Daryl stormed down the street, Rick saw the anger in his eyes. He quickly grabbed his wrist, Daryl pulling away as soon as he felt Rick’s touch. “Daryl, stop, you need to cool down.” He said calmly, jumping in front of his path. Daryl attempted to go around him, but Rick kept stepping in front. “Move.” He was about to blow. He needed to get back to you. Getting water was the only thing he could do for you. “It was an accident. They told me the whole thing.” Date cut him off, yelling “She could have died!” He took a step back, staring Rick down.

Rick placed his hands on his hip, sighing. “I know that, man, but she didn’t. It’s not anyone’s fault.” Daryl scoffed at his friend, someone he called his brother. “The hell it ain’t!” A few Alexandrians were watching the altercation now, along with Glenn and Maggie on the porch of their house, Carol was with Michonne and Abraham at the truck, a few of your other people scattered around. The pair could feel the eyes on them, but Daryl’s rage was fueling him. He couldn’t protect you, couldn’t fix what had happened, he needed someone to blame. As usual, he blamed himself. Rick was quiet for a second, knowing Daryl had something else to say.

“If I’d been there-“ the archer started, staring at the ground now. Rick shook his head, “Brother, do not do this.” Rick wanted to step closer to him, but talking with Daryl was not like any normal conversation, especially when he was angry, or when it came to you. “Nah! If I was there, nothin’ woulda happened to her!” He began to feel eyes on him now. Rick lowered his head, sighing “It’s not on you Daryl, it’s just not.” Daryl stepped back, anger still running rampant in him. Until you were awake, he would still be angry. He didn’t reply to Rick, instead he walked around him, bringing back the water he was asked for.

As he jogged up the steps, he saw Rosita at your side. He quickened his steps, making them louder so she would walk away. It worked. She looked at him and quickly stepped away and out of the room. You were cleaned up now, a handful of stitches were near your hairline where the large gash once was. Your other cuts were clean, some covered. He pulled a chair up to your bedside, not taking his eyes off of you for a second. “She should be okay, probably just going to sleep for a while.” Denise broke the silence, looking you over one more time to see if she missed anything. Daryl nodded in reply, a wave of slight relief washed over him, and the anger was quiet now. Since he laid eyes on you sleeping, he couldn’t hold on to the emotion. He just wanted you to open your pretty eyes.

Denise took some supplies and quietly walked out of the building, shutting the door behind her. The other three you were with sustained minor injuries, Rosita had informed her of this when the two were alone with you. She also knew Daryl so desperately craved privacy with you, although he’d never say it. He just had that look.

Once she was gone, he took your hand in his. He wasn’t much of a crier, but the fear of you being dead was way too real today. He was just staring at you as his mind raced. If you woke up, he would have no idea what to say. His immediate thoughts were ‘The hell were you thinkin’?’ Or ‘You coulda died’, but he knew better than to say these kind of things to you. You would always reply with something lighthearted as a way to ease the tension. Everyday was spent running from death, people died everyday before the apocalypse and they died everyday still, just even more so.

He brushed some hair out of your face, tucking some of it behind your ear as he always did. It was a habit he had. You two would be mid conversation whether it was in bed or out walking, and he would gently push some hair out of your face and behind your ear. It never failed to make you blush. He kept his hand near your face, gently rubbing his thumb on your cheek. “Need ya here. I need ya.” He whispered. The sun was setting when you had pulled up, and it was now pitch black in your community. He peered out the window at the sound of creeping on the porch. He pulled his hand away from your face, but not your hand. He was still as shy as every when it came to affection. It was Denise returned with the unused reply. “Sorry.” She muttered, leaving as quickly as she had come in.

Daryl sat there for hours, his hand in yours. He eventually turned the dimmed lights all the way off, as a way to conserve power and he thought it would help you sleep. You loved to sleep in total darkness, always had. He learned this about you one night, shortly after Terminus. He was on watch, and you had a habit of sleeping near him, since you would take watch often as well. You would wrap a t-shirt, or use the sleeve of your jacket to cover your eyes as you slept. One night, before you had fallen asleep, he playfully lifted the sleeve. “Hey,” your voice was groggy, “I’m using that.” You didn’t even open your eyes, just reached your arm up to pull his back down. He released the sleeve and let out a small chuckle. “Weirdo.” He said, under his breath of course. You heard it and shot your head up, this time removing the sleeve from your eyes and rested it on your forehead. “What did you say to me?” You snapped, jokingly of course. “Nothin’, nothin’ at all.” You rolled your eyes and laid back down before he mumbled another “Weirdo.” You sat right back up and attacked him with tickles and teases, the two of you exchanging kisses in between.

He missed you, your laugh and smile especially. It always managed to light up even the darkest situations. It annoyed him at first, but now he knew if you weren’t making a joke out of something, you were really fucked. After a few hours of sitting there and the night was slowly passing, Carol carefully entered the room. “You need anything?” She asked, staying near the door. Daryl turned to her, exhaustion all over his face, and boy she could read him like an open book. She sighed, “Y/N’s probably not going to be up for hours, you should get some rest.” He shook his head. “Not leaving her.” He looked right back at you, in the exact position you had been in for hours, your chest slowly rising and falling with your slow breaths.

Carol asked again if he needed anything, to which he replied “Nah. You should get some sleep.” Carol almost laughed, knowing the two of them probably get the least amount of sleep out of anyone here. She wished him a good night and closed the door, leaving the two of you alone again. The minutes felt like hours, and the hours felt like days. He rested his head next to the space below your hand and next to your body. He still held your hand, and found himself slowly drifting off to sleep.

Morning crept in as slow as ever, and as the sun reached your eyes, you let out a sigh. Your head was pounding, and the last thing you remember was being in that room. Everything felt heavy, but you thanked your lucky stars. You were alive. You wanted to stretch a bit, but you looked down at the figure draped over the side of your bed. He still held you hand. You deeply wished in that moment someone had a camera. Not that this was a moment you wanted to remember forever.

You attempted to speak but your mouth was paper dry, so instead you reached over your other hand and gently ran your fingers through his hair. He let out a small grunt in acknowledgment, since that was something you did often. Then it hit him. It was something you did. You were awake.

His head shot up and he stared at you with tired eyes. A million thoughts raced his mind again. He had a million questions, mostly because he knew you were more careful than that, you weren’t one to get injured on runs. “Hey.” was all he could manage. “Hi.” Your voice was raspy. He let go of your hand to crack open a water bottle that was on the floor, handing it to you. You drank as much as you could before handing it back to him. “Thank you.” You said weakly, but sounded more like yourself. His heart fluttered at the sound of your voice. You smiled at him, as wide as you could with the little energy you had. He returned it with a smaller smile, taking your hand again to kiss it about a million times.

“You stayed with me all night?” You asked, looking around the empty room and realized the sun was rising. “Mhm. Had to make sure you were alright.” He replied, still staring at you in disbelief. The image of you slung over Glenn and Rosita’s shoulders haunted his mind. “I think I’m ok.” You reached for your head, softly touching the stitches. You sighed, you deeply hated having stitches. You’ve only had them a few times, but it just grossed you out. You hated being hurt, too, just like Daryl you always wanted to tough it out.

“You should get some sleep.” Daryl said quietly, watching your every move. If you had the strength to laugh, you would’ve. He looked like shit, “You too.” You let out a small giggle. With this, he knew you were going to be okay. His tensed shoulders eased up at the sound of your quiet laughter. “Whatever.” Was all he said, before standing up and began looking for something. You frowned, assuming he was leaving. “Please don’t go.” Your voice was small, but Daryl didn’t turn to you. He was sifting through drawers until he found a small wash cloth that was clean. He returned to your side, laying your head back. “Not going anywhere, sunshine.” He placed the wash cloth over your eyes, blocking the sun out. You smiled, even though you couldn’t see it, he smiled at the sight of you. “I love you.” You said, before puckering up your lips. Daryl rolled his eyes, lovingly of course, before planting a gentle kiss on your lips.

“Love ya too, now sleep before you give me another heart attack.” His tone shifted on that last bit, it made you realize how scared he was. Your heart broke a bit, reaching for his hand and squeezing it. He returned to the position of sleeping at your side, this time one hand in his and the other draped over his head, you gently rubbing the back of his head till you both drifted off to sleep.

A few days pass and you were back home, just about fully recovered. You were recounting the story of what happened before the explosion when you remembered what you had been doing in that room. “Where’s my pack?” You asked mid-story. Daryl’s eyes squinted, confused at why you asked, but brought you your duffle from the kitchen to the couch. You excitedly unzipped it, holding onto what you had searched for. “I went back in that room because I found these.” You grinned, revealing a half a dozen arrows that you thought would work for Daryl’s crossbow. You handed them to him, letting him inspect the set carefully. He sighed in disbelief “Ya almost died for a couple o’ these?” He asked, still checking the set. You nodded, still beaming at the sight of him.

“Worth it to see that look on your face.” He was so damn happy, he just wouldn’t say it. He had been using the same, maybe four, arrows for two years. You couldn’t believe your eyes when you came across them, buried in a drawer. You remembered it was the last thing you had shoved in your bag before the flash of light. Daryl was afraid to hug you and thank you, the last thing he wanted to do was cause more pain. “Think they’ll work?” You asked as he put them down, along with moving the duffle from between you two. He nodded, carefully wrapping his arms around you. You welcomed the familiar feeling, pulling him into you even closer, resting your chin in the crook of his neck.

“Next time I’ll try harder not to get blown to bits.” You said, causing the both of you to laugh a bit. He pulled away. “That’d be good.” He agreed, before kissing you. “Thanks, for the set. Ya didn’t have to.” His cheeks were burning because of the gesture you had made. You shrugged. “I wanted to. I’d do it again if it came down to it.” Now, you wouldn’t want to get blown to smithereens again, but arrows were hard to come by, and now every time he used them he’d think of you. “Yea,” he scoffed, “Don’t do that again. Didn’t like sitting there all night thinkin’ I lost ya.” He stared at the ground, blaming himself as usual. The only way to get him to stop, you found, was not feeding into it. You took his face in your hands. “You sat there all night?” You assumed he did, but you weren’t certain. “Mhm, had to see those pretty eyes when they opened.” he blushed and so did you at the compliment. Your heart could’ve exploded right then and there. “I’m sorry for scaring you.” You said quietly, stroking his hair. He shook his head, “Sorry for not being there.” He replied, a sadness cloaking his usually rougher voice. You sighed, knowing damn well he would take the blame no matter what happened. “It’s not on you honey, I’m home. That’s all that matters now.” You stroked your thumbs on his cheeks, hoping to ease his pain. He looked back up at you, his eyes a bit glossy. Your heart sank, “Oh, Daryl.” You threw your arms back around him, pulling him close to you again, this time he held you as if you would disappear into thin air if he let go. You had no idea the state you were in when you had pulled up to those gates a few days ago. You had no idea Daryl thought you had died.

The two of you pulled away after awhile, placing a kiss on his lips before looking him in the eyes again. “Can’t believe I almost got blown up, how dumb was that?” You joked, knowing that was definitely one of Daryl’s thoughts hearing the story. He shook his head, laughing at you. There you were, cracking jokes about nearly dying.

That’s his girl. And there wasn’t another place on earth he’d want to spent his night.

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a/n - let me know your thoughts!! would love to take requests too in my ask <3 thank u for all the love on Boots!!

[bump1nthen1ght]

A Very Monstrous Kinktober (2024) Day 28 - Sex Pollen

Kink: Sex Pollen

Pairing: F!Reader x F!Plant Monster

Other Kinks: Light Bondage, Slight Sweat Kink

Warnings: Dubious Consent

Word Count: 1457 words

Kinktober Masterlist

Sometimes, curiosity really does kill the cat.

That’s the last coherent thought you had when you stumbled onto the bush, falling to the ground as plumes of alien pollen quickly fill the air around you. Your panic makes you take in deep heaving breaths, practically snorting the foreign contaminant like a drug.That’s probably why they recommended wearing the gas mask at all times, even if that atmosphere on this planet was comparable to your own.

Fuck, fuck!

Maybe it’s just placebo, but already your body temperature has gone up, your heart rate increasing, more and more of the pollen stuffing up your nose. You have the wherewithal to shove your shirt collar over your face, but not before your legs give out from under you.

You lie flat on the ground, ensconced in ankle-height vegetation as the yellow dust settles onto your clothes, coating you like powdered sugar. Your vision is starting to haze, your body in an absolute panic as it tries to move, but can’t. Your muscles feel sluggish and heavy, some kind of burning sensation under the skin sapping all your energy.

It’s so….hot.

The panic begins to slip away. You’re still hot, your heart still beats, but it’s more…pleasant. It sends goosebumps down your spine, has your body relaxing and legs spreading open. Something long and slippery rubs at your thigh and you don’t even react, just sink into the touch.

“Well, aren’t you a cutie?”

Something in the shape of a hand grips your jaw, breath exhaling across your lips as your eyes struggle to catch focus.

The pollen must be a hallucinogenic, because your eyes swear there’s a woman on top of you. You can’t see her that well, vision still spotted and blurry, but her curvaceous form is unmistakable.

Your mouth is open, words dead in your mouth, only a faltered breath coming out. Something nudges against the crotch of your pants and makes your whole body flinch. Woah, since when have you been so sensitive?

“It must be my lucky day.” The seductive female voice purrs in your ear, chases away your anxiety as more and more tendrils wrap around your arms and legs, pulling you to lie spread eagle. You still struggle to see in her entirety, even when she straddles your waist. “I snared such an adorable little thing in my trap.”

The vines constrict, shooting an aching feeling straight down to your core. You become aware of just how wet you are, the center of your panties soaked through and sticking to your khakis. Your thighs try to close and rub together, provide some friction, but only makes the vines tighten. A keening whine comes from the back of your throat, your hips canting upward.

“So receptive already.” The figure lets out an airy chuckle. “You didn’t huff that much darling.”

The hand moves up the side of your face, the backs of knuckles brushing along your jaw. Your vision has begun to clear up, the vague shapes of a face registering in your mind. Just certainly not a human face.

The creature’s ‘skin’ is a light shade of green, her lips painted a sultry red, less like lipstick and more like a warning sign for wayward bugs. Something brushes against the side of your neck, hanging of her head like hair, but feeling far more like the leaves of weeping willow.

You’re more coherent mind would be fascinated, asking a billion questions about this new creature, about this new species you just discovered. But your drugged mind is a little more focused on one thing, and it's the vines currently trying to pry open your pants.

“A-ah!” something jolts up your stomach when a bold vine sneaks down the crotch of your underwear, slotting itself between your pussy lips. It writhes against your cunt like a massager, already drenched in your slick. Your hips roll against the pressure, your clit throbbing against it.

“Hmmm.” The creature licks her lips, revealing a long and ribbed purple tongue. The thought of that on you makes your thighs clenched, legs hugging the side of the vine like it’s a stripper pole. “You taste good.” The creature hums, licking a stripe up the side of your face. The entanglements of vines shudder around you, the connected whole of this creatures body soaking up every inch of you. Something not too different from a hand grabs at the bottom of your shirt, forcing it past your sports bra so more vines can encircle your waist. The creature moves her face down from yours to your chest, nostrils flaring as she takes a deep whiff of your pheromones. “So good.” She whispers to herself, tongueing at the sides of your bra. It’s the most soaked from your hike through the forest, the salty sweat clinging the fabric to your sides.

After she’s sucked on the fabric long enough, the creature pushes up the bra, mouth latching onto your perked nipples and swirling her tongue around. Like a kid in a candy shop, she indulges in her treat, more vines joining to grab at your other one.

“Mmmph.” The creature coos, nuzzling her face into your boobs. Nails dig into the fatty flesh, making you jolt and forcing your hips against the vines. Another shock travels up your core, fresh slick gushing from your cunt. You don’t think you ever been this wet in your entire life.

The creatures licks down and down your stomach, her eyes going cross as she tastes more and more of you. Once she reaches your mound she nuzzles into your pubic hair, taking a deep whiff before the vine on your pussy movies out of the way. All of the vines shudder, wrapping tight around your extremities and pulling you open.

“Eek!” You yelp when her hand pushes back at your labial hood, covetous eyes admiring your bulging clit. That swirling tongue taps at it, rewarded by another flood of your juices.

“All for me.” The creature purrs, diving tongue first into your pussy, only focused on getting more of the taste in her mouth.

“O-ohhh.” Your mouth hangs open, breaths heavy and panting as the alien feasts on your cunt. Those ribbed sides do just as intended, stimulating your gummy walls and making you gush onto her jaw. It feels like she’s setting off firecrackers in your belly, writhing that long tongue and trying to find your g-spot.

“Oh, fuck!” Your hips roll onto her face, your clit nudging right against her nose. You can feel her lips curling up into a smirk. Seems she found it.

Her tongue is just a prehensile as her vines, pressing hard onto the sensitive spot, curling backwards and making your vision go spotty. Vines curl around your tits, pressing them together, forcing your sweat to pool at the valley in between. Like snakes they slither in between, constricting and teasing your areolas. Your body feels like it’s melting, the heat slowly cooking your brain, a profound ache settling deep in your stomach. God, why does it feel so wonderful?

“Ah-ah-ah!” You desperately grind against her tongue, the creature and her vines letting you. She seems to enjoy watching you succumb to her trap, watch you come undone. Her nostrils flare against your pussy lips, tongue now drawing shapes onto your g-spot.

You’re so desperately close, the precipice of an explosive orgasm robbing you of words and coherent thought. The creature’s keen senses make her aware of it before you do, vines pulling taut and forcing your limbs to stay rigid, offering no escape from the overwhelming feeling. You’ll come on her tongue, that she is sure of.

“I-” You slur, the needed vocabulary robbed from your drunken mind. Vines tug at your perked nipples, make every hair on your body stand on end.

Cum.

Something whispers in the back of your mind, too delirious to realize it’s not your inner monologue but her, this fascinating creature. Another ability to add to the research log.

“Fuck!” Everything convulses when your climax hits, the sudden spray of your cum on the creature’s tongue making her wiggle with joy. You’ve never squirted before, but it seems this planet is introducing you to a lot of new experiences. The creature nuzzles her face into your pussy, coating her face in your juices, lapping at your spent hole like she’s in the desert and you’re her oasis.

Your senses return to you, but slowly. You vaguely recall the creature sidling up to your side, soft curves and vines wrapping you in an even softer embrace. Hands rub at your scalp, plush lips kissing the sude of your face. The pollen’s effects have weakened, but you’re still so hot.

“You’re all mine.”

[milunalupin]

helloooo, 33centaurrii here! Decided to ask anonymously (though announcing myself beforehand defeats the entire point of being anonymous) because secondary blogs can't be used to send asks. I think that's rubbish and a hassle and it's borderline criminal that Tumblr hasn't found a way to optimize that in several years from its conception

I really liked your post-azkaban Sirius and was wondering if you could write something regarding him escaping Azkaban and reuniting with reader ...the catch is that he reunites with them in his animagus form — his fur is matted and growing in odd ways, he looks and somehow smells like he's contacted some kind of disease and he's panting like crazy as a consequence of his sedentary lifestyle in Azkaban. Reader doesn't know this! Heck, reader thinks he's someone else's emaciated stray dog :')

How angsty or how funny or fluffy this goes is totally free reign to you! I've been thinking about adult Sirius way too much for wayyyy too long that I just HAD to request it

— 🌿

ty for the request ily <3 i hope you like it !

— homecoming

post azkaban!sirius x reader ★ 1k words

With a wave of your wand, the sign on the door turned from 'open' to 'closed' and the potion shop was closed for the night. You did a quick walkthrough one more time to make sure you weren't forgetting anything, and stocked up on a few potions that you were running low on at home. Once more you flicked your wand about and the lights in the shop were off. You walked out the back door and locked up, buttoning up your coat as you started your walk home. The night was chilly but the skies were clear, allowing you to see your favorite star, the brightest in the sky.

The walk to your home wasn't terribly far, and you quite enjoyed the peaceful walks down the empty trail. Suddenly a high pitched whine stopped you in your tracks, your eyes going to a wiggling bush on the side of the road. You crouched down and got closer, just to find a bloody lump of dark matted fur, it's tongue lolling out with heavy pants.

"Oh Merlin, look at you! You poor thing, can I please help you?" you gasped, tears already forming as you looked at the weary dog. You held your hand out near it's snout to let it sniff you first, but the dog pushed its face into you hand, whining as it used all its strength to lick your arm.

"Where's your owner, sweetheart?" You frowned, only receiving another whine in response. You looked around for someone who might be looking for him, but the village had been practically empty the past few hours. The dog nudged your hand again, his dry tongue scraping against your fingertips.

"Hold on tight puppy, sorry but this may feel weird." You apologized, wrapping an arm around the animal as you whipped out your wand and quickly apparated home.

The second you arrived in your flat, you rushed around to collect your healing supplies, dropping them in front of the dog, whose eyes drooped tiredly. You were lucky you saw him when you did, his injuries were terrible and he looked like he was going to pass out any moment.

He had gashes and cut all over him, some rashes and boils the result of intentional poisoning. You muttered a quick Reparifors to revert any poison in his system, the dog letting out a large sigh and few coughs. You got up and ran to and from the kitchen to set a bowl of water next to him to drink, so you could get started on healing his other injuries while he rehydrated. You dabbed a cloth with some Murtlap Essence, gently pressing it to his larger cuts, mumbling apologies as he cried underneath you.

You managed to get the dog onto the couch on you were done with the initial healing and laid a blanket over him. His larger wounds were dressed and he looked a little better after a few bowls of water. You gave him a few scratches under his chin and picked up his bowl before walking into the kitchen to refill it. Walking back into the living room you stopped dead, the metal bowl falling from your hands and clattering to the ground, water spilling onto your rug.

On your couch sat a naked Sirius Black, the blanket thankfully laying over his lap. You stood frozen with your eyes wide, your heartbeat picking up as he sat there just staring back at you, anxiously biting at his chapped lips.

"What are you- I don't- How-" you sputtered, your breaths getting quicker as your eyes watered, unable to look away from the man in front of you. He was supposed to be in Azkaban, for Godric's sake, what was he doing here?

"Hey hey, slow down poppet, take a deep breath for me, will you?" Sirius was at your side in a second, one hand holding the blanket around his bruised hips while the other hovered over your shoulder, his tired eyes staring down into your own. "You're alright."

"I- Are you alright? How are you here, Sirius?" you sniffled, raising your hand towards his face, fingertips lightly brushing over his cheekbones as you tried but failed to hold back a sob. "Merlin you're real, you're actually here."

His arm came around you in an instant, his own body shaking as he pulled you close to him, pressing kisses into your hair. "Oh please don't cry, lovely girl."

Sirius held onto you until you became too tired to cry anymore, guilty and ashamed of the man - or rather, dog - he came back to you as. It wasn't easy escaping, no it was complete and utter hell. But the first place he thought of to go was to you, how could it not be. You had been the one to dry his tears the summer after his little brother had surrendered to the pressure of his parents and received the Dark Mark, the one who held him late at night in the astronomy tower when the letters with the Black family seal were too much to handle on his own. Of course, you were just being a good friend, maybe too good. Sirius could've never confessed his true feelings back then, he didn't know if he was stable enough to hold a relationship, and he wasn't going to risk losing you in trying, so he kept quiet. But twelve years later, your hands were still just as kind and gentle holding him, his tears dripping from the tip of his nose onto your head that held the most beautiful and purest mind he knew.

"Do you want to talk about it?" You whispered, teary eyes looking up at him.

He sighed softly and shook his head. "Tomorrow love, I think we're both a little tired after tonight."

You nodded and led him to your bedroom, where you lent him some clothes to sleep in and pulled the bed covers back, sliding in and patting the space next to you. He slipped in beside you and let out a blissful sigh, closing his eyes for a moment to relish in the silkiness of your sheets and the plushness of your pillow. The two of you laid facing each other, studying the other's appearance. You reached for his hand and squeezed lightly, a sleepy smile on your face.

"Welcome home, Sirius."

[boxofbonesfic]

Title: Tonality [3]

Pairing: Prince!Geralt x Princess!Reader

previous chapter

Summary: “The white wolf wants you. He’ll have no other.” As you grieve the loss of your father, your mother marries the king. Whilst you struggle to acclimate to your new life, you begin to suspect the interest your new brother has in you is less than familial.

Warnings: 18+ Only, Dark Fantasy, Darkfic, Step-cest, Medieval/GoT inspired AU, (Future)Smut, Dubcon/Noncon, Manipulation, Gaslighting, Obsessive Behavior, Possessive Behavior, MINORS DNI!!

A/N: more creepy dream fuel, Geralt being slimy and having ulterior motives, and a little more tension with reader and her mother. all in all, i think you guys will enjoy this latest addition. as always, please mind the warnings, and enjoy!😊🥰 divider by @firefly-graphics​

The doe’s coat is as yellow as spun gold, and she blinks at you nervously as you approach. You cannot hide your childish squeal of delight, though it vexes her further. She nickers, shifting from hoof to hoof as she blinks at you with wide eyes. 

 “Papa, is she really mine?” You ask, your quiet voice heavy with awe. “She’s beautiful.” You hold out a hand, and her nostrils flare at your scent. Her long ears flick back, laying flat against her head behind her horns. They’re small—she’s young, barely a year old, perhaps less—and still covered with soft, velvety baby fur that you know will shed as she ages. 

 “Careful,” your father’s voice is ripe with caution. “She is new. Young, still, and a bit unwieldy.” You cluck your tongue at her, producing the sugar cubes you’d stolen from your mother’s tea tray from the sleeves of your dress. “I said careful—!” The doe leans forward, pressing her muzzle into your outstretched hand. You raise an eyebrow at your father, who shakes his head, a disbelieving laugh puffing out from between his lips. You stroke her head, running your fingers gently between her antlers and softly flicking ears. 

 “She about took Gaspard’s hand off this morning, she was so wild,” he says, shaking his head. “And yet she eats from your own as if you had weaned her yourself.” 

 “Did Gaspard try sugar?” You ask, giggling as her lips tickle your palm. “Perhaps she mightn’t have tried to amputate his fingers had he kept some of his salt to himself.” The wind shifts, and beneath the doe’s thick animal scent, there is something else.

 Something like sulphur and rotting meat.

 Your hand passes down the doe’s head, and her skin sloughs off beneath your fingers, leaving shiny, white bone behind. You gag, clapping a bloody hand over your mouth as fat flies buzz lazily out of her empty eye sockets. Wrong. This is wrong, it doesn’t happen like this—

 How does it go, again?

 Your father gifts you the doe, the golden doe, you are eighteen, you are a woman now, you will ride with him on the hunt, you will—

 “Su—gar swe—et,” Your father’s voice is the buzzing of a thousand glistening black flies, his tongue is made from them, wriggling in his wide open mouth. His eyes are children’s scribbles, black and writhing, and tears like ink drip from their corners. “It tasted like sugar—”

 It is then that you remember your father is dead.

 He is dead. He is dead here, because he is dead everywhere, dead and rotting and gone but not gone and you mustn’t listen, you mustn’t—

 You wake with a sharp gasp. 

 “—Princess?” The words dissolve into a static, meaningless drone as you are thrust suddenly back into consciousness. For a moment, the dream is still overlaid over the waking world like runny watercolor as you blink groggily in the dark. Beneath your trembling fingers, you can still feel the doe’s soft, golden coat—and the sharp, polished bone of her skull. With a sweaty palm against the wall, you retch, doubling over as you heave. 

 Nothing comes up. 

 The air around you is stale, stagnant, and the taste of dust and decay blankets your tongue as you swallow down lungful after panicked lungful. One thing is abysmally clear to you as you dizzily rest a hand on the cold stone to keep yourself upright—

 You are not in your rooms. 

 Where am I?

 “Princess.” The voice sounds again, and your head snaps about wildly, your eyes wide as you stare into the dark. The dream is still there, sticking the fringes of your waking thoughts like tar, and for a moment there are two voices, one made of dark black honey, sickly sweet, and the other the insectile buzz of a thousand glassy wings all beating in unison—

 “Wh-who goes there?” You ask, dragging the back of your hand across your quivering mouth. There is a sound like the sharp rushing of air, and all at once the room is lit with warm yellow light. You suppress a scream as your father’s withered, sunken face appears before you, his eyes like children’s scribble—you shut your eyes, closing them tightly as you whimper. 

 “A dream, this is a dream, a dream—” A cool, bare hand wraps about your wrist and you scream, pulling and fighting as fiercely as you can manage. “No! No! You’re dead—!” You cry, hysterical tears creeping out of the corners of your closed eyes. 

 “I regret to inform you, little sister, that I am very much alive.” It is not your father’s voice—not the dead—but your step-brother’s. “Despite your best attempts to dispatch me.” Slowly, you open your eyes, sniffling as you meet his gaze. He nods up at your balled fists, still trembling in his grip. You can feel the heat of him through his own loose night-shirt and your thin cotton shift, and your skin prickles as he licks his lips. 

 “Release me.” You say it with more confidence than you feel. For a moment, you feel your step-brother drag his thumb across your pulse point and cock his head, as though he is considering it. 

 “Will you strike me again, little princess?” He asks, a mocking smile curling at the corners of his mouth. You scowl. “I did not plan for a midnight brawl.” You shake your head, your cheeks flaming. Geralt stares at you for a moment, like his golden eyes see something yours do not. As you prepare to make the demand again, he frees your wrists. You clutch your hands to your chest, eyeing him warily. The torch he has lit casts the long room in dim orange light, the flames dancing in his irises, turning them molten. It is the firelight, you think, that makes him look so menacing, so…

 Hungry. 

 You shiver, turning your gaze instead to your surroundings, squinting at the long stone hall in the flickering light. The cool, stagnant air is disturbed only by the sound of your quiet breath, which catches in your throat as your eyes widen.

 “Where…are we?” You ask, though you fear you know the answer already. 

 The walls are lines with alcoves bearing countless candles, stuck into the melted pools of wax left by their predecessors rather than into proper candelabras. And in neat rows in front of them… 

 Graves. Made of the same gray stone as the castle. Highly polished and clean, they are each adorned with ornate carvings of their occupants. You stare grimly at the rows and rows of polished stone, and wonder at how you might have possibly found your way here through the dark labyrinth of the castle. You think again of the dream, and gooseflesh rises again on your skin. 

 ”Did you bring me here?” You round on the prince, your brow furrowed. He chuckles in response, and the sound of it grates against you. 

 “Me? I merely followed you. In truth I had wondered why you would visit the catacombs at this hour. I thought perhaps,” his eyes narrow as a crude grin plays at the corners of his mouth. “A secret paramour, or—”

 “Do not confuse me with yourself!” You snap, wrapping your arms around your body as you shiver. The prince clucks his tongue at your ire.

 “Come now, don’t be cross, little sister,” Geralt purrs. “It wouldn’t have been proper to leave you wandering the hallways in your state of undress, muttering to yourself like a madwoman.” Your cheeks warm at his crude words, and you feel angry, embarrassed tears flush hotly into the space behind your eyes. You blink them back. 

 “I… have not walked in my sleep since I was a child,” you admit, looking down at the space between your bare feet. Geralt hums in response. Old Madge, in her half-blind wisdom had always muttered fearfully to your father about your nightly escapades. 

 A soul shouldn’t walk about at night, she would say, her thin, knobby fingers twisting strands of honeysuckle and dried lavender together into a long chain, one she would wind around your bed’s posts every night for a year until finally you stayed in it. A soul shouldn’t walk about at night. What’s it lookin’ for?

 “I fear I…” You shake your head, swallowing your concerns—they are not for him to hear.  “No matter.” For an instant, a look of disappointment crosses his face before it is gone again, leaving you to wonder if you had even seen it at all. “Thank you.” Your reluctance is palpable. “For waking me.” 

 “You’ve no need to thank me. Not yet.” His eyes glitter darkly. You swallow thickly, and they follow the movement, sweeping almost lazily down the line of your throat. “Let us go.” They flick back up to yours. “Unless you wish to spend the night here?” He gestures behind you, and you shiver again, shaking your head quickly. 

 “Please.” 

 You are grateful to leave the eerie silence of the royal catacombs behind you, following as closely as you dare behind the prince. His torch throws up strange shapes on the walls of the narrow, spiraling stairwell. You can feel the dream sitting at the edges of your thoughts, waiting eagerly to settle back over you like fog. You were not predisposed to bad dreams, and yet they seemed to be the only ones you have had since you arrived. You have been beset with dark thoughts, nipping at your heels like hungry dogs, no—

 Wolves. 

 The two of you emerge from the narrow stairwell into the empty chapel, and the vast hall echoes with your entry. The sconces are dark, and the robed, painted priests nowhere to be seen. The chapel is far less intimidating at night, the sharp features of the northern gods softened by shadow. Cold moonlight filters down softly through the domed ceiling, the colors pale and muted. For a moment, the perfectly round moon is framed perfectly by the pane of red glass containing Father Wolf, shining bright crimson above his head as you pass beneath it. 

 The choking scent of the incense is gone now, and only a trace of it remains in the still air. It is overpowered by a thick, musky animal scent that reminds you of wet fur. As the two of you cross the center of the room, Geralt hooks left, towards the wide, dark archway on the other side of the room. It gapes open like a toothless mouth, the stone floor sloping downward steeply into the dark. 

 You stop at the top of it, the warm air stirring the loose hair about your shoulders. Geralt turns to look back at you, raising a brow and cocking his head p as he lifts  the torch higher. There is a question in the tilt of his head, unspoken on the curve of his lips.

 Are you afraid?

 You are. The dank, pungent animal scent washes over you again, and you shudder. It reminds you of your father’s hunting dogs.

 “Come, little Doe.” His voice feels like cold fingers drawn across the back of your neck. “You need not fear the kennels this night.” 

 “I am not afraid.” You jut your chin out stubbornly, even as gooseflesh erupts along your arms. 

 “Good,” he purrs, licking his lips. “They can smell it.” Geralt descends down into the dark maw, and you reluctantly follow. Like most, you are no stranger to the rumors that leak steadily from King Vesemir’s halls; fantastical tales of furred beasts whose jaws were wide enough to swallow a horse whole. You clutch yourself, inching closer to the prince as the sloped path straightens out, opening into a massive cavern. 

 Geralt’s torch is little more than a pinprick of light in in the vast, unyielding dark. The warm glow only manages to dimly outline the shapes of natural stone pillars, throwing up misshapen shadows. There are still more passageways, little more than tunnels, littering the walls like pockmarks. For a moment, the light of Geralt’s torch throws a long arm across the chamber. 

 Reflected in it’s light are two, glowing orbs. Eyes, the size of dinner plates, their color impossible to describe. It was as if the eyes themselves were ablaze, glowing brightly, breaking the darkness. Over the rush of your own labored breath, you can make out the quiet scratch of claws on stone. It’s coming closer. The thought tightens your throat.

 You are powerless, paralyzed before it like prey. Are you prey? You suppress a whimper. There is warmth at your back, and you realize belatedly that it is  Geralt, so close his breath brushes the back of your neck. 

 “No fear, little princess. No fear.” 

 In less than an instant, the creature stands just beyond the ring of light cast by the prince’s torch. Faintly, you can make out the hulking shape of it; larger by far than any horse. Shaggy white fur, stained a rusty red around its muzzle, it’s ears pricked up and forward as it listens to the sound of your breath.

 “Hold out your hand.” You do, lifting a trembling palm in front of you as if to stop the wolf from coming any closer. The wolf’s lip curls, exposing the wickedly sharp tip of a fang. It sniffs at your hand, and for a moment, you fear you will draw back nothing but a bloody stump. Your shock is palpable when it presses the tip of its snout against your hand, whiskers tickling your palm. 

 “Incredible.” The word escapes with the release of your held breath. You stroke the warm, bristly hair on its muzzle slowly, your eyes still wide with disbelief. The dire-wolf snorts, claws tapping against the stone as it turns from you. As quickly as the wolf appeared, it is gone again, disappearing back into the dark. You remain as you were for a moment more, your arm still outstretched as you watch its retreating back with terrified wonder. 

 “Yrsil.” Geralt’s voice drags you back to the present, and suddenly you are aware of how close he is to you, the way his warm breath ghosts against the shell of your ear.  “The she-wolf. Her name is Yrsil.” You jump away from him, smoothing your hands down your shift as you eye him warily. 

 “Why did you bring me here?” The accusatory note in your voice appears to amuse him, further stoking your ire. “To frighten me?” 

 “If I wanted you fearful, I would not have needed the kennels to do it.” You clench your fists, glaring hatefully at him as he resumes his casual pace across the cavern floor. “Come, now. This is the quickest way back to the eastern wing of the castle. I would not lie to you.” You glare at him, your eyes narrowed.

 “Would you not?” You reply dryly. 

 “I am many things, Princess.” Geralt’s voice drips into your ears like snake oil. “But liar is not one I am eager to add to the list.” 

 True to his word, the two of you emerge from the kennel entrance in the throne room, the hot musk of below sticking uncomfortably to your skin and hair. You half expect the prince to take his leave, now that you are back in familiar territory, but he doesn’t. He keeps pace with you all the way back to your chambers. The heavy door is still slightly ajar, no doubt from your midnight venture. The prince places the lit torch in one of the empty wall sconces before leaning expectantly against the wall, his body partially blocking the doorway. 

 “Excuse me.” 

 He slowly tilts his head, fixing you with a questioning look. “I do believe there is something you are forgetting, my Lady.” He parrots Kassandra’s tone with irritating accuracy. “I know Redania keeps to the old customs as well as they can, however here in Rivia we do require a certain level of decorum.”

 You clench your fists in your nightgown. “What do you want, Geralt?” You ask, exasperated.

 “A kiss should suffice, little Doe.” He purrs. His golden eyes burn the same way they did in the gardens the night of your mother’s coronation. You shake your head in disbelief as you stare at him, your lips parted. 

 “Y-you cannot ask this of me!” Your repudiation is a shrill squeak. “T-tis  indecent, w-we cannot—!” You shake your head again. “The king will not allow—”

 “I think you will find, little sister,” he reaches forward to trace the pad of his forefinger along your jaw-line, “that it matters not what the king will allow if he is not present. Do you see him?”He pushes your head to the side, forcing you to look down the hallway. “I don’t.” This is the closest Geralt has ever been to you, practically pressing you against the wall, caging you in with his massive arms. You understand now, the message relayed beneath his words—you are in no position to negotiate. 

 “You are my brother!” You plead, but he is unmoved. 

 “In name only.” He leans down, twining a lock of hair between his fingers, tugging it gently. “My father’s sham of a marriage has remarkably little to do with me.” You press yourself against the stone as he leans closer. “Come now, little Doe. Let us speak truth.” He tugs gently at the satin ribbon at the neck of your shift and it falls open. 

 “What you saw in the gardens intrigued you,” Geralt traces a path from your chin to your collarbone, his fingers feather-light, “did it not?”

 “No!” His open amusement at your conviction is like cold water down your back. 

 “I saw, Sweetling,” he says lowly. “The look on your face—”

 “Fine!” You shrill, tearing yourself away from him. It is not true, it cannot be—and yet, your blood rushes through your veins, a thin tendril of that same shameful longing uncurling in your belly. The dark curiosity that had driven you to peer around the hedge all those nights ago surges with sinful familiarity, even as you try to stamp it out.

 You lean forward with a grimace, rolling onto the tips of your toes. The prince cups your chin, smoothing a finger along your lower lip. He is unprepared for you to turn your head sharply, your lips brushing against his stubbled cheek. It is only the quickness of your movement and Prince Geralt’s own surprise that allows your malicious compliance, and you dart away, ducking under his arm and through the slim gap in the door. 

 He snarls, reaching for you, but you slam the it shut, sliding the bolt into place with speed that surprises you. Your heart hammers against your chest as for a brief moment, there is silence on the other side of the door. 

 “Aren’t you clever,” he sneers, his voice muffled through the wood.  He tries the handle before letting out a muted curse. “Open the door.” Your silence earns you a dark growl. “Open it!”

  You jump back from the door, muffling the sound of your scream with the palms of your hands as Geralt throws himself against it. It shudders in its frame, and for a terrifying moment you fear it will burst open, revealing the enraged prince on the other side—but it does not.

 “Open it!” You shrink against the wall as he seethes, his threats echoing in your ears. The sturdy wood holds against his assault, and when he finally stops, you can hear the sound of his labored breathing on the other side. That too, gradually fades into silence, and cautiously, you approach the door. Somehow, though you cannot see him, you know he remains there, waiting. 

 “You will regret this night.” There is grim promise in his words. “Little sister.” The sound of Geralt’s retreating footsteps makes your shoulders sag with relief, and you collapse against the wall, your breath labored. Though you doubt he is still there, waiting to ambush you in the hall, you do not dare open the door again until morning—

 Just in case. 

 —

 “It is a beautiful day, is it not?” Your mother flutters her fan daintily as she basks in the warm end-of-summer sun. To her right, Lady Amelia, red-faced and sweating beneath her pale face paint, forces a smile through her obvious discomfort.

 “Oh yes, Highness.” She blinks as a cloudy bead of sweat slides down into her eye. “Lovely.”

 You know the noblewomen fawning over your mother would much rather be inside, sheltered from the hot sun by the cold stone of the castle. It was where you would have been, if not for the summons from your mother. You had spent the majority of the past week or so in your chambers, reluctantly leaving them only when strictly necessary in your attempts to avoid the prince.

 The Prince.

 At the thought of him, you cast a wary glance at your surroundings, looking for the telltale gleam of his golden eyes, or the shock of his snow white hair. Thankfully, you find neither. Crossing the patch of soft, green grass toward your mother, you perch impatiently on the end of the carved stone bench as you wait for her to notice you. You make idle conversation with her ladies as you wait, twisting your fingers nervously in the fabric of your skirts while you try to parse out your request.

 I want to go home. 

 “Ah, daughter,” she greets you, and you drop your head respectfully as she addresses you. “Come to enjoy the weather?” She gestures around her at the blooming garden. “I daresay we shall miss it soon enough.”  She stretches, the jewels adorning her fingers and throat shining brilliantly in the sun.

 “It is lovely,” you say, nodding agreeably. “It does remind me of home.” You curse yourself as the word slips from your lips. Instantly, your eyes fly to your mother’s face, watching for the displeasure you know you will see written in the stiffness of her smile or the narrowed slant of her eyes. 

 “Of Redania, you mean.” The soft curve of her lips belie the dagger sharp edges of her words. The smile you force in return is weak, trembling at the edges of your mouth. 

 “Y-yes. That is… what I meant to say.” You do not miss the way her ladies lean in amongst themselves, whispering. “D-did you wish to speak with me?” Though the day is unseasonably warm, and you yourself are surrounded by people, you feel small and cold and alone. Adrift. 

 “Must a mother need a reason to see her child?” She asks, rising gracefully from her seat. One of the servants rushes over with a parasol, but she waves him away, shaking her head. “If a reason must be given, I suppose mine might be that I have missed you.”  She loops her arm through one of yours securely, steering you off the patch of cool grass and back onto the garden path proper.  The whispers of her ladies follow behind you, biting at your heels they fade. 

 “I am your mother, and yet I cannot recall when last we broke bread together.” 

 “I have found myself quite exhausted, of late,” You mumble the half truth. “I fear the journey weighs heavily upon me still.” You suppress a shudder as you remember the dream, your father’s rotting face bloated with fat maggots—“I have not slept well.” 

 “Late night escapades do tend to be quite exhausting.” Her lips curve into a cold, knowing smile, and your belly fills with hot lead. Shame turns the blood in your veins to ice as your mother inspects her sleeve. A terrible fury rages beneath the placid surface of her pleasantries, and you cower in the face of it. 

 “M-mother, I—” The words will not come, leaving you floundering as your mouth opens and closes in silence. “H-he—”

 “Did you think I would not see it?” She spits. Disgust drips from the words.    “Would not notice his...” She pauses, her eyes narrowing as her mouth twists with displeasure. “Interest.” You swallow against the lump in your throat, knowing it matters not but still wondering who might have seen, who might have witnessed Prince Geralt raging at your door. 

 “Mother, I-I swear to you, I have done nothing—! H-he, I—I walked in my sleep, a-and he found me, I—nothing happened!” You hate the look on her face, like your pleas of innocence have only confirmed your guilt. “Nothing—”

 “Nothing?” Her lip curls. “You must know these games you play, all they have done is pique his interest.” She speaks as though somehow, you should have known better. “Men are stupid, willful creatures, desirous of what they cannot have.” She clucks her tongue at you. “Your father coddled you far too long—you are a woman grown! It is long past time you act like it!” 

 “Father would believe me!” You sob. Hot, angry tears spill down your cheeks.   “I am innocent!” Your mother stares at you coldly, before reaching forward to cup your chin. 

 “It is not your innocence I question.” Your mother’s voice is deceptively soft.   “It is your sense.” You blink at her through your tears, trembling. “My sweet, naive girl.” She wipes roughly at your tears with the pad of her thumb. The cold distance in her eyes splits you cleanly down the middle like a sharp blade. There is part of you that wants to fawn, to deliver honeyed words on a platter until her love shines down on you again like the sun—

 And part that wants nothing more than to flee. You want to ask—no, beg—for her to send you home, to return you to the walls you knew better than the lines on your own palms. Your mother embraces you, her lips brushing your cheek even as your own work silently. The words won’t come, like they are stuck in your throat. 

 “There should be only honesty between us.” Your mother says. “Understand?”

 I want to go home.

 Send me home.

 Please.

 “Yes.” You hang your head in defeat, the words retreating from your tongue.  

 “Good.” She chirps as she leans away. She is herself again, smiling affectionately as she brushes imaginary dirt from your dress, tucking loose strands of hair back into your fraying braid. “And you’ll tidy up for supper, won’t you? We have missed you at the table these past nights.” You clasp your hands together so tightly that your palms sting as you force a smile.

 “Of course.” 

 For a moment, just a moment, the warm breeze carries with it the smell of rot and earth, and you remember the doe, your father’s gift dead and bloated in the patch of hexweed in the woods. 

 It smells like sugarcane, but it isn’t, your father had taught you young. It smells sweet, but it’s not, understand? 

 Perhaps, you think, as you reluctantly follow your mother’s retreating back, people can be hexweed too.

to be continued…

next

Thank you for reading! Please check out my masterlist for other, similar works, and follow my library blog, @box-of-bones-library for updates. ❤️

[cryptidclownz]

updated ref of my oc naryn!

no bg + scarred alternate

i tried my hand at writing a little scene of the whole naryn/lamb backstory!! im not super proud of it but i dont usually share my writing so i figured i might as well!

—

Another crusade through Darkwood gave the lamb time to think. To unwind. Slaughtering beasts and heretics was a favorite pastime of theirs, but their followers grew ever needy. Demanding. They dreaded a request for materials that would be better spent on medicine and worship, but the scolding their god would give them if they refused was just as infuriating. A leader must provide, he would tell them. Your followers will dissent without proper care. Coddling, more like. Lambert was not a gentle leader, and they had no intention to be one. As much as they wished they could toss their flock to the wolves and go on about their life, The Lamb knew Narinder was right. Their flock would be rewarded for hard work and good behavior, any recruits would find their new life comfortable as long as they behaved. If they didn’t, The One Who Waits had no issue if a follower appeared in his realm in the middle of the night now and then.

Although they were out to gather camellias for a follower desperate to win one of their disciple’s affection, Lambert felt right at home in the dungeons. They handled heretics and monsters with relative ease, well acquainted with the tricks enemy cultists thought would fool them.

The Lamb walked, bored, through another few clearings, only sometimes remembering their original task and picking a few flowers to toss into the crown’s infinite storage. A soft rustling in the trees, the telling shuffling of feet on the ground. The Lamb’s sword was drawn before the ambush had even landed around them.

Boring. Predictable.

They went after the boldest attacker first; a smaller hooded figure than the others who carried an unproportionately large axe. It swung at them, but the weight of the axe slowed it down. The blade of The Lamb’s sword hit the axe’s hilt, slamming it down just inches away from their hooves with unexpected power. The heretic wasn’t given the time to pry its weapon out of the dirt before the Lamb swung at its neck, slicing past muscle and bone with a sickening slap.

The Lamb didn’t behead it, leaving the near-dead heretic to scream in agony for a few moments before it finally died. They were unphased by the rest of the troop storming toward them, having learned by now that heretics don’t take the time to mourn their fallen.

The sword almost seemed to move on its own; slicing through the throats of some and gutting others. Lambert cast a curse in the direction of the two remaining, though the tentacles that rose from the ground only caught one. The Lamb didn’t mind. They preferred to do the work themselves, anyway.

They gripped the handle of the crown’s sword tightly, taking chase after the last remaining heretic. The Lamb moved with powerful, calculated steps, letting the runner think it had a chance to get away. It wasn’t every day that an attacker would try to run, after all.

–

The heretic bolted.

He ran with all of his might, adrenaline willing his trembling body forward despite the gash in his side and the blood of his troop that stained his person. The uniformed hood he wore fell back with every desperate leap forward, and the cold air that rushed past his fur made the tips of his ears burn. He didn’t dare look back, too afraid to see the figure of that monster behind him. The heretic hardly noticed the tears that whipped past his cheeks, wet and sticky like the rest of the blood that coated him. Not his blood. He was alive, even if his friends weren’t. Gods, they were gone, weren’t they? They were-

His foot caught on a slippery root. The cat was flat on the ground before he could feel the sharp sting of pain from his ankle.

“No,” He choked out, voice hoarse. “No, no, no, no-”

Slow, heavy footsteps cut off his thoughts. The heretic kicked and clawed desperately at the dirt beneath him, but his movements were frantic and uncoordinated. The Lamb would have found it funny if they weren’t irritated by the sticky residue coating their arms and fleece. They approached the hooded figure so slowly it was cruel, listening to the panicked breaths and gasps that came from it.

“Rise, heretic,” Their voice was horrifyingly level, and the hooded figure could spot the glint of their sword out of the corner of his eye as they lifted it towards him. He was going to die.

“P-Please,” The voice that sounded from the heretic was quiet and shaky, but his limbs trembled more violently as he propped himself up on his forearms and cautiously turned. With his ankle still caught on the root, the cat was forced to twist his body to look up. His hood slowly fell from his ears, no longer casting any shadows on his face. He was going to die. “Please, spare me.”

The Lamb froze.

They stared down at the heretic before them, eyes widening in a state of shock that was entirely foreign to them.

A black cat stared back, the dark amber of his tear-filled eyes glinting red in the sparse lighting of the Darkwood forest. His long, pointed ears pinned back against his skull, the tips nearly pressing together. His fur was blood-splattered and matting in the direction of the drying redness, but the Lamb could still see that perfect black beneath it. Their eyes shifted to the heretic’s forehead, where a discolored splatter of blood stained the fur. At least, that’s what they thought it was.

Their eyes narrowed.

The Lamb moved closer, stepping over the root that the cowardly heretic was trapped underneath. They stood in front of him, sword lowered but still pointed near the cat’s head. Unsatisfied by what they saw, the Lamb lowered to a squat, causing him to gasp and flinch back. His eyes screwed shut, awaiting the same agonizing pain that he’d just witnessed his troop suffer.

And yet, it never came. Instead, he felt a hand on the top of his head, firmly planted but not suggesting any malice. The Lamb took a moment to feel his fur. Soft, they realized. Such a familiar texture.

Their hand moved further down, landing on the red blood on the heretic’s forehead. They pressed down and slid their hand to the side, expecting it to smear or crumble off entirely. When that didn’t happen, their breath quickened. The cat didn’t know why. He pried his eyes slowly open, pupils dilated about as far as they would go. He searched the Lamb’s expression warily, but he was about as lost as they were. It was hard to distinguish exactly what this was. Excitement? Fear? Confusion? Maybe it was a mix of everything. The source of their confliction, however, was no question.

This heretic was the spitting image of The One Who Waits, down to the most subtle stripes in his fur and the red in his eyes. The red mark on his forehead was distinctly eye-shaped, like some sort of mimic of their god’s divine features. It was almost revolting, the fact that a lowly heretic would be blessed with such features–- such mockery. The Lamb’s expression hardened, and the heretic noticed. He wanted to pull away, to scream, to plead for his life, but the heretic’s throat ran dry. He could only watch as the Lamb continued to inspect him as if they were searching for just one inconsistency; one reason to kill the vile mimic that tried to fool them. There were none.

“You...” The Lamb began, dropping their hand to the underside of his jaw and jerking his head up. There was no telling what went on in their head, even as their sword warped back into the shape of a crown and sat atop their head. Their glare seemed to soften a moment later. “Where have you been?”

[wordingg]

Revenge Is Cold Comfort

Dead Boy Ween Day Two ~ Prompt: Comfort

Summary: Charles and Edwin go to a park to see some ducks and Charles gets into a fight.

AN: check the tags on this one, just in case. there is comfort, but you gotta make it to the end!

It was a rare day that saw Charles and Edwin spending time together without Crystal about. But, as she had so firmly told them "these curls don't maintain themselves" and had warned them in no uncertain terms not to bother her while she was at the salon or she would "punt them directly into the sun" they decided to honor her wishes and give her a day to herself.

So, Charles and Edwin found themselves with a whole day to fill, with no pressing cases to work on and no Crystal to bother.

After a few minutes of the both of them puttering around the office uselessly, Charles said, "We haven't had a day out ourselves in, God..." Charles looked up at the ceiling like it would have his answer.

"Not since April," Edwin helpfully supplied. That day had been quite lovely. Charles and Edwin had attended a performance of Shakespeare in the park and then spent the afternoon in a nearby combination coffee shop / bookstore where Edwin was able to peruse both the interesting people and the new releases just put on the shelves.

"Right. That's way too long, probably," Charles said with a wrinkle of his nose. "Let's go out!" he said, clapping his hands and grinning at Edwin devilishly. Edwin firmly told his heart to go back where it belonged and stop trying to climb up his throat. Charles looked quite devious, but he often did. It didn't require that kind of reaction from him of all people.

Swallowing, Edwin turned on his heel to grab his coat and shrugged it on. "Capital idea, Charles. Lead the way."

They ended up in a park a bit farther away from the office than Edwin had expected. "I want to see the ducks!" Charles had insisted when Edwin asked why he had picked that particular park. He supposed that was as good a reason as any. Ducks were perfectly pleasant to look at.

It was a clear and warm autumn day, the strong buttery sunshine chasing off most of the chill. That being the case, the park was full of people, despite it being the middle of a weekday. True to his word, Charles went straight for the duck pond, crouching down at the edge and gazing intently at the ducks swimming in lazy curves along the flat mirror like surface of the water.

"D'you ever think it's odd that only cats can talk?" Charles asked idly as he frowned at a particularly round mallard duck that looped around to point one beady dark eye at him suspiciously. "I feel that if cats of all creature can talk, surely ducks can too."

Edwin frowned down at Charles. He looked again at the especially rotund duck who was apparently engaged in a serious staring competition with Charles. Sometimes, even after thirty-eight years of living together, Edwin still had no idea what went on inside Charles' head. When Charles wasn't speculating about the communication abilities of aquatic birds, Edwin could appreciate Charles' unique way of thinking as an asset to the agency and something to be admired. It was hard to remember that while he was staring down a duck.

"I'm certain I have no idea," Edwin muttered, despairing at the thought of what the rest of the day had in store for him. Hopefully not more ducks.

Whatever Charles was about to say in response was cut off by the sound of a loud smack just behind them. Before Edwin had even fully turned around, Charles was on his feet and walking fast.

Only a dozen feet away was the apparent source of the sound. A large man holding a now crying little girl by her upper arm and whispering fiercely at her. His free hand was still raised threateningly and she was holding her steadily reddening cheek in one little hand, her big brown eyes welling over with shining tears. It didn't take a detective to put the sound and the scene together and realize what had happened.

"Oi!" Charles shouted, still stalking toward the scene.

"Charles," Edwin called, hurrying after them. "They can't hear you," he said, already knowing that it didn't matter.

Charles got right up into the man's face, squaring up like he was ready for a fight. "Oi, you wanna do that again, mate?" he spat.

The man didn't react, of course. He couldn't see them. But, the little girls' eyes got even bigger as they focused on Charles and the way he had pushed himself between her and the man.

"Are you listening to me, you little brat?" the man shouted, giving the girl a hard shake.

"Get your FUCKING hands off her!" Charles shouted, giving the man a hard shove. The man went flying backward, his eyes now almost as big as the little girl.

When the girl stumbled, Edwin stepped in smartly to catch and right her before she could fall. She gasped at his touch and he took his hands away quickly. He understood that touching a ghost could be quite unpleasant for the living, but he didn't want to let the little girl fall either.

She turned her big wet brown eyes up at Edwin and he felt his heart melt a little despite himself. Her tears had stopped, but her cheek was already starting to swell, the poor thing. He tried his best to give her a reassuring smile and held his index finger up in front of his mouth.

"Oh," she said faintly and then nodded. She shuffled a little closer to him and Edwin tried not coo at her.

Just a few feet away, the man was shouting and cussing up a storm as Charles kicked his feet out from under him every time he tried to stand up. A small knot of people had gathered around to watch, a few of them with their smartphones out to record what to them likely looked like a man flailing about wildly and somehow failing over and over to gain his feet.

After almost a full two minutes of that, someone finally noticed the little girl standing back with a swollen red cheek and tear tracks on her face. A kind looking middle aged woman who had been watching the man in concern glanced over, her eyebrows shooting up her forehead as she saw the girl. She hurried over and physically put herself between the man and the girl, which Edwin approved of.

"Hello, dearie," she said as she knelt down to the little girl's level. She had a bit of a northern accent and she smiled kindly at the little girl. Edwin watched her closely, cataloging her appearance and temperament (the woman was wearing a cardigan, she had a purse and sensible shoes, she was wearing a wedding ring on her left hand third finger, the edge of a tattoo peaked out from beneath her collar) and found nothing to raise his concern. "How did you get hurt? Are you all right? Are your parents here somewhere?" the woman asked.

Behind them, Charles had stopped tripping the man and a few good samaritans had stepped forward to ask if he was having a seizure or a stroke and if they should call the paramedics. The man seemed shaken and confused and was having trouble answering.

The little girl looked up at Edwin questioningly. "I think you can trust her," Edwin said quietly. "Tell her the truth."

The little girl nodded seriously and then turned back to the woman. She was looking up at Edwin with a frown, but obviously couldn't see him. Her attention went right back to the girl when she looked at her.

"That's my uncle, Samuel," the girl said very clearly, pointing over the woman's shoulder at the man still slumped on the ground. "He smacked me for getting my dress dirty," she said sadly, fingering a little spot of mud on the end of her skirt.

"Wanker," Charles spat, stepping up behind Edwin. The girl's eyes flew to Charles and his own widened in surprise. "Oh! Uh, I mean. What a meanie?" Charles looked desperate to Edwin for help.

Edwin gave Charles an unimpressed look. "Really, Charles."

"Right. Sorry," Charles winced in apology. He turned back to the little girl to give her a big warm smile, the kind of smile that Edwin sometimes felt might be burnt onto the back of his eyelids because it was so bright and unforgettable. "Don't you worry about him, love. He won't be bothering you anymore, I don't think."

The woman, unaware of this little exchange, was already on her cellular device talking to emergency services. She had her arm tucked around the little girl's waist and was shooting nervous glances at the man who still seemed not to remember to look for his niece. Edwin thought this was quite right. It was gratifying to know that there were still good people in the world who would step in to do the right thing, whether he and Charles were there or not.

"Are you fairies?" the little girl asked Charles with her big shining eyes focused entirely on him.

"What?" the woman asked, a little shocked. She looked toward where Charles and Edwin were standing with concern and then demanded into her small rectangular telephone "Please hurry! She's in shock, the poor thing."

Edwin wrinkled his nose at the implication that he and Charles might be fey. "Absolutely not," he declared. "If you ever see a real fairy, do not speak to them. They are quite insufferable," Edwin informed her seriously. He and Charles had more than a few run in with fairies over the years of working cases and every one down the last was the most awful bit of nonsense he had ever had the misfortune of coming across.

"We're ghosts. Ghost detectives, actually," Charles explained. He then elbowed Edwin, which Edwin felt was quite uncalled for. "Give her our card, mate," he said with a smile.

Huffing, Edwin pulled one of their enchanted business cards from the inside pocket of his coat and offered it to the little girl. She took it very carefully, looking down at it like it was magic, which Edwin supposed it was. Luckily the woman had been too busy watching two police officers approach at a fast walk to notice the card appearing in the little girl's hand.

"You can tuck that business card into an envelope with a letter and then put it under your bed and it will be delivered to us," Edwin informed her.

"Or you can call the number on there," Charles said, pointing to the phone number printed neatly under their address. "We have one now. Right handy, it is," he said with a smile.

Edwin looked up at the clear blue sky and took a deep breath. A phone number just didn't have the same gravitas as a magical business card that could summon the dead postman who delivered their mail, but he couldn't begrudge Charles anything. Even ruining a good moment.

"Yes, or you can use the telephone number," Edwin sighed.

"Thank you," the little girl whispered, before the two police approached her and the woman and they were both pulled into a serious conversation about what had just happened.

Charles and Edwin stayed in the park for a long time. They watched the police talk to the little girl, and then more police arrived to speak to her uncle, and then more police arrived to put her uncle in the back of a vehicle in handcuffs, and finally the girl's mother, still dressed in an apron and non-slip shoes, ran crying through the park to scoop her daughter up in her arms. The nice older woman also stayed the whole time. Edwin had privately begun to think of the three of them as the little girl's volunteer security team. She certainly looked at all three of them like she trusted them to keep her safe. That was a feeling that Edwin would cherish for a long time.

The sun was setting by the time that the last of the police and the crowd of onlookers finally dispersed. The ducks, who had been avoiding the side of the duck pond that had been host to so much chaos, finally returned to swimming lazy half circles in the water near the edge.

Charles sat in the short brown grass watching them. Edwin wanted to scold him for sitting on the bank that was surely more duck feces than it was grass, but knew that it didn't really matter. It wasn't as if Charles' clothing could get dirty from something as mundane as duck poop.

After a long time spent with the two of them staring morosely at the ducks, Charles said, "Sorry for losing it there for a bit."

"Quite understandable," Edwin assured him quietly. He peaked at Charles from the corner of his eye. He was frowning at the shining surface of the pond, his eyes not tracking any of the ducks, his hands fisted in the material of his pants.

"It's not," he bit out. "If I was smart, I would have looked out for the little girl instead of just-" Charles bit off whatever he meant to say. Edwin actually heard his teeth click together as he did it. "You had your priorities straight. You kept her safe," Charles said, finally turning to look at Edwin. His eyes shined too much in the warm orange light of the sunset, betraying the tears swimming at the edges of his dark curling eyelashes.

Warning lights were going off in Edwin's head. This subject was a minefield and Edwin was uniquely unqualified to navigate it. He never knew what the right thing to say was, when emotions were involved. He barely knew the right thing to say when they weren't.

But, Charles looked so beautiful and tragic in the fading light of autumn, that Edwin knew he must try, come what may.

Hesitantly, Edwin reached out and placed his hand over Charles'. He carefully pulled the hand loose from his pants and weaved his fingers between his friend's. He looked down at their fingers twined together, because he felt if he looked at Charles' face he would never be able to put his thoughts together.

"Perhaps I stayed with the girl, but the only reason I could do that was because I knew I could trust you to keep that man away from her," Edwin said.

Charles made a strange sound and Edwin looked up at him. The tears had escaped and were running down Charles' cheeks, spectral fluid glowing a pale blue in the fading sunlight.

"Charles, you are kind, and strong, and most of all compassionate. I would never disparage you for being yourself, because I love the person that you are," Edwin said firmly.

And then he wrapped his arms around his best friend in the world and let him cry onto his shoulder as the sun sank below the horizon and the ducks finally left the pond to find their own place to roost.

[deanstead]

Model Husband

Pairing: Connor Rhodes x Reader

Requested: yes, by @lelaartt

Summary: Stressful day, but at least there's Connor.

Word Count: 819

Tags/Warnings: Established Relationship, mentions of death

A/N: I know I haven't posted in a while, but this has been sitting in my drafts for... forever lol. Please bear with me, this semester is kinda crazed.

CONNOR RHODES MASTERLIST

It had been a long day. A long draining day and Connor was just looking forward to seeing you and having a quiet night together.

Figuring he’d check if you were ready, Connor left the doctor’s lounge still in his white coat, taking the lift right up to the ICU.

As he stepped in, he caught sight of you immediately, running towards one of the rooms where there was an obvious code blue, a rush of staff heading towards the room.

Connor stood to the side against an empty side of the station, quietly watching as you worked quickly to assist the doctor standing next to you.

It must have been a tough day for you too, Connor caught himself thinking as his eyes followed you. Anyone else would have missed it - the slight droop in your shoulders, or the way you stood telling him you had that persistent ache at that one point on your shoulders that kept coming back to haunt you.

Connor looked down as he picked up on the sounds of “Clear!” from the doctor that was working on the patient. But Connor also knew well enough the chances…

He held back an audible sigh as the faint sound of a flat line made its way out to him. Now, the look in your eyes told him he really needed to get you out of there.

You looked up, catching sight of your husband now. Even just seeing him from afar made you want to cry, so you gave him a small smile and he nodded, telling you not to worry and that he’d be right there waiting.

If anyone asked how you’d gotten from the hospital back home, you’d have to ask them to ask Connor.

You were drained, both physically and mentally. The knotted ache in your shoulder that was consistently giving you issues was acting up again, you felt dead on your feet and the ICU had lost three patients today.

You weren’t exactly emotionally attached. You were an experienced enough nurse to handle that well, but even so losing patients was draining no matter what.

“Here.”

Connor handed you a plate and you smiled up at your husband from where you were seated with your legs crossed on the couch.

Like a model husband, Connor had insisted on preparing dinner while you took a hot shower which had definitely made you feel a lot better even though the knot in your shoulder was still there.

“Thanks, babe.” You answered, not realizing how hungry you were until the smell of pasta reached you as you took the plate in your hands.

The both of you ate in mostly silence, but Connor sat close by and that in itself made you feel better and you glanced at your husband, who returned you a smile.

Connor took the empty plate out of your hands and you frowned.

“You already cooked.”

Connor shook his head. “Just fulfilling my husband duties.”

“I knew I married you for a reason.” You announced in a sort of teasing fashion that would have been more convincing if you weren’t so exhausted.

Connor just smiled and pressed a kiss to the top of your head before you heard him patter off to the kitchen, flipping on the stereo on his way.

Music was now playing softly in the apartment and you closed your eyes for a while, the faint sound of running water from the kitchen mixing together with the soft music tones. This was the kind of evening you needed, especially today.

You opened your eyes again when you felt Connor’s hands touch your shoulder from behind you and you glanced up at him.

“What’s going on?” You asked with a smile. “Is today a special day I don’t know about?”

The words were barely out of your mouth before your brain started working, trying to figure out if you had forgotten a date or something.

Connor shook his head. “Relax. The ache’s been bothering you today, hasn’t it?”

You felt his thumb press firmly against the knot, and you exhaled, the stress seeming to leave your body almost instantaneously.

You closed your eyes, feeling Connor’s fingers seemingly press out all the negative feelings and stress from the day.

Angling your head upwards again, you reached up for his hand. “You must be tired too, come here.”

“You sure?”

You smiled, tugging gently so that Connor would make his way back around to the front of the couch and next to you.

“This is the best way you can help me recharge.” You said, fitting yourself right into his arms , both of you sprawled on the couch.

Connor smiled, his arms looping around your body. “Me too.”

You chuckled, resting the back of your head against his chest, feeling the edges of Connor’s stubble against your temple and knowing this was the perfect way to end a stressful day.

THANK YOU FOR READING!! PLEASE TELL ME WHAT YOU THOUGHT OF THIS!!

If you want to support me, buy me a coffee!

[alexendria-rose]

Evermore~

Sherlock Holmes X Reader

Warnings: sad times, cussing

I was the one who had it all I was the master of my fate I never needed anybody in my life I learned the truth too late I'll never shake away the pain I close my eyes but she's still there I let her steal into my melancholy heart It's more than I can bear

He knew letting her in his life was a bad idea, he knew falling in love with her was his biggest weakness. Looking at her from afar seeing her having a coffee from the sidelines as it poured outside, seeing her smile and laugh with someone other then him made his stomach churn in ways he didn't think were possible. He didn't understand this feeling, he never needed anyone, he was content by himself, but maybe he was wrong. Just maybe... he felt his heart drop as he saw the love of his life kiss someone else in front of him. He knew he let her go... all because of his selfish reasons all because he lied to her that he could never fall in love knowing that he was really protecting her from more pain

Now I know she'll never leave me Even as she runs away She will still torment me Calm me, hurt me Move me, come what may

"Sherlock why are you doing this!" She cried loudly as his back was turned not daring to lock eyes with her.

"I don't have friends, just like I don't do relationships. This was a joke Y/n..." He whispered softly. Y/n tears were rolling down her face, fist clumped together as she stared at the man she stupidly fell in love with.

"You're lying to me and yourself. Why are you doing this!" She shouted the tears just coming down her cheeks faster. Sherlock cleared his throat... he had to have her disconnect from him because he knew what he was going to have to do was going to hurt her more.

"Y/n you were just an experiment and its done, I cannot continue to be in this thing called "love" because I'm not someone who is loved. You need to understand." He says his face and tone monotone as he stared at her. Her lip trembled as she looked at him wiping her tears as she grabbed her coat.

"I never want to see you again." Her last words were before she exited the flat, his legs gave out as soon as she left the flat. And he kept to her word... she would never see him again.

His hand shock when he thought of the memory of the last time he saw her, knowing breaking her heart before he jumped off that building would save her and here she was with another man in love with her life, happy just the way he hoped, it didn't mean he didn't hurt. He's learned a lot since he's been away for two years, how much he missed her, how much he missed not being lonely and now he had to deal with the consequences of his own actions of pushing away the people he loved the most.

Wasting in my lonely tower Waiting by an open door I'll fool myself, she'll walk right in And be with me for evermore

Sherlock stood by his window closing his eyes as he played the melody of what he was feeling in that moment on his violin. His melody was full of heart break, full of loneliness and regret. He hasn't told anyone but Mrs. Hudson that he was back, he couldn't bare seeing the betrayal from the ones he left to fend for themselves. He was so immersed with his playing he didn't hear the sound of the door opening but he did hear the sound of glass dropping which immediately made him stop his playing turning around to the source of the noise, his eyes widening at the beautiful eyes looking into his.

"Y/n.." He whispers softly his eyes darting over her features. Her face looked like she just saw a ghost. Sherlock slowly puts the violin down as he makes his way towards her.

"You're dead, you're supposed to be dead." She whispered softly his eyes darting towards the broken cup that sat next to her feet.

"I'm not, it was all fake. I had to take down moriarty's network. I had to protect you." He mumbles softly making his way towards her, but she just stepped back not allowing herself to get close to him.

"No no this can't be happening..." She says her eyes not believing that he was actually in front of her. He reaches up and grabs her hand to tell her that this was indeed happening. Her eyes snap down to their hands, her hand trembling in his.

"Y/n I'm here, I promise. I came back for you." Sherlock says his voice wavering just slightly. She drops his hand and scoffs.

"Came back for me? I needed you two years ago!" She sobs turning her back to him, her hands gripping her hair. "Two. Bloody. Years. You made me believe awful things about you. You said I was an experiment, someone you could just toy with until you had your fix of me." She whips her head towards him, her eyes red from anger and sadness. Sherlock heart dropped at the sight of her, he never wanted this to happen.

I rage against the trials of love I curse the fading of the light Though she's already flown so far beyond my reach She's never out of sight

He never wanted to fall so deep for her, for her touch but right now he just wanted to hold her, he craved her touch and warmth, but for some reason she was still so far from him, out of sight from him even though she was right here staring at him with those sad eyes, but also full of anger.

"Y/n I did it, so you could live your life without me... I didn't want you to miss me, to love me when I had to go." He said his eyes pleading with her. She shook her head and a dry laugh escaping her lips.

"I still did asshole! I mourned for you, I talked to your stupid gravestone." She started pacing the flat her arms crossed. "I loved you Sherlock, you hurt me, you broke me, but knowing you died.. you took a piece of me with you and knowing you didn't love me back, knowing I was just a game." Sherlock rushes up to her grabbing her shoulders.

"Fuckin hell Y/n I loved you, I still love you, you're all I think about. All I wanted when I was away. You weren't an experiment-"

"I'm engaged Sherlock." She whispered softly her eyes glossing with tears. His breath hitches hearing those words he was absolutely dreading to hear. "It's two years too late." She mumbled backing away from his touch. "I have to go, I came to visit Mrs. Hudson. I can't do this Sherlock." She turns away, the glass crunching under her shoes as she walked out the door in front of him.

Now I know she'll never leave me Even as she fades from view She will still inspire me Be a part of everything I do Wasting in my lonely tower Waiting by an open door

Sherlock stared at the open door in front of him watching her shadow fade away as she was completely out of his reach. His heart dropped, knowing he will never get her back because of what he did to her. Knowing what he knew now he wished he could go back in time and do everything differently.

I'll fool myself, she'll walk right in And as the long, long nights begin I'll think of all that might have been Waiting here for evermore

Later that night Sherlock sat on his chair his eyes never leaving the door as he idly played with his violin trying to distract himself that she will never come back, that she'll never love him the same way she used to. She was gone in an instant and even though it hurt the last time, it hit him harder this time. Knowing someone else had her heart. The door opens, his heart swelling but soon realizing it was Mrs. Hudson his heart dropped but he still smiled at the little woman.

"I've brought you some tea dear," Mrs. Hudson says with a small sad smile walking over handing him the tea before sitting on Johns old chair. "I'm assuming Y/n now knows you've been alive this whole time?"

"Assume, you mean you were eavesdropping," Sherlock says his face blank with emotions as he sipped his tea.

"I am the landlady I have a right to know." She grinned, Sherlock letting out a little chuckle.

"Ah there's a smile." She says staring at the man in front of her who she could tell was in a lot of pain, "You know dear, love comes in different forms. She'll come around, I promise." Sherlock shakes his head taking another sip before setting his tea down.

"She's engaged, it's never going to happen." He murmured his eyes looking anywhere but his landlady's eyes knowing he will break his emotional wall if he dared looked at her.

"Well you'll never know my dear. Now get some rest." She whispered softly before standing up and exiting out of the flat. Sherlock watched as she leaved his eyes back on the closed door, he rests his head back on the couch his hands resting on his face. He hears to door open again groaning,

"Mrs. Hudson really I'm fin-" He looks at the woman in front of him, his heart beating against his chest. Her clothes drenched in water, her hair stuck to her head as she was dripping from head to toe and her eyes red from crying.

"I can't marry him." Y/n whispered her hands balled up in firsts as her arms laid flat against her sides. Sherlock stands up from his chair walking over to her slowly, noting this time she wasn't walking backwards away from him.

"Why?" He whispered gently his body getting closer to hers. She sighs softly her eyes moving to her shoes back to his gaze.

"Because, I cannot marry someone that isn't you." Her eyes never wavering from his. His body is mere inches away from hers as he looks down at the woman in front of him.

"Good because I couldn't let you be with someone who wasn't me." He whispered before grabbing the sides of her face smashing his lips against hers, their mouths moving in need and passion. Her hands move up to his curls bringing his head closer to hers. He groans against her mouth moving his hands down to his hips. They both needed each other in that moment, afraid if they both pull away this moment would be gone forever, and for the rest of that night they did not leave each others embrace knowing they both needed each other and also needed to make up from those two years lost.

[icaruskey]

Oh, well, how about... since the librarian and diguised Sun met in winter, how about they got snowed inside one evening?

Like, the snow storm was supposted pass by according to prognostic, but, you know, the elements have zero respect for the metheorlogist hard work. So the storm really got them by surprize.

The younger siblins could either be with them or not, maybe having sleepover at a friend's house.

As usual, human disguise AU belongs to @pillowspace. It is *dead* at work rn and I'm trying a new energy drink so let's see how it goes.

Also I need a name for the little brother...

It's been getting darker earlier and earlier now, and Daylight Savings Time isn't helping matters. Usually, the head librarian tries to schedule you so you can leave before it's quite dark, but you've changed shifts with Jessica because her toddlers caught the flu from school. You're not envious, glad your brother is old enough to wash his hands and generally keep clean.

He's with the sitter now, and you're clearing off the last cart of returned books. Sun's tucked himself in the corner, nose in a book. You can just see the bright green of his scarf. Briefly, you wonder why he wears it like that even indoors. The thought is gone just as quickly.

"Are you sure you're okay walking me home tonight?" You ask as you pass by. "There's a snowstorm passing by. I don't want you to get caught in it if it decides to turn around."

"It's fine!" Sun isn't even startled by you talking. You hear him move as you wander off, feeling along the spines for an empty space. "I enjoy our walks, and the weather website said it was going to be to the south anyway."

"Mm. You shouldn't trust the website. I'm pretty sure meteorologists just throw darts at a weather map and report whatever it lands on." The books slide into place with the softest thump of bookcloth against wood. "It's getting dark too. I can walk on my own..." Not that you wanted to, not really. You had grown to love having Sun at your side. A small, selfish part of your mind wanted to ask him to walk with you after your job as a cleaner too.

You don't ask. You're certain he's got his own life after all. It would be far too much to ask him to take time out of even more evenings just because you don't like walking alone.

"I would hope they do more than that," Sun is saying, drawing your attention back to him. "There are meteorology books here in the library. It's a fascinating science."

You push the emptied cart to where he's sitting, propping yourself against it with one foot braced against the wheel to keep it from rolling off. "I should've guessed you would like meteorology."

"Why's that?"

You grin. "Your name of course."

Sun takes a second to process before he laughs, and you giggle alongside him, stifling the sound with the back of your hand. When you calm down, you stretch. "Okay, let me get my coat and we can head out."

"I'll wait by the door."

It takes you a few minutes, and you say goodnight to Gretchen before you bundle up. You rival Sun in terms of layers; your brother had insisted on making you into a human marshmallow to keep from getting cold and you could only indulge him. Besides, the scarf and earmuffs kept your nose and ears toasty warm.

Sun doesn't respond when you approach. "Are you ready to go?" You ask. Nothing. Cautiously, aware of his aversion to touch, you nudge at his upper arm. "Sun?"

"Huh? Oh. Hi. Sorry. I just didn't realize it'd gotten so dark so quickly." His voice is strangely flat, almost robotic.

"Are you okay?" You ask, and your hand lingers on his coat sleeve. It's meant to be comforting, but you're not sure he even notices.

"Yeah, yeah. It'll be fine." He seems to straighten up and finally notice your hand. His own lifts and you can feel him take yours. His grip is soft, like he expects you to pull away. You beam instead. "Ready to go?"

"Ready," you say, and push the door open. The cold immediately whips into your face, and you shrink into Sun's side. "Brrr. This is going to be a fun walk home."

You do notice Sun is quieter on the walk home, though you guess it's from having to walk in the increasing cold. It's starting to snow too, or maybe it had been for awhile and the wind is picking it up and tossing it back in both your faces. Intermittently, his grip will tighten on your hand, and you try to squeeze reassuringly.

It takes almost twice as long for you to get to the top of your street as usual, and the wind and snow are trying to pile on you both. "Sun, I don't think it's safe for you to try and walk home."

"I'll be fine," Sun says, his voice tense. But no, you're not allowing that, and you push against the wind to drag you both to your home.

It's an apartment building, with doors that open to exposed landings. It's a little quieter with the building blocking the worst of it, and you release Sun's hand to carefully stomp up the concrete steps. Your foot tries to slip, and Sun catches you by the back of your coat.

"Whoops, thank you." You shoot a smile in his general direction, and his head Bob's in acknowledgment. "My brother is going to be home. He's sweet, but if he's not asleep I might have to kick his butt."

"Is he very young then?" Sun asks. There's less tension in his voice, but you can tell he's still nervous. You can see his mittens fidgeting.

"He's eight." You fumble with your keys, pulling off a glove with your teeth to get a better grip. It dangles from your mouth. "So old enough to be a nuisance sometimes. He's a good kid normally."

The TV is on in the living room, playing Jeopardy quietly in the background. You can see Sarah curled up in one of your blankets on the couch. She moves as you stomp your way in, shaking off the snow. "Hey. He was worried about if you'd make it. I told him -- oh."

She must've noticed Sun. You gesture at your lanky friend with your bare hand as you unzip your coat with the other. "This is Sun. He's from the library. He's going to spend the night, at least until the storm's calmed down some."

"Oh...Kay." Sarah sounds unsure, but you shrug it off. "Well, he fell asleep an hour ago. Mom gave me some pot roast for you guys to split. I put your half in the fridge."

"Aw, tell her I said thank you," you say. You leave your coat and boots in a pile by the door even as Sarah pulls her things on. "Careful on the steps. It's icy."

"Of course. Mom will be by tomorrow afternoon. Good night." Sarah lingers a moment, clearly untrusting of Sun, but you wave her off, shivering in the open door until you hear the door under yours shut. Only then do you lock your own door, rubbing your arms briskly.

"It is cold," you complain, voice soft. "I'm going to make us some hot cocoa."

"I'm okay without any," Sun says, but you ignore him, walking into your narrow kitchen. The pot roast is front and center in the nearly empty fridge, and you tip it out onto a plate to reheat. The kettle still has water in it from this morning, so you turn on the stovetop, finding two mugs and the hot chocolate.

"Your home is nice," Sun says. He's at the entrance of the kitchen, making himself smaller as though he could take up less space. He seems a little too big and bright for the apartment, where almost everything is secondhand. "Did you decorate it yourself."

"Oh yes," you reply, mock serious. "That's why there's a big poster of robots fighting dinosaurs behind the TV." The microwave beeps, so you open it and turn the pot roast over, stabbing it a few times before it gets popped back in to finish. "We picked things out together."

"Your parents..."

You shrug, spooning hot chocolate mix and little hard marshmallows into each mug. "Gone. Been gone for awhile."

"Surely you have family then."

Sun's questions don't irritate you like it would if it were someone else. Maybe it's because he doesn't sound pitying or like he is doubting your ability to care for your little brother on your own.

Most people did. Most people saw you, all but legally blind and hardly an adult yourself, and decided you weren't fit to be his guardian. You tell yourself you don't care what they think.

You almost believe it.

"No one to speak of. Grandparents are dead or in a nursing home. We try to visit once a month, but it's hard when he's going to school." It's easy to talk to Sun. "Everyone else is out of state. My cousin mentioned taking him in last year, but it would mean a new school district and therapist and... It's not important." The kettle whistles, and you pull it off quickly, pouring it into both mugs. "Sorry it's not milk. I've not had a chance to run to the store so we're low on groceries."

"Thank you." Sun takes his mug dutifully, closing his hands to hold it close to his face. The microwave beeps again, and you pull the pot roast out, going to split it into two portions. "Oh, no. Don't do that. I'm not hungry, genuinely. I was feeling a little nauseous walking over."

"Oh. The smell isn't too much, is it?" You ask.

"No, no it's fine. I'll stick with my hot chocolate."

You're doubtful, but if he's feeling ill it would explain why he let you take his hand all the way here. You decide to leave it be, beelining to the couch to curl up with the blanket. Of course, it's big enough to share, though you're surprised when Sun sits and the couch seems to shift and drag you into his space. "Oh! Sorry. I wasn't expecting you to be so -- that's rude. Sorry. Here." You put your plate and mug on the floor to spread the blanket between the two of you. It's hard not to notice that while he's taken off the plastic outer coat he's still bundled up. The scarf is even in place. He must be freezing. Maybe you should turn the heat up.

"Thank you." Sun smooths the blanket between the two of you, and you tuck your feet up as you settle in with your meal. The pot roast is tender even now, melting in your mouth. You can't help but moan.

"It's so good," you say, stifling a yawn. With the hot chocolate and a hot meal, you're warming up. "I wish you could eat too. Ms. Wurthers makes the best food."

"I'm enjoying watching you eat," Sun said and that makes you warmer still.

You dig around for the remote, offering it to Sun. "Find something to watch. I think AMC starts playing some of those old horror movies around this time."

"You like those?" He does start clicking through, even as you shrug.

"Their delivery is different. Sometimes it feels like modern movies flattens everyone's emotions out so unless you can see their faces it's all the same. And our TV is rather small. But the old actors have so much drama and bravado. It's fun."

Sun settles on a channel that's playing an old ad for Chia pets. You keep eating, movements turning sluggish as you continue to warm up. Home is safe, and Sun is safe, apparently. You should've guessed that. "We can turn the lights off if you'd like," you offer, muffling a yawn.

"No." Sun speaks sharply, surprising you back to alertness. "I mean... No, it doesn't bother me at all. If you're tired though, you should go to bed."

"I'm fine." You gingerly touch Sun's arm again, disappointed when he pulls away. "I want to stay up til the weather clears enough for you to go home."

Sun's silence feels like a punch to the gut. You chew on the inside of your cheek, no longer hungry. "If the weather doesn't improve, you are also more than welcome to spend the night," you say, trying to ignore the tension between the two of you. "There's plenty of blankets and pillows, and you don't have to undress at all if you're uncomfortable. I might have some sweats that'll fit you actually. They're a bit too long for me but maybe--"

"It's okay," Sun says, interrupting. But it doesn't feel okay, you want to argue. You chew on the inside of your cheek instead, making yourself small against the couch. The commercials end, and a movie plays. It's a Western, and it's at the climax, the hero shooting down the villain in a classic duel. "You really should go to bed though. I don't want to be in the way."

"You're not!" It's not quite a yell; you're just being quietly insistent. "You're my friend Sunny. And that's enough for me." You know he is adverse to it, but you take his hand and hold it tightly. To your surprise, he doesn't pull away. He actually squeezes, letting his other hand rest on yours. You drop your hand on top of his, and he snorts.

"You win," he says, and you grin up at him, settling with your hands stacked together. The movie plays, and you catch yourself nodding off. You struggle to remain upright, but as the credits begin to roll, you begin to lean into Sun's weight. You're only kind of awake when your head rests against his shoulder. Part of you knows you should move. You're trapping him like this, and what if this is far too much contact for your friend? But it's comfortable and warm, and he's comfortable too.

It's been a long, long time since you'd been able to have someone over. A long, long time since you felt this safe with someone other than your brother. You try to move anyway, wanting to, you don't know, something. But Sun squeezes your hands, freeing one of his own to pull the blanket up over your shoulders.

"Sleep tight." And it's not quite his voice, but it's still Sun, and he wants you to stay.

So you stay, falling asleep as the snow continues to build up outside, drifting in and covering your tracks: the soft prints of your boots and the deep imprints left from your surprisingly heavy friend.

[mlmxreader]

Bury Me in the Pet Sematary | Kyle Gaz Garrick x gn!reader

『••✎••』

↳ ❝ "let 'em rot" and "i'll make this right" for gaz, since you have yet to kill him off т.т ❞

: ̗̀➛ When Gaz dies, you know that there's only one place you can bury him.

: ̗̀➛ major character death, depictions of dead bodies, body horror, swearing, teeth horror, suicide

•───────────────★•♛•★──────────────•

Gaz was dead. Price and Farah pronounced his death when they went to check on him; he was mangled, a large gaping hole in his chest that went all the way through to his back. His ribs were cracked, sticking into his lungs and, where some of them broke, his stomach.

They allowed you to see the body when they brought it to where you and Alex were waiting for evac; Alex did his best to hold you back, but the second you saw his frayed and burned union jack cap, you knew. Price, Farah, Alex and Ghost left you when they knew that you couldn't cope.

Doing their best not to listen to the wailing and violent sobbing that overpowered the sound of machinery and vehicles on the move. You held his face in your hands, his skin sticking to yours and peeling off when you went to close his eyes; his fingers snapped, the bones protruding through the skin when you tried to hold his hand.

Desperate as you shook your head and begged and pleaded for him not to leave you. The world was cruel enough, it didn't need to be more cruel without Gaz. Without the man you were going to propose to.

It was Price who went to console you in the end, and when you asked about burying him nearby, he shook his head slowly.

"Can't do that," he told you. "They used to bury soldiers there, during the war but…"

"But what?" You snapped, snot coating your nose and dripping onto your bottom lip.

"They stopped using that burial ground when the ground went sour. Don't think about doing it. The place gets holier, but the place... is evil," Price explained. He kept his voice even, flat. He had to talk sense into you somehow, he had to convince you that you couldn't do it.

But you glared at him, dried snot on your nostrils, Gaz's wet and squelching skin stuck to your trembling hands, your bottom lip quivering, and Price sighed.

He looked over at the others, and knew that he didn't have time to help; he got up, heading back over to the group but not before pausing to lay his hand on your shoulder.

"Sometimes, dead is better."

You were too far gone, gathering Gaz into your arms even though his bones cracked and screamed in protest; his limp head leaning against your shoulder, skin sticking to your shirt as you clenched your jaw. You knew what you had to do. You knew there was no other way.

Push had come to shovel.

The walk there was tricky, having to navigate through dense and rotten logs and bushes, trying not to disturb Gaz as you sniffled and sobbed. You had to do it. You couldn't let him leave. You couldn't be without him.

You passed through the Pet Sematary; constructed by soldiers during the first world war, it was a burial site for all the animals who had died in both world wars. Cats. Dogs. Pigeons. Horses.

You didn't pause to look at any of the gravestones, even the crudely drawn stars of David and crescents with the lovingly carved names of animals who were beloved by the soldiers who cared for them. No. You had to push on.

You only gently laid Gaz down, propping him up against a few rocks, when you finally clambered over the high wall of logs and sticks at the back of the Sematary. You took note of where the other graves were; privates, sergeants, captains, commanders, lieutenants.

Death didn't care who they once were.

You swallowed thickly, picking up a rusty shovel near one of the older graves, and you found a spot; the ground was hard, stonier than you had expected. But you knew what you had to do.

Covered in sweat and blood from getting your arms cut up by small rocks, it was done; lovingly, you placed Gaz in the grave, and smiled as you gently kissed his forehead.

You cleared your throat, sight blurry as you stared down at him and nodded slowly. "I'll see you on the other side, but I'd kill to bring you back tonight… I promise, Kyle, I'll make this right… I'll spare you the eulogy… but I will see you soon."

You were dragged home by Alex, who dropped you off and left you there to rot before going back to base with Price and Farah and Ghost; you didn't, couldn't, sleep. The bed was too empty, the house was too quiet.

The frayed and burned union jack cap on the kitchen side was painful to look at. The identity discs tossed beside it stabbed you in the chest every time. You couldn't, wouldn't, sleep.

Nothing was the same, and if you were honest?

If life was going to be like that for the rest of your days, you didn't want to live. You spent the night wandering around the house, thinking of the different ways you could end it; slitting your wrists, mixing cleaning chemicals with the bathroom door and window closed, jumping off of the roof.

You grabbed the largest and sharpest kitchen knife, and placed it on the counter before you as you swallowed thickly and debated. The throat would be quick, painless. But so would the wrists. The last place Gaz ever kissed you was your wrists.

Maybe it was fitting.

Your hands shook as you grabbed the knife and sighed, trying to stop your heart from hammering in your chest. But just as you placed the blade against your wrist, the door unlocked, and you heard familiar footsteps.

"Kyle!"

He grunted as he approached; the hole in his chest bled profusely, a smeared trail behind him, staining the floorboards a dark orange. His fingers were broken, the flesh sloughed away, exposed bone covered in light grey dirt.

From his knees to his feet, he was covered in the grey dirt. His eyes, once such a deep and lovely brown, black in certain light, were now covered in a milky haze.

His jaw was at an angle, and when he reached up to his mouth, he grabbed a tooth, and pulled it from his mouth with a harsh squelch. He let it clatter to the floor before he grabbed another, although it crunched loudly before it squelched as the broken and ripped gums gave way to thick, almost black, blood.

You grinned, laughing softly in disbelief. "Kyle! You're home!"

Overjoyed, you flung yourself at him, wrapping your arms tightly around his waist as you sobbed gently; your tears fell to the hole in his chest and mixed with his blood so awfully. Slowly, he put his arms around you, his elbows pushing through the thin skin with a pop and a soft squishing noise.

Gaz pulled away, giving you a lopsided and off-angle grin as he nodded slowly; his voice was choking and thick with unswallowed blood and rotten, spoiled soil. "Home."

"Yeah, baby," you breathed out. "You're home… you're home…"

Gaz reached for the knife, and held it tightly as he tilted his head to the side. "You, too?"

You nodded, swallowing thickly. "Will you bury me in the Pet Sematary?"

He nodded slowly, his neck creaking loudly as his bones ground against one another. "Together. Forever."

"Do I have to slit my wrists?" You asked, and when you did, he put the knife down for a moment.

Staining your skin with light grey dirt, Gaz brought your wrists to his face, and softly kissed each of them; his last ever kiss in life, his last ever kiss in death.

He handed you the knife, and you nodded slowly at him before bringing the blade to your wrists; with two quick slashes, you opened both of them up, your blood gushing and pouring to the floor as you slowly sank down. Staring up at Gaz, you smiled.

Together in life.

Together in death.

Together in reanimation.

"Let 'em rot," you choked out. "We'll never be apart again… let… everyone else… rot…"

[carnivalcarriondiscarded]

ayyy im back with another Unedited human au snippet <3 it's almost entirely dialogue oopsies <3

~

Eddie slows in putting his coat on - Barnaby isn’t sticking around to chat with fellow staff like usual. He’s in a rush, scrambling to grab his jacket and hurrying from behind the bar. He dashes through the door, looking like a man on a mission.

The door Mr. Frankly had just vanished through. 

Could he be…? No, Barnaby seems like a good man. But he had seemed a little pushy with Mr. Frankly, from what Eddie could tell. 

It couldn’t hurt to make sure.

Eddie frowns deeply as he goes outside, wincing slightly at the first burst of cold air after hours spent in a warm building. He’s just in time to see Barnaby jog up behind Frankly and close his car door before he can get in. Barnaby immediately leans against the door with his arms crossed, pinning it shut and blocking Frankly from the driver’s seat.

Eddie’s stomach plummets. Before he knows it, he’s speed-walking across the parking lot towards them, a fire burning in his chest and his hands curled into fists.

Frankly says something loud enough that Eddie can almost hear, his voice echoing in the empty lot. As Eddie watches, Barnaby pokes Frankly’s chest, making him stagger back a step.

“Hey!” Eddie barks. 

Both of them jump and whip around - Barnaby’s eyebrows shoot into his hair, while Frankly’s lowers into a flat line. 

“Eddie?” Barnaby says.

At the same time, Frankly says, “Mr. Dear?”

The two of them look at each other in surprise. Eddie pays the exchange no mind. He stops by Frankly, trying to slightly angle himself in front of him without making it too obvious.

“Is everything all right here?” he asks, looking Barnaby up and down. He really hopes this won’t come to blows - Eddie can throw a punch well enough, but Barnaby is an imposing figure. Eddie already knows he’d likely lose, but as long as he can buy Frankly a couple extra seconds…

“No, actually, everything is not fine,” Frankly says in a ticked-off - and strangely scolding - tone. 

Barnaby, not breaking eye-contact with Frankly, counters with, “Everything’s peachy, Ed.”

“You sure about that?” Eddie asks, trying to keep his tone amicable. 

“Scout’s honor.”

“Please,” Frankly scoffs, “you were never a boy scout. And that’s not the point - I am trying to get home!”

“You are trying to die in the most avoidable way possible.”

Eddie shoots Frankly a concerned look. “You’re what?”

“I am perfectly sober,” Frankly says.

Barnaby raises an unimpressed eyebrow. “Your face is flushed.”

“It is not!”

Eddie winces. “It, uh, it is. A little.”

“It’s none of your business,” Frankly seethes. 

“Listen,” Barnaby sighs. He leans heavier against the car and rubs the back of his neck. “I don’t wanna be the one 'ta call Julie and deliver the news that her beloved Frankie went and got himself killed at the taco bell intersection.”

Frankly makes a high and derisive noise. “Excuse you, I have class. I’d die outside of Howdy’s.”

“Please, he’d turn your memorial into part of the gift shop. I can already see the signs - ‘dead friend sale, five percent off!’”

“I’m worth at least thirty percent.”

Eddie clears his throat and gestures between the two of them. “You two… know each other?”

“Unfortunately,” Frankly mutters.

Barnaby grins. “Aw, you’re just saying that. It’s okay - I know ya love me, Frankie. You don’t have to say it.”

“I do not.”

“I have evidence that proves otherwise.”

Frankly rolls his eyes. “You’re unbearable.”

“And yet…”

Eddie heaves a sigh - of relief or exhaustion, he’s not sure - and drags a hand over his face. “Alright. Good, I - good to know.”

“What, did’ja think I was attacking him?” After a moment of prolonged, awkward silence, Barnaby’s teasing smile drops. “Oh. You did.”

“Barnaby? Attack me?” Frankly snorts. “Give him some credit - he’s smarter than he looks.”

“Yeah, I’d have better chances taking on a pack’a hyenas!” Barnaby lets out a hearty cackle. “At least then we’d all get a laugh out of it!”

“So I misjudged the situation pretty terribly,” Eddie says, inching to the side to give Frankly his personal space back. “My apologies.”

“Don’t sweat it, Ed. I know Frank may look like a bundle of sticks, but he’s petrified wood all the way through! Pure stone, you know.” Barnaby grins and leans towards Eddie. He whispers conspiratorially, “‘Cept when it comes to holdin’ his liquor. Then he’s a total lightweight.”

“Barnaby,” Frankly hisses.

“Practically paper!”

“That’s enough, thank you!” Frankly makes an attempt at shoving Barnaby away from the car door, but Barnaby widens his stance. It’s like watching someone try to move a tree.

“See, this is how I know he shouldn’t be driving,” Barnaby says conversationally to Eddie. “If he were sober, I’d be the one drunk - punch-drunk, that is.”

Eddie isn’t sure whether or not he should laugh - was that a joke? Barnaby seems fond of them, but… surely Frankly isn’t a violent person. Frankly lets out a growl of frustration and clumsily tries to bodyslam Barnaby. Eddie inches back a step.

“Alright Frankie, you had your fun.” Barnaby scruffs Frankly like a misbehaving cat and holds him at arm's length. He holds out a hand. “C’mon. Keys.”

“Never.”

“Have it your way. I’ll go ahead and call Poppy, tell her that you’ve forgotten the many dangers of-”

“Oh, fine,” Frankly spits. He yanks his keys out of his pocket and slaps them into Barnaby’s waiting hand. 

Barnaby flicks the keys as Frankly stalks to the passenger side door and yanks it open. “Choose a place for dinner, we’ll swing by and pick it up - my treat.”

“Obviously your treat,” Frankly grumbles. “As if I’d-”

The slam of his door cuts off whatever he says next, though Eddie can see him still talking in the car. His phone screen illuminates his irritated expression as he - presumably - looks up places for takeout. 

“Well, I’m glad you were here to stop him from doin’ somethin’ everyone would regret,” Eddie says. “Mr. Frankly-” 

“Mr. Frankly?” Barnaby snorts. “You’re not one of his students, are ya?”

“I’m just bein’ polite. He set the tone by referrin’ to me by Mr. Dear, so I’m tryin’ to respect that line in the sand.”

Barnaby shakes his head, grinning. “Just call him Frank. He puts up a big show of bein' a grouch, but he’s really a big softie. Though don’t - don’t try to pick a fight with him. Ever. You’ll lose.”

“Wasn’t plannin' on it.” Eddie makes a mental note to keep calling him Mr. Frankly, just to be on the safe side. It’s not like they’re friends, anyway. More like… acquaintances. Occasional Run-Into-Each-Other strangers. 

[atsadi-shenanigans]

Feeding Alligators 69 - Eat Your Heart Out, Van Helsing

You and Gandrel have a chat.

On AO3.

The gur looks haggard. Bags under his eyes and a tired slump to his shoulders. But there’s a light in his eyes that tells you physical exhaustion ain’t gonna be an issue for him right now.

You lift your hands, “Whoa, whoa, hold on!”

The clearing is small. The brown horse is saddled and bridled. But there’s something else over its muzzle. A bag. It’s ears flick to y’all, but it otherwise seems unbothered. You wonder if there’s herbs or something in that bag to mask the smell of all the blood.

There are no visible injuries on the dead deer.

And lying next to that, flat on his back, is Astarion. Blood coats his front, from mouth to groin. It bubbles up around that horrific stake buried in his chest. He ain’t breathing, ain’t moving. Head tilted slightly back, but his eyes are on you, bugging out. His mouth moves but no sound comes out.

“What the fuck, Gandrel?” you say all soft.

“Easy now,” he says. “He’s not any deader than usual, and he’ll remain that way. His kind are quite difficult to kill, after all. It seems you knew my quarry after all.”

You lied to his face. Protected Astarion from him. But also protected him from Astarion.

“I was trying to avoid a fight. He ain’t hurting nobody out here. I mean, unless we’re already fighting them.”

“I have no idea what he or any of you are doing out here,” Gandrel says. “Nor is it my business. That lies in Baldur’s Gate.” He eyeballs you, and the ghost of a wry grin tugs at his lips. “I don’t suppose I could convince you to turn away and let me finish my hunt?”

Astarion is soaked in blood. And you’re pretty sure it’s all his. You seen people shit-scared; you seen people in Faerun as they fucking died. That is the level of terror staring out through the elf’s eyes. His fingers give the barest twitch and he manages a wet, rasping sound.

“I don’t suppose I could convince you to let him go?” you say. “We can pay more than whoever sent you.”

Probably. Taking donations from all the others. Y’all could make a down payment, at least.

“Pay?” Gandrel says. He seems actually startled. Then he turns to look at Astarion and lets out a bark of laughter. “I see. No, my friend, I’m not here on account of pay. My mission lies much closer to home”

A wet, clicking sound, this time. New blood bubbles outta Astarion’s mouth. Must be shoving the last of the air in his unmoving lungs up his throat just to try. The adrenaline burns through you, hands all numb, skin gone icy.

“What’s with him? Why can’t he move?”

The crossbow doesn’t even twitch. “Are you not familiar with vampires? You seemed knowledgeable about the hag.”

Above, the crow coughs her hideous laughter. Fucking witches.

Gandrel follows your gaze. Nods, and there’s that tiredness in his eyes again. “I seems you angered her enough she accepted my terms.”

She should be fucking dead. That’s why ain’t nobody should mess with fucking witches. Then the rest of what he said catches up. Gandrel went for help to find Astarion. That crow flutters, cocks its head with that eyeball still in its beak.

It’s…it’s been following y’all. The whole time. The hag spying on y’all. That night with Astarion in the woods, when you woke up after that disastrous talk when you got your soul stuck in a jar, after the goblin camp massacre. She’s been watching.

“You been following us,” you say.

“Indeed.” You study him again. Brown hair tied back in a partial tail. Beard tidy and waxed to a point, framed by kind, brown eyes—

One brown eye. The other pale, glazed over like a cataract. The same color as that eye in the beak of a bird.

“You’ve been difficult to catch up to,” Gandrel continues. “I only managed it this morning with a hard trek through that storm. I thought it would take longer to corner my quarry alone, but he is a vampire spawn, and they’re greedy, wretched things. He took the poisoned deer quite readily.”

Fuck. Fuck. He ain’t been eating for days. Not since the goblin camp, you think. He’s half-starved, running on fumes. He ain’t never said nothing about eating already-dead things—memories of a putrid rat and congealed blood sticking in his throat, and you’d avoid that for the rest of your life, too. It’s too easy to imagine him coming up on that deer. Slow. Maybe shaking. Clearly weak—either too old or too sick, and it’s perfect predator bait. White hunters and park rangers used to bait meat to slaughter wolves and coyotes (and then wondered why the woods started pulling back for grasslands cause there were too many goddamn deer to feed so they started stripping saplings).

Wasn’t enough to kill Astarion outright. Wasn’t meant to. Just slow him down, make him sick enough for Gandrel to get close enough with that stake.

You find the gur watching you. Something like sympathy softening his mis-matched eyes. “You truly know nothing of his ilk, do you?”

Ilk huh? Lotta meaning packed into that word. “I ain’t from here.”

“How lucky you are, then, to live free of such monsters. A stake through the heart—”

You wince.

“—paralyzes him. I have safer methods, but that will do until I can put some distance between this trail and the Gate.”

Jesus, if you hadn’t had to pee when you did, if you’d slept through the night…

“Why, then?” you say. “If nobody’s paying you?”

He hunts monsters; gave up a fucking eyeball. Astarion is a vampire. Maybe that’s all the justification he needs. Maybe it’s some bullshit pride thing. An honor thing. Or maybe monsters is just that bad—Astarion ain’t a peach on the best of days.

Then the skin around Gandrel’s eyes tightens, and his lips go thin when he says, “He stole our children.”

You don’t hear him right. That damn dirt potion. The words don’t make no sense, even as the meaning stabs you in the heart.

Mother and the Pastor came for you, hiding underneath Grandpa’s kitchen table. Grandpa—sly, laughing Grandpa—crying as he wrung the paper in his hands. Court documents. Because she was your mother (White woman) so she had more claim over you. And the Pastor came from money, so the Nation would have a hard time fighting courts and others had done it before only to be painted as drunk, druggies, sluts and poor, poor dirty Indians. You can’t leave an innocent child with those people. They deserve better.

Kill the Indian.

Save the man.

Steal the children and dress them proper and cut their hair and beat their mother tongues outta them. Not as much to your Nation as to others, but them others? Oh. Whole generations killed on purpose. Deliberately. Meant to bleed an entire people off the face of the earth.

Grandpa cried so hard he shook as he held you that last time.

“Wh,” you start. Swallow through sand. “What?”

“He and his fellow spawn, led by the vampire lord Cazador Szarr. They came in the night four tenday ago. They stole our children. All but the twin babes too young to leave their mother’s sling. My elder sent me and several others when we heard whispers one had escaped his master’s control. I will return Astarion to my people so we can question him.”

It’s one of the most sadistic forms of genocide. Literally stealing away the future. Killing them outright—disease, abuse—or changing them so much the person, the culture, came back as something else. Something strange. Altered forever. The soul gone, the language erased.

“Why?” you say. You mean, “Why your people” but your mouth don’t wanna work.

Astarion has stopped trying to speak. He just stares at you, silent and unmoving. He looks like a corpse.

“His master’s orders,” Gandrel says. “Beyond that, Szarr is a vampire lord. He needs no reason for cruelty. So he sent his spawn, who cannot disobey their lord.”

“But…but why go after Astarion? Why not that fuckface who sent him?”

In his position, drowning in the kind of rage you only catch echoes of, you already know why.

“Because we cannot reach him,” Gandrel says. “Not yet.”

You close your eyes.

The world is not just. Not unless someone is already rich and powerful. Everybody else lives under a different set of rules. And when one of them high and mighty fucks lashes out and hurts somebody, when the other somebodies know they can’t ever touch the one who did it?

They settle for a scapegoat. A crony. A lesser member of the high and mighty. Somebody they can reach. Somebody they can hurt.

“This creature,” Gandrel says. “This spawn can tell us how to get to his master.”

Two hundred years as a slave. A puppet. You saw how Astarion watched everything in that swamp after y’all left Gandrel behind. The way he peered into the dark beyond camp for nights afterward.

You’ve tasted that prey terror yourself.

“He’ll probably just tell you all that if you let him,” you say. Glance to Astarion’s wide, scared eyes. “I suspect he wants that fucker dead just as bad as you.”

But Gandrel shakes his head. “I cannot risk that. Nor can I turn down this opportunity.”

That word don’t make no sense. Getting information’d be as easy as pulling that godawful stake out. You’d bet all your Faerun possessions that Astarion would leap at the chance to sick a band of vengeful monster hunters on that fuckface.

Gandrel, apparently, clocks your confusion. “Vampires are elusive monsters. They hide in the shadows, use manipulation or compulsion to coerce others to do their bidding.”

And the man gives you such a soft look. You nearly snarl at him.

“It’s a rare thing to capture one. Even a spawn. My people can learn much from him. Use this chance so we may better protect the defenseless. Prevent anyone else’s children from being snatched in the night.”

He’s right. That shining line in your head knows it. A chance to study the enemy, learn how they work, see how they operate.

Take them apart.

They have a right to their anger. And it’s logical to learn more, to do better, in order to stop it.

But he’s going to torture Astarion probably to death.

“I want to help you,” you say, and can’t look away even as Astarion manages another horrible sound. “But you don’t got to take him. We’ll help you, Gandrel. All of us, in any way we can. Please.”

Pity. That’s what he’s looking at you with. The anger in you bares its teeth even as your skin crawls.

“You’ve made your decision, then,” he says. Sighs. “It’s not entirely your fault. They are masters of deception. I don’t know what he promised you—”

“He didn’t and he’s been a bitch the whole time.”

But your attempt to bleed off some of the tension fails.

“Or what he’s done to ensnare you,” Gandrel continues.

The devil tempts you. Calls to sinners. Especially women, who are evil by nature. Too soft, too female. Too weak to hold morals and too easily corrupted for anyone to trust. They have no judgment, no logic, you cannot help your base instincts—

“Don’t you fucking presume I ain’t making my own goddamn choices,” you say.

Gandrel gives you a small smile. “You’re a brave one. Loyal and caring, too. I suspect that’s exactly why he targeted you.”

The weakest link, the lamed gazelle. That shouldn’t hit as hard as it does, you shouldn’t let it, but all them suspicions come roaring back. He bit you cause he knows you got no connections, hit you up cause you’re the most desperate out here.

And you’re pretty good at holding a blank expression, but Gandrel is perceptive as fuck. He gives you a sad smile. “I won’t force this choice upon you, friend.”

And his fingers moves on the crossbow trigger.

“No Gandrel wait—”

A chunk. Something green flashes—

You wake to cool dirt and choking. Try to lift up, but you cannot move. The panic bites deep and you twist, try to thrash, and manage to turn your head enough to blow dirt and pine needles away enough to suck in a gasp.

Torchlight flickers. You’re face down in the woods. Your muscles fucking shake. It don’t hurt, but you can’t stop it. Fingers twitch. Arms seize and release. Feet kick around in the detritus of dead tree needles.

A dragging sound and a grunt. You got to turn the other way. Barely manage, whole body shuddering like your thighs did after that first run with Lae’zel. More clumsy and flopping than a newborn foal.

Gandrel drags Astarion by the armpits. Heaves the man a few steps closer to the horse. Astarion’s head flops uselessly at the movement. Lolls to the side as Gandrel stops to take a few breaths, and the elf’s gaze lands on you. Man’s half-crazed. He knows once Gandrel gets him on that horse, he’s looking at death by torture.

He stole their children.

He’s been a puppet for two hundred years.

He’s a murderous cunt.

He’s saved your ass at least three times by now.

He threw you away.

And now he’s being dragged off.

His laugh is bitchy and he’s mean. He teases you and makes sure you know what species you’re looking at. He keeps your secrets and cuts your heart out and holds your wounds closed and doesn’t talk to you and tries to fuck Lae’zel and seeks you out after he got rejected to watch you fucking cry and he don’t tell a soul about it or make fun of you.

“Guh,” you say.

Gandrel huffs. Looks to you. “Don’t worry. The toxin should wear off shortly. You may be numb or experience trembling on and off for several days, but it should fade entirely.”

This bitch poisoned you. It’s almost fitting.

“Wa,” you say. And yeah, it’s real hard to talk when your lungs keep shuddering and gasping like you’re hyperventilating after getting kicked in the chest by a horse.

“Take it easy, friend. These woods are dangerous, even without a vampire on the loose. Drawing attention to yourself by shouting for your companions could draw something else to you. I’d advise you to save your strength until you can get up.”

You pant. Blow more dirt from your nose. Another wave of the tremors rips through you and your head kinda flops around. Lands you face down right as your lungs suck in and you inhale in a mouthful of dirt.

The gag reflex kicks in. You make awful sounds. Can’t breathe, fuck fuck air. Which just feeds into itself and you gag and retch again. Whole body heaves and your eyes water and you just want air. Just need to inhale—

A sound. A crunch next to you. Hands grab your shoulder and Gandrel rolls you onto your side. You meet his gaze for a second, your eyes watering, face smeared with dirt and spit.

He’s a monster hunter, hunting a monster that stole a people’s children. He came back to keep you from choking to death.

You cannot let him take Astarion, and most of the choking was real. But not all of it.

Your body is a numb, seizing mess. Fine motor control is gone. All you can manage is a single shove. One, single roll.

You hit his shins. All your mass keeps going. He tries to stumble back, get clear, but there’s too much of you and it happens too quick.

He falls.

Something cracks.

The clearing goes silent, save for your shuddering, heaving gags.

Then Gandrel moans. Shifts.

He fell on a rock. Cracked his head. Much better than you expected. His chin lifts and the side of his head is smeared in red. Your body ain’t under your control—arms flop like dead meat as you writhe along the ground, in the dirt, stones and sticks digging into your flesh.

Gandrel moans again. One hand comes up, waves around the side of his head before flopping down. Head injuries are serious things. They don’t actually, conveniently and cleanly, knock people out like hitting a restart button on a computer. Best case, he’s got a bruise and a cut scalp. Worst case, it’s a traumatic brain injury and his brain swells up and he dies.

But between all that, he’s got a chance to wake up and hurt you. Kill you. Get Astarion on that horse and disappear into the night.

You cannot let that happen. You can’t.

You continue to flop and shimmy your way along his body. Not for Astarion—he’s too far away and you can’t grab that stake like this. Not for the knife glittering in the torchlight that Gandrel must’a dropped.

The man tries to sit up. Collapses again. And you’re level with his chest. Just below his chin. He’s knows he’s hurt, knows something bad is going to happen.

Your hands are useless. Feet useless. You got nothing as you sort of flop over him. He’s warm beneath you, smells clean, the fresh air clinging to his clothes.

“Sor,” you manage as one of his hands comes up to bat weakly at you. This man who came back to help you, to keep you from choking on the dirt.

He’s kind, when he can be.

You can’t think about that. Can’t let that man and his sad smile exist. You shove that down. Down and down into the deep and the dark. Take all of that, all the could-be’s and walk them down rickety, wooden steps that squeal beneath you. Walk it along loaded shelves, over to the back wall where you can chain it tight amongst evaporated milk and canned peaches.

And then you walk yourself back. Lower them creaking doors. Lower, lower, until they clack down onto the frame. Until you slip that chain through the handles and click down the great, big padlock to keep them shut. Keep them down there, screaming in the dark.

You find Gandrel’s neck.

You start chewing.

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