#does it matter if it’s death or summoning?

[paradoxicalli]

Alternatively: Danny doesnt kidnap Red Hood, Jason approaches him first. He does a few livestreams, and Jason hears about a dramatic freaky gameshow host that’s killing rapists AND fucking with the other rogues and he is 100% down with that. 

It starts with typical bat level stalking and figuring out what the Phantom Ghost Host’s deal is. All of his “victims” are exactly the kind of people Jason likes turning into obituaries. After seeing that the Phantom sentenced a particularly nasty fentanyl laced psychedelic dealer that had been on Red Hood’s Shit List for a while to death by Harley Quinn, Jason starts trying to contact him. 

Minor problem, the Phantom is annoyingly hood at covering his tracks. He has a bit of a reputation, but there isnt shit about a secret identity. It’s like tracking a ghost. 

Eventually, Harley fucking Quinn tells him to just use a Ouija board. Apparently, even after being kidnapped and forced to kill someone she and the Phantom are on good terms. They even have coffee together every few weeks.

So Jason summons Danny on the roof of a 7/11 on a random ass Tuesday afternoon. They’re both apprehensive at first, and Jason is sure that he came off as awkward. He ends up giving Phantom a few names he hadn’t gotten around to eliminating yet, along with their addresses and offending crimes. 

From Danny’s perspective, he got summoned by this mysterious hot guy who decides to give him the names of potential targets. He’s definitely had a run in with some nasty ectoplasm, but all the information checks out, which saves Danny a bunch of time. The guy even bought him skittles from the 7/11! 

Danny captures and disposes of the criminals in an appropriately dramatic fashion. Every time one of them stars on his show he thanks his “anonymous tip” and honest to god WINKS at the camera. (Jason is so normal abt this btw) 

By the time the bats get around to stopping Danny, the Red Hood and the Phantom are in full blown collaboration. Bruce asks Jason if he’s heard anything, and Jason just shrugs and says “Nah, he’s just me if I became a Twitch streamer instead of a Crime Lord. Seems pretty chill, he’s been shortening my to-do list.” 

“Jason this is serious, the Phantom is capable of successfully kidnapping Rogues. He captured Mr. Freeze less than an hour after he escaped from Arkham.”

“Oh yeah, guess he’s making your job easier too.” 

Bruce’s eye twitches. “So you don’t know anything?” 

Jason knew the Phantoms phone number, sleep schedule, and favorite flavor of ice cream. 

“Nope, not a thing.” 

The fifth time that Jason meets up with the Phantom (even after exchanging contact info, they prefer to meet in person) Jason is wound up about something or other. Maybe he just found out one of his higher ranking men was actually a child molester who’d been hoping on getting close to him to dodge the Red Hood’s wrath. To make matters worse, he’d been able to slip away before Jason could put a bullet in his dick.

“Oh damn. Look, if I can find this guy, do you wanna be the rogue that kills him?” 

Jason pauses, looking into green eyes and realizing that the offer is fully legitimate. The Phantom would track down this slimy bastard, imprison him, and rig his game show so that Jason could kill him. Its one of the sweetest things anyone has done for him in years. 

He accepts. 

The show goes perfectly.

“Alrighty, you all know how this works! This fucker gets to choose a door and fight the mystery Rogue behind it. We’re going to change things up here, so behind Door 1 is the Man Bat! He’s a ‘Professional People Eater’ with a habit of tearing people’s eyes out mid flight!” 

The former goon looks freaked the fuck out. Good. 

“Annnnnnd behind Door 2 is the Killer Croc! He tore the limbs off the last guy he annihilated here! Soooooooo pick a door any door any door ya like!” 

Now this is clearly a terrible dilemma, both options fucking despise humans and are definitely pissed to be there. Just as planned, the guy points at a third door clearly marked “EXIT” thinking he’s being smart.

“Ooooooooo you chose the mystery door! No one’s ever been clever enough for that.” 

Goon suddenly has a very bad feeling about this. 

“Behind Mystery Door Number 3, we have the RED HOOOOOOOOOOOOD!!!” And the door is kicked down, revealing a furious Hood. 

Red Hood laughs at his mortified expression and starts absolutely destroying him, covering him in bruises and snapping more then one bone. The Phantom gleefully chases away any sympathy for the man by listing every horrible thing he’d done to be there. None of the beating is enough to kill him, which is intentional. Once the guy is too injured to get off the ground, Red Hood pulls out a gun and shoots him in the dick, just like he wanted to. 

He venomously spat “That was for your daughter.” Then, he stepped on the guys crotch as he made his way out of the arena. 

The Red Hood was already popular with the citizens of Gotham, but people loved him even more on the game show. Especially the Crime Alley runners, who make up a good percentage of the viewers. Red Hood isn’t in the next livestream, and the Ghoulie Chat is very pouty. 

So is Bruce, because he and the Bats have had about as much success as Jason in finding the Phantom. 

What Bruce doesn’t know is that the rest of the family isn’t actually trying very hard. Ever since Red Hood started appearing on the Gotham Ghost Host, Jason has seemed so much happier. None of them know it, but Danny has been able to help Jason with the ectoplasm causing the Pit Rage. He’s been less snappish, he smiles more, and his eye bags have faded. He’s become one of the only people who can ruffle Damien’s hair without being stabbed. He sticks his tongue out at Tim, and the word “Replacement” is said jokingly instead of scathingly. He patrolled with Duke during the day after he said that sometimes he gets lonely. He even goes to movie night with Dick. But what really gets them is how he laughs freely, and it sounds so, so much like it did before he died. 

Babs asked Jason about the Phantom, since they were rather flirty in their most recent stream. She tried to make it clear that she was asking because she wanted to know about who Jason talks to, not because Bruce wants her to take down the Phantom. She was asking because she gave a shit about Jason’s life, and he turned bright red. Jason’s eyes practically lit up when he eventually started talking about the Phantom, even as he refused to give any helpful information. 

And just like that the Bats are actively preventing Bruce from stopping the Phantom. Bruce can’t trace the livestream for the life of him, because Babs did that weeks ago and buried the signal. One time, Danny breaks into the cave to ask Jason something about one of the targets. (He didn’t know it was supposed to be a secret!) and Dick sees them. He asks what the fuck they’re doing there, and then quickly tells them that they gotta leave. Damien distracts Bruce, and Tim helps Babs wipe the security footage while Duke makes sure they get out unseen. Even Alfred helps, gaslighting Bruce into believing that nothing happened and everyone is acting normal. 

This ends with Jason starting a book club, and no, they do not meet up in civilian identities. Red Hood and Phantom are regularly seen at a bookstore chugging red bull with Harley Quinn and Poison Ivy. Sometimes, they’re still covered in blood from the most recent livestream. 

This not what Bruce meant when he said that Jason should socialize more. 

Prompt 3: Villain

Danny was shipped to Gotham and he was instantly culture shocked by the amount of violence a living human have. Like, it's understandable if it's a ghost but no, this people are alive!!! So why????

Gotham was also cursed and as a protective spirit, his own protectiveness was warped into something sinister due to it.

Cue, Danny kidnapping some rouge (Red Hood included) to play a little game called "Choose your Poison".

It's where rapist (for the first round) gets to choose a door, behind that door is a rouge, and then they have to 1 v 1 that rouge. They do not get to say no, it's that or THAT but 1 v 2.

It's also livestreamed and Danny was like the host commenting the crimes and the likes. Just

Danny: And now for the next battle, the owner of the whatsamacallit fighting KI-KI-KI-KI-KILLER CROC!!!! Let's give them a round of applause!!!

Danny: In this corner we have a sorry excuse of a Father who has been pimping his daughters to the police just so he won't get jail time while selling drugs!!!

Danny: And now the police.

It gets quite an audience that will also protest and will defend Danny against the Bats.

[hanasnx]

" NOW CLOSE THOSE EYES AND LET ME LOVE YOU TO DEATH " — darth vader.

MINORS DNI 18+ ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 .ᐟ NOTES: unfinished wip. WARNINGS: fem reader ノ established relationship ノ dumbification ノ possession ノ toxic behavior ノ sex work mention ノ brief rape reference.

DARTH VADER keeps you close to his chest. If you weren’t his lover, you’d fit the description of his prisoner. Armed escorts follow your every move, if you’re to leave the Executor you’re to request permission from your lord, and if you expect leniency you will be sorely disappointed. Regardless of your status as his partner, you abide by the same rules as everyone else. Even a teacher’s pet can’t get away with everything.

“I feel a little… stifled.” you concede tentatively, peering at him out of the corner of your eye in your unease as the elevator carries the two of you to the bridge. He does not return your gaze, and in a way that exacerbates your nerves. Being his lover means you’ve had to adapt to his mannerisms, and you’re keen on reading his most minute displays, otherwise veiled by his full-body armor.

“You have everything you need here.” he insists. It cuts the conversation as a leader would, but the bruised ego of a partner persists through the statement. It goes unspoken that he’s referring to himself as the “everything” in question.

You face him with an open mouth to form your rebuttal, but you hush yourself. The door slides open, and he exits, leaving you to watch his cape billow out behind him from his stiff stride.

Lord Vader does not like it when you leave his side—to say the least. He sees no reason other than his own, and he’s confident that any needs of yours are simply the silly dream of a silly girl. There’s not a place in the galaxy you need to be other than with him, and he reminds you of that when you resurface the discussion in his throne room.

“Your request is denied, Administrator. I trust this will be the last I hear of this.” Once again, he shuts you down without room for negotiation, and you clutch hard onto the fabric of your clothes behind your back. He senses your hesitation to accept his decree, and his fingers tap his armrest in a graceful wave. “You’ll do well to hold your tongue lest- you- lose- it.” The words are enunciated in that baritone voice, the one that sends a shiver down your spine at the prospect of being threatened by a Sith Lord. One that is not accustomed to being questioned, will deem it a dangerous invitation to others. If you’re allowed to second-guess his order, what stops others from following your example? He must clip it where it first grows.

You take an appropriate second to gather yourself. “I understand, Lord Vader. I understand perfectly.” you respond with a respectful bow of your head, and take steps back until you can turn to exit the throne room. Once again, he’s refused your reasonable request for shore leave without cause. However, his mistake is believing there isn’t a thing you can do for yourself to counteract it.

There’s no one higher up the food chain on this ship than Darth Vader, and there’s no one higher up than he you can take this matter to. The Emperor doesn’t deal with misdeeds of employment, and the Grand Admirals would never waste their time with the complaints of subordinates. No, this matter would have to be solved domestically, and it’s entirely within your limited power. Lord Vader may be perceived as a wrathful god, but he is still just a man. A man who stalks the corridors late at night to haunt your humble dorm seeking company less than virtuous. A man who summons you to his chambers for depraved performances and a bare body to warm his bed. A man who’s become adept at emptying his every desire—his every inch—into you.

It is an expectation—and an expectation you will subvert.

“You ignore me, my love.” It is said the very next day after a cold night of loneliness, no doubt. Vader’s observation falls on uninterested ears, performing your duties as such as he strides aside you. As you maintain inspections—as is your assignment—you glance at your records listed on your datapad.

“My sincerest apologies, my lord.” you speak as if you’ve rehearsed it, and you lead him into an abandoned lobby room to ensure no one sees you attempting to outrun the commanding officer aboard. “If you could refresh my memory, I would be most grateful.”

This is one of the few times he affords you more of a leash than anyone else would receive. He looks down at you. “Do not toy with me.” Acting dumb is often a grave mistake when it comes to Vader. However, you’re bold enough to stand your ground. Your silence is met with him raising his head, disengaging you as an equal, and now as your superior. Gloves clasp in front of him. “You refused me.”

“Ah,” you exclaim in feigned discovery, and mirror his positioning. “You mean when you summoned me last night.” There’s a quirk to your lips he does not appreciate. “Am I not allowed to say I don’t want you?” your question is meant to come off as proud, but its divisive truth leaves you vulnerable. If your commander invokes power over you to fulfill certain expectations, where would that leave you other than as a concubine? You’re uninterested in being stripped of your autonomy further than you already have.

Implying there is a situation in which you would not want him, causes your lover to shift forward and impose on your space, compensating for the sting of potential rejection by puffing out his chest like some territorial animal. His voice lowers to a thunderous rumble, “You never had before.” Which is to say that deducing your uncharacteristic behavior leaves him with the conclusion that something’s changed.

“Your request was denied, my lord.” you regurgitate his own words back at him with an air of sick glee about revenge. Even remaining perfectly still you can see how he’s taken aback by your actions. You gather your things to return to your work, speaking as you go, “How can I please you when I am so disheartened myself?” you feign self-pity, knitting your brows together as you taunt him. You straighten with your datapad pressed to your chest. “If there’s nothing else…” A forlorn glance to your side, and then you hear it.

“Dismissed.” he spits in disdain.

For the next few rotations, he does not call for you. His will power is not to be underestimated, so your hope dwindles the longer he steels himself against your obvious manipulative withholding.

[thereoncewasagirlnamedjane]

BLOSSOM & BLOOM (1/12).

PAIRING — steve rogers x florist f!reader

CONTENTS — fake dating; fluff; mild angst; mild language; some spoilers for thor: love and thunder??; tw: mentions of minor character death and funerals; non-linear storytelling; and a friendly reminder that this story is not at all canon compliant.

CHAPTER SUMMARY — On the anniversary of the day you met, bonds of friendship are strengthened in the fires of romantic adversity.

WORD COUNT — 5.3k

NOTES — i honestly wasn’t gonna post this yet, but i feel like it’s been so long since i posted the masterlist and i was also stressing over how many rewrites this chapter has undergone. so, i’m posting to prevent myself from overthinking this any further. i hope you enjoy; it’s also better if you don’t look up the redacted flower meanings bc i will reveal them later <3

✩ series masterlist ✩ library blog

[1/12] The Proposal: ↳ an Avengers Tower gathering.

BLOSSOM & BLOOM, Rooftop Greenhouse E 40th St / Lexington Ave, NY — present day

Everything feels like a hollow version of itself tonight. 

No matter what kind of day you’d been having, the greenhouse is where you go to unwind, to lift your spirits. The flowers around you seem to droop, however, mirroring your mood as you push around a half-melted pint of Ben & Jerry’s in its carton. 

Strawberry cheesecake, non-dairy—because if your dumb, lactose intolerant ass is going to finish the entire thing anyway, you’d rather not add gastrointestinal distress to your growing list of problems. 

You sit among the lush greenery, the stars blinking lazily at you in the inky black sky beyond the glass walls of your personal conservatory, but you pay little attention. 

Notifications ping your phone, lying face down on a workbench that’s littered with incomplete bouquets and a few other lone blossoms. You don’t bother flipping it over, don’t have the courage to check whether it’s from one of them. 

Instead, every so often you put down the ice cream to pick up some stray lily or solitary rose, trying to bundle them together into something presentable. Nothing turns out the way you want, and so you ultimately give up. 

You try to summon the enthusiasm, grasping the handles of your gardening shears and moving the delicate, fern-like foliage of a nearby aquilegia plant out of the way so you can snip off the finished flowers. 

It does little to cheer you up this time, the spent blossoms falling onto the table, all shrivelled up like your heart. 

“So stupid,” you whisper, not really sure whether you mean yourself or someone else. In reality though, you don’t have anyone to blame but yourself. 

The abandoned flowers sit accusingly before you, and you know you should care more. About the plants, the shop, the emails containing special orders for all sort of special occasions—all the things that used to bring you joy, enough that you made it your life’s work. 

But you’ve spent your entire life trying to make everybody else happy, surely you were allowed to take just a few hours in the night for yourself? 

Violet is at your parents’ house in Chelsea, your shop is closed for the day, and there are no more personal events in your calendar to worry about. You might not get a chance like this again. 

So, you stare up into the sky and try not to think about all the reasons why the things you used to love are making you miserable now. Maybe they remind you that caring hurts, and lord knows you’ve had enough of that to last a while. 

Still, your heart rewinds, showing you memories of all those staged dates. With hindsight, it was such a terrible idea, because you already loved him then. 

But at the time? It was so tempting, so deliciously sweet, because you already loved him then. 

You let yourself remember that very first night, sitting next to him on a bar stool in the party room at the Avengers Tower. You turned in the seat just enough so that your knees were knocking against his, bodies angled towards each other. 

Even now, you can’t get it out of your head. The way he smiled, contagious. The way his eyes crinkled so warmly at the corners, devastating. 

Your own laughter felt real and genuine in a way you hadn’t done in the longest time, and looking back, maybe that was the point when you stopped being able to tell where the pretending ended and the truth began. 

Your time together began to blend. Holding hands because someone from the team might be watching, and then not letting go because—well, you couldn't speak for him, but you didn’t want to. 

Murmured sweet nothings exaggerated for an audience of spies and superheroes turned into long, serious talks about nothing… and then about everything. 

What seemed so straightforward at first became a maze of feelings you thought you’d been prepared to navigate, but your traitorous heart constantly turned corners you weren’t expecting. 

You think of how you’ve actually fallen asleep playing his voice in your head, replaying moments that should have felt hollow and empty—but because he was the one with you, they didn’t. 

And then it all came crashing down. You had known it would, quite spectacularly in fact, but you didn’t think it would happen like this. 

You’d stood among the pews next to him in that church, watching as friends and loved ones paid their respects to the late Jane Foster, wondering what kind of fraud you were. 

“I’m grateful you’re here, my friends,” Thor had given you a small smile, his eyes shining with sadness, your throat threatening to close up when his large hand landed heavy and warm on your shoulder, “I cannot tell you what it means.” 

You remember Wanda, her expression a portrait of loss and sorrow even as Vision stood so close, their shoulders bumped. You knew who she was thinking about, a brother lost in battle. She’d confided in you about Pietro before, especially after you shared that you’d lost a brother of your own. 

Tony shushed a fussy newborn Morgan, rocking her in his arms as Pepper rummaged through her purse for a packet of tissues, her eyes red and her nose running. He then handed you the tiny little bundle of joy, the baby nestling comfortably in the crook of your elbow, as Tony turned to help his wife. 

Bruce was in the front row next to Thor when he returned from greeting guests, shoulders hunched and his hands clasped together in his lap like he didn’t know what to do or say. Bruce was a quiet man, but every now and then he reached out to pat his friend on the back, as though he remembered a conversation he had with you about showing affection if he couldn’t speak it. 

Natasha and Yelena reached for each other, their hands coming together in the row in front of you. The sisters leaned against one another, their eyes downcast as Dr. Foster’s casket was covered in white flowers and carried out of the church. As they turned to watch the procession, their eyes met yours and they smiled. They reached for you with their free hands, and you met them halfway, your fingers trembling. 

And the reality of the charade began to sink in. 

You’d forgotten what it was like, having friends. Good ones. After your brother and sister-in-law passed, devastating your family and fracturing it seemingly beyond repair, your priorities shifted dramatically. 

The shop used to be number one, and then your pitiful personal life. But now you’ve adopted your brother’s orphaned child, who needs you more than ever, even if parenthood was never a choice you would’ve made before everything changed. 

As a result, your social life (and your love life, for that matter) fell to the wayside. Your parents, although you knew they meant well, kept insisting that you couldn’t do this alone. 

Maybe it would be better if your niece went to live with them instead, they’d suggested. Or at least, it would assuage their fears if you’d just settled down with someone. 

You acknowledged that being a single parent would be hard, but there must have been a reason your brother, with whom you weren’t particularly close, decided to leave Violet in your care. Your mom and dad weren’t necessarily bad parents, but they weren’t always the most nurturing or supportive. 

Did you want that for Violet? After all, your parents didn’t seem to understand that what you needed wasn’t a spouse or unsolicited opinions about what you could or couldn’t do. 

What you need is for them to see your grief, to acknowledge that you are trying, and to tell you that is enough. 

And the Avengers, who started out as Steve’s friends, had eventually become yours too. When did it become so easy to visit the Tower for a chat with any one of them, so reassuring to see all those familiar faces at whatever event Steve led you into, and so instinctual to pick up the phone at any given time when you were bored and needed someone to talk to? 

Unlike your family, they never judged—well, maybe a tiny bit—but they nevertheless welcomed you into their little group like you were always a part of them. Never mind that there was nothing particularly super about you, a civilian who just so happened to cross paths with them years ago. 

All you did was grow flowers, but somehow they made it feel like you might as well be sprouting magic from your fingertips. 

The initial lie began so innocently, but it threatens to choke you now. The more you got to know them, the more they accepted you, the more your discomfort grew. 

You were being surrounded by sincerity, and it only served to make your own deception seem more glaring and cruel by the minute. 

And so you ran. 

Steve had reached for you, because of course he would. You remember the tug of his hand when you tried to pull away, the warmth of his grasp not matching the cold truth you were always too afraid to face: the two of you were never really together, no matter how real it might have felt. 

You close your eyes, trying to shut out the replay of events but the images persist. That final day, him watching you with an expression you couldn’t quite read as you retreated. 

“I don’t know how to be what you need anymore,” you’d said, holding back tears because you had no right to cry. You were the one bailing on him, after all. Steve hadn’t done anything wrong. 

Was that anger you saw in his face? No, not anger. Hurt? Disappointment? You wish you knew. You wish you could have stayed. 

Will you ever see him again? 

You pull your knees up to your chest, hugging them tightly and trying to squeeze out the doubt that’s settled there like an unwelcome guest. You did the right thing, you tell yourself, even if it doesn’t feel like it—even if it feels like it might shred your heart to pieces. 

Even so, your fingers itch to send him a message. Just one. Something to make sure he’s okay… or maybe you just want to make sure you haven’t been erased—some assurance that, even though the relationship wasn’t real, not all of it was a total sham. 

Eventually, it gets so late that even inside the greenhouse gets a little chilly. You have to get up early to pick up Violet from your parents’ house in Chelsea, and then prepare yourself for the inevitable verbal smack-down waiting for you there when they realize you and Steve have “broken up”. 

With a sigh, you gather the now empty ice cream carton, along with the trimmings and loose petals you picked off the flower stems earlier. You begin heading down the six flights of stairs, past your second floor apartment, and back into the shop to throw away the trash. 

Blossom & Bloom is dark and still, the sign of the door flipped over to announce that you’re closed, but a flash of movement outside catches your attention. You freeze, watching as a tall shadow drifts across the front window, checking the time to see it’s well past midnight. Who on earth would come by now? 

The shadow crosses again, deliberate, not the random movement of a passerby. Your stomach flips as the motion sensor lights above the door flick on, revealing a familiar silhouette framed by the light of a nearby street lamp. 

It can’t be him, standing there looking like he’s just stepped off a vintage war poster. It’s too soon. And it’s also too late.  

Nonetheless, you’re propelled towards the door by a mixture of fear and longing. He raises a hand as if to knock, only stopping when he sees you through the glass. Slowly, you unlock and open the door. 

“It’s late,” you murmur, even though those are a far cry from the words you’ve longed to tell him. Still, you keep your tone firm and even, as if you weren’t just drowning your sorrows in the most cliched way possible. 

You hide partially behind the door, as though it might protect you from… you don’t know what. Steve would never do anything to hurt you, not knowingly anyway. 

And you’re not his “girlfriend” anymore—you never were, you correct mentally—so then why is he looking at you like that? 

“You’ve been trying to tell me something,” Steve says, sounding slightly out of breath. He doesn't seem angry, hurt, or disappointed at all. In fact, he looks almost… happy. 

Your face heats as you turn away, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” 

“You’re lying,” he breathes, like he’s still catching his breath, sounding suspiciously like he ran all the way here from the Tower. “Your heart rate just sped up.” 

“What?” You whirl around with wide eyes, incredulous. “Well, stop listening!” 

“No,” he grins, cheeky, as though the last two weeks of silence haven’t happened. Like you didn’t run out of Dr. Foster’s funeral and left him high and dry, no doubt fumbling for explanations to his very confused team. 

You look straight up into his eyes, searching for signs that this might be an illusion, a delusion, but all you can see is true blue. 

It’s such a rarity in your world, the one of flowers, but even though you know this well, you find yourself searching for signs of it ever since you met him. Signs of Steve—reassuring, steadfast, and more beautiful than anything that’s ever bloomed between these walls. 

More than the tiny, almost microscopic petals of the brunnera plants that blossom just after winter’s final frost. More than the dreamy delphinium spires that sway in the humid breeze at the height of summer. More than the lobelia hummingbird havens that grow in full splendour during the spring and fall. 

Those cerulean orbs soften the longer you hesitate. Despite how you’d left things, Steve smiles so kindly, so gently, it makes you ache. 

Hope. Sweet, treacherous hope swells in your chest, because he takes another step forward. He gathers your hands in his, impossibly slow, characteristically tender, and closes the gap just enough to press his forehead to yours. 

You swallow a gasp and close your eyes, afraid he’ll see right through you, that he might find the love you’ve been too scared to speak but have been written all over your face all this time. 

“I… I can’t…” 

And because it’s Steve, he makes it all better with just a few choice words: “What if I promise to say it back?” 

Your eyes snap open, and that little seedling—the one that had been planted between you the day you met all those years ago, the one that had been biding its time, just waiting for the perfect conditions before it could sprout—suddenly chooses that moment to spring out of the earth and bloom in full colour. 

Steve seems to sense the change. He takes a breath. 

And you, a leap of faith. 

❀ Aquilegia┆columbine┆lion’s herb SYMBOLIZES: courage.

THE AVENGERS TOWER, Party Hall 200 Park Ave, NY — May 4, 20XX 

Steve normally looked forward to a quiet night in with the team. 

It was nice just being with friends, the responsibilities of his shield forgotten upstairs in his room, and to put down the weight of the world that rested on his shoulders—albeit temporarily. 

Lately, however, he’d been going around with a feeling of dread in the pit of his stomach. He paused before turning corners now, carefully poking his head out first to check if the coast was clear, avoiding the members of his team like they were the plague. 

Because Romanoff seemed to have a never ending list of people she thought he should ask out on a date, Tony would not stop mentioning some former client from his time at Stark Industries, and Sam kept going on about a girl from the VA who’d be “perfect” for him. 

And unfortunately, Steve seemed to be running out of excuses now that the ones he’s already given them—he isn’t ready; Avenging is a full-time job; or, honestly, dating is just the last thing on his mind right now—didn’t seem to be good enough anymore. 

If their Captain wouldn’t go out and get a damn life, then they’d get one for him. 

Steve took a deep, stabilizing breath before stepping into the party hall, dreading all the dodging he was going to have to do tonight. If only they’d focus that energy into keeping the Tower neat and organized, he’d have a much easier time. 

Well, at least the place looked nice. 

Because Tony never missed an opportunity to throw a party (and spend some hard earned dough), the Tower was decorated to the nines. There was a champagne tower in the corner, a full spread of hors d’oeuvres laid out on tables lined with cloths that probably cost more than the average rent, and the floors were so shiny Steve could see his own reflection in the tiles. 

The opulence of the room made it hard to believe that just a handful of years ago, Loki and his alien army had nearly destroyed the city. There were no signs of that destruction now, even though at the time the damage had seemed so insurmountable. 

Blossom & Bloom, the flower shop just a few blocks away, was looking brand new as well. The cartoonish Steve-shaped holes in the wall and broken glass window have long since been repaired and perfectly replaced—once again courtesy of Tony’s more than sizeable bank account. 

It just goes to show how far one can go, and how quickly, with the right amount of green. And he was not talking about the Hulk. 

Although, maybe the Hulk too. Tony has definitely threatened to release the big guy if contractors didn’t cooperate. 

Speaking of the flower shop, Steve sighed with relief when he saw you by the refreshment table. He bypassed the team, giving them a casual wave as he approached your side, the only person in the room who wouldn’t give him a hard time for being, as Sam liked to put it, “single as fuck”. 

“Jesus,” he breathed when he was finally in the safe zone, “did Tony leave any flowers for the rest of New York?” 

“I think he plans to buy them all eventually,” you laughed, piling food high onto your plate, while Steve nodded at the abundant bouquets scattered around the room. “Though, I’m definitely not going to complain about the business.” 

“Sorry, that’s not what I mean. They’re nice,” Steve said, leaning over to admire the brilliant red-orange blossoms that bleed into a bright yellow at their centres. They smelled faintly of liquorice, perfectly arranged among clusters of glossy green leaves. “What are they?” 

“Rosa foetida,” you pronounced in Latin with a flourish of your hand, the fork you were holding almost stabbing him in the eye. God, you are such a nerd, and yet Steve couldn’t help but smile. “The Austrian copper rose. Aren’t they stunning?” 

Steve didn’t say anything back though, just plucked a mini quiche off your plate and shoved it nervously into his mouth. You looked up when you got silence in return, rolling your eyes when you saw him engaged in a staring contest, the usual battle of wits, with Natasha and Sam. 

Poor guy. Didn’t he know he didn’t stand a chance?

“Still avoiding the others, then?” You asked, and he muttered something unintelligible with his mouth full. “You know, the solution is very simple, Rogers.” 

“An’ wha’s that?” Steve mumbled, somehow managing not to spray you with crumbs in the process. 

“Get yourself a girlfriend,” you said matter-of-factly, and you heard him scoff. “Sorry, or a boyfriend. I don’t actually know what you’re into.” 

“Like it’s that simple,” he said after he swallowed. 

”Okay, first, I want it noted for the record that you didn’t deny the boyfriend thing,” you grinned triumphantly and he rolled his eyes, signalling for the bartender and quietly ordering a glass of whiskey for himself and a Diet Coke for you. 

The life he leads isn’t an easy one, even before he spent the better part of a century frozen at the bottom of the ocean—before the war, even. 

A frail, sickly boy spending most of his nights in bed, battling scarlet fever or painful stomach ulcers, didn’t exactly scream relationship material. People rarely even looked at him back then, and when they did, it was almost always platonic… or simply because they wanted to impress his best friend. 

And then seventy years later, a hyper focused super soldier with little else on his mind but the next mission, the next global threat, or the next existential crisis that would always take precedence over date night or meeting the parents, didn’t sound much better either. 

“And second, when you look like that,” you gestured to his entire body with a pair of mini tongs, smirking when Steve averted his eyes shyly, his cheeks reddening, “it kind of is that simple.” 

Fine, he will admit it, the effects of the serum certainly got him noticed. As inexperienced as he was, Steve wasn’t completely oblivious. He had no problem turning heads now, you’re right, and he’d be lying through his teeth if he said he didn’t enjoy some of the attention. 

Still, anyone of substance, any person he could ever see himself really falling for, would want more than he would ever dare to offer. 

“And you’re sweet or whatever, I guess that’s always a bonus,” you added teasingly before taking a big gulp of your soda. “Anyone with half a brain would jump at the chance to date you, so what’s the problem?” 

The problem is, he can’t promise he won’t ever need to leave at the drop of a hat. He can’t even promise that he’ll always have the chance to call or get in touch first, or that he would come back from every single mission safe and sound. 

“Just doesn’t seem fair, is all,” Steve shrugged after explaining, “especially not to someone I’m supposed to care about.” 

“Wow,” you smiled at him and Steve bristled. Not because he was uncomfortable, per se, but because there was something different about that smile in particular. 

Every now and then, you got this strange look on your face, something unfathomable and unreadable, missing all the usual playfulness and slight sarcasm. The most preposterous idea popped into his head sometimes, that maybe you only ever wore that look around him. 

But just as quickly as it happened, the moment was over and you reverted back to your usual self, “you are such a sap. It’s adorable.” 

“Shut up,” Steve rolled his eyes again, knowing how much you enjoy poking fun, so he didn’t take the comment personally. “So, how’d it go with your parents?” 

“Ugh,” you winced, the memory evidently not so pleasant, “don’t remind me.” 

“They’re still giving you a hard time, huh?” Steve asked as the both of you headed over to the bar to sit, you awkwardly balancing your mountain of food as you went. 

“Evidently, Violet needs a father,” you scoffed, changing your voice to mimic who he assumed was your mother. You shook your head before speaking normally again, “never mind how often I try to remind them she already has one.” 

“I’m sorry,” Steve frowned, his fingers toying with the rim of his glass. You didn’t talk about your late brother very often and he didn’t ask, knowing it was a bit of a sore subject. By now, he’d heard more than a handful of times that your parents kept insisting you find someone to settle down with, even though you’d made it perfectly clear that it wasn’t a priority. 

“It’s whatever,” you shrugged, casually dismissing the matter with a wave of your hand. Steve could tell that wasn’t the case, judging from the way you heaved the biggest sigh, your food untouched for now, “it’s fine.” 

“I think you’re doing great,” Steve said, and he wasn’t just saying it. Not everyone was capable of stepping up the way you did, adopting your orphaned niece and deciding to raise her on your own. “Violet’s a good kid, and she’s lucky to have you.” 

“Yeah,” you agreed, your annoyance melting away to be replaced with a small, affectionate smile, “I’m the lucky one, though.” 

“How come you didn’t just bring her along?” Steve asked, already missing ten-year-old Violet’s youthful enthusiasm and charm, even if she did occasionally make him feel like a recently-excavated dinosaur. 

“It’s apparently uncool to be hanging out with her aunt now,” you joked, although he could see the slight twinge of angst in your eyes, “besides, she lost all interest in attending when I told her Thor wouldn’t be here.” 

“Hurtful,” he joked, pretending to sulk into his glass. You patted his shoulder in a placating gesture, and when he looked up he saw the rest of the Avengers huddled together. He was sure they’re scheming right now, coming up with all sorts of ways to get him out of the Tower and lure him into an unsuspecting date.

He didn’t know why it came to him right then, but the idea hit him like a freight train. The rational part of his brain told him to shut the hell up, because it was a terrible idea and you’d probably smack him for even suggesting it.

The other side, the seldom seen irrational Steve—although, was it particularly rational to lie his way into the army, take an experimental super serum, punch his way through WWII, and then crash land a plane into the Arctic?— was blurting it before he could stop himself.

Because if his friends were going to scheme anyway, why not play at their game and scheme right back? 

“You could do it,” he said. “Be my girlfriend.” 

Your fork paused in mid-air above your plate, and you looked at him like he’d just sprouted a second head.

“Not like that,” he rushed to explain. Your features twisted into one of mock offence, and he quickly backpedaled, “No, that’s not what I mean—listen, you’re great, I just—hear me out, okay?”

All he needed was a date to a handful of special occasions dotting his calendar over the next few months, just long enough to convince his well-intentioned but annoying as hell friends that he was, in fact, doing just fine in the dating department. 

And it somewhat made sense! Because you and him have been friends for ages now—how many years has it been?—and Steve wouldn’t decide to date just anybody at this point. He did spend a lot of time at your shop, with Violet, and it wasn’t strange for any one of them to see you around the Tower making a delivery or stopping by for a visit. 

When the time came, the two of you would “break up” amicably and go back to being just friends—no harm, no foul. He would feign just enough disappointment that the team would be too sympathetic, too sorry to see you go, that they would hopefully stop pestering him about his love life for the foreseeable future. 

If nothing else, it would buy him at least a few months of peace, and god knows he could use some of that.

“What do you think?” Steve asked, hopeful. You pressed the back of your hand to his forehead, looking even more puzzled. 

“I think you’ve gone crazy, Steven,” you muttered, while he tutted and batted your hand away, “did you get hit in the head on your last mission?” 

“Think about it, it’s a win-win for both of us,” and even though you were still a bit hesitant, Steve could see the wheels starting to spin in your head. “You help me get these jackasses off my back—” 

“Steve—” you admonished. 

“—and I’ll help you ward off your parents for a little bit,” he continued, undeterred. And the plus side? Steve did genuinely enjoy your company, even if you could be such a smartass sometimes.

He recalled the day you met, during the Battle of New York, and maybe it wasn’t exactly one for the storybooks, but the both of you had come such a long way since then. 

Most importantly, you deserved better than having to rush into a relationship with some random guy you’d meet on a dating app—which was the direction you were headed if your parents had anything to say about it.

And because you were friends now, and because Steve knew you were much sweeter and more agreeable when you weren’t faced with the mortal peril of an alien invasion, your shoulders were already slumping in resignation. You wouldn’t turn him away in his hour of need, he knew, not when he’s come to you so many times to vent about his nosy teammates. 

“Just for a few months?” You asked slowly, already starting to come around, just as tempted by the idea of silence. And your parents wouldn’t have anything to complain about if you’re dating Captain America.

Well, maybe his dangerous job, but you take some, you lose some.  

“That’s it,” he promised. 

“And we don’t involve Violet in this,” you pointed a finger at him and he was already nodding. Lying to his friends was one thing, but lying to your niece was a whole other. He wouldn’t ever ask that of you anyway. “As far as she’ll ever know, we’re just friends.” 

“Of course, we’ll come up with something,” he readily agreed, because of all people, his team knew how complicated the superhero dating life could be, even without kids involved.

Steve prepared to shake your hand to seal the deal, but stopped short just in case anyone was watching.

“Might as well start selling it, Cap,” you said with a sigh, grabbing his hand anyway and lacing your fingers between his, much more intimately than he’d intended. You lifted your fork with your other hand, feeding him a bite from your plate. 

Steve had no choice but to open his mouth and accept the stuffed mushroom, feeling warm all of a sudden even though he was not wearing a jacket and his sleeves were rolled up to the elbow. It was made worse when he heard the surprised squawks of his friends from across the room. 

“Hang on a minute.” Surprisingly, Bruce was the one who started.

“Hey, what the hell?” Tony muttered, pointing an accusing finger in your direction. 

“When did that happen?” Sam demanded, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Oh my god, is that why he’s always at the flower shop?” Pepper watched with wide eyes, lowering her champagne flute with interest. 

“So, he was working up the guts to ask her out this entire time?” Clint snickered, and even though it wasn’t true, Steve blushed like it ws. 

The only one who remained silent was Natasha, her eyes seeming to glow despite the dim lighting. Steve was determined not to look at her, lest he gave himself away. He kept his eyes squarely on you, trying to stay centred.

“My god, we really need to work on your poker face,” you told him, throwing your head back and laughing at the sight of his pink cheeks. “Is this how you always react to holding hands?”

“Shut up,” he managed between a tightly clenched jaw, his blood rushing all the way up to the tips of his ears. You continued giggling into your plate of food before Steve finally gave in to your infectious laughter, a small smile tugging at his own lips.

It will be fine, he told himself. This was you, after all, his best and only friend outside the Avengers; your friendship was strong enough to survive whatever came at you. Besides, he was going to do his absolute damnedest to make sure you, and Violet for that matter, emerged from this unscathed.

That’s right, he repeated as he silently promised to protect you, whether it was from aliens, his friends, or even himself.

Nothing could possibly go wrong.

❀ Rosa foetida┆Austrian copper rose SYMBOLIZES: friendship; ���████████.

to be continued.

© 2025 by thereoncewasagirlnamedjane. do not repost, translate, or copy to third party sites. no part of this work may be fed into any AI software or websites. minors are asked not to interact with my blog; you are responsible for your own media consumption. followers with zero engagement, serial likers, and blank/ageless blogs will be blocked.

[a-raven-of-their-word]

With a single misclick and a forgotten letter Necromancy becomes Nekomancy. You just went from raising and controlling the dead to summoning and controlling cats.

[suzdin]

Home Is Wherever I’m With You

Joel Miller x f!reader

Summary: After the tragic loss of your father and home, you find yourself at the mercy of a cold, detached stranger who holds your fate in his hands during a violent snowstorm.

Notes: okay fair warning, I started writing this when I was feeling extremely low, and finished it several weeks later when I was doing better, so if it seems disjointed and sloppily thrown together, that’s why! But I swear there’s a happy ending!

Warnings: ANGST!!! I cannot stress the amount of angst. Suicidal thoughts and ideation, especially at the beginning. Alcohol consumption. Main character deaths; all of them. Lots of depression and poor mental health, mostly with Joel. Angsty!Joel, asshole!Joel, soft!Joel, semi-dom!Joel, protective!Joel, masturbation (m), oral (f receiving), face riding, unprotected p in v, creampie, biting/marking, pregnancy heavily hinted at, more angst

Word Count: 7,100+

dividers provided by: @saradika-graphics ❣️

Tags: @ohheypedrito @kateispunk @kellybelly1978 @berryispunk @chronically-ghosted @morallyinept @natdeandar @guelyury @daddy-dins-girl

Joel crouches in front of the old cast iron stove, his knees groaning in protest as he stokes the embers within using an extra scrap of wood.

He doesn’t know why he’s going through the trouble. It isn’t like he’ll be around much longer. Maybe he just wants to feel warmth one last time before he does it. And this time, he won’t miss.

He’ll be cold soon enough anyway.

He gets the fire breathing again, closing the hatch and settling back into the old leather recliner in the corner, worn and cracking with age, much like himself.

He palms the neck on a bottle of bourbon, taking a hefty swig and wiping his lips with the back of his hand, his face crinkling in rumination as he watches the flames dance behind slats of iron.

Sarah. Tess. Tommy. And then Ellie. He had failed each and every one of them; those he claimed to love, who he vowed to keep safe. He had let them down. He had let himself down.

He takes another pull on the bottle and sets it down heavily on the table next to him, replacing it with his Smith & Wesson, heavy digits curling around the grip.

He traces the scar on his temple with the point of his index finger, feeling the faint indentation in the flesh; a constant reminder of yet another failure.

He lowers his hand back to the revolver, finger circling the trigger guard, dark eyes downcast as he attempts to summon the strength to do what he needs to do. Again.

His hand tremors as he lifts the gun and presses the cold barrel to his temple, thumb cocking the hammer back with a hollow metallic clunk that resonates through his skull and soul.

“C’mon, Joel. Get yourself fucking together for once.”

His eyes close, nose scrunched in a deep scowl.

Just do it, Joel. Pull the fucking trigger.

The ball of his index finger curves around the bend of the trigger, twitching with indecision when the back door to the cabin abruptly flies open, temporarily snapping him out of his psychosis.

It’s just the wind. That’s all it is. A gust of wind from the incoming snowstorm.

He doesn’t move from his space on the recliner. The cold won’t matter in a few seconds anyway. He lifts the barrel to his temple again, aligning it just right…

The back door clicks shut. It wasn’t slammed, like the wind would have done had it been the culprit. It very audibly clicked. Like someone or something shut it themselves.

Immediately following the click, he hears the unmistakable scrape of boots on wood, the revolver lowering from offensive to defensive position.

No sooner do you get the door closed that you notice a faint flicker of light from the adjoining room, your heart beginning to thrum like a jackhammer in your chest. From the outside, in your weary state, the dilapidated old cabin looked abandoned as far as you could tell, realizing too late that it isn’t.

But now you’ve stumbled into someone’s den, and they could very well be armed and aiming to shoot. They could even be cannibals for all you know.

You could leave. You could just leave and pretend this never happened. But you haven’t seen any other shelters for miles… and the storm was only going to get worse.

“Who’s there?” a gruff male voice calls out from the other room, breaking through the stifling silence. You go stock still on instinct, your hackles bristled along your spine.

When you’re able to gather your bearings, you respond with your name, your vocal cords numb and strained from the cold.

“I mean no harm. I just need a place to sleep out of the storm. I promise to leave at first light,” you quickly add.

Joel stiffens when he hears a woman’s voice, his finger still circling the trigger guard as it had only moments before when the gun was trained on himself.

“Are you armed?”

“Just a small pistol and a jack knife. And I’m out of ammo,” you call back truthfully.

Everything is quiet for a moment aside from the crackle of flame and the howl of wind that rattles the windows and bends the outer wood. The silence between you and the unseen man feels like it stretches on for ages.

“Approach the door with your hands raised. An’ when I say, slide the gun and knife over to me.”

“Alright,” you reply quietly, approaching the ajar door in front of you, hands already skyward, kicking the door the rest of the way open with the toe of your boot.

You step forward two paces into the room, the scent of alcohol stinging your nostrils, your gaze settling on a haggard looking man in the furthest corner from you. His hair is wild and askew, eyes sunken in like a corpse, recognizing the hopeless glint behind them; no doubt a reflection of your own. A large pistol is clutched in his meaty fist, cocked and aimed.

“Gun first. Then the knife,” Joel says, his brow angled downward in a dark line, shading the even darker set of eyes.

You keep one hand in the air as the other reaches into the band of your jeans, removing the pistol and sliding it to him, stilling as it hits his boot.

He picks it up, discharging the clip to find that it is indeed empty, as you had claimed. He sets it next to the bourbon.

You slide the knife next, an average, run of the mill jack knife with a four inch blade. He inspects it, noticing a few remnants of blood still tarnishing the steel.

“Who’d you kill with this?”

“I used it to skin hares and squirrels.”

His face pinches with confusion, tilting his head at you like a dog hearing an unknown sound for the first time.

“Y’skinned hares and squirrels with a jack knife?” he questions doubtfully.

“It’s all I had,” you explain.

Joel eyes you warily. You’re definitely not dressed or equipped for this kind of weather. The only thing that seems to be keeping you warm is a thin hoodie, a regular set of jeans, and a pair of boots soaked through with snow.

He sighs. He isn’t going to kill himself with you here. He may not be the nicest or most caring man in the world, but he isn’t about to traumatize you. He’ll wait until you leave. You said you’d leave at first light.

In the meantime, he has to deal with someone being in his space, which he doesn’t exactly want to do, especially in his last hours. But he isn’t about sending you to your death, either. You probably have more to live for than he does.

“Here,” he says, kicking an old wicker chair toward you. “Your feet’re soaked. Take off your boots and warm your feet ‘fore you get frostbite.”

You lower your arms and take a cautious step forward, and then another, slowly sinking into the flimsy and rotten chair, bending to unlace and remove your boots.

You try to wiggle your toes but they won’t move, at least not yet. Joel watches with a scrutinizing glare, his hand still on the Smith & Wesson in his lap.

“What’s your name?” you ask him, pushing your boots aside.

“Ain’t important.”

You cast him a look but don’t press, scooting your sore and frozen feet closer to the stove, feeling yourself starting to slowly defrost.

You thank him for letting you stay.

He ignores your gratitude, dark browns drifting over your frame.

“Where’d you come from?” he asks.

“Ain’t important,” you counter, casting him another glance.

He leans forward, planting his elbows on his knees, pinning you with a deep scowl.

“I’m the one with the gun,” he chides in a deep timbre, his tone brooking no room for protest. “Guns,” he quickly amends.

Your eyes lock with his momentarily, assessing his conviction before deciding not to test it.

“A settlement near Billings.”

“Alone?”

“Yes.”

He leans back, his gaze unmoving, letting out a breath through his nose.

“An’ exactly what prompted you to run out into a snowstorm with just a hoodie and no supplies?” he asks.

You flinch as if he’d just backhanded you, averting your gaze. If you were looking, you might notice his face softening, if only just a hair.

“Raiders came into our settlement. My father… he gave me the pistol and distracted them while I snuck under a gap in the fence. I didn’t have time to grab anything else,” you tell him.

“And your dad?” Joel asks delicately.

“Didn’t make it out,” you reply grimly, your body beginning to tremor, a combination of repressed emotion and your muscles beginning to thaw.

Joel falls silent, absorbing your words as truth. He can’t find a reason that you would lie about something like that.

“I’m sorry,” he sympathizes, his voice gentling.

You bring your knees to your chest, your chin resting between them, arms wrapped around your shins.

“Thank you,” you say again, your voice hardly above a whisper.

——

Your eyes snap open, realizing you must have drifted off at some point, finding yourself curled into a fetal position directly in front of the dying fire.

A blanket you’re sure wasn’t there before is wrapped around your frame. You’ve no idea where it came from, it’s a bit scratchy and smells funky, but what matters is it’s warm, subconsciously pulling it tighter around your shoulders when you feel a chilled breeze brush over you through the cracks in the wall.

“Mornin’,” Joel hums softly above you.

“Morning,” you echo, shifting as your eyes scan the room, the cabin just as dark and cloaked in shadow as when you arrived. You’re unsure how he knows what time of day it is, but you decide not to question it.

He’s in almost the exact position in the old recliner as the previous evening, his hand unmoving from the revolver still in his lap. You can’t help but wonder if he had any rest at all, not sure if him watching you sleep should be comforting or disconcerting.

You sit up with a stretch, your joints crackling like twigs as you work out the aches of not only having traveled this far on foot, but also sleeping on a hard wooden floor all night.

Better than freezing to death, you decide.

You scoot until your back is flush with the wall, leaning against it as you silently study Joel.

“Thank you for the blanket—“ you begin, but he quickly cuts you off with a hard glare, nudging your dried out boots to you with his foot.

“Boots’re dry. It’s morning. ‘bout time for you to leave,” he says, his voice low and rough.

It dawns on you that it’s still dark because the storm hasn’t lessened at all, banks of snow clogging the windows and doors, blocking out what little available sunlight there is.

Your brow knits together and you cast him a wary glance, bottom lip trembling.

“But it… it’s…”

“The deal was first light, darlin’, and I’ve given you plenty more than that.”

“Please… just… a few more hours? Until the storm dies down some?” you plead, tears pricking at the backs of your eyes, preemptively threatening to freeze your eyelids together.

He’s silent and contemplative for what you feel is longer than necessary, a muscle fluttering in his jaw.

He knows he should send you away, even if it means a certain death. He can’t have you here, swimming in his grief, prolonging the inevitable.

The other option, of course, is to shoot you and then himself, a swift and merciful death that you deserve far more than he does. His fist tightens around the butt of the revolver, an action that does not go unnoticed by you.

“No,” he says plainly.

“Please, I’ll do anything,” you say, your voice cracking with emotion and desperation, shifting to your knees as you shuffle a few inches closer to his chair. He did give you a blanket, so there is a human being in there somewhere. “I can’t—“

“I can barely take care of myself, much less another person. Ain’t nothing you can offer me, nothing to barter with—“

“I’ll let you keep my gun and knife. Please. Just a few more hours…”

His jaw ticks again. Your odds are already low as is, but liberating you of your only means of defense, your only means of perhaps obtaining a meal, if only a meager squirrel or hare, would completely diminish any shred of a chance you have left.

He could give you his one and only jacket. Not that he’s going to need it after you leave, anyway.

“No,” he says again, more sternly than before.

His gaze is unmoving from yours, the slow, steady circling of his pointer finger on the edge of the trigger guard doing little to settle your nerves, the conflict apparent behind his dark eyes.

You know you don’t have much to offer. You’re not great at hunting. You’d exhausted your entire clip on what barely qualifies as a meal, leaving you with very little sustenance once the bullet had almost completely obliterated any viable meat.

You can’t fight or shoot worth a damn, either. Your father had tried to teach you in vain, his frustration with you growing to a fever pitch over the years, but it had never been your forte.

Because you never thought you’d have to live without him.

You can scout. Gather. Keep the cabin up, replace rotting boards and rusting nails, keep it clean and tidy. But not in this weather, and not for a few months yet.

So you default to the last thing you know how to do well. The only thing you know without a shadow of a doubt you’re good at, if any of the men at your settlement had anything to say about it before they perished.

You inch closer, your tired knees scraping against the dirty, splintered wood, hands trembling as you hesitantly reach toward his parted knees.

He anticipates more begging and pleading. Maybe a sob story or two.

What he doesn’t expect is for your hands to grab his belt, the meat of your palm ghosting over his crotch as you fumble to undo the worn rungs of leather.

His cock twitches instinctively and he can’t recall the last time a woman touched him like this. Made him feel anything but dead inside.

He moves with a sudden swiftness that surprises and startles both of you, the hand not currently on the revolver grabbing hold of your wrist like a striking serpent, his grip biting into your delicate bones so roughly you realize how effortless it would be for him to snap your wrist, should he feel so inclined.

He rises to his feet, dragging you with him and giving you a hard, reprimanding shake, teeth bared inches from your face.

It occurs to you seeing him fully upright like this just how tall, how imposing he is; worn, threadbare flannel stretched to its limits across broad shoulders and thick biceps.

“Christ, woman, the hell is wrong with you? What kind of man do you take me for?” he growls, a subtle twang piping up in his voice, his clenched fist releasing your wrist with a minor shove. You stumble backwards, catching yourself on the wall.

His nostrils flare, drawing in a deep, steadying breath, his eyes slipping shut as he tempers his simmering anger… and something else he doesn’t want to acknowledge.

“Fuck,” he grunts, eyes slowly opening again, rough digits carding through his graying curls. “If it means that much to you… you stay until the snow stops, an’ not a second later,” he nearly spits in your face. “Got it?”

When you easily nod in agreement, he stalks out of the room with a huff, every heavy footfall vibrating beneath your feet, slamming the door shut between you, leaving you standing there in the middle of the room, alone and unsure what to feel.

—

Joel goes into the now defunct bathroom, the traditional porcelain toilet that was maybe brand new decades ago currently unusable, the water in the tank and plumbing frozen solid, the pipes under the earth most likely cracked and warped.

He drops trow and leans forward with the flat of one palm against the wall, the other hand gripping himself.

He lets out a shaky breath he wasn’t aware he had been holding in, pissing into the cistern he had dug under the cabin two summers ago, a task only made more difficult by the partial erection he now has thanks to your — albeit brief — touch a few moments ago.

“Fuck, Joel,” he sighs as he empties his bladder, his cock only growing stiffer in his hand as he imagines how good your lips would have felt wrapped around him, what kind of pretty sounds you would have made for him.

“Fuck,” he grits again, cramming his painfully hard erection into his jeans when he’s done.

—

Hours turn to days, days to weeks, weeks to months — “until the snow melts an’ not a day later” — spring not far around the corner, the sun growing brighter and hotter in the sky with each passing day.

Joel’s suicidal ideations were still an ever present plague on his brain, though he kept that part of himself tucked neatly away, as he did most things that were personal and private. He never spoke of Sarah, Ellie, anyone. Never talked about his life before Outbreak.

In turn, you never talked about yours either, aside from what you’d told him the first night, too frightened that you might scare him away simply by opening up, by trying to stitch together what little relationship you had with one another.

The more time you spent with him, the more of a burden you began to feel. It didn’t matter how much you helped out, even if you kept a respectful distance between you, especially when he seemed extra bristly or in his head that day. He was always skulking about, his face pinched in indignation in what you were certain was unspoken hatred for you and your existence.

It was early morning and you were at the edge of the valley, the spot near the treeline that was choked with underbrush, gathering pathetically small handfuls of wild strawberries and huckleberries that were just beginning to fruit. Definitely not enough to have much impact on your aching bellies, but it could be supplemental to whatever protein Joel could scrounge up, which hadn’t been much as of late.

You wipe a fresh layer of sweat from your brow despite the air still being bitterly cold, collecting what meager pittance of berries you can, sucking in a breath of air as you steeled your nerves to head back to the cabin.

—

Joel’s door is still closed when you return. Not surprising, considering how early you’d gotten up that morning, Joel likely still exhausted and aching from the ineffectual hunting trip the previous day.

You place the berries into a bowl on the counter, your fingers curling into the peeling linoleum as you stare out the window that overlooks the southern end of the valley, sun cresting through the twisted and gnarled branches of still-bare trees.

You’ve been milling around the idea of leaving for weeks now. You’ve come close to doing so several times, knowing it would make Joel happy to not have you on his mind or in his space anymore.

Your hand hovers near the hunting rifle slanted against the wall, ultimately deciding against it as you tuck your pistol and knife into your pants, tossing half of the berries into a bag and shrugging on the jacket Joel had found for you on a hunting trip.

You take a final glance at his door before sucking in another sharp breath, opening and closing the back door for what you assume to be the last time.

—

Joel hears you return only to leave again a few minutes later. He thinks little of it, something you do frequently throughout the day when foraging or inspecting snares.

He wishes he could express his gratitude to you, thank you for how much you help out. How much you’ve improved his life just by being here. It kills him to see how you shrink away every time he enters the room, but he understands why. He hasn’t given you a reason not to.

Once he’s sure you’re out of earshot, he resumes pumping himself, hips bucking into his fist seconds before spurting hot ribbons of come onto his lower abdomen, eyes rolling back in his skull, your name a curse on his tongue as he imagines your mouth working him over in place of his fist.

As much as he’s wanted to touch you, sink himself into you every night, he’s been too afraid. Afraid to even speak to you, afraid of becoming attached only to lose you, like he’s lost all the others.

—

When you don’t return by mid day, he begins to worry.

He tries not to. He tries to tell himself maybe you decided to forage a little longer than usual, or maybe you’re at the river searching for freshwater clams since the weather is slowly beginning to warm.

Still, he can’t shake the feeling that something is off. That something is wrong.

He finds the bowl of fresh berries on the counter, evident that you had been foraging at least part of the day. But it didn’t feel right. It wasn’t good enough for him.

When you don’t return by nightfall, he knows without a shadow of a doubt that something is wrong.

This isn’t you.

—

Two days pass and you realize just how badly you fucked up.

The berries barely made a dent in your hunger and the only other food you managed to find were a few wild mushrooms that you’re pretty sure weren’t the edible kind, if the half gallon of resulting vomit an hour later was any sort of indication.

You fucked up. You fucked up royally and you miss the cabin. You miss the warm stove and the bed Joel made for you close to the fire. You miss how he always kept you fed and protected, even if you’re certain he hates you.

You miss Joel. You miss his grunts, you miss the way his face pinches when he glowers. You miss what he looks like when he chews, almost like he’s angry at his food somehow. You miss his smell when he comes home covered in grime and sweat from a full day of hunting.

Dusk has fallen on your second day without food or water, your bones feeling like powder and your muscles like jelly. You’re exhausted, head pounding with a combination of fatigue and hunger as you take shelter from the wind in a small outcropping of rocks, wishing he was here with you.

You’ll go back tomorrow, you decide.

—

Joel watches the sun sink behind the horizon of trees, cloaking the surrounding forest in near darkness.

He knows he should stop to rest for the night. Like you, he left in a rush without grabbing much in way of supplies or sustenance, but had been lucky to graze a buck that he was passively tracking while searching for you. He’ll likely find it soon.

He periodically came across fresh deer imprints in the earth, clean tracks slowly changing to drag marks, indicating the buck was either dead or close to death.

But you were constantly at the forefront of his mind. You were his focus. His reason to keep going. His reason for continuing to live.

And when he finds a perfect indentation of your left boot moments before the sun lowers completely from the sky, he knows he can’t afford to stop now.

—

It’s still dark when you wake up, your eyes coming into focus along the faint edges of what you can see, which isn’t much. Some rocks. Some trees.

You shift, rolling to your opposite side to go back to sleep, tucking your hands under your cheek as a makeshift pillow. A breeze blows over you, made stronger by the funnel of rocks, and you shiver, pulling your jacket tighter.

Snap.

Your eyes fly open again, immediately jumping to your haunches as you palm the pistol next to you.

You train your ears toward the source of the sound, somewhere in the trees, listening intently, your mind on shuffle with all the possibilities of what it could be.

It didn’t sound large enough to be a bear. A puma, perhaps, one who didn’t seem to be hunting you, hopefully, due to how loud the sound was.

Infected? A slim possibility. Rare up here, but not unheard of, which left you with the most likely option: it was human.

You attempt to still your breath, your fist white knuckled around the butt of the gun. It’s too dark to see anything, and all you hear is the soft whistle of the wind.

—

Joel registers the sound of you shifting from somewhere up the incline above him, limbs turning to stone as his mind cycles through all the same scenarios as you.

He lost your tracks halfway through the night, finding himself going in circles, so it’s quite possible it’s not you he’s just stumbled upon.

He slowly removes the rifle from his shoulder, lifting it to half mast in case whomever he’s stumbled across is hostile… or infected.

“I’m armed!” he calls out, lifting the rifle to a defensive position with the butt pressed to his shoulder. “I have no beef with you if you have none with me,” he adds.

You swear your heart stops, tears suddenly stinging your eyes with salt.

“J-Joel?” you whimper, almost imperceptible, but it’s just loud enough.

Joel can only react, unthinking, responding on muscle memory alone as he somehow manages to traverse the steep, rocky incline in seconds without eating it.

You jump upright to your feet, despite how weak you are, and before your brain even has a chance to tell your legs to move, you’re struck by a wall of muscle, thick arms coiling around you and pulling you against his chest.

“Thank god, thank god,” Joel sobs into your hair as he drags you down to the ground with him, his voice softer than you can ever remember, the wetness of his tears soaking through your shirt. “I thought I’d lost you…” he whispers, his voice wavering.

He inhales your scent deeply, his hold on you nearly painful, but you don’t mind, your face against his chest as your own tears start to fall.

—

“I’m sorry,” Joel murmurs softly as you’re walking back the following day, glancing over at you, dark brown eyes gently regarding your side profile in the early morning light. “I’m sorry I made you feel like I don’t care. I just…”

“I know,” you respond, pausing to collect your breath and your thoughts. “I know why you did it. I’m sorry I doubted you. I’m sorry I scared you…”

“Hey,” he says, gently cupping your jaw as he tilts your chin up to meet his gaze, calloused thumb tracing your jawbone, pausing at your bottom lip. “S’okay.”

Your lips pucker, impervious to stop yourself from planting a small kiss to the pad of his thumb as it brushes your lip.

He lets out a low breath, his hand snaking around to the nape of your neck, fingers lacing through your hair as he tugs you closer, lips crashing against yours in a passionate, heated kiss that flows trembling from him with every fiber of withheld emotion and desire.

—

You arrive at the cabin half a day later, impressed but not surprised by how swiftly Joel was able to navigate both of you back safely.

He even successfully locates the downed buck, stiff with rigor mortis and cold, half chewed by a pack of wolves that scatter with a single rifle shot fired over their heads, the large animal now dragging listlessly behind Joel as you finally break through the barrier of trees encasing the valley where the cabin resides.

Smoke still curls from the chimney, fire long gone but embers undoubtedly still hot, and you find yourself smiling. With relief, with anticipation.

You’re exhausted, famished and dirty. Yet you still assist Joel in stringing up what’s left of the buck to the outside of the cabin until he can properly butcher it, feeling obligated to do so after everything that’s happened, despite his protests.

Once the task is complete, you retire to the warmth and comfort of the cabin, curled against his chest, feeling at home for the first time in months.

His fingers idly trace the bow of your spine, both of you falling into a fast sleep for what feels like days on end.

—

“I was so goddamn stupid,” Joel growls softly as his lips chart a path down your soft inner thighs, finding himself grinding his hips into the mattress for relief. “So goddamn stupid an’ bullheaded, an’ I almost lost you for it.”

Your spine arcs instinctually when his breath ghosts tauntingly close to your soaked folds, your fists finding his graying locks with a tug.

“Joel, stop talking and make it up to me,” you whine, earning a disapproving glance from between your legs, but there’s an undercurrent of playfulness behind his eyes.

“Make it up to you, huh?” he purrs, separating your folds and inhaling your natural scent. “By tastin’ this perfect little pussy?”

“Yes,” you whine again, writhing like a worm cooking under the sun in his grasp, your fingers tightening in his hair.

“Uh uh,” he scolds, moving further away from where you’re desperate for him. “Ask nicely.”

His lip curves almost imperceptibly into a sly smirk, his gaze growing a shade darker.

“Please, Joel,” you amend, still wiggling, almost involuntary at this point, his fingers digging into your hips as he pins you against the bed.

“Please what?”

“Please, I need to feel your mouth on my pussy,” you whimper.

His nostrils flare, smirk growing just enough for you to realize you weren’t just seeing things.

He doesn’t waste another second as he dives in with a low, reverberative growl and begins feasting on you like a man starved, his meaty forearm barred across your hip to hold you in place so he can eat you out properly.

His tongue parts your folds, licking a broad stripe up your seam with a groan as he tastes your essence for the first time, moving back down to your opening to tongue fuck you, the ridge of his nose grinding deliciously against your throbbing clit.

You tug harder against his strands with a moan, helping to guide him where you need him most.

Joel grunts your name into your core, eyes locking with yours over your mound, and it takes everything in you not to fall apart right then and there.

He abruptly pulls his mouth from you, making you whine in protest, another smirk notching the corner of his lips as he rolls onto his back, rigid cock swaying slightly with the motion of his hips.

“Get on my face, baby, I need to get deeper,” he says, grabbing your wrist and gesturing you closer.

You don’t even have to give it another thought, scrambling over him, folded knees planted on either side of his head.

He yanks you down abruptly to his waiting and eager mouth before you’re halfway settled, tongue curling into your wet heat with a deep groan that vibrates straight through you.

His fingers dig into the meat of your ass, directing your movements, grinding you against his face as he continues to feast on you like you’re nothing less of a five star meal.

Your hands furl the edge of the headboard, spine arching, and it doesn’t take much longer in this position to be sent over the edge, your orgasm ripping through you like a bolt of lightning, Joel’s name a sacred prayer on your tongue as everything inside of you completely uncoils.

He keeps you there long enough to let you ride out your high, tongue still laving at your spasming walls until it’s too much for you to handle.

You shift off of him, his facial hair glistening with evidence of your release as he pulls you down into a rough, needy kiss, letting you taste yourself, flipping you over and pinning you beneath him, arms caged around your head as he grinds his hardness against you.

“You have no idea how many times I jerked off thinking about you like this,” Joel confesses, nipping at your jaw, then your bottom lip. “How you would feel. How you would taste.” He kisses down to your collarbone, his teeth gently grazing.

“And you have no idea how many times I touched myself thinking about you,” you confess in reply, Joel’s head lifting to meet your eyes at your admission. “I had to bite my lip every night to keep from moaning your name...”

“Fuck…” he growls, settling his pelvis between your thighs, pushing your legs further apart, lifting one to prop against his shoulder.

“You make me feel things I haven’t felt in years,” he rumbles, giving himself a few firm pumps before notching himself at your entrance. “Y’want me to go fast or slow, darlin’?”

A warmth spreads through your chest at the simple act of him asking, knowing it isn’t just mindless sex to him, that he actually cares, if that wasn’t already obvious from how enthusiastically he just ate you out.

“Slow, then hard and fast,” you tell him, earning another deep rumble as he starts to push himself inside of you, fat head stretching your walls.

“Christ, you’re perfect,” he says softly as he steadily gains ground, his hips shuddering with restraint once he bottoms out, sheathing himself fully. “Fuck, darlin’, you’re strangling me,” he grunts. “I don’t know how long I can last...”

The pain of withholding in his voice is palpable.

“Joel, you just made me come super hard,” you tell him. “Don’t hold yourself back just for me.”

His bottom lip juts out and quivers with the thin veil of control he still has, fingertips digging into your hips, crescent moon shapes left behind in your skin.

“Y’sure?” he asks, internal conflict evident in his voice as he rolls his hips half a thrust forward. “‘cause soon as I start, I don’t think I’ll be able to hold back…”

“I’m sure,” you reassure him, letting him hear the conviction in your voice.

He takes in a steadying breath and gently gyrates his hips forward once, twice, his head tilting down to watch the way he disappears inside of you.

It must be the way you’re taking him so well — or maybe it’s the months of not allowing himself to touch you — the thin thread of restraint suddenly fraying after the initial soft, testing thrusts, a barely audible ‘fuck’ escaping his lips seconds before he begins railing into you with everything a man of his age has to give… which is a lot.

Joel’s hand is on your calf, holding your leg flush to his chest, the other on your hip in a bruising hold, watching the way your body sways in rhythm with his motions, teeth bared in concentration.

“Darlin’… I’m… I… where do you want it?” he pants, the question almost sounding pained.

You know you should make him pull out and finish on your stomach. Contraceptives are a rare luxury these days and you’d always made your previous boyfriends pull out. But you can’t stop yourself, the permission spilling from your lips thoughtlessly.

“In… inside…” you whimper in desperation and Joel doesn’t even think to question it.

He collapses on top of you, his hips sputtering and shaking, a deep, guttural snarl sounding from his chest as he spills into you, filling you to the brim with hot jets of spend.

Despite not coming a second time, the sensation of him shooting inside of you still feels good, his warmth filling every crevice it can reach inside of you.

He buries his face against your neck, gingerly taking some of your flesh between his teeth, biting down just hard enough to leave a faint impression.

His hips gradually slow and still, your name a reverent curse on his tongue.

“Christ,” he pants, wrapping you snugly in his burly arms. “Christ, darlin’.”

—

Spring finally reaches the valley, replenishing the land with color and sunlight, allowing you and Joel to wander out further and further every day.

He tells you he wants to find something nicer than the cabin. Somewhere larger, more permanent, even though you’ve told him time and again that you’d prefer to stay.

And you do, for a spell.

That is until you find your body growing more sensitive than usual. Until you find it increasingly difficult to keep some of your meals down, trying to convince Joel it’s nothing, that it’s just a summer cold, when you both know it’s not.

Joel dotes on you, burdens himself over you, knowing exactly what it is without wanting to say it. All the signs are there, almost textbook, unable to keep his memories from drifting back to the days before Sarah was born, how her mother’s symptoms were damn near identical.

He doesn’t dare tell you how scared he is, how much this terrifies him all the the way to his bone marrow, but you know. You see it in his gaze when he looks at you, feel it in his touch when he pulls you against him at night.

—

You’re on a scouting run one warm summer day, Joel hardly more than two feet from you at any given moment, so many unspoken words and feelings still hanging in the air between you.

He reaches for your arm to steady you when your feet slide on a patch of loose rocks, his palm instinctively moving to protect your stomach. You’re almost sure he wasn’t even aware he did it.

“Joel,” you say, placing your hand over his. “I’m alright.”

His brow furrows, silence speaking louder than any words he could say.

He’s reverted into his headspace again, more quiet these last few days than he has been. And it worries you. You hate that he bottles everything up, but you know that confrontation could make him shut down even more.

You begin walking again, his hand absently resting on the small of your back, and you continue down the path in stagnant silence.

Suddenly, Joel stops, eyes squinting to confirm what he’s seeing is real.

A neighborhood.

—

The neighborhood would have been considered a new development before the world went to shit, most of the lots bare and choked with two decades worth of weeds, some houses half built and some finished but likely vacant at the time.

There are only a few that look to have been potentially occupied before everything, three larger homes next to one another in a cul-de-sac at the end of unmanaged, cracked pavement.

There’s not much of interest in the first few homes you inspect, watching the way Joel silently scrutinizes everything as a potential future dwelling, not a single corner left unchecked, his latent instincts as a contractor still well ingrained in him despite the expanse of time.

By mid day, you’re both sweating profusely, Joel moreso than you since he isn’t letting you do much, forcing you to put food and water in your body, brooking no argument when he gives you his ration as well.

He knows you should head back soon before you’re out too late, but there’s still one house left to search and he doesn’t want to make the trip a second time if it isn’t worth the trouble.

The largest house, a two story spruce green craftsman with gray trim, his heart aching with nostalgia at how much it reminds him of his former home in Austin.

You start the same route as with the other houses; from the top, room by room, working your way down, your anxiety growing the lower the sun dips in the sky, knowing you only have a couple hours at best before it’s too late to leave.

The main floors scoured, you follow Joel to the basement, your hands on his shoulders for stability as you slowly work your way down the creaking stairs, your eyes adjusting to the shadows the deeper you travel.

When you’ve reached the bottom, Joel pulls out his flashlight, hitting it against his palm a few times before it flickers to life, the thin beam of light reflecting off the freshly disturbed dust.

You cover your nose and mouth with your shirt to keep out some of the flying particles, watching as Joel stumbles upon a stack of neatly piled and labeled storage totes in the furthest corner from the stairs, adrenaline beginning to course through him like a drug as he reads the faded sharpie scrawled on the sides.

“‘Canned goods and preserves’,” Joel says quietly, his voice higher in pitch than usual, more hopeful. There’s at least four totes labeled canned goods that you can see, possibly more, dates ranging from anywhere from late 2000 to summer of 2003.

He moves slightly to the right, his body tremoring as he examines the next set of totes.

Multiple totes labeled MREs, dated around the same range as the canned goods. He rips the top off of a few of them open to confirm that his eyes aren’t deceiving him, that this isn’t a cruel dream, nearly doubling over when he sees just how real it is.

“Joel?” you ask, concerned, stepping nearer to him when you see him trembling and clutching his chest. “Baby ..?”

He suddenly turns and throws his arms around you, and it dawns on you that he’s crying, he’s crying and trembling, eyes full of happy tears.

“A fucking prepper. A fucking prepper just saved our lives,” he whimpers into your hair, squeezing you against him, and all he can think in that moment is thank fuck for those crazy assholes. Thank fuck for people like Bill.

—

In the weeks that follow, you and Joel clean and repair the house — Joel doing most of the work, per his insistence — but it’s in surprisingly good shape despite its age and lack of upkeep, and even with just the two of you, it doesn’t take as long as you’d expected.

You can’t help but miss the cabin, the natural beauty of the valley. But Joel was right to move you. It’s safer here, more insulated from weather, more space to grow. And perhaps, one day, the cabin can be someone else’s salvation, as it had been for you.

Another night falls on one of the final lingering days of summer, barely able to see the shine of Joel’s eyes in the dim light as he climbs over you, parting your legs with his knee, rumbling low in his chest as he peppers kisses and bites down the column of your neck.

[deikshen]

The Shen Yuan that dies - really dies. He actually dies and doesn't transmigrate, but well, you know, death is a timeless thing and the flow of time itself in the world of the dead is so weird lol So, well, let me make up that all the demons and ghost kings and cultivators inhabit this powerful timeless space where the dead also go, and oh, there's Shen Yuan now -

So, Shen Yuan is just a silly ghost fire filled with pent-up rage, damn shitty novel, damn shitty author. Is he “alive” for something? Because of how much he hates PIDW and its fucked up ending. Get a lower-ranking ghost body because he's just... angry at Airplane. His new form is, ah, well, different and weird, but he can grow his hair to go unnoticed, and can steal some robes.

Get a small job eventually just because he was bored and although he don't need to eat, it would be nice to have extra money - and the tea house owner doesn't care if he's a human or a ghost as long as he's not creepy with the customers and serves their tables. It's a routine that gives him the quick financial support to get bad books, complain more - and maybe he's getting stronger because of it? Because of his anger at mediocre authors and repressed anger? Does it even make sense?

At some point, Tonglu opens. Shen Yuan has headaches and the desperate feeling that he must go, as if he summoned. He tells his boss he's going to be out for ghostly reasons - his boss is like, oh, you needed a vacation anyway. And Shen Yuan goes.

It's a massacre, of course. A mix between the Hunger Games and the Purge, but Shen Yuan has something they definitely don't: a lot of knowledge in shooting video games. And he doesn't have a gun, but hey, he can shoot resentful spiritual energy and it works like bullets or something - he soon discovers that the more ghosts he overcomes, he becomes stronger. He has more power to throw, more skills, a stronger body.

Go to the kiln. Have bloody fights. At some point he gets a sword and it takes him forever and nothing like a training sequence to use it properly. And finally, the kiln opens and Shen Yuan comes out looking... Well, stronger.

He returns to the teahouse to change and take a bath. The owner tells him that it's been thirteen years, what the hell, but lets him in and gives him hot water and clothes.

Shen Yuan's new body and new abilities are strange to him. He notices himself taller. Stronger. His hearing and smell have improved. His abilities seem to be more wordy, as if he could persuade people if he spoke to them in a specific tone, as if his words could bind them. Well, it's not a bad way to be dead.

Shen Yuan tries to continue working at the tea house, but the humans are clearly terrified by the powerful ghost king aura in their area, so there are hardly any customers. Shen Yuan just sighs and decides to leave. He has some savings anyway.

Ghosts run away from him. Humans either try to kill him or hide. Shen Yuan is fed up; no matter if it is in the mortal world or the ghost world, people are gossiping about him and how he has not taken a Territory, about how unorthodox he is, about how they are waiting for him to start his killing spree one day.

Shen Yuan learns to change his appearance from creepy ghost to normal human, hide his resentful energy, and camouflage himself in the human world. It's a long way from his old tea house, and so many years have passed that the kind owner has probably already died, so Shen Yuan gets another job at a bookstore. Nothing unusual. Just a boy who was once from a wealthy family and was disinherited when his older brother took over the family leadership because of their bad relationship. Now he must work to live.

People swallow that story like a good meal, some even feel sorry for him.

And Shen Yuan is having a decent afterlife. Boring, mostly, but with good days. He reads a lot, gets angry a lot, writes authors letters that reach their desks without them even realizing how the hell did this crazy guy find his addresses. Let's just say he's having an interesting life.

Then one day, he meets Luo Binghe.

He... He literally knows that he's Binghe. It couldn't be anyone else but Luo Binghe. He does his investigations, and apparently, Emperor Luo Binghe exists, he has been there all along. It's not like Shen Yuan knew it; the ghost realm and the human-demon realm are divided, and even if they have a common mortal ancestor, demons and ghosts don't usually meddle in their own things.

Not that Shen Yuan wants to be cannon fodder anyway; he keeps his distance in Binghe, works at that bookstore, gives friendly greetings to his customers, and keeps sending angry letters to authors.

And one day Shen Yuan receives a direct visit from Luo Binghe at his door. With a letter in his hand.

"This letter was on my Second Wife's desk," Luo Binghe says, with a fake smile. "No one but her can open or read it, so this Lord wonders after discovering the resentful energy signature on the paper, what missives does this Ghost King exchange with one of the Emperor's wives?"

Shen Yuan is not surprised that Luo Binghe knows who he is - ever so OP the Protagonist! However, it is more difficult to explain that his wife actually writes cut-sleeved novels that the fact that Shen Yuan was reading and criticizing them in the first place.

Well, he's been dead for over a hundred years, really denying that he's at least bisexual at this point in his life...

[chococolte]

I think a sagau! touch starved/needy childe, scara and zhongli feels very attractive, to have two powerful harbingers on their knees just for a shred of attention from their god makes me wanna pamper them

but also like zhongli?? That man is so touch-starved like poor dude has been worshipping for hundreds of years without a reward for his good work probably drives him insane. I cannot imagine how he hold it together and doesn’t ascend on the spot when he breathes the same air as his god because I genuinely think he’s THAT needy

also your writing really brought me a lot of comfort!! Thank you for running the blog and doing what you do💜💜

word count. 3.8k

୨୧ — ꒰ cw. yandere, unhealthy relationships, possessive & obsessive thoughts/behaviors, religious + cult themes, sagau + cult au, g/n reader. i do not condone yanderes irl.

୨୧ — ꒰ a/n. im so happy you like my writing!! im sorry i took forever to write this, but i still hope you like it !!!!

childe

In the unfathomable dark of the abyss, you were the only thing Childe had to keep himself sane.

Without you, he would've lost himself; without you, he is nothing. He only survived because of your guidance. In his eyes, his ever consuming need of you is only right— he has no need of anything else, and sees no purpose to think otherwise. You've only ever proven how worthy you are of worship.

When light seeps through tree boughs, he sees you. He sees you in the way the leaves leave a shadow. He feels you in the cast of the wind's breath. Every breath he takes is inlaid with your name. The mere thought of the opposite makes him sick.

He's pathetic, but his pitiful appearance is only for your eyes.

Just breathing in your presence is enough for him to feel weak and fluttery, but your eyes on him leave him delirious; the sort of dizzy where he can’t bring himself to move at all. All you have to do is glance at him for his knees to tremble like they're about to buckle underneath his weight.

Somehow, he keeps himself standing each time. He should be ashamed, he knows, embarrassed— but drool pools quickly in his mouth as your eyes linger, and any sort of dignity is discarded in the light of your gaze.

As a Harbinger, he should have more pride than he does, but Childe's only arrogance is his belief that he's special to you. That belief was the only thing he had to ground himself in the abyss, and he clings to it as if to let go would mean death. In his mind, it would be no different.

You were the only thing he had, even if he only knew you in the form of whispers and imperceptible kisses of wind. He didn’t need to touch you, no matter how tortuous of an existence it may be, as long as he could feel you.

That was enough. He thought it would be enough.

Seeing you is an entirely different matter however, and quickly, he finds himself wondering what your skin would feel like under his calloused fingertips.

He wants you to touch him. It's a selfish want, but one he carries with him all the same.

He wants you to play with his hair and hold him close as if he's something precious. He wants you to run your fingers along his spine and see him as he reveals every dark, nasty part of himself. He wants you to look and still find something to love.

Childe doesn't speak a word of his desires. He sits with them in the dark and tries to will them away. He tries to withstand their passage, but only ends up choking on each thought.

He tries to hold himself at night, imagining his arms are yours, but it only makes the ache worse.

He imagines loving you, and you loving him.

When you summon him to your chambers, Childe has to hold every nerve in his body to keep himself from running to you. It’s with a clearly restrained gait that he reaches you, just barely, his knees still wobbly and the floor a shifting kaleidoscope of colors.

It doesn’t bother him. Childe feels weightless, alight with fervor, and it’s a struggle to stop himself from rushing forward just to breathe a little closer to you. He drops to his knees, bowing his head until his forehead sits against your marble flooring.

Touch me, he thinks.

He somehow manages to choke a greeting out of his throat, unable to stop the small shudder that runs through him when he feels your gaze settle on him.

It feels right, being beneath you. It feels right, the slight tension in his body as he waits for you to speak.

Childe doesn’t say anything else. You’re the only one he truly respects, the only one he’s ever felt so fervently for— in your name, he would burn the world and scorch the earth. For you, he’d stain his hands so terribly the waters turn red. He holds no desire to clean his hands with anything other than your forgiveness— and so he doesn't dare to speak out of turn, unable to bear the thought of you being upset with him.

"Come here," he hears you say, your voice gentle and cooing. Childe doesn't hesitate, taking your words as a command, crawling towards you like some sort of dog.

Despite how eager he is to be near you, his hands rest dumbly at his sides. His fingers twitch, aching to touch you for just a moment, but he sits still, trying to be good. Without your permission, all he can do is sit, no better than a well-trained hound.

Childe looks up at you with a dumb, dopey smile on his face. He knows he must look like a fool, dazed just by sitting so close to you— he can already feel heat spreading across his freckled cheeks, and he knows it must be obvious— but he can't find it in himself to care.

It’s you.

You're so close he could touch you if he dared. Your warmth is only a few inches away from him, and he inhales, trying to breathe you in. For a brief moment, he allows himself the blessing to imagine what it would be like to touch you.

He imagines running his fingers against your skin. He imagines brushing against your hand. He imagines his palms gliding across the length of your robe, pretending the silk is your flesh. The thoughts strike him dumb, and he lets out a small whine before he can reel himself back in.

It's a breathless noise, but one he's sure you heard.

Your hand reaches forward to cup his cheek, and he nuzzles into your palm, leaning into your warmth as if trying to drink you in.

"So cute," you say, and every dark, needy part of him lights up all at once.

Childe makes another sound, a soft whimper drawn from the back of his throat. His russet lashes flutter shut, and any sense of propriety is promptly thrown to the side.

Touch me.

Another sharp shudder runs through him when you rub your thumb over his cheek. He almost falls limp against your hand, his breath locked in his throat, but he manages to steady himself in time.

His hands find your ornate robes within a second, and then he's clutching onto them until his knuckles are white. Childe can feel himself digging little crescents into his palms, but your touch means he's unable to focus on anything else, and the thought of lessening his grip makes him afraid you'll pull away.

Childe bites his lips, trying to stifle another noise. He never wants this to end. You could spit in his face, and he would thank you for it.

Just as he jerks forward, chest heaving as he struggles to catch his breath, overwhelmed by how good your touch feels— you're letting go, and pure, unbridled fear rushes over him.

"N-No!" Childe begs hoarsely, unable to realize that he's acting out of what he's allowed. "No, no, d-don't stop, please! Please, please…" he pleads weakly, fingers digging into your robes again, tighter this time.

Unshed tears wet his eyes. If it means having your attention on him, he would do anything. Nothing is too far beneath him. He’s already done unspeakable things in your name, hoping to garner your favor; if it means having your touch for one second longer, then there’s no low he wouldn’t fall too— no covenant he wouldn’t break, divine or mortal. 

As long as it means being by your side at the end of it, any agony would be worth it. No shame is too much for him to bear. 

"Oh, puppy," you murmur softly. One of your hands cups his cheek, while the other gently tugs at his hair. "How could I say no to you?"

The fear coalescing around his heart dissipates, and the fingers that were clutching onto you lessen their grip slightly.

"Mhm," Childe hums at too high of a pitch, but he's much too drunk on you to think about anything else, much less whether he's ruining your perception of him. He hides his face in your hand.

Your puppy, he wants to add, but his mind is too frazzled to get the words out.

Your fingers in his hair tighten, and Childe can't help the little bit of drool that falls from his lips.

scaramouche

He shouldn't be ecstatic with just this much.

All you’d done was look at him. You glanced at him out of the corner of your eye, and it was enough for him to feel every nerve bursting like stars all over, pin pricks dancing under his skin. It was enough for every ugly, horrible little part of himself to reveal themselves like he'd done nothing to hide them.

The sudden surge of emotion, an incessant and desperate need to please you— to give you no reason to give him away— breaches the surface far too quickly. His every move is then dictated by how it might affect you, whether it'll give him your favor or ire; and an ever increasing chittering spawns in the back of his mind, crying for you to touch him.

All you'd done was look at him.

Scaramouche tries to ignore it at first. He, very pointedly, does his best not to think of how his skin burns when a thought of you touching him enters his mind unbidden, nor how it simultaneously destroys whatever preconceived notions he had of himself.

He knows titles are meaningless in front of you, but that doesn't quite quell the petulance he feels when he crumbles each time you look at him. You don't have to touch him for every wall to burst like they were nothing. You don't even have to be near him. Your eyes meet his for a moment, and it's like everything he is shatters.

It makes him feel disgustingly weak and as insignificant as the day he was born.

Scaramouche is one out of many; one interaction you may have out of hundreds. He knows how many clamber for your affection, and how many more would ruin themselves for it.

You hold his gaze for a meaningless amount of time, and he knows it means nothing to you. His body still reacts like it does. He knows once you've turned, you'll have already found something else to capture your attention. His pulse still churns as if you’d just held his face in your hands.

It's nothing to you. It should mean nothing to him.

He hates the fact it bothers him.

He shouldn't care. It's not the same as you abandoning him. That you look at him at all should mean something. But it doesn't change the way fear bundles inside of him when you look away, nor does it change the disgust that rises at the very fact he feels that way at all.

He shouldn’t care. It shouldn’t bother him. But it does. It does.

It eats away at him like a festering wound. It hurts like nothing before it. He wonders if you’ll grace him with a look, and when you do, that’s the only thing that matters. When you turn away, he wonders how he ever got to this point. When you don’t, it’s like his breath’s been wrung from his lungs, and he wonders again, at what point did he let himself fall so far. 

It’s a point of irritability for him, and he ignores it like acknowledging it would be the death of his ego. Knowing that it would only serves to make him suffer more.

Whether you smiled or twitched your brow shouldn't feel the same as being reborn or having life torn from him. 

You haven't left him yet. He constantly feels like you're about too.

Scaramouche has to sit and watch when you interact with others. It feels like torture. You smile, and for some reason, it feels like fire washing over him. You laugh, and somehow, he hears it as vividly as he would if he was next to you; only it hurts because he's not the one you're sharing it with.

He could at least pretend he wasn't so pathetic before. He could hold himself up with some pride, even dignity— mask his emotions well enough they couldn't be used against him. Now, sitting in front of you like this, he can't even have that much.

It's piety, worship, love, or something in between or all of them at once. He's weak all over because of it, and it makes him furious at the same time it makes him euphoric.

He wishes he was stronger. Tempered by the abyss, and he still can't resist falling into you.

Your hand runs across the nape of his neck, and he shivers, skin burning where your fingers brush. A soft, shuddery breath escapes him, and his fingers curl where they're latched onto your robes.

If it was anyone else, maybe he would have mauled them for seeing him in such a state. People are perfidious; quick to betray, and even quicker to exploit whatever they've gleaned. Faster still to take away anything that makes him happy.

It's not just anyone, though. It's you. And despite how terribly he fears and how deeply he wishes to bury his emotions, his want of you runs deeper. If it means holding your attention, then you can have anything. If it means feeling your touch, then he'd let you use whatever you wanted against him.

If it meant having the assurance of your presence, then he'd kneel and discard his every title and name. He'd become nothing, if he knew he'd still have you.

“Good boy,” you whisper, and Scaramouche instinctively moves closer, rubbing his knees raw against marble, trying to breathe in your warmth.

He despises how fast he weakens at your beckoning; how he can't even will himself to resist, or fathom the thought of it— malleable to your every whim, and unable to be truly angered by it. He only shifts to be nearer to you, dreaming of your touch, hoping to share some of your eternity.

A whimper rises from his throat, trying to kill his desperation.

"Don't leave me," he says, the words wrenched from his throat. "Don't leave me."

Don’t betray me, he wants to say instead. Don’t abandon me.

It's a disgusting display of weakness. He wishes he could kill his voice so he wouldn't speak at all, but even without a heart, his emotions feel like they might choke him.

The things you do to him are terrible. Pleas for you to only look at him sit and die on his tongue. He reels himself back in before he can make a fool out of himself even further, but he knows you only have to look at him for a little bit longer for any sense of resistance to die alongside his pride. 

"I won't," you say softly, holding his cheek against your palm. "I'm here."

Scaramouche leans into your touch, hiding his face against your hand. He manages to keep himself from making an improper sound through sheer will, though he has to clench his jaw and close his eyes. 

Even just knowing he has all of your attention makes him feel dazed, and as you rub your thumb over his cheek, he can’t even muster any anger at being reduced to such a state. He hums, somehow leaning even further into your touch. 

“I’m here,” you say again, and Scaramouche whimpers into your palm.

zhongli

Zhongli dreams of you every night.

He knows he shouldn’t. It’s not proper of him, nor is it right for him to sully your image with his thoughts. Still, though, the thoughts come unbidden and leave him a wreck in their wake. 

What troubles him is what he knows to be the cause of them.

Zhongli has always been eternally grateful. He's sat with the love of you until it permeated every thought. He's lived beside the worship of you until it coated his every word and nerve. 

Being able to serve you past fantasies in his imagination brings him purpose, and that should be enough. And for a time, it was. 

He could see you and feel fulfilled. He could breathe your air and feel like the thousands of years spent waiting for you had been worth it. Even following you around like some sort of dog was more gratifying than splitting the earth apart. This, he thought, is enough.

This sense of greed, then, shouldn't exist.

Zhongli pretends it's not his own, but the truth is that every thought is painfully his. 

He imagines you running your fingers through his hair. He imagines touching your skin. He imagines you whispering praises against the pale column of his throat, and he imagines being yours in such a way that he knew he was special to you. He imagines you breathing his name and it feeling like rebirth. He imagines your touch. He imagines being able to worship you selfishly, entirely, in a way that no one but him could claim the honor of.

In a way, he thinks he deserves it. To be tortured with visions of things he knows he doesn't deserve and thoughts he knows you wouldn't approve of. 

Zhongli would think of you often before, when all he had of you were the prayers on his lips and promises of piety. It was difficult to imagine you as something physical, but still, his heart stirred. His most meaningful company was the thought of you beside him.

What he thinks of now is different.

He wouldn't have dared to imagine touching your skin. He wouldn't have let the thought escape the darkest of his subconscious. He wouldn't have dared to let himself the simple fantasy of you speaking his name like he's something precious to you. All he wanted, then, was to share the same plane of existence as you. A selfish want, but it was pure.

What pervades his mind now is some sort of sacrilege. He should know better, but he still sullies you every time he closes his eyes, unable to fight and equally unwilling too. 

His greatest arrogance. Even with thousands of mortal lifetimes lived, he still can't rid himself of it— even with his own self-hatred, his thoughts continue to defy him. 

Even when he knows he's failing you, he falls deeper. 

It's worse when you interact with others. Zhongli hugs your shadow and trails after you always, eager to please but always hiding behind a mask of propriety and decorum. He likes to pretend to have a semblance of control in your presence, though he knows that if you’d only ask, he would rid himself of it entirely and be thankful for it.

You're perfect, which is why you're kind even to those that don't deserve a modicum of your attention. You smile, and each time it's not directed at him, he tries to choke the indignance out of him. It’s selfish of him to expect that he be the only one to receive your affection, despite how his mind whispers it’s because he hasn’t done enough to prove himself to you. 

Why else, it supplies, would you waste your breath on those undeserving of it? 

He reminds himself of his place. It assuages him for only a moment.

Zhongli dreams of your breath. He dreams of you cracking him open and bearing witness to every depravity and every virtue and still whispering your love to him. He dreams of looking at you and knowing that he means something to you. He dreams and he wants so terribly, and he knows none of it is his to imagine.

He reminds himself of his place, repeating the words over and over in his mind. He whispers them to himself at night in hopes that maybe, it'll finally stick this time. 

Be pleased with this much.

He's meant to be. He tells himself that, maybe, if he perseveres well enough, he'll be rewarded. 

Maybe you'd let him touch you?

He wouldn't ask for much. Maybe you would be kind enough to let him hold your fingers in his. He wouldn't do so for long. Maybe, if he was good, you'd let him kiss your fingertips with the reverence you deserve. 

It’s an impossibility, he knows, but it's his sole comfort. If he withstands just for a while more, you'll be proud instead of disappointed that he's fallen so low. 

Then you ask for him to kneel, alone in your chambers, and he doesn't know what to do with himself.

Zhongli does as you say immediately. He falls to his knees so quickly that his mind doesn't have the chance to catch up. Vaguely, he understands that maybe he should be ashamed with how fast his body responds. He decides he doesn't care. All he knows is that you're looking at him, and that it feels sweet and good, and that he doesn't want you to stop. 

His breath is lodged in his throat. His heart sounds like a roar in his ears. Nothing exists but you and your words. All you have to do is whisper a word that could vaguely be understood as a command and he would be at your feet, ready to be used. 

He wants you to touch him. 

You smile, and his nerves feel alight with fervor. Zhongli’s hands stay clenched on his knees, trembling with the strength needed to resist touching you. 

You haven't given him permission, so he keeps himself still. 

You cradle his face in your hands. He can feel the warmth of your palms caressing his cheeks, and he wonders— how can there be anyone who doesn't worship you? 

“Good boy,” you say, and Zhongli inhales sharply. 

For you, he wants to say. Only for you.

He doesn't, afraid to speak; afraid that to murmur even the softest of praises would cause you to pull away. 

Does he tell you, he wonders, that he wants you to play with his hair? Does he tell you he wants you to love him completely, innocently, selfishly? Does he tell you he wants you to touch his skin, anywhere if it means having that small piece of contact? 

“Where do you want me to touch you?” you ask, and he can hear the small tint of mirth in your voice.

The question strikes him dumb. His body burns and his blood is singing. Zhongli doesn't care if you find him amusing. No, he delights in it. It doesn't matter as long as he means something at all to you.

His fingers twitch, and just barely does he manage to keep his hands to himself. 

“Everywhere,” he breathes.

[hederasgarden]

Eternal Devotion (1/3)

Summary: Months after your husband's untimely death, his presence lingers, haunting you in ways you never expected. Pairing: Vampire!Friedrich Harding x Wife!Reader  Word Count: 3.9K Rating: Mature, 18+ only. Heavy angst and grief, period typical sexism, creepy things, mildly dubious consent, sexual content, vampirism and all the warnings that come with that (I’m diverging from canon a bit in regards to feeding). This is my attempt at Gothic Romance. A/N:  The reader has always been Friedrich's wife, Anna does not exist in this AU. Big thanks to @ryebecca, @otaku-girl-ao3, @whatblogisthis216 , @eremeldanin and @caught-reading for their help with this fic.  Please comment or reblog if you enjoyed this and want to see more. Or scream at me in my inbox. That always makes my day.

Aaron Taylor Johnson Character Masterlist ♡ Masterlist

No grave can hold my body down, I'll crawl home to her. -Hozier

The room is dim with the curtains drawn tight, allowing only a sliver of daylight to creep through the gap. In the distance, the soft hum of morning activity rises from the rest of the house, the gentle chatter of your two daughters layered over the quiet rustling of the servants preparing for the day ahead. You should rise and follow the rhythm of the world outside this room, but you cannot. 

Friedrich has been gone nearly six months. It feels like a lifetime. The days stretch endlessly, and each one feels like an affront, a reminder that the world refuses to stop turning. How are you supposed to go on living? You know if you had died, Friedrich would have climbed into the casket beside you and his grief would have blotted out the sun.

But there was no casket for him. No body left to bury. He was swallowed by the sea, lost while fulfilling a promise you made, helping Ellen return to Thomas.

Your daughters do not yet grasp the finality of it. No matter how many times you tell them, they speak of their father like he is simply away at work, perhaps, or out on some important errand. And each morning they act as if he’s come to tuck them into bed, kiss their cheeks, and say their prayers like he did before. They look up at you with soft eyes, the very same as his and you must relive the pain of it again and again when you remind them their father is gone.

Sometimes, you wish you could believe your own dreams, the ones where Friedrich slips back into bed beside you. Yet even in those fleeting moments of illusion, something is wrong. The warmth you long for is absent. His touch is colder, harder, his presence not the way it used to be. When his lips meet your skin, it stings, sharp and unfamiliar, and the truth rises within you, pushing against the comfort of the dream. 

It’s not him. And it never will be. Now and forevermore, each morning you will wake to find the sheets beside you cold. Empty.

Everyone told you the grief would abate with time but these past few weeks have drained you more thoroughly than any that came before. Each morning, it feels as though your very blood has turned to sand, your bones to lead. Even the simple act of turning onto your back, to stare up at the wooden beams of the ceiling, takes more effort than you can summon. 

You remain in bed until the door creaks open, and the light sound of footsteps follows. Kerstin’s voice is no more than a whisper as she brushes your shoulder.

“Frau Harding. Your parents have arrived for breakfast. Your father wishes for you to join them.”

The sight of your maid’s pale, worried face is enough to rouse you. You let her dress and prepare you for the day. Although she’s done this a thousand times, there’s something about the way her hands hover over the buttons of your gown, the hesitation before each movement, that makes you feel like a stranger in your own skin. You see how she and the other servants watch you now. Even when they pretend to be absorbed in their tasks, their glances are sharp, laden with worry. They fear you’ll descend into the same madness as Ellen, but it is only your grief, so vast and deep, that’s reshaping you in ways you can’t even recognize. 

When you enter the dining room, your daughters rush to you. You hold them close, inhaling the familiar scent of their hair. Your mother greets you next, reaching out to cup your face in her hands, her fingers trembling slightly as they linger there. There is a deep sadness in her eyes and she glances over at your father with a look halfway between pleading and resignation.

“Come, you must eat,” she encourages, guiding you to sit beside her.

Your father, sitting at the head of the table, offers no such tenderness. His presence is a commanding weight in the room and the deep set of his brow lets you know this is not merely a social visit. You glance at your mother who stares at the hands in her lap and your fingers curl around the richly upholstered arm of the dining room chair. Whatever he has come to say will not be good, you realize. 

“The children are finished with their breakfast,” he announces sharply, his voice cutting through the air like a command. With a quick flick of his fingers, he gestures to the governess. “Take them to the parlor. Their mother and I have matters to discuss.”

Once they are gone, your father doesn’t wait long to speak again. “It has been six months,” he begins, his gaze unwavering. “Long enough. You must remarry, and soon.” 

You blink, momentarily stunned. Six months? Six months since Friedrich was swallowed by the sea, leaving nothing but an empty, aching space behind. Six months in which you have not even been able to make sense of the grief that clings to you like a second skin. How could he even think of you remarrying so soon?

“But… Father, I…” you begin, the words faltering in your throat.

He doesn’t let you finish, his voice growing sterner. “You must think of the future, not just of your own sorrow. The children need stability, and you need a husband. You cannot manage alone, not with the wealth you inherited from your late husband.”

You shake your head, even as you know there is a kernel of truth to his words. The vast estate, the shipyard, and the assets Friedrich once managed all fall on you now. It is a burden you are not prepared to shoulder and one you have steadily ignored these past months. But even beyond all that, the thought of remarrying, of taking another man into your life is something you can’t even entertain.

"I cannot… not yet," you whisper, barely above a breath. And in the pit of your chest, a deeper thought rises unbidden: Not ever.

“I understand your reluctance,” he says firmly. “But even now, men circle you like vultures. They want your husband’s wealth and his business. We must act swiftly and secure the right match — for you, for the children, for our family’s future.”

You swallow hard, the lump in your throat refusing to pass. Your hands move to straighten the cutlery in front of you, anything to occupy them, anything to hold off the flood of emotion threatening to spill over.

And then, almost without thinking, you speak. “You never say his name.”

Your father’s brow furrows. “What?”

“Friedrich,” you whisper. “It is always my husband or your son-in-law. You do not… you do not say his name.”

There is a long pause before your father clears his throat, dismissing the uncomfortable silence. “We cannot afford to linger on sentiment,” he says. “Sentiment will not feed the children or keep the business afloat. We need to think practically.”

You stare at him, hearing nothing more than the absence of your husband's name in his voice, the not-so-subtle command that you too must move on, move past this grief, and return to the world of the living. 

“You cannot make me do this.”

"Perhaps not," your father concedes, exhaling sharply. "But your husband has many cousins who would think nothing of reclaiming control over the business." He pauses, taking a deliberate sip of his water, his eyes never leaving yours. "Men who would see no value in a widow and her daughters when they have families of their own.”

His words have their desired effect, leaving you feeling small and powerless. Your shoulders slump, the strength in you draining away as your head hangs, heavy with the crushing knowledge of what awaits.

“Now, your mother has already arranged for you and the girls to have new clothes made for your return to society," he continues, his tone cool and businesslike. "We will host a small, intimate gathering. I will invite a few prospective suitors—men I consider promising options. You may, of course, choose which one you wish to pursue."

“How kind you are to offer me a say,” you murmur, the words bitter in your mouth.  

A muscle in his jaw twitches. “I know grief has stolen your good sense but you will watch your tongue when you speak to me,” your father warns. 

A surge of emotion rises within you, sharp and unwelcome, forcing its way up your throat. The words spill out before you can stop them, raw and unrestrained. “You would not speak to me this way if Friedrich were here.”

Your father shakes his head, rising from his seat to tower over you. “He is not here, my girl. He will never be here again. You are alone in a world that is unkind to women such as yourself.”

The pity in his eyes is more than you can bear. The dam breaks, and the first wave of tears crashes down, unbidden and unstoppable. A  flood that drags you under. You sink back into the chair, helpless as wracking sobs tear through you, a deep, raw ache flooding every part of your being.

Distantly, you hear your mother’s voice chastising your father. Her arms slip around you, pulling you close. She whispers gentle reassurances, her shushing echoing the soothing words you’ve said a hundred times to your own girls, but it feels empty now, a hollow repetition that cannot shield you from the brutal reality.

Friedrich is gone. And with him, any hope you once held of finding happiness.

–

When you step into your father’s parlor, the weight of every gaze in the room settles on you like a tangible thing. The faces that turn toward you are mostly unfamiliar, offering you that sad, understanding smile you’ve grown so weary of. It is a smile that means nothing at all in light of their presence here. Each one of them is complicit in your father’s schemes.

“You look lovely,” your father says. He presses his lips to your cheek in an exaggerated gesture of affection, more a farce than any real expression of love. “The blue truly suits you,” he adds, his eyes dropping to take in your fine silk dress. 

It’s the latest fashion from Paris, or so you’re told. Once, a dress like this would have delighted you—Friedrich always took such joy in bringing you the finest, most exquisite silks and fabrics from his travels. But now, the dress feels all wrong, too tight and too revealing, exposing more of your shoulder and décolletage than you’re comfortable with. 

You smile at your father. Even though it barely touches your lips it doesn’t seem to bother him. He simply sweeps you further into the room, his hand on your arm guiding you forward as he begins the task of making introductions. It’s a performance, and you are trapped at the center of it. But you do as your father and society demand, falling into the practiced motions of politeness. 

You engage in small talk, offering the kind of perfunctory responses that are expected of you, feigning interest in whatever these men have to say. Some ask after your children, while others offer their condolences for your loss. But behind their kindness lies a predatory sort of interest. It is all you can do to nod, offering your own strained smile as you stand there wondering how much longer you can keep up this charade.

When your father finally leaves you for a moment you close your eyes, exhaling. 

“Oh, dearest girl.” 

The unexpected voice makes you flinch. You turn, meeting a familiar pair of brown eyes of Herr Gothrim. Of all your father’s friends, he is the one you think might understand your plight the best. He lost his wife to the plague that swept the city nearly a year ago.

“It is shameful what your father is doing. Forcing you from your mourning period so soon.” He shakes his head. “Though, I confess, had I daughter like you I might be convinced to do the same.” He steps closer, his voice quieting. “You are the talk of the city and beyond.”

“They desire Friedrich’s wealth,” you reply. “Nothing more.”

Herr Gothrim stares at you for a moment before he speaks again, his words laden with something that makes your skin crawl.

“Do not sell yourself short. You are young. Beautiful. You might still bear your future husband a son or two.”

Friedrich had wanted a son. You knew that long before you ever married him. He had spoken of it often, longing to see his name carried on but he never once made you feel like an instrument to secure his legacy. More than that he loved your daughter fiercely, completely. And though it might have been a sin, he loved you even more.  

“I fear you will not have the luxury of time, my dear,” Herr Gothrim warns. “Your father will push forward with his plans, and if you do not make a choice, one will be made for you. Perhaps a familiar one would be best.”

His eyes briefly flick over his shoulder, and you follow his gaze. It rests on his son, Pieter. The sight of him makes a sharp, uncomfortable feeling bubbling up from within. Once, he had petitioned your father for your hand and before Friedrich had made his offer, Pieter had been the one your father had entertained as a potential suitor. 

To your dismay, Pieter seems to take your attention as an invitation, crossing the room to join the two of you. He greets you with an overly familiar kiss to your cheek that lingers, brushing against the corner of your lips. When he pulls away his hand remains on your elbow, tethering you to him. 

“Frau Harding, you look well,” he says brightly. “Or should it be Fräulein now?”

His boldness stuns you but before you can gather your thoughts, he continues, oblivious to the discomfort in your silence. “I must confess, I was both surprised and pleased to receive your father’s invitation. And to see you again after so long. I am eager for a second chance to win your hand.”

It is only the thought of your daughters and the need to ensure their future is safe that keeps grief from sharpening your tongue. You force your eyes downward, focusing on a speck of dust on his lapels to avoid looking at his face. “My father was pleased you accepted his invitation. He has always been fond of you,” you reply hollowly.

Pieter smiles, seemingly unaware of how your voice thins and your words fall flat and meaningless. 

“You look cold,” he observes. “Come, you should warm yourself by the fire as we reacquaint ourselves. My import business has grown greatly since we last spoke.”

His touch feels possessive, demanding even yet you are helpless to do anything more than follow him. You catch your father’s eyes when you pass him. He looks pleased and it turns your stomach. 

Pieter keeps you by his side for the rest of the evening, his words a constant hum around you. Whether he’s wholly unaware of your discomfort or willfully blind to it, you can’t decide. His conversation is a relentless stream of boasts about his business, his wealth, and his success, as though he expects you to be impressed, to be eager for his attention. Each time you try to excuse yourself, your attempts are dismissed with a smile and an insistent push to stay.

It isn’t until your mother comes to collect you at the end of the night that you are finally freed from his hold. You follow her away from the gathering and into the waiting carriage, Pieter’s gaze lingering on you. 

You’re so exhausted on the ride home that the muffled sound of the horses’ hooves on the cobblestone streets and the rocking of the carriage nearly lulls you into sleep. You find your daughters are already in bed when you arrive at the house. Though you loathe to disturb their peaceful slumber, you find yourself drawn to them, compelled to check on them before you can rest. You make your way down the dark hallway, the soft creak of the floorboards beneath your feet the only sound betraying your presence.

When you crack open the door to their room, a cool rush of air greets you, sending a shiver through you. You find their window unlatched, the curtains fluttering in the autumn breeze that has slipped in. Startled, you step further into the room, a wave of panic rising in your chest. You move quickly to reach the window and quietly shut it again. 

Once it is secured, you turn to your girls. The sight of them, peaceful and safe in their beds, eases some of the tension in your chest. Your youngest clutches a slip of fabric in her hands, her tiny face relaxed in sleep. There is something about the cloth she holds that gives you pause. You kneel beside her, gently prying it from her grasp. At the sight of the familiar handkerchief and your own needlework, worn and fraying with time, your breath stutters in your throat. 

It was one of the first gifts you ever gave Friedrich, back when he was still courting you. You had made him dozens more over the years, but still, he carried it with him, even as it began to unravel at the edges. You always assumed it was lost with him and to find it here, tucked in your daughter’s hands, feels like both a balm and a wound.

Fingers trembling, you press the fabric to your face and close your eyes. For a brief moment, you swear you can still smell Friedrich’s cologne, faint but unmistakable. You linger in that moment until your daughter shifts in her sleep and you're brought back to reality. Carefully, you tuck the handkerchief into her tiny hands and kiss her forehead before retreating from the room.

–

Your dreams are restless, an amalgam of fractured images and disjointed sensations. Pieter’s dark, unblinking eyes merge with the black fabric of your mourning gown, and then, without warning, the scene shifts, plunging you into the vast, endless depths of the sea that claimed Friedrich. 

The cold water envelops you, and you gasp for air, but the water rushes in, drowning your cries. In your panic, you thrash wildly, desperate for escape. Just as you feel yourself slipping into the abyss, strong hands seize you, pulling you upward. Your eyes snap open, your breath coming in sharp, desperate gasps. The water recedes, and in its place, Friedrich’s face fills your vision.

“I am here, I am here, my love,” he murmurs softly, pressing his forehead to yours. His hand rests lightly on your chest, guiding your breath to match his steady rhythm, coaxing the frantic pace of your heart to slow.  

You stare at him as the world crystallizes around you. Then, you surge forward, your lips crashing into his with a desperation that consumes you. Your hands find their way to his shoulders, clutching him tightly like he might vanish if you let go. The kiss is a lifeline and you cling to it with a need so raw it aches.

“Friedrich,” you gasp, reveling in the familiar tickle of his mustache and his strong hands on your body.  

For a fleeting moment, you wonder if this is real, if he’s truly here, or if your grief has finally unraveled, conjuring him from the depths of the ocean to haunt you. But then, as his lips press urgently against yours and the solid weight of him fills your arms, you decide you don’t care. It doesn’t matter if he is a ghost, risen from the sea’s cold embrace. Nor does it matter that death has leached the color from his cheeks and the warmth from his hands. All that matters is that he’s here.

“My love,” you cry. 

“I am here,” he promises, trailing his lips down the side of your throat until his mouth seals over the juncture where your neck meets your shoulder. 

He lingers there, the sting of his kiss euphoric. You bury your fingers in his thick curls, tugging gently and he all but growls against your skin. With his mouth still on you, his fingers tug at your nightgown, baring your body to his eager hands. They slip between your parted thighs, finding your wet heat, and stealing it away as they work you to the peak of pleasure. Friedrich groans and the pain in your neck flares, sharp and sudden.

When he pulls away, a wave of exhaustion crashes over you, leaving you breathless and spent. You stare up at him as your vision shifts, the world taking on a hazy hue. In the dim light, his blue eyes are dark, almost silvery, and something deep within you recoils, an instinctive fear that you can’t quite name. But then, he blinks, and just as quickly the shadow fades. The warmth of his gaze returns, and those same familiar blue eyes, the ones you’ve loved for so long, look down at you with tenderness.

Your fingers hover over his face, longing to touch him again. But a painful realization stops you. 

"You are not real.” The words leave you in a rush. 

“Does it matter if I am?" he asks. "Does this not bring you peace, my love?"

You shake your head, the pain of his absence still raw in your chest. You can’t resist the pull of him, the need to feel close again, even if only in this fleeting moment. Without thinking, you draw him down to kiss you, and the taste of him is sharp, unexpectedly coppery.

"It is a horrible thought," you murmur, breaking the kiss, "but I wish I would not wake when morning comes. I want to stay here with you. In this dream."

A deep frown forms between his brows, and his hand finds your cheek, his touch colder than it should be. His mouth parts slightly, and his teeth, white and sharp, glimmer faintly against his pale lips. 

“You do not wish to find a new husband? To live?” he questions. 

"I wish only for you," you say, voice trembling but sure. "And for our girls."

“My dearest wife,” he whispers, kissing you sweetly. “I will never leave you. I cannot.”

A soft moan slips from you, unbidden, the sound encouraging him to kiss you deeper. His lips move with a possessive tenderness that fills the hollow spaces inside you. “Nor would I ever let you go," he promises. “We are bound even in death.”

Part 2

[thehighladywrites]

ACOTAR MEN X READER, SITTING ON THEIR LAP

✩ summary: different scenarios where you find yourself sitting on them

✩ warnings: nsfw, 18+, mentions of sex, mentions of self-doubt, kissing, begging, gossiping, fluff, smut, crack, fun times and soft Eris😭💗

✩ amara’s note: the original cassian hc was so long that i had to stop myself bc i was thirsting and it turned into a regular oneshot lmaooo😭 anyways enjoy babes!!!!💗💗💗

reblogs are really appreciated! :D

RHYSAND

No matter how angry you and Rhys get or how petty the fight is, you two always end up holding hands, even while yelling at each other.

Sitting in his lap while you two argue about random, non important stuff is a standard

You guys just don’t do the whole “no touching” thing

Today, the argument was over who cooks better, both of you bickering pettily.

“Listen, I love you a lot, but the kitchen isn’t your best friend. It's crazy how you can burn an empty pot.”

“Maybe you’re crazy,” you retort, arms crossed over your chest as you step closer to him, leaning against his desk in his office.

He keeps arguing with you, going back and forth, while pushing his chair back from the desk to make room for you.

“Whatever, Rhys. I don’t even need to cook when I can summon anything. It’s stupid, and you’re being unfair,” you mutter as you put your hands on his shoulders and plop down in his lap, subconsciously warming at the way he holds your waist and places one hand on your back to keep you steady.

He suppresses a smile, scratching the back of his head as he looks up at your pouting self. “You’re absolutely right, sweetheart. I don’t know what I was thinking. Of course, you’re an amazing chef,” he concedes, his tone laced with affection.

“Awww, come with me while I make you something,” you say, flashing him an oblivious smile.

“Oh! Um, you sure we shouldn't order something or..?” he asks nervously, his voice getting higher as he kisses you.

You slip out of his lap and hurry downstairs to plan his meal, assuring him not to worry about ordering anything and to just come down for his favorite meal.

“Dear Gods,” he whispers as he gets up, a mix of worry and fear in his voice.

ERIS

Eris had been stressed out for a few weeks now. Nothing you said seemed to make a difference.

He was dealing with his father’s death, ruling a new court as the heir, and inheriting the High Lord powers. Your heart ached for him. You wanted to be there for him, giving him hugs and words of encouragement, but you were not on that level yet

Today had been the most stressful day yet, resulting in him shutting down and locking himself up in his bedroom.

“Eris, are you okay? Can I please come in?” you knock gently on the wooden door, voice hushed and gentle.

After a few moments of silence, you hear him shuffling behind the door until he opens it very slightly.

He is shirtless, only in a pair of pants. You manage to catch a glimpse of his tired, amber eyes before he turns around to lie in his bed.

The room looks clinically clean, the only disturbance being Eris’s rugged appearance.

Without saying a word, you walk over to him and give him a hug. It’s a long, warm hug that tells him everything he doesn’t allow himself to hear: you’re there for him.

It takes a few moments for him to hug you back, but when he does, he wraps his arms tightly around your waist, bringing you into his lap.

Only after an hour of silence does he speak

“I feel like i’m stuck. These powers are killing me, the board is fucking annoying, the folk believe i’m wicked and cruel and i have no idea what to do about anything.”

He looks up at you with desperate eyes, “Do you believe I’m truly wicked?”

You shake your head in honesty. “No, honey. I have not met anyone as smart, kindhearted and brave as you. Others do not know you like I do but they should,” you whisper, hands going through his tussled hair. “You’ve been hiding behind your mask for too long, Eris. Let people see the real you.”

The room goes quiet, the only sound being the beating of your hearts.

Slowly his lips meet yours in a new and experimental kiss. He stares up at you with his pupils blown but before you can apologize and get off his lap, he kisses you again and locks his arm around you

“Thank you,” he whispers between heating kisses, “Thank you, beautiful.”

CASSIAN

“Hi there sugar, what can I do for you?” Cassian asks sweetly as he flicks your nose with his finger, happy that you ran into his office and immediately plopped down on his lap

“Can you fuck me?” you ask, frustrated with the lack of dick lately.

His eyes widen slightly at your words, then he slowly cracks a handsome smile. “Gods. How inappropriate of you,” he teases, the amusement clear in his voice.

His teasing almost makes you sob. This was totally NOT the time. You almost roll your eyes before realizing he will so not give in if you give him that

“Cassian, i’m begging you. I want, no- need to be fucked. Please, i’m losing hearing in my left ear,” you beg as you get closer and sit in his lap, rubbing your hands all over his chest

He looked incredibly good, almost unfairly so. Cassian’s jaw and chin had grown scruffy in a ruggedly masculine way that made him look older and even more attractive.

A week without seeing him had only heightened your weakness for his body, making you throb.

“Losing hearing? You must be really dying for me, huh? Alright then. I’ll let you ride,” he smirks at you while unbuckling his belt.

He finally fucking let’s you fuck, hitting spots that makes you go fuzzy brained.

You make him promise to never be gone again before going for another ride, satisfied when he breathlessly promises.

LUCIEN

There is not a bigger shit-talking couple in Prythian than you two

One look between you two is enough.

Someone’s being annoying? You share an annoyed glance. Someone’s being rude? You share a baffled glance. Something’s juicy’s happening? You share a glance that says you will so talk about it when you get home.

“— and he has the audacity to two-time her? He’s lucky to find even one person willing to date him,” you gossip, lounging in Lucien’s lap, your voice dripping with disbelief.

“You’re not going to believe this, but this isn’t his first time. He did that to Tamlin’s cousin too,” Lucien adds, his tone filled with incredulity.

“No way,” you gasp in disbelief, shaking your head as the gossip sinks in.

“Yeah, apparently this guy fucks around in all courts and cheats on anyone willing to stomach. What a fucking loser, honestly,” Lucien nods in agreement, disdain evident in his voice. “The sick bastard gets off on it.”

“That reminds me, guess what I heard about Rhys in Rita’s yeaterday,” Lucien prompts, leaning in with a sly grin, clearly ready to share some gossip.

“Some males and females were talking about Rhys, saying he's replaced Feyre with a clone,” Lucien whispers, his tone laced with disdain. “And get this— they think her transformation from human to fae is fake and that there is no way she could possibly be the mother of Nyx.”

“A clone? They’ll say anything these days,” you exclaim, raising an eyebrow incredulously.

“That's exactly what I'm saying! They're probably just making shit up out of thin air,” Lucien replies, nodding in agreement.

“I wouldn't put it past them,” you say, shaking your head as you reach for a biscuit, happy to be sitting and gossiping with your love.

AZRIEL

Azriel loves when you sit on his lap.

It makes him feel safe and relaxed knowing you're close to him.

It's something he does every day when he comes home - having you in his lap. Sometimes you both sit quietly, other times you talk or fuck or cuddle, depending on how you’re feeling.

Azriel especially likes the fuck part.

He loves the part where you sit on his lap while he works. If you’re good, he’ll bend you over his desk and fuck you. If not, he still fucks you but he does it with no mercy

He makes you sit on his dick and tells you not to move and inch or you will be edged for hours, not being allowed to cum once

Fucking torture is what it is honestly

“Stop moving around so much, i can’t focus.”

“Do you blame me? You’ve buried your dick in me, of course i’m moving. Maybe do something about that.”

He raises his eyebrows at your snarky comment. If it’s something he didn’t need today it was sass.

His day was quite shitty and all he needed was his sweet mate who would kiss away his problems and take his dick perfectly

Azriel smiled slightly as he put his pen down. He would take out his frustrations on you today.

“You want to be fucked? Let’s fuck,” he says in a low tone

In the end, all his papers are scattered, all pens on the floor.

He is relaxed and all smiley while you’re on death’s door💗

[woodland-gremlin]

Ancestor's Fury AU

( Inspired by @glow-in-the-dark-death and @vixen-uchiha )

The Infinite Realms are, well, Infinite. They are the doorway between dimensions and contain every after life. This includes the Krypton one.

When Danny learned that the Infinite realms contained the afterlife for aliens he didn’t stop gushing about it to Jazz for days. He was awestruck. Not everyone would stop to talk to this excited child, especially when they don’t know that he is the King, but some would, like the Kryptons. They were quite happy to talk to the boy king, especially when they could get updates on the last of their kind in the Living Realm. When they learned about the Anti-Ecto Acts and the role the Justice league and the last of their living had in it they were angry and confused. To learn about why the Justice League didn't do anything about the Acts they traveled into the Living Realm to find out. This is how they found out about how Superman treats Superboy.

When Danny first told them about Superboy they threw a party, after all they gained a new family member. Look at the baby, isn’t he adorable?! Traveling to the Living Realm and finding out he was a clone didn’t change that fact. Learning how Superman treats him for being a clone however opens the floodgates of their fury. They were already weary because of the inaction with the Anti-Ecto Acts and now he is calling the baby an “it”! Not happening on their watch.

Then they remember the boy king. The one who brought this to their attention in the first place and who has a clone he treats as family. So they decided to bring this to his attention.

Danny, when he learns of this, is furious. He knows what it is like to be cloned by your worst enemy in an attempt to replace you, but that is on the fruitloop who cloned you not the child who was dragged into their scheme and is as much of a victim as you are. He could never treat Ellie the way Superdouche does. For Ancients sake he was barely a teenager when it happened and yet he handled it better than a full grown adult superhero (not that he should be called that after what he has done).

In conclusion no one is happy with the news, especially Ellie. She is furious with how her fellow clone is treated and is definitely planning Superasses demise, though silver lining, clone buddy!

All of this leads to Danny putting a blacklist on Superman. No one from the realms can help him and are welcome to beat him up as long as no one else gets hurt. So when the JL Dark gets called to help because Superman keeps getting targeted by supernatural beings they refuse and explain the black listing. The JL then bullies John Constintine into summoning the Ghost King, who is his nephew, not that they know that, to retract the blacklisting.

Danny: Yeah no, can’t help you there. The ghosts hunting you down are not very happy with your parenting, and neither am I for that matter.

Superman: ??? I don’t have a son.

Danny: *sarcastically* So the kid running around with the moniker Superboy is someone else’s Krypton kid? Sorry, didn’t know there was another Krypton that survived the destruction of their planet.

Superman: It’s a clone, not my son.

Danny: *pissed* He is not an it! You may not consider him your son but the ghosts of Krypton do. Your parents thought the Kents raised you better than that.

Meanwhile, elsewhere:

Ellie: *tackles Superboy* Clone Buddy!!

Superboy: *surprised Pikachu face*

[jannwrites]

film ask meme : NOSFERATU (2024) directed by ROBERT EGGERS.

a selection of lines from the 2024 film nosferatu. modified for rp purposes.

you are not for the living. you are not for human kind.

do you swear it?

come here. there is nothing to be afraid of.

today is of the utmost importance for us.

it will be a great adventure for you.

why have you killed these beautiful flowers?

i must tell you my dream.

standing before me, all in black, was Death.

the stench of their bodies was horrible.

i had never been so happy as that moment, as i held hands with Death.

never speak these things aloud. never.

i wish you to have all you deserve.

it's worth celebrating your adventure. i envy you.

i fear their past melancholy is returning.

don't let them feed me to the monster!

remember, it's all for us.

you bring trouble with you.

beware his shadow. the shadow covers you in a nightmare.

you are late. the midnight hour is passed.

i fear we yet keep close many superstitions here that may seem backward to someone of your high learning.

they exhumed a corpse.

i might ease your wound.

come by the fire. your face shows you unwell.

why ever did you bring that here?

what can cheer this poor humor, my love?

do you ever feel, at times, as if you were not a person?

we all feel out of sorts, set apart, at times. small or alone.

you are fortunate in your love.

it is a black omen to journey in poor health.

no one. i am no one.

he loves the pretty ones best.

you are lost in his shadow.

remain here. his evil cannot enter this house of God.

soon i will be no more a shadow to you.

your spirit was never enough.

no matter. i miscalculated the stars.

hermes will not render my black sulfur gold this evening.

do not revel what is sacred to dogs.

does evil come from within us or from beyond?

this evil, what it it is, how it has been summoned - unleashed - i know not.

there is a dread storm rising.

your bond shall not survive me.

it is a force more powerful than evil. it is death itself.

i have wrestled with the devil as jacob wrestled the angel in peniel.

if we are to tame darkness, we must first face that it exists.

i told you, you are not of human kind.

i am an appetite. nothing more.

i cannot be sated without you.

remember how once we were?

you have never liked me.

nothing you can say will shake me - for there is a devil in this world, and i have met him.

don't touch me. i am not to be touched.

the grim reaper wields his heavy scythe with every change of wind.

your horror has rent our hearts, but you must hear us.

these nightmares do exist! they exist!

the monster left you to the wolves, and yet you prevailed.

we must know evil to be able to destroy it. we must discover it within ourselves.

i need no salvation.

you will put an end to all of this?

i feel his hold upon me this night.

i am ready. i bid you, come to me.

i relinquished him my soul.

god is beyond our morals.

[kujiba]

【Mew Mew Bitch】

୨୧ — ꒰ Cat!reader | they/them prounouns | Sagau | cultish behavior

reader who gets transported into teyvat.. As a half cat human

Mondstadt / Liyue / Inazuma / Sumeru / Fontaine / Natlan / Snezhnaya

After your (not so) calm trip in mondstat, you decided it was finally time to stealthy leave the city in order to experience the full time adventure!

Seeing that you were free, Aether then took the chance and offered you to assist him and paimon in their later journeys around teyvat.

Having the creator of the world be their travel companion almost made paimon completely faint from shock! But to you it felt like a silly little adventure, so you agreed.

The next stop being the nation of contracts, Liyue.

Tianquan of the Liyue Qixing; Ningguang had heard about your coming arrival and instantly issued the most luxurious and attractive looking gifts that fitted just for you, she could care less about the price, No matter what the costs it will be done without hesitation for her God.

Despite all the effort, it definitely left ningguang dumbfounded to watch you ignore the jewelry that she had brought which would reach over 100,000,00 mora.. For a life size cat stand that a worker gave as a small token.

Of course their god would prefer something like this, their body is legitimately a human with cat ears and a tail.

Scratch all the previous plans, they're going to have to make a different approach now in order to get your affection.

Ganyu, a adepti working under ningguang felt curious about your cat like traits, specifically your cat ears. Was it like hers but just more furry and soft? Are people allowed to touch them? She needs to know it all.

And so an idea popped inside her head.

Using very simple knowledge, Ganyu and Shenhe would then begin to often fish at Mt.Aozang in the very morning to seize as many fish as possible as a treat for you, this often turned into a competition in who would gather the most fish for their god.

One thing that's certain is that your love at resting in tall heights never fades, the Millelith would get an ocean of reports with countless of witnesses saying that they had seen their creator resting at the roof of wangshu inn making Xiao work overtime to catch you when you accidentally slip off the edge.

Other times would be that xiangling would have to guard you while you joined her in catching ingredients for her next dish. One moment you're eating raw fish straight from the river, the next you're getting kidnapped by some random hilichurls that spotted you from a distance.

The amount of times that you nearly encountered death was enough for hu tao herself to come and approach you, advertising her business to you with a 10% discount for first time customers. She then got scolded for trying to do such blunt move on their creator

Qiqi likes to follow you around, asking if she could touch your ears or tail out of pure confusion, she just decided that you were similar to ganyu and then asked for cocogoat milk. Once you feel something tug the base of your tail you already know who's doing it.

Zhongli has his fair share with animal type companions, so it didn't really bother him much whether you're a cat or human, you're his divine creator! What DOES bother him is that whenever in the open world, you would jump on the rock pillars he would summon WHILE there is an on going fight with an enemy

99 percent of the time you'd just fall off the rock pillar but thankfully land on your two feet like always. However, Zhongli was ready to drop everything he had on him to come and catch you in less than a second

Let's not talk about the mountains.

[car-o-line]

Hiii. The recent chapters of tbhk really got to me, and literally got me feeling empty like 😭😭.

Can I have dating hcs for the tbhk characters?

A.N: don’t you dare remind me😭 and yes you can, maybe

Dating Tbhk characters hcs

Nene Yashiro:

Stop she’s such a simp

Flabbergasted when you accepted her confession

Constantly questioning if she's good enough for you

”AH what if they hate me and are just dating me out of pity!!” - Nene

“I’m going to hit you” - Hanako

Hanako is so done with her constant blabbering

”O.M.G. Did you see the new shoes they were wearing, they’re so adorable I might just faint! Oh and also, they had a new phone case and it was sooooo pretty! It totally matches their style!”

Compliments you nonstop

Totally isn’t planning yalls wedding

Unfortunately, if you’re dating you might just get dragged into the whole apparition thingy

She doesn’t want to put you in danger of course!

She just wants someone to help her that’s not a ghost or a stupid earring boy😢

Hanako:

Met you through Nene or you summoned him

Makes you play cards with him

It depends on what you both face but sometimes he’ll just unintentionally get you into danger

Like- “Oh y/n what are you doing here? I dragged you here? What!? I would never >:(!”

But don’t you worry because he’ll save ya

And then loses track of you, but he’s very focused while trying to get you out of danger!

Never and I mean never does he want you to meet Tsukasa

He’s worried Tsukasa might kill or injure you in any way

Plz listen to his warnings about Tsukasa, he’s begging you

Gives you cringe nicknames just to embarrass you

But he does it out of love!

Very touch starved because of him being alone for so long

So except what’s to come

Kou Minamoto:

Sweetest boyfriend ever and no one can change my mind

Oh you sent a good morning text? That’s cute. Here’s a five long paragraph about how happy Kou is to see you today

Of course, that’s later in the relationship

At first he’d be red just by looking at you

Ecstatic if Teru(platonically) likes you as well

Wants to show off his skills as an exorcist but fails miserably

Baking dates are a must

Especially if you know how to cook then you’d both do a bake off

It’d be like “nail it” except Tiara is the judge

#Tiara4President2025

Overall best of the best boyfriends out there

Mitsuba Sousuke:

Literally the definition of a tsundere

His love language is making fun of you🩷

But he means it fondly!

Clings to you like a leech 24/7🙄

Can and will take photos of you and keeps them in his pocket

Very, very, annoying when his attention needs are not met

“Why aren’t you around? Do you not love me? Do you not think I’m adorable?”

”I had to go home..the school day ended..?”

Okay maybe not like that but still

VERY disappointed when you aren’t around😔

But he loves you so it’s okay

Tsukasa Yugi:

Choosing him is crazy/hj

Blink twice if you need help😦

Very obviously obsessive and possessive(an unhealthy amount that is)

If you thought Hanako’s clinginess was bad erm..

He’ll literally does that thing where he wraps his whole body around your waist no matter how tall you are(like he did with Hanako)

It doesn’t matter how hard you try to shoo him off he’ll just stay stuck there

Like superglue or smth

Definitely will have a tea of muffin date with you, but that’s basically everything day so idk

Sakura needs at therapist at this point

#FreeSakura

Sometimes you’ll be minding your business and just see a kaku-joudai in the corner of you eye(thanks Tsukasa)

Sakura Nanamine:

She is thanking every lord or being that may or may not exist in the world of your existence

She loves you to death and you make her life so much easier

Very very relaxed/chill girlfriend

Treats you like royalty

“Oh you want a cup of tea? What flavor? Hm? Oh, I have 5743 kinds. Just name one I’ll bring it.”

You both have to deal with the hell of taking care of Tsukasa and Natsuhiko so it’s kind of like a bonding experience between the two of you

Her love language is acts of service, fight me on that😠

Nap dates, I’m sorry she just seems so sleepy all the time😭

Or muffin dates idk

Natsuhiko Hyuuga:

Honestly, you’re either both be stupid idiots in love or you’re just patient as hell

Talks about you all. The. Damn. Time.

”Your s/o got you flowers? Pff, well on March 22nd-”

You’re either Sakuras lifesaver or hellspawn

He's the boyfriend who if someone hits on you he’d perk up and agree with them

Down bad, but not in a Nene down bad yk

Calls you the weirdest crap

”Hellooooo my beautiful lightbulb”

”huh?”

He really believes that you’re the best person to ever exist

And anyone who says otherwise, he’ll get Tsukasa or smth

Idk he’s just a funny tall man

Teru Minamoto:

Either a very expected relationship or a unexpected if your popular or not

He’s a silly man so sometimes if he’s bored he’ll just call you to his office and just say hi, then send you back😐

Like sir????

Anyway he’s not afraid to use you as a barrier so girls leave him alone

Proud to have you as his s/o🥳

Makes sure to keep you tf away from anyyyy supernatural stuff

“Just play horror games or something.”

Sometimes you have to force him to sleep

Then he’ll tell you that you yourself need sleep??🤨(a hypocrite at his finest)

You are the new babysitter for Kou and Tiara, if he’s away ofc

They like you thankfully!!

Tiara forces you to play dolls with her tho

[sorceressofthesky]

Something I find really compelling about Zaundads is the fact that you can clearly see the division between their ideologies in the way they show their love. When Silco and Vander were still a pair, Silco loved Vander for his brutality. He loved Vander because he was angry at the world; because he was fierce and tenacious and capable of devastating violence. He respected Vander's willingness to fight for the cause and his loyalty to their shared ideals. And we know from Silco's parenting of Jinx that when he loves someone, he uses them. That's not to say this is a good or bad thing, but just an observation. He loves people for the potential he sees in them - in Vander, it's his capacity for violence, and in Jinx, it's her capacity for chaos and destruction - and a big part of how he shows love is by fostering that potential. Creating the means and motivation to use it. He lives by the notion that "there's a monster inside all of us", which started with his perception Vander, and extended to Jinx later on. He sees a monster in himself too, but he's not a naturally violent person, so he surrounds himself with people who he does see as strong and capable, and channels his indignation through the people he trusts most.

Meanwhile, when Vander loves someone, he's gentle with them. He has this innate protective instinct that drives him, and he's capable of summoning his brutal side when his world is under threat, but his default is care and affection. With his kids, it comes out mostly in the form of guidance; being a calm voice of reason when it's needed. We don't see it as much with Silco given the lack of insight into their past, but we do have hints of it in the flashback - with both Silco and Felicia. Silco already has a bowl of soup and a cup at the start of the scene, which, based on context clues, were most likely prepared for him by Vander. Vander also pours drinks for the three of them, and upon finding out that Felicia is pregnant, he replaces hers with a non-alcoholic option. His automatic response to her distress is to comfort and console her ("you're going to be a great mother"). In contrast, Silco listens silently for most of the conversation, and contributes in the only way he knows how - by agreeing to continue the fight for Zaun, no matter the cost.

And I think, ultimately, this would have always created a division between Vander and Silco. Whether or not Felicia and Connol were killed in the explosion. Whether or not the kids were even in the picture. It was inevitable that somewhere down the line, Silco would keep pushing the limits, and he would reach one that Vander couldn't exceed. Felicia's death might have been the catalyst for the betrayal, but it seems like the ideological rift ran a lot deeper than that - particularly noting the line from Vander in S1E3; "You had my respect, the Lanes' respect, but that... that was never enough for you." The phrasing makes it sound like he was already fed up with just how far Silco was willing to go for justice.

Vander regretted the violent way he went about the split, but I don't get the impression that he ever regretted the actual decision to part ways with Silco. Which actually creates another interesting contrast in itself, because Silco's perspective was the complete opposite. Silco had already forgiven Vander for the drowning incident by the time they met up again. The murder attempt was brutal, and Silco is unquestionably traumatised by it, but he never stopped respecting Vander, nor does he ever ask why he did it. Because that isn't the part he's hung up on. He understands why Vander went about the betrayal in such a vicious manner. Anger and violence were what he loved about Vander in the first place, and as such, Vander trying to drown him was consistent with everything Silco knew and respected about him. The Vander he didn't understand was the one who gave up on fighting out of fear of what he might lose, and that was the Vander he resented.

Reconciliation is definitely possible between them, and that's clear even without regarding the S2E7 AU, because it happens in the main timeline. Silco is given a choice between his dream and Jinx, and the first place he goes to deliberate is the Vander statue, because finally, he does understand. He understands why Vander bent to the Enforcers' will just to keep his kids safe. But he only understands it because, by that point, he's lived it himself. In an alternate timeline scenario, if Silco were to forgive Vander, there would need to be some other catalyst that triggers that understanding. It would take a lot more than simply reading an apology letter - not because of how terrible the apology was, but because Vander was apologising for the wrong thing.

[a-raven-of-their-word]

A personal life motto: Don’t be a pussy, dress like you’re gonna get isekai’d.

[j-k-writes]

The Bronze Targaryen

Summary - After his mother's death in 115 AC Y/N Targaryen is summoned by his father Daemon to King's Landing in the hopes of forming a betrothal between the new heir to Runstone and Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen.

Warnings - General HOTD warnings, Canon character death, grief and mourning (if I miss any let me know)

I tried my best with the timelines and research but between the books and show it's so convoluted so forgive me for any mistakes

A fifth arrow hit the target with a soft ‘thump’ as the sky transformed the already slick training ground further and further into mud. (Y/N) pulled a sixth arrow from his quiver, wiping the metal tip clean of any rain, before notching it and drawing the bow string back. 

“I think you’ve proved your mettle M’lord.” Called a voice from behind the young heir. 

(Y/N) turned his head, making eye contact with Osric Stone, “Leave me Osric.” 

The (H/C) teen returned to his target, drawing the string back again. He loosed the arrow and smiled to himself when he heard soft clapping from behind him. Tearing his eyes away from the target once more, (Y/N) faced the stable boy. 

“Very impressive, M’lord.” Osric smiled at him, “Now, will you please come inside?” 

“Has my mother returned from her hunt?” 

“No M’lord-” 

(Y/N) turned from the bastard boy, pulling another arrow, “Then I shall wait here until she does.” 

“You will be ill if you stay out here any longer M’lord.” 

“It’s a spring rain Osric I will survive.” He released his arrow, smirking as it pierced another down the middle. “I will remain until my mother arrives, it shall not be long now.” 

He heard Osric sigh behind him, “‘M’lord I beg you.” 

“Osric,” (Y/N) turned to face the stable boy, temper rising. He yearned to be left alone, his mother had promised she would not be gone more than a few days and yet it had been a full week since (Y/N) had last heard from her. He knew his grandfather was not worried, but (Y/N) could not help the shivers that raced down his spine when he thought of his mother’s tardiness. “I like you, but remember that I am your lord not your friend.” 

Osric straightened, “I will leave you M’lord.” 

(Y/N) sighed as he watched the stable boy retreat. He had not meant to snap at Osric, who was, no matter what he said, his friend- perhaps his closest one. But he often said things he did not mean in fits of anger, his mother did not comment on the trait, but he knew she saw him behind (Y/N)’s violet eyes when his words burned poor lords who had the misfortune of catching her heir at the wrong moment. 

He rolled his shoulder’s back, wincing at the pain of stretching the taught muscles, and pulled another arrow out of his quiver. Banishing his thoughts of worry he continued his shooting. 

“My lord,” (Y/N) tore his eyes away from his blade, setting the sharpening block down on his table. “Your grandsire requests your presence in his chambers. He claims it’s urgent.” 

(Y/N) shot up from his seat, dread coiling deep in his gut. As he strode through the halls of Runestone he already knew what news would await him when he reached his grandsire. He’d known the news was coming for days since they sent a party after his mother on the fifth day she failed to return. 

His hand shook as he brought his fist up to knock upon the door to his grandsire’s chambers. Maester Pate opened the door, his face conveying the grim news to (Y/N) before his grandsire even had the chance to speak. 

“They have found her.” (Y/N) spoke, stepping into his room and coming face to face with his grandsire. 

Yorbert sighed, rubbing his gray brows, “Yes.” 

“Is she-” (Y/N)’s voice trembled, not daring to speak his worst fear aloud. Yorbert motioned for his grandson to sit. When (Y/N) complied, he spoke. 

“She is alive but not well.” His grandsire paused, throat working as he struggled to speak, “It is said she fell from her horse and suffered a grave injury. Maester Pate-” 

“I want to see her.” (Y/N) stood, the force of his movement causing his chair to fall back against the floor. He whipped around to face the maester, who took a step back from the heir. “Where is she? Take me to her.” 

“(Y/N) please,” His grandsire said, “You must listen. You are now the heir to Runestone-” 

“You said she lived.” His grandsire paused at his interruption. 

“What?” 

“You said she lived, I cannot be heir to Runestone unless my mother has passed.” 

“(Y/N) please, sit back down.” 

Against his wishes (Y/N) complied, picking his chair up from where it had fallen and retaking his seat. When his grandsire spoke again (Y/N) seethed, there was no doubt among the Vale that the Lady Rhea was one of the best hunters in the Vale, for her to fall off her horse bad enough to be on her death bed seemed folly to her son. His hands shook as he reached past Yorbert and grabbed the pitcher of wine filling the cup placed in front of him to the brim. His grandsire sighed as he watched (Y/N) tip the cup back before standing once again. 

“I will see her.” (Y/N) steadied his voice as he spoke, “I would say my goodbyes before she passes.” 

His grandsire nodded, granting (Y/N) his leave. 

He almost returned to his grandsire when he saw what had become of his lady mother. 

She lay pale and gaunt amongst the white sheets of her bed. Her eyes were shut, and the bandage that covered her wound, brown and red with blood, messed her already tangled hair further. 

(Y/N) took his place by her side, reaching out to grasp her frail hand. “Do not let anyone in without my grandsire’s leave or mine.” 

Maester Pate nodded, closing the door behind him on his way out of the room. As the door shut with a soft click, (Y/N) returned to his mother, his tears finally coming as he watched her chest move silently. He wiped furiously at the tears spilling down his cheeks. He placed his mother’s hand on his cheek, shivering at its chill. 

“Mother,” He whispered, “They say you fell, but- but I do not believe it. Tell me what happened mother, please.” 

His mother stayed silent, eyes still closed. He doubted she was awake to hear him, but he kept speaking. He begged her to wake, to live, to speak to him, to do anything but lay there like she was already dead. He spoke about how he waited for days for her return, how he’d snapped at Osric, and how he’d apologized later. He prayed to the old gods for her recovery, and cursed his mother for refusing his wish to join her on her hunt. 

He was half-asleep in his chair when she finally woke. 

“(Y/N).” 

He opened his eyes and sat at alert at the sound of her raspy voice. 

“Mother.” 

She smiled at him, “My boy.” 

“Mother what happened.” 

Rhea paused, and (Y/N) feared she’d slipped into unconsciousness once again. She licked her lips, giving him a faint apologetic smile, “I fell from my horse.” 

“No.” (Y/N) shook his head, “Mother you would not-” 

She shushed him and he quieted, “Listen to me, do not look for vengeance where there is none. It was an accident, nothing more.” She paused before continuing, “I am sorry. You are so young, too young.” 

“I am ten and seven mother.” 

She laughed softly, wincing at the pain it brought her. “Again, too young. But you will be a good heir, as I always knew you would be.” She intertwined her fingers with his, face turning serious, “Do not let your father’s rot reach you, you will be safe from it here, but here alone.” 

“Mother what-” 

A haze covered her gaze and her coughing interrupted his question, causing him to yell for Maester Pate. He was pushed out of the way by his grandsire as Maester Pate rushed to his mother offering her milk of the poppy. She refused him, asking for (Y/N) but as (Y/N) attempted to approach her his grandsire held him back. 

“She is not right of mind, boy.” 

She shook with pain as she cried for him, and (Y/N) had to turn his face into his fist to muffle his sobs. Maester Pate soothed her and offered her milk and poppy once again, which she accepted. Minutes later she slipped into unconsciousness, and later that night as (Y/N) sat vigil by her bedside she took her final breath.

The letter came three weeks after his mother’s death. 

(Y/N) had been unconsolable the days following his mother's death. Confining himself to his chambers he left the plates of food left by his bedside virtually untouched, only exiting his bed to empty the pitchers of wine left by servants until his grandsire ordered them to leave no more. He lay unwashed in his bed, ignoring the pleas by both his grandsire and maester to eat and bathe. On the fifth day of his grief-stricken haze, his cousin dragged him from the bed, easily fighting off his weak attempts at breaking free. 

“Let go of me!” 

His cousin held him tighter, dragging him toward the bath, “You cannot let yourself rot any longer, (Y/N). It’s been almost a week, I understand your grief but we must bury your mother and your grandsire will only do so with your presence.” 

(Y/N) yelped as he hit the water, still fully clothed. He thrashed harder, only causing Gerold to hold him tighter. 

“I am sorry, but we cannot delay any longer.” Gerold gave him a pitiful look as he shivered at the cold water, the fight leaving him as exhaustion and hunger finally caught up with the young heir. “Bathe, and then eat. After the funeral I will let you get your revenge against me, but you must gain your strength back, cousin. Weakness is not a good look on you.” 

“Leave me.” (Y/N) slumped into the water, shaky hands coming to unlace his tunic. His cousin nodded, leaving him with a soft pat on his shoulder. 

(Y/N) tossed his soaked underclothes onto the floor, mentally apologizing to the poor servants sent to clean the chamber. He washed quickly, wishing the water was at least tepid instead of frigid, but he supposed it would’ve been warmer if he’d bathed when he was first asked to. Servants came in silently as he bathed, leaving fresh clothes by his bed and a plate of food by the bath. 

He ate and dressed, grimacing at the dark bruises under his violet eyes and the (H/C) stubble littering his face. He left his weapons in his chambers, and headed to meet his grandsire. His grandsire looked relieved at the sight of him, greeting him at the door to his chambers. 

“I am glad to see you out of bed, (Y/N).” His grandsire smiled at him, placing his hand on his grandson's cheek. 

(Y/N) looked to his cousin Ser Gerold, giving him a small nod before speaking, “I did not have much choice in the matter, but I apologize for my absence.” 

“Nonsense,” His grandsire shook his head, “We all grieve in our own ways.” 

His grandsire brought him close, allowing him to rest his head atop his shoulder. He whispered comforting words to his heir, sitting (Y/N) down gently by his side as he explained the funeral rites prepared for his mother and his new responsibilities as the sole heir to Runestone. 

He stood by his grandsire and cousin's side as his mother was buried, staring at the crypt in silence hours after the funeral was over. It was only when his cousin came to retrieve him for supper that he finally moved from his spot. 

The weeks after his mother’s burial passed (Y/N) by in a haze. His new responsibilities as heir of Runestone left him too preoccupied to wallow in his grief. He spent his days by his grandsire's side helping him run Runestone, and in the training yard training with the Master-at-arms and defeating the poor squires and knights who reluctantly took up arms against him. 

He was with his grandsire when the raven arrived. 

“Prince Daemon summons his son Prince (Y/N) Targaryen to Kingslanding to join him at court.” Maester Pate read from the parchment, and (Y/N) scoffed pacing around the room. 

“To what end?” (Y/N) questioned, he’d never stepped foot in Kingslanding, and his father had not spoken to him in years. Maester Pate swallowed, shooting a nervous look to Lord Yorbert, revealing to the young heir that his grandsire already knew of his father’s plans. “What.” 

“Your father hopes to secure a betrothal.” 

(Y/N) paused his pacing, “A betrothal? Daemon has not spoken to me in years and he hopes to be in charge of my marriage?” 

“I do not like your father any more than you (Y/N)-” 

“And yet you have hidden this from me!” (Y/N) seethed, “How long have you known of my father’s wishes? How long have you kept me in the dark?” 

His grandsire sighed, “I do not plot against you (Y/N), you must understand that.” 

“How long?” 

“Since the prince returned from his campaign in the stepstones.” 

(Y/N)’S face blanched, stuttering over his words as he spoke again, “Did my mother know about this? Or did you plot with her husband to steal her son away from behind her back?” 

“(Y/N) how dare-” Yorbert cut himself off, and pinched the bridge of his nose. “I know your relationship with your father is strained but he is still your father.” 

“I am your heir not Daemon’s!” 

Yorbert sighed once more, visibly frustrated with (Y/N), “Your mother did not wish for anyone but you to have a say in your marriage, but this is a royal summons-” 

“It’s my choice?” 

“Yes (Y/N) but-” 

(Y/N) ignored his grandsire, turning to the maester. “Maester Pate write back to Kingslanding and let them know that I will not be answering their summons.” 

“(Y/N)-” 

“It is my choice grandsire. That was my mother’s wish was it not?” 

His grandsire nodded letting the argument die out, his defeated stance making him look more than his age. As (Y/N) turned to leave the room Maester Pate spoke. 

“What would you have me write to your father, my prince?”

“Write any words you must Pate but do inform the prince that Lord (Y/N) will not be coming.”