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trulybetty · 6 months ago

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warm bread & honey

pairing: jackson!joel x reader word count: 3,325 warnings: a little sprinkling of angst if you squint hard enough, briefest mentions of past injuries, no descriptions of reader, use of a nickname, no y/n, just soft and cozy post tlou season one joel deserves estimated reading time: 17 minutes summary: joel returns home to you from patrol ao3: linked

a/n: it's been a while, eh? had to take an unplanned hiatus but trying to figure out how to jump back in - figured a good place to start was by clearing out my wip's. this had been semi-finished for a while, but I wasn't sure it'd fit, then I figured I should just post it - a reminder of writing for yourself first, right?

“The teapot is hot!” You warned when you heard the familiar drag of one of the kitchen chairs being pulled out against the worn wooden floor. The ceramic pot, not long filled with hot water and tea, was made in anticipation of the completion of your morning's baking you had started in the early hours, unable to sleep for tossing and turning.

You had both hands gloved and inside the oven pulling out a loaf of bread, but your forewarning hadn’t been enough to prevent the hissed curse that sounded from behind you.

Carefully placing the fresh loaf atop the stove, its smell filled the kitchen and enveloped you in a comforting embrace, though it could be easily argued that feeling had more to do with the house's new arrival than anything else.

“I told you it was hot,” you admonished as you pulled off the oven gloves turning around to find a sheepish Joel sitting at the kitchen table, you gave him a warm smile, “Hi.”

Joel, his jacket already shrugged off and in the process of rolling up his sleeves gave you an equally comforting smile, one that said he was pleased to see you after days apart, “Hi,” he replied.

Throwing the gloves to the counter you took the three wide steps to close the distance between the two of you. Just the knowledge of him being home, seeing him in one piece, was enough to release the tension that sunk into your bones every time he went on patrol or for anything that required leaving the safety of Jackson’s confines.

As you took that final step, watching him turn in his seat to throw his jacket over the back of the chair beside him, the early morning light filtered through the window, casting a soft glow over the kitchen and highlighting the subtle signs of weariness on his face. Despite the tired weathered lines and the shadows beneath his eyes, his smile when he looked back up at you was genuine, a silent testament to the comfort he found in simply being back home, back with you.

“You look like you’ve been through it,” you observed, your voice a gentle blend of concern and welcome.

Joel shrugged, a low chuckle escaping him as he subconsciously ran his fingers down to his side, the subtle movement betraying the discomfort he tried to dismiss, “It’s nothin’ darlin’. Just the cold reminding me I’m not as young as I used to be,” he said, attempting to downplay the lingering pain from the old jagged scar at his side.

His attempt to brush off his discomfort didn't fool you; you knew him too well to deny the nuance of his movements as something else, his attempts to hide the silent hiss under his breath. You reached out, your fingers tracing the air just shy of the old wound, a silent acknowledgment of the battles he'd weathered, both external and internal.

Joel's gaze held yours, a flicker of vulnerability in his eyes before he masked it with a lopsided smile.

The morning light, now brighter, spilled into the kitchen, casting long shadows and highlighting the fine dust particles dancing in the air. It was serene, a quiet moment shared between the two of you. Your hip propped against the heavy farmhouse table your hand reached out instinctively to touch his arm, feeling the cold that he’d carried in through the front door seeping from his skin through his now rolled-up sleeves.

“How about,” your fingers toyed with the buttons that did up the front of his shirt, “you let me run you a warm shower,” you suggested, knowing all too well he wouldn’t admit to the true discomfort of the aches the cold weather brought to his old wounds.

Joel’s eyes, a mix of fatigue and the warmth of finally being home met yours. For a moment he seemed to weigh the offer, the stubborn part of him that disliked admitting any form of weakness at war with his need to sink into you. Finally, his resolve melted away, a soft smile escaping him as he gave into the warmth of your proposition.

A smirk appeared on his lips, “Only if you’re joining me.”

You laughed, it was light and genuine with the heaviness of Joel’s absence lifted, his return sweeping out the heavy air that always settled in with each departure.

“I suppose, that can be arranged,” you teased, a knowing look passing between the two of you.

Joel’s smile widened as he leaned back in his chair, the wood creaking as if welcoming back an old friend, “Is that right darlin’?”

“Fresh sheets on the bed too.”

He raised an eyebrow, a silent question lingering in that simple gesture. You’d been together for quite some time and yet still he was touched with disbelief that this was life, that anticipation of the domesticity you brought him, something he had believed he’d ever get to indulge in again.

“Well, don’t you know how to welcome a man home,” his smirk deepening into an expression of gratitude.

He stood from the chair, his movements still carrying evidence of his fatigue and the hollow ache in his bones. The faintest grimace crossed his face, quickly replaced by a lazy grin as he caught your disapproving look. He shooed you through the kitchen door to avoid any potential fussing, a light touch to your lower back, guiding you to the stairs.

The house was still, the only sound was the soft creak of the floorboards underfoot and the distant whistle of the wind outside, a stark contrast to the warmth inside.

The shower’s sound filled the bathroom, echoing off the tiled walls within the shower stall. Steam filled the room as you helped Joel out of his clothes, finally resigned to giving in to your care and attention. With each piece of clothing shed, dropped to the floor, revealed more of the toll the patrol had taken on his body.

He let out a hiss as your fingers grazed over new dark bruises, shadows under his skin in a mottled watercolour display in purple and blue. Despite his attempts to downplay it, the patrol had clearly been a tough one.

“It’s not as bad as it looks,” he said gruffly, catching the concern on your face, swiftly replaced with a roll of your eyes in response.

Joel stepped into the shower, and let out a soft groan as the hot water cascaded over his sore body. He bowed his head under the stream as he braced one hand against the shower wall. Stripped of your own clothes, you stepped in behind him, hands coming to rest on his hips. Slowly, your fingers began to knead the tense muscles along his back, feeling him quickly relax into your touch.

“Rough one out there this time,” he muttered, a tinge of bitterness in his tone as his eyes closed at your touch.

In the safety of the intimate space of the shower, the water releasing the tension from his shoulders, there was a vulnerability that Joel seldom showed.

You reached for the soap, lathering it between your hands before gently applying it to his shoulders. Carefully you worked the soap over his body in a meticulous order, paying extra attention to the areas marred by bruises. When you reached the back of his head you massaged your fingers into his hair with a gentleness that was born out of years of shared moments just like that one.

Joel tilted his head back into your touch, a deep moan escaped his throat as your nails scratched at his scalp, fingers tangling in the curls that had grown longer with the winter weather and his reluctance to stay on top of trimming it. After a moment or two, begrudgingly, you took your fingers from his hair. He bowed his head under the shower head once again to allow the hot water to rinse out the suds.

Your eyes traced the scars that adorned his back and shoulders like constellations. You could shut your eyes and still map out each one without any hesitation. Many a night, you had traced the lines of his back as he lay on his stomach with you lying next to him. Your fingers brushed strokes over its curves as you talked, sometimes of life before Jackson, life before everything stopped. You would talk about those you missed, who didn’t make it, left behind in a world that was no longer recognizable. Other times, silence was enough, a gentle shroud draped over the two of you.

With the suds long rinsed out, he turned to face you. His eyes softened as he took in the sight of you. There was a time when this look made you feel vulnerable and far too exposed, with your own scars, those both visible and not, on full display. But now it brought you comfort, that familiarity between the two of you had grown into something precious.

“You look after me too well, darlin’,” Joel’s voice was a low rumble, barely audible over the shower’s spray.

“Who else is going to?” you replied, a hint of amusement to your tone as you pushed back an errant curl from his forehead.

Leaning in, he captured your lips in a slow, tender kiss. The familiar scratch of his beard against your skin felt like home. His breath hitched as you moved your hands around his hips and up the curve of his back, your nails a light scratch against his skin. A sigh of contentment passed between you both, carried away by the steam rising around you.

Pulling back for a moment, his need to pause in the moment, to take it all in, his eyes met yours and you couldn’t help but notice the affection they held, a far contrast from when you’d first laid eyes on Joel Miller. The man you had first met was skittish, kept quiet in his new arrival in Jackson. You’d met him that night at the Tipsy Bison, Eugene regaling the room with a story of your day's misfortune and you’d made your way to the bar to avoid the heckles.

What started as casual conversations at the bar on more than one occasion turned into shared meals in the main hall, Joel too polite to leave when you joined him, then the odd patrols together, and eventually late nights spent in each other's company neither wanting the night to end.

His thumbs gently caressed your cheeks, and you leaned into his touch, your eyes closed at the sweet gesture. He pressed his lips to yours once more. The hot water continued to cascade over you both, creating a warm cocoon you didn’t ever want to leave. Your hands returned to his hips, taking their time as they moved from the curve of his broad shoulders down to his narrow waist.

“Feels good,” Joel murmured against your lips, his voice husky and thick with gratitude, his eyes half closed as he rocked into the movement of your fingers as they pressed into the tight muscle once again. “But if you keep that up honey, I fear one of us is going to put their back out tryin’ something in this shower we have no business trying. Anyway,” he continued, “didn’t you say something about clean sheets?”

You laughed, as you continued to knead his hips, “I might have mentioned it,” you replied as you gave him a playful pinch.

Joel’s laughter joined yours, a deep, comforting sound that resonated against the tiled walls. Amidst the steam and cascading water it felt precious, a rare moment of lightness that felt almost sacred in its intimacy.

The two of you finished your shower with a comfortable efficiency in a silent communication that spoke of the years and experiences you’d shared.

Once dried and wrapped in freshly laundered towels you led Joel by the hand to the bedroom where the promise of fresh sheets awaited, The morning sun had begun to fill the room with a soft golden light that made everything feel a lot more peaceful than the days gone by in Joel’s absence. The bed, freshly made in the early hours when you’d given up on any attempts of sleep, beckoned the two of you to rest and to find solace in each other now both its inhabitants were home.

Joel sat on the edge, his movements slow, a mixture of exhaustion and lingering discomfort. You watched him for a moment, his face bathed in the winter’s sun the lines of his face were softened and for a moment you felt like you were getting a small glimpse of a younger Joel as he closed his eyes and lifted his head to soak in the scant warmth it brought. You felt a surge of gratitude for his safe return, to the quiet life the two of you had managed to carve out together in a world that offered no guarantees.

Joel cracked open an eye to look at you at the end of the bed, “You can come on over honey, don’t have to watch from the cheap seats.”

You shook your head as you laughed, no hesitation in following his invitation. You positioned yourself in front of him as he spread his knees to make room for you to nestle between them, bringing your chest flush with his. Carefully he began to peel the towel from around you, his fingers grazing your skin with a gentleness that belied the strength within them.

As the towel dropped to the floor at your feet, you reached up to touch his face, tracing the lines that time had etched into his skin, each one a testament to the life he had lived. He caught your hand in his, pressing a kiss to the palm before guiding you down to follow him as he lay on the bed.

The sheets, cool and inviting, contrasted with the warmth that radiated from Joel as he pulled you closer. The world outside the window seemed to hold its breath, the light that fell across the room created a haven from the chaos that lay beyond. There with him beside you, for the briefest of moments you could just pretend that it was a regular Saturday morning, just like the ones before the world had changed, where the two of you could have simply been another regular couple.

You closed the space between you, your fingers tangling in his damp locks while his lips met yours. The kiss was soft but held an air of a fight of urgency against the need to savour the moment. Your fingers tangled in his hair, his teeth nipped at your bottom lip, swollen in response to both his kisses and his three-day beard.

A soft moan escaped your mouth, causing a growl to rumble in Joel’s chest in response. His arms wrapped tighter around you. It was always the way when he returned, he never rushed, took every moment in slowly, savouring every touch, every sound that he pulled from you. His lips found your neck, his beard scraping the sensitive skin, sending shivers down your spine as his lips continued to graze a path from your earlobe to your collarbone.

He nuzzled at your jaw, his kisses light and teasing causing you to squirm in delight as you tried to pull his mouth to yours. His laughter was low and husky in your ear as instead he pulled back to look at you. His eyes were alight despite the tiredness that framed them and you couldn’t help the smile that spread across your face as your hand found his cheek and he leaned into your embrace.

The tiny bit of warmth of the morning sun framed the two of you, amplified by the heat that had built between you both, wrapped around you like a blanket, comfortable and familiar. His lips found yours again, unable to be parted for too long. His hand cupped your hip, his fingers pressing into you as if testing if you were really there, if the moment was real between the two of you. Confident he had a hold of you, he rolled over onto this back, bringing you with him so that you were straddling him.

Both hands now at your waist his thumbs stroked absent-minded circles against your skin. You glanced down at him, taking in the sight of his now closed eyes and relaxed features. His exhaustion was apparent more than ever. But the sight of pure contentment on his face made your heart flutter.

The air between you was charged with static, which only seemed to grow in intensity with each breath, each touch, and each whispered word. The worries you’d had during his absence, tied up alongside the knot in your stomach were now coming undone with the soothing balm of his presence.

You leant forward again, this time your lips met his in a simple chaste kiss that had him humming appreciatively beneath you as he moved his hands to the small of your back. Just as you were about to deepen the kiss, a sudden slam of what sounded like the back kitchen door punctuated the serene atmosphere, startling the two of you and Joel to grip onto you a little tighter. The muffled sounds of footsteps and voices drifted up the stairs bursting what was left of the bubble of intimacy you and Joel had carefully cultivated.

“Ah, sweet! Honey made bread!” Ellie’s voice, unmistakable and filled with loud delight echoed up through the house, followed by another voice that you had to strain to hear, Dina, a lot more soft-spoken than Ellie.

“Looks like they left in a rush,” Dina said as you heard cupboards being opened and closed with such ferocity that it could only be Ellie. Joel shook his head beneath you as the two of you waited to hear more of what was happening downstairs, “Ellie, didn’t Joel just get home from patrol?”

A brief silence passed, you could’ve sworn you could have heard a pin drop as the whole house seemed to hold its breath. Then came a flurry of whispered curses from Ellie, her realization finally dawning on her.

“Oh shit,” she exclaimed, before raising her voice, a mixture of haste and apology in one, “Welcome home Joel! Sorry Honey! You two, keep doing your thing—ouch!” you could only assume Dina had stopped Ellie in her tracks before she said something she shouldn’t, “Anyway, we’re leaving! But we’re taking the bread!”

Joel rolled his eyes as Ellie and Dina continued to bicker as they left the kitchen. It wasn’t until you both heard the satisfying click of the kitchen lock that you both let out a laugh. The interruption had shattered the tension between the two of you, leaving you both in a fit of laughter.

As the laughter subsided, you brushed a thumb over his rough cheek as he stifled a yawn, closing his eyes and leaning into your touch once more. Another kiss to his lips before you rolled yourself off of him to lay down beside him, but still just as close. He pulled you in against his chest, your head finding a home in the crook of his neck, his arms holding you tight, his fingers tracing imagined patterns on your bare skin.

He was home, you could hear the steady sound of his heartbeat in your ear. Outside the wind picked up in spite of the early peaceful sun that rose over Jackson. A reminder that despite the peace Joel’s return had brought, there still was a looming threat outside its boundaries, its frozen breath seeping through wooden walls. You held onto him a little tighter, knowing that despite wishing that you both could be a normal couple in a life full of normalities, the time you had together was tenuous at best.

#joel miller #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller fanfic #jackson!joel #joel miller x you #joel miller x reader #joel miller x gn!reader #joel miller x f!reader #pedro pascal character fanfic #pedro pascal character fanfiction #pedro pascal characters

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peachsukii · 5 months ago

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I've got Kirishima on the brain today and thinking about a soulmate magic AU where he's a wandering adventurer, aimlessly trudging through the forest when he stumbles upon your cozy cottage. Normally, he'd keep his focus and remain on course to get to town, but something about your home drew him in, too magnetic for him to walk away.

He knocks on your door, perplexed on what to say if you answer and prepares to bolt when the door creaks open, partially revealing your face. The scent of warm cinnamon mixed with smoke invades his senses as he stands there with a dumbfounded look on his face.

"Are you lost?" you ask, opening the door fully to reveal yourself and tilting your head with curiosity. "The nearest town is a few miles north of here. You can't miss it."

Oh...wow. You're so pretty, and yet, you look familiar.

There's no way he'd know who you were, you just met.

"Uh...no?" Kirishima responds with uncertainty, hoping it didn't make him look like a fool. "Just a little out of it from traveling all day and was passing by. I'm sorry for bothering you, I'll keep heading north to town."

You step to the side and motion for him to join you in your home. "It's quite alright, I don't get company often. Come in, you can rest for a bit."

He doesn't hesitate to enter, taking in the decorations of your beautiful cottage - dried herbs, flowers and plants of all kinds. Your fireplace is flickering away with a pot nestled over top of it, the liquid inside bubbling rapidly.

"Sit, I just made some tea. I'll pour you some," you insist, pulling one of the wooden chairs out from the small table by the fire. Kirishima settles and puts some of his belongings on the floor to lighten the weight on his tired body. That's when he notices a warming sensation coming from his chest, but not internally...externally. When he tugs at the pendant around his neck, the normal white crystal has turned pearlescent, shimmering dimly beneath his traveler's gear like a firefly.

'What...is happening?' he thinks to himself, suddenly remembering his mother's words before he departed on his current outing.

"Remember son, that pendant has been passed down in our family for generations. It has guided each of the Kirishima's to their fated partner and has yet to fail. When it glows, that's the sign of finding said partner - your soulmate, the one you will carry on the Kirishima name with."

Kirishima begins to sink into his thoughts, lost to the overwhelming notion that he stumbled upon the home where his soulmate lived. There's no way that a stranger in the woods could be...

Wait a second.

Now that he's analyzing the insides of your home, he realizes his crucial mistake and why he recognizes you.

You're the wicked witch everyone back home warned him about, isolated to the forest and banned multiple cities on the coast, your face plastered on numerous posters around his hometown.

"Everything okay, traveler?" you ask sweetly while placing the cup of tea in front of him. "You're looking a little pale."

#☆.rei daydreams #kirishima x reader #soulmate au

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villainoustrioau · 3 months ago

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Okay, guys, here's the plot

Fanfic by Milkyr (thanks @peachyfnaf for editing <3)

Art by CreesA

Reunion

“Eclipse… Promise me one thing before I turn off and you're loaded into your own body..."

"Yes, of course! Anything for you, Sunny."

"No matter what happens… Don't lose yourself."

Gray fingers touched golden ones, and Eclipse looked at Sun. At his beaming smile and pale blue eyes filled with care and slight excitement.

"Whatever that means, I promise."

This was the last time Eclipse saw his Sun happy and alive.

***

Emerging from his own memories, Solar raised his head from the table. He fell asleep on the blueprints again. Grumbling softly to himself, the inventor got to his feet and stretched, hearing his iron joints creak. The animatronic soundlessly walked in soft slippers to the laboratories exit door. Focusing his hearing module on the space beyond the door, Solar listened to the sound of… nothing.

It was pretty quiet here.

Leaving the lab, Solar shoved his hands into the pockets of his lab coat.

"Ruin?"

He called softly, going first into the living room, then into the kitchen, then into one of the bedrooms.

"Eclipse?"

But he wasn't here either.

"Jack?"

It seems that he was completely alone in the bunker.

Solar went through all the rooms once more to make sure that no one was here, and then returned to his lab, blocking the front door and turning on the sound insulation in the room.

He pulled off the worn gray cloth from a capsule, which was located in the depths of the lab and was securely disguised as a "garbage can" so that no one would have the desire to ask questions about what was there. Pushing aside some wooden crates, the mechanic looked at the horizontal capsule with regret in his eyes. Inside, under the glass, laid Sun. But not Sun of whose dimension they now live.

It was his Sun. It was Sunny. The one who was always kind to Solar when he first woke up in someone else's body and didn't understand why he was no longer part of Moon. The one who sacrificed his life in order for Solar to get a chance at his own. The mechanic shook his head, pushing away the obsessive thoughts. His gaze was determined.

He's going to get Sunny back. He will get Sunny back. He's sacrificed too much not to. His fingers quickly tapped on the keyboard of the hidden device in the capsule, and the light inside it lit up. Solar frowned in concentration as he immersed himself in his calculations. He has been working on restoring Sun for several months now- it was very dangerous to work when someone else was in the bunker. His plans could be discovered, so he had to do everything slowly and carefully.

Suddenly, the computer let out an approving beep. The inventor opened his eyes in surprise, looking at the big green check mark on the screen. Did… Did he do it..? Did he really succeed..?

With trembling hands, Solar typed a couple of commands, and a progress bar was displayed on the monitor, gradually filling in black. The mechanic pressed his palms against the glass of the capsule, watching with hope in his eyes as the light inside grew brighter.

“Download complete. All systems stabilized. All external modules running properly. Turn designation: ‘Sunny’ on?”

Solar pressed the confirmation button on the keyboard, staring in fascination as the animatronic in the capsule began to make soft noises. At first it was the crackle of electricity, then the noise of the fans, which became quieter almost immediately as he switched to silent mode.

Sunny opened his eyes.

At first, his eyes were cloudy, he heard only isolated sounds- an incomprehensible buzzing- and felt a heaviness all over his body. He saw a dark blue spot above him.

"Moon..?”

His vision began to clear, and the dark blue spot turned into a dark orange. Who is that? Sunny could say with confidence that this was the first time he’d seen such an animatronic model, but his gaze caught on a couple of details in the appearance, and he gasped.

"Eclipse..?"

Sun spoke with hesitance, still unsure of his assumption.

"Yes."

Solar replied in a quiet, trembling voice, feeling tears running down his cheeks.

"What… What happened?" Sunny asked in surprise, noticing out of the corner of his eye that he was lying in some kind of capsule, a lot of wires were plugged in all over his body. "There must be some mistake here..."

"What do you mean? You're alive, and that's good!"

Solar replied in euphoric disbelief, opening the lid of the capsule. "...You probably didn't understand me," Sunny smiled awkwardly, "the separation should have killed me. I knew I was going to die, but�� I wanted to give you the opportunity to live in your own body, live your own life!..

Or..." Sun's gaze suddenly became sad and hesitant. "Or… Or are we both dead and this is the afterlife? Oh no- I'm so sorry- I never meant for this to happe-..."

"-No, no, it's okay! I'm alive, and you're alive too," Solar grabbed Sunny's hand so that he could feel his touch, squeezing it like he would leave him again if he dared to let go, "And I promise I won't let anything happen to you. Never again."

"...Wait!" Sunny suddenly realized something. Attempting to sit up, he rapidly looked around, whipping his head from side-to-side. But Solar restrained him from his attempts, holding Sunny still as carefully disconnected the capsule's wiring so that nothing would be damaged. "W- Where are we? Where’s Moon?!"

"Be careful! Your systems are still very fragile after such a long period of inactivity," the inventor replied, "I'll... I'll explain everything, just let me make sure you can move safely, okay?"

"...Solar, you're making me a little nervous. Where is our brother?"

Sunny asked his question once more, feeling a familiar anxiety slowly creeping up on his mechanisms, making its way under his endoskeleton and stirring the very core of the animatronic. Finally, he was able to sit up and look around. What kind of place is this…

"...Yes. Yes, you did die that day." Solar began with bitterness in his voice, trying not to look into Sunny's eyes as he recounted the memory. "It shocked both Moon and I, and it broke us, and then… And then..." the inventor's voice went tight as a lump formed his throat, forcing him to sound on the verge of tears as he continued.

"...His killcode took over his body. I couldn't save him, Sunny. There was an… accident." He bitterly squeezed out the words. "I'm Sorry, Sun. I'm so, so sorry. Moon is no longer with us."

The final statement hit Sunny like the crack of a painful whip. The whole world trembled right in front of his eyes. Shaking hands clutched at the face plate, despair flooding his features.

"...N-No... nononono, NO! T-This can't… It can't be..." Sun's voice warbled out in despair, "Please, tell me you're lying! T-That this is all a bad joke! PLEASE!"

Before Sunny could lose himself anymore, he felt thin and trembling arms wrap around his back. It was Solar.

Sunny buried his face in Solar's shoulder, shaking and sobbing like a traumatized child. He was absolutely shattered by the news. Moon was his day-one. His other half. His brother. The animatronic he was closest to before they separated and Eclipse appeared.

Gradually, slowly, the sobs in the air began to subside. A numb, pulsating sadness took the place of despair. Sun slightly pulled away from Solar and sighed loudly, causing his fans to flare up for a moment.

"But... What happened then..? H-How are we here?" He asked hollowly, looking at the mechanic.

"I had to conspire with dangerous criminals to survive. Working with them, I at least had a chance to get you back." Solar lowered the tone of his voice, "As of now, my name is no longer Eclipse. My name is Solar."

"Oh my God…" Sunny gasped in fright, taking Solar's face in his hands and looking at his rays. It was only now that he noticed how dirty and broken they were. "D- Did they do this to you? The criminals?!"

"No, no, I'm fine. They won't touch me, we have an… agreement," the inventor shook his head slightly, "But they must not find out about you. We're currently in a bunker under the pizzaplex. This is my lab, and we're in another dimension. But I promise we'll escape from here. I'll find a way.”

"B-But how can they not find out about me if they literally live here?" Sunny shivered, feeling fear creep up his spine. Poor Solar, what kind of mess did he get into..?

"Don't worry, they won't come into my lab. This is my personal space, and no one can come here without my permission." Solar took Sunny's hands in his own once more and looked into his eyes.

"Their names are Ruin and Eclipse. They're both very dangerous- Ruin can infect you with a virus that makes you want to kill, and Eclipse is just out of control when he's not in the mood- and he's always not in the mood. Knowing him, he'll tear you apart as soon as he sees you! Swear to me that you will not leave the lab under any circumstances. Please."

"Solar, I..." Sunny spoke quietly, confused and terrified eyes gazing into the tired and sad ones of the mechanic. "...I trust you. I promise that I will do whatever you say, and help in any way I can."

"Thank you, Sunny. Thank you." Solar leaned forward to hug Sun again, "I'm glad you're back." "Yes..." Sunny hugged the animatronic in response, "I'm so glad to see you, too…"

#villainous trio au #sams au #sams #tsams #tsams au #sun and moon show #sams solar #tsams solar #sams sunny #tsams sunny #sams solar sun #tsams solar sun #vtau info #vtau art #vtau asks #vtau fics

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nataliasquote · 4 months ago

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Mustang [pt.2] | n romanoff

Summary: When Natasha takes her new friend to the local barn dance, tensions arise and suddenly she’s faced with a decision. Stay loyal to her neighbours or risk it all for a wild stranger?

Warnings: none :)

wc: 2.5k

note: hiii :) I watched ‘Twisters’ last night and my new obsession with Tyler Owens/ Glen Powell spurred me on to give you another addition to Cowgirl!Natasha :) I hope you enjoy, there will be more parts!

-⧗-

Natasha was nothing if not true to her word. Her best pair of boots shining to perfection, hat keeping her wavy hair out of her face, the redhead pushed through the saloon doors right on time. She couldn’t stop the smile from spreading as she locked eyes on the woman from before, who was leaning with her elbow on the polished wooden bar. They locked eyes for a second, a sparkle dancing across Natasha’s crystal clear irises and she squared her shoulders whilst weaving through the table with a soft smile.

“She returns,” Y/n announced with a grin once the redhead was in earshot, earring back a quick smirk. “I was beginning to think you’d left me out here.”

“A true woman is never late,” Natasha quickly countered. She held out her hand with a flourish and stepped back, dramatically offering Y/n assistance. “Now, would you be so kind as to accompany me to the barn dance, darlin’?”

“Ever the charmer!” Clint yelled from the opposite end of the bar where he was polishing beer glasses. Natasha rolled her eyes in jest but remained focussed on the gorgeous stranger before her who had risen from her barstool and was adjusting the waist of her jeans from sitting so long. She couldn’t lie, Natasha well and truly dragged her eyes up and down the woman’s body with absolutely no shame - she truly was a lover of all things female.

“Show me the way, sweetheart.” The nickname made Natasha melt slightly inside but her external composure never faltered, despite how weak she was just below the surface. “You’ve set my hopes high with this one.”

Natasha chuckled as the cool night air brushed their faces, a welcome feeling from the usual stuffiness of the saloon. There was a buzz in the air and the faint sound of music drifted over from the larger barns towards the end of the street, spurring the couple onwards.

“This town may not be good for much,” she started with a shrug, “but it sure knows how to throw a damn good party.”

“I’ve been to a few in my time, so we’ll see how yours holds up.”

Natasha glanced over and winked before pushing open the gate and allowing Y/n to walk past. “Let me show you the best night of your life.” Her tone was suggestive and Y/n didn’t miss it.

“Well, Romanoff, you’re already starting it off alright.” They both paused outside and felt the thumb of music in their chests before Natasha grabbed her hat and pushed the doors open, allowing the electric atmosphere to hit them both in the stomach. Y/n couldn’t contain the laugh that fell from her lips as her eyes darted around the crowded barn in wonder - it was unlike anything she’d ever seen, and she’d seen a lot.

Barn dances were commonplace in nearly all western towns, but none had the energy that this one did. Natasha’s hand quickly slid around Y/n’s waist protectively as they skirted around the dancefloor, not wanting to get trampled by the current line dance. The other woman blushed slightly at the contact but welcomed her warm hand, it feeling surprisingly natural the way it resided just below her belt. Forever the lone wolf, Natasha’s presence was strangely comforting, even after just a couple of hours.

They slid onto a pair of stools at the opposite end of the bar where the crowd wasn’t so thick, allowing the pair to survey the room comfortably. Natasha nodded to Yelena, who was seated at one of the tables across the floor, revolver in front of her hands.

“That’s my sister,” Natasha introduced, rolling her eyes as Yelena tipped her hat and winked.

“She’s a charmer, for sure.”

Natasha grabbed the two ice cold bottles that had been placed in front of them and slid one to her new companion, shaking her head with a groan. “She’s nothing but trouble and definitely not worth your time.”

Y/n narrowed her eyes, scanning Natasha’s face which made the redhead blush. She was losing her composure by the second and it jarred her.

“What you looking at?”

“Why do you hate this place so much?” Y/n asked, not caring that she was overstepping Natasha’s high boundaries. “You don’t have anything good to say about it, is it really all that bad?”

Natasha hesitated, rubbing her fingers over the damp label on her beer bottle. It’s not that she hated the town or the people, they were fine as far as she was concerned. But the promise of more would always weigh on her mind, darkening her current situation.

“No, it’s just… there’s nothing for me here,” she replied, keeping her eyes down. She didn’t want to see another person laugh at her ambition. But Y/n did nothing of the sort.

“Not even your family?” Her voice wavered at the end.

Natasha scoffed. “They think I’m crazy for ever wanting to leave. My Pa just wants me to find a respectable husband and start a family, but that’ll never be me.”

“Not a lover?”

Natasha finally looked up from the table and caught Y/n’s eyes, the orange light dancing across her pupils like fire. “Not for those in this town,” she muttered, before shaking her head and placing her bottle down a little too firmly. “It would be rude of me to invite the lady of the hour to a barn dance and not offer her a turn, so, will you?” She slid off her stool and held her hand out, which Y/n accepted with a smirk before the two women crossed to the dance floor, ignoring the drunk men staring at their every move.

The beat rang out and everyone stamped their heels, thumbs falling naturally into the belt loops on jeans as the dance began. Y/n followed along with a wide smile on her face, the atmosphere feeling electric in her veins. She was a sucker for a dance, getting lost in the music within the crowd, only the instruments and the sound of boots on the dusty wood floor filling her ears.

With Natasha by her side, she felt more carefree than she had in a while, lifting her arms high above her head as she turned. The redhead watched her out of the corner of her eye, watching how her hips swayed in her fitted jeans and how easily she moved. Sure, Natasha had flirted a lot with many women, but very few had her as captivated as this stranger did. Where was she from? Did she do… love? Natasha was getting ahead of herself, and her mind was spinning, leaving her stumbling to stay on time in the dance.

As the song ended, Y/n didn’t want to return to the bar. She tugged Natasha’s arm, begging her to stay for a few more songs, to which the redhead caved. She missed Yelena’s smirk from across the room, laughing to Kate as they watched amused. Natasha spent more time watching Y/n dance than she did paying attention to her own feet. As much as Natasha was reluctant everytime the song ended, she would have danced for days if Y/n wanted to. She never wanted this moment to end.

But when did anything good ever last? The cheers of the crowd after the latest song were suddenly interrupted by two gunshots, pausing the festivities immediately. Natasha grabbed her revolver and pushed Y/n behind her, much to the brunette’s surprise. She had her hand on her own gun but didn’t want to unnerve anyone as she was the outsider and did not want to create another bad reputation.

There was commotion by the main doors and Alexei’s voice boomed loudly above the rest, silencing the chatter. Ol’ Joe hobbled forwards, his face burning with rage as he shakily held his gun in the air.

“Where’s the new girl!” He yelled, beady eyes scanning the crowd as they parted to reveal Y/n, and in turn Natasha who did not flinch. She reached for the brunette’s hand and held it tight behind her back. “You!”

“What is going on?” Natasha asked, stepping forward before Ol’ Joe could progress any further.

“My prize cow is dead and it’s because of her!” He shoved a finger in Y/n’s direction as the crowd yelled, their chants now hostile towards the stranger.

“She didn’t do nothin’!” Natasha defended, feeling a pressure rise in her chest. She looked back at Y/n who had paled slightly but retained an iron grip on the handle of her gun in the holster. “She’s been with me all day.”

The crowd roared and Alexei appeared, his arms folded over his chest as he observed the scene in front of him.

“Defending a stranger and a killer? I always knew there was something off about you,” Ol’ Joe hissed, moving forward so the barrel was pressed against Natasha’s sternum.

“Nat…” Y/n warned. This was her fight, even if she had nothing to do with the cows at all. But roping her new and only friend into this fight wasn’t worth it and she’d be damned if Natasha got caught up in a gunfight because of her. “Leave it.”

But when did Natasha Romanoff ever do as she was told? She ignored Y/n pleas and used two fingers to slowly push Ol’ Joe’s barrel down. “Where’s your proof?” She stated, not letting go of his gun. She felt everyone’s eyes on her, including the disapproving ones of her father, but that was nothing new and Natasha never backed down. “Go on, where’s the proof it was her?”

Ol’ Joe stuttered, his mouth turning dry. Natasha truly was intimidating when she wanted to be, her green eyes piercing, almost like they could see everything a person was hiding.

“Natasha this isn’t your fight,” Y/n spoke up again, pushing forwards so she was just in front of the redhead.

“No,” Natasha countered. “I won’t have them targeting you just because you’re a stranger. I know it wasn’t you.”

“Put a bullet in her head!” Someone yelled from the crowd, encouraging an uproar to start. Natasha’s patience was wearing thin, and with still no reply from Ol’ Joe about why it must be Y/n, she was at her wits end. Clicking the safety off her gun, she aimed it at the ceiling and shot three times, her usual warning call. Well rehearsed and functional.

On cue, Yelena surged up from her table and shot another three bullets into the back wall, diverting everyone’s attention away from the women in the centre. Natasha shoved past Ol’ Joe, her hand clamped around Y/n’s wrist so she could not protest. But when the old farmer grabbed her other wrist, Natasha clenched her fist and punched him clean in the nose before running for the side door, Y/n hot on her heels.

“Where are we going? She shouted as Natasha broke into a sprint, her boots kicking up the dust with every step. “Natasha!”

But the redhead didn’t answer, the smart thing to do. She headed for a small gap between the buildings and rounded the corner, dodging old fence posts in the barely lit back street. Y/n followed her blindly, her heart rate increasing every time a new voice yelled out behind her. She didn’t know how many townsfolk were following them, there was no time to turn and check, but she knew by the sound of thundering boots that there were enough.

The redhead sharply turned left into one of the barns near the end of the street, her feet slipping on the damp straw. She looked up, breathing heavy, into the darkness of the rafters.

“Gimme your foot,” she whispered to Y/n who just looked at her confused as she cupped her hands. “Do it or you’ll die!”

The brunette eyed the small space above them and threw caution to the wind, allowing the pointed toe of her boot to nestle into Natasha’s interlocked fingers. The redhead lifted her up until she could reach the ledge and pull herself over, rolling into a pile of musty hay and cobwebs.

Natasha’s head suddenly whipped around, the sound of footsteps getting louder by the second. She took a few steps back and ran, giving herself enough of a run-up so she could jump off a nearby hay bale and grasp the ledge, using all the strength in her arms to pull herself up and over. Y/n grabbed her forearms and tugged her back just as the doors flew open.

The women pressed themselves as far back as possible, not daring to breathe until someone yelled ‘got nothing’ and they were finally alone again. Natasha let out a breath, her head falling back until it hit a wooden beam behind her. But her hat was in the way and she tugged it off, allowing it to fall beside her.

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry, Ol’ Joe never knows when to pull in his horns. Was probably a coyote or something that took his cow, or a lone wolf. But he never gives up the chance to point fingers, especially at someone like you.”

“Someone like me?”

“An outsider and a woman…”

Y/n averted her eyes, even if she knew that was the reason she was always mistreated. It never mattered which town she was in, someone always found an issue with her, which kept her moving.

“Well, those things never change. It’s not all good what I do.”

That shut Natasha up. One of the horses shuffled around its stable and poked its head out, making Natasha smile. Of course Liho knew she was here.

“Hey buddy,” she muttered, even if she was too far away for him to hear. But Y/n heard and leaned over, taking a gander at the midnight black horse.

“He yours?”

Natasha nodded. “That’s my Liho.”

“He’s gorgeous,” Y/n complimented. “Is this your family stable? Won’t they know to check here?”

Natasha shook her head. “No, that one is further down. I keep Liho here so he won’t be targeted,” she admitted, peeling a piece of hay between her fingers. “Only Kate, Peter and Yelena know he’s here.”

Y/n hummed and stretched her legs out in front of her. Her boots were battered, but she reached into her left one and pulled out a knife, twirling it around until the blade landed flat against her palm.

“You keep knives in your boots?” Natasha exclaimed, fascinated.

Y/n smirked at her child-like wonder. “You don’t?”

“I do now,” Natasha answered with a raise of her brow. A comfortable silence fell between them, the distant sounds of the crowd echoing down the street. Natasha’s hand fell by her side, brushing against Y/n’s accidentally. But despite the surprise, neither woman moved. Their fingers twitched, pinkies slowly moving across the damp hay until they linked. A strangely childish motion, but it was strangely comforting. The smallest of touches, no words, yet a million thoughts were exchanged.

And when Natasha reached her hand over even further and fully encased Y/n’s in her own, something released in her heart. Nothing had ever felt so right before and Natasha knew she was officially screwed. She would never be able to let her go.

#natasha romanoff #marvel #fanfic #natasha romanoff x reader #black widow #natasha romanoff oneshot #cowgirl natasha romanoff #natasha romanoff imagine #cowgirl #western fic #western #natasha romanoff fanfic #natasha romanoff hot #black widow imagine #mustang

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twola · 1 year ago

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idk if this is too vague, but arthur/f!reader in the classic trope of, oh my god I can't believe we both almost just died sex? did they both almost drown? Was there a fire? did he save her life? who knows! i feel like arthur would sees the woman he loves almost die and immediately fuck about it

Okay this has been in my asks for WAY too long and it’s such a good one and I wanted to do it justice.

Left Unsaid

Arthur Morgan x F!Reader Smut (18+), MDNI

➵ Fic Masterlist ➵ AO3 Link

When he think's he's almost lost you in a run-in with a rival gang, Arthur quickly gets over his nervousness in approaching you.

The bloodcurdling scream jolts him from sleep, making him stumble up from where he was sitting on a rickety chair in the main room of the old cabin. At first, he thinks it's a dream, but when the sound of breaking glass pierces the night, Arthur shoots up; the chair falling to the ground in a clatter as he quickly shakes the vestiges of sleep from his mind.

This abandoned cabin off of Eris Field seemed the perfect place to spend the night instead of making the trek all the way back to Shady Belle tonight - your yawning from behind him on his horse had him chuckling as he made the decision to stay - doing the gentlemanly thing and giving you the bedroom with the old single bed. As much as he’d like to be sharing it with you - he remained externally aloof - proclaiming that he’d sleep on the chair in the main room. He certainly did not dare to ask to share your bed - not now, probably not ever.

But the rustling and thumping behind the door where you sleep has his heart racing - his hand flies to his revolver as he readies himself to throw his shoulder into the door and shoot whatever it is that is making that noise, but the door bursts open before he gets the chance.

A man stands on the threshold - dirty, and grimy, with a faded gray woolen military uniform and a yellow bandana around his neck.

Of course, goddamn Lemoyne Raiders.

The raider holds up his knife in front of him, and in the din of movement and chaos around them, Arthur can see the liquid sheen over the steel in the man’s hand.

The knife, dripping with blood. The man, seemingly unharmed. The door, slightly ajar, to the bedroom where you slept.

A cold stone settles in Arthur’s gut as he puts the pieces together. In an instant, he snarls, diving toward the man with little regard for his own person, tackling him to the ground and ready to rip him apart with his bare hands for what he’s done to you. As Arthur mounts himself on the man’s chest and begins to strangle him, the movement knocks the oil lantern off the table, crashing to the wooden floor and immediately bursting into flame.

The man’s neck snaps between Arthur’s hands and he immediately leaps up, moving toward the bedroom where you were sleeping.

Another body crashes into him, a Lemoyne Raider dressed like he is straight out of a Civil War battle tackles Arthur to the ground, the two of them tumbling along the floor and breaking through the rickety door to the porch. Arthur rolls backward, unsheathing his hunting knife as he grits his teeth, ready to slice this damn bastard into shreds.

Of course, the wannabe soldier is no match for the hardened outlaw. They sure as hell don’t make them like they used to. Arthur easily dodges a swing of the man’s fist and throws his weight forward. He sinks his knife into the raider’s gut, and immediately shoves him to the ground. He gurgles blood from his mouth as Arthur rushes over him, back toward the house.

The flames burst out the windows as he barrels back toward the door, grabbing at the handle and cursing aloud as it burns him.

The constriction in his chest has settled into a churning in his gut as he prepared to kick the door in. At this point would he be finding your charred, lifeless body, having bled out on the floor because he couldn’t protect you?

“Arthur-!”

He steps off the porch, not sure if he is lightheaded or hallucinating, but you move toward him, hitching your skirts, blood covering your blouse, your hair wild.

“Jesus-” He crashes into you, having nearly leaped the final few steps, crushing you into his chest, nearly causing you to stumble.

He yanks you back, large hands on your shoulders, and looks you up and down, eyeing the blood patch on your blouse.

“N-not mine.” You breathe, but he does not move his hand from your ribcage. It presses inward, against the wet cotton, splaying across your side as if he did not believe you, checking for where the knife would have marred your flesh.

“Arthur-” You whisper, your hands tight on his biceps, “I’m alright.”

His eyes dart back up to yours, searching, pupils dilated, breathing heavily.

“Ar-”

You’re cut off completely as he pulls you against him and presses his lips desperately against yours, muffling your surprised yelp as his tongue demands entrance into your mouth. After a moment of shock, you melt into his embrace, fingers tightening on his shirt sleeves as you open your mouth to him.

He kisses you like you are the air he breathes. Like you are some kind of salvation… like he thought he almost lost something.

Arthur pulls back, breathing heavily, a flush having taken over his face, “Christ-” he goes to unwind his arms from you, “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have-”

It’s his turn to be cut off as your hands immediately travel to the collar of his shirt and you pull him down to your lips to kiss him again, needy as you moan into his mouth.

His arms immediately recircle you, hands moving down from your ribs, down, down to your waist, your hips, your rear. Hooking his arms around the back of your thighs, you’re lifted up, squealing in surprise into his mouth as you wrap your legs around his waist.

Continuing to press into each other's mouths, you barely notice him walking the two of you back, further from the flaming cabin, into the woodline, and finally against a tree trunk a safe distance away. He pulls back, panting as you recline against it, his arms tight under your thighs.

He gazes upon your kiss-swollen lips; your heaving chest as you breathe heavily, your pupils blown wide in arousal. Arthur takes the opportunity to roll his hips once, his hardening cock pressing against your cunt, and your eyes flutter closed as a needy, breathy whine escapes your lips.

“Arthur-”

He does it again, maybe for his sake as much as your own, the blood rushing to his groin and filling his cock properly. He grits his teeth as the rolling becomes rutting, your gasps driving him insane.

Before he gets to the point of no return, he slows his hips and leans over to recapture your lips in another kiss. As he pulls his

“Thinkin’ you was dead back there-” He pushes his lips to yours again, “Christ- I… I never told you-”

One of his hands leaves your thighs, but you have no fear he’s going to drop you. He buries it in layers of cotton, pulling at your skirts to move them from his way, reaching your bloomers and pressing against your cunt, watching your face intently as you moan, the cotton separating you quickly dampening against his fingers.

He leans in again and groans against your neck. Grabbing the cotton tightly, he yanks until he feels the seams give way, the tearing sound ringing in his ears as he delves within the ruined fabric to your soaking folds. You jolt against him and whine loudly as he slides his fingers along the seam of your body.

Arthur covers your mouth with his own as he sinks his fingers into you, working you open as you clutch desperately at his shoulders.

After you’ve cried out several times in the night, his hand leaves you and you sigh at the loss, he shushes you gently as he works at the buttons of his trousers, finally freeing his cock from his pants after moments of fiddling. His hand returns to your thigh as he adjusts you in his arms. The head of his cock presses gently against the rim of your cunt.

Your hands move from his shoulders to cup his face, your thumb tracing his lower lip gently before he sucks the tip into his mouth, his eyes trained on yours.

He pulses his hips and his cockhead slips inside you. Your brows crinkle with the first vestiges of the ache of penetration, and he leans forward again to press his lips upon your forehead.

“What did you never tell me?” You whisper as he holds you on the cusp of joining, the precipice of sheathing himself into you.

One of his hands leaves your thigh, though you are completely unafraid of falling with your legs wrapped around him and the strength of his other arm. His fingers brush back a strand of your hair from your forehead, tucking it gently behind your ear before his rough and calloused palm rests on your cheek.

“You’d have died and I woulda never told you I’m in love with you.”

Your eyebrows raise in shock as you clutch at him, and while you remain silent, after a moment, you pull him closer with your legs, nudging his back with your ankles, and he slowly slides himself inside you, inch by inch, until your hips touch and you mewl with the stretch. He hums softly before slowly, gently, rocking his hips, starting a slow rhythm as you get used to him.

His powerful arms keep you suspended against the tree trunk with each roll of his hips, each glide of the inches of him in and out of you, well glossed and hot with your slick.

Arthur’s lips press to yours incessantly, muffling your gasps and whines as he presses into you. After one particularly deep thrust, you throw your head back in ecstasy, bumping against the trunk of the tree.

“Careful there, darlin’,” Arthur slows his hips, and tightening his grip on your thighs, he pulls you away from the tree, you yelp and tighten your legs around his hips. He chuckles softly as he walks you, still joined, a few steps from the tree and slowly lowers the both of you to the ground on a patch of grass. Spreading himself out over you, he buries his head against your neck as he lets go of your thighs, his forearms on either side of your shoulders, rocking his hips into yours again.

The staccato whine of the syllables of his name escapes you as you hook your ankles around each other over his back. Carding your hands through his hair, your fingers interweave between his honeyed strands, his hat long gone in your desperation to join yourselves.

He presses himself up above you as his thrusts become more erratic, his breathing loud and heavy as he pounds you into the ground.

“God-” you cry out as your hands grasp his shirt, “Arthur, yes-”

He squeezes his eyes shut tightly, looming over you as he careens toward completion.

You arch your back, your thighs wrapping tighter around him as you begin to babble - “Yes- Arthur… I love you too-”, another gasp as he hits that spot within you, “God - I love you so much-”

That’s it. There it is, stripped bare and bleeding out like an open wound, his heart catching in his chest at your confession, and his amazement leaves him speechless as he thrusts into you once more, holding himself as deep as he can possibly get into you, feeling you pulse and clutch around him, wailing your pleasure into the night. It’s only a moment more before he has the wherewithal to yank himself from you, in the nick of time as he spurts his seed over your cunt, dripping white into the dark curls at the joining of your legs.

He’s gasping, you’re gasping, and he groans as he settles himself to the side of you, barely able to hold himself up with the exertion. Your legs hang open as you pant, flushed from your cheeks down your neck.

One of his large hands spreads out over your chest, against your racing heart, and you turn your head toward him, breathing out through your nose as a smile graces your lips.

“Probably should get outta here before any more stragglers find us.” He says, out of breath as he removes his hand to tuck himself back into his trousers. You nod and sit up, pulling your skirts down over your legs.

“D’ya think…” you trail off as you watch him rebutton his pants before he pushes himself to stand. His hair is ridiculously ruffled from the amount of times you've run your fingers through it.

“Mm?” He holds out his hand to you to help you up.

You take it, and he pulls you up into his embrace, his hand secure on your lower back.

“Was wondering if we could spend the rest of the night in Rhodes or somewhere instead of heading all the way back to camp…” You ask as you lay a hand on his chest.

He squeezes you closer to him.

“Sounds mighty nice… certainly wouldn't mind a stay in a hotel room tonight.”

#red dead redemption 2 #arthur morgan #rdr2 #red dead fanfic #red dead redemption #arthur morgan smut #arthur morgan x female reader #arthur morgan x reader #twolafic #prompt request #red dead fandom #rdr2 fanfic #voluptatem

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stayinlimbo · 10 months ago

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I want to call you quietly (lee minho x reader)

pairing: lee minho x gn!reader genre: established relationship, fluff, minor angst (?), comfort warnings: one (1) swear, no external dialogue, lowercase intended word count: 1.19k note: this is my first fic for skz (and in general) i've ever written so I would really appreciate any feedback you have <3

you have never regretted being a stem major.

sure, there have been a few times when you’ve not so jokingly mentioned dropping out and kidnapping your family’s cat to live a quiet, secluded life away from your immeasurable responsibilities. but regardless of your unrealistic dream of abandoning college to become a cat hermit, you love the life you have.

although, the other option is currently looking a lot more appealing when one of your major classes (ahem, physics) has been quite literally kicking you in the ass for weeks with a seemingly never-ending desire to make you lose your barely there sanity.

another heavy sigh escapes you as you slouch forward in your desk chair, pulling your laptop closer to read the physics problem mocking you through the screen. your empty coffee mug rests beside you, the smell of coffee still lingering from your last fix. the white interior is now darkened from how many times you’ve satisfied your need for caffeine (no matter how many times minho has told you that more than two cups a day isn’t healthy).

you’re this close to banging your head repeatedly against the wooden desk. your fingers find their way into greasy hair, slightly tugging the roots in frustration. at this point, you can’t even deny it; you’re going insane. and it must be apparent when the creak of the bedroom door prompts you to twist and your boyfriend, slowly cracking it open, squints at your disheveled state illuminated by the bright screen in front of you.

minho's silhouette is shadowed by the dim hallway lights, the soft glow just bright enough to reveal his furrowed eyebrows and small frown etched on his mouth. if it were any other night, you would have teased him for staring at you, citing that his cuteness was too much of a distraction. that your brain could only take up so much information with ‘minho’ occupying all your thoughts.

but tonight is different. rather than acknowledging your boyfriend’s presence, you bring your attention back to whatever stupid physics concept that has you in a tight chokehold, trying to ignore the heaviness lingering behind your eyes. minho lets out a quiet sigh before you hear him retreating down the hallway, leaving you alone in the merciless grasp of physics.

barely five minutes have passed before the soft padding of footsteps reaches your ears again. this time, minho does not pause at the doorway. you look up only when he drapes a freshly dried blanket around your hunched figure, eliciting an audible shiver from the contrast in temperature as you watch him wrap the other blanket he was holding around himself as well.

oh no. you know where this is going.

your suspicion is confirmed as minho settles himself down by your legs, letting out a muffled grunt when his side bumps against the arm of the chair. he doesn’t look up at you when he finishes readjusting.

instead, with his legs sprawled out in front of him and back leaning against the thin desk leg, minho’s languid gaze wanders around the room’s inky interior. his tousled hair falls forward, creating a curtain that veils his eyes from your stare, the silky-looking strands making it difficult to guess where he is looking. you wonder if you brush them out of the way if he will direct his beautifully tender eyes towards you.

no. nope. nuh-uh. not this time.

you jerk your head back towards the computer, forcefully redirecting your thoughts (desires) back to the physics problem demanding your attention.

you don’t know how much time has passed, but it must be less than ten minutes before you catch yourself side-eying your boyfriend’s figure. now, minho’s chin rests on knees drawn up to his chest. the blanket still wrapped around his body mirrors your own.

questions flood your mind. is the floor comfortable enough? is the blanket keeping him warm? is he tired? he must be tired, right? didn’t he have dance practice today and doesn’t he have to get up early to go to the gym and—

…perfect. just perfect.

the sound of your laptop closing prompts minho to lift his head. a small smile slowly curls onto his face, eyes slightly crinkling before he begins to stand. his blanket is shrugged off and forgotten as he stands to his full height.

minho leans down to give the top of your head a small peck, grabbing the stained coffee mug in the process, and quietly exits your shared bedroom, leaving you to huddle further into the heat of the blanket amplified by the lingering warmth of his presence.

a sigh of defeat escapes you as his shadow disappears from your vision. damn him.

you rise from your chair, wincing in pain from your previously poor posture, and quietly walk towards the bathroom. flickering on the lights, the sudden brightness momentarily blinds you, but after a brief adjustment, your vision clears. the harsh fluorescence reveals your fatigued expression in the mirror. the dark circles under your eyes are complemented with a puffy face and unruly strands of hair.

no wonder minho was concerned.

you splash warm water onto your face before continuing tonight’s sleep routine, swiftly brushing your teeth and switching off the bathroom lights.

as you emerge from the bathroom, you find minho sitting against the bed’s headboard and underneath the covers, a patient smile gracing his face. wordlessly, he peels the covers back for you when you reach your side of the bed. a tired smile is all you can muster in response, climbing onto the mattress and immediately face-planting onto your pillow.

a soft chuckle emanates from your boyfriend as he watches your tired gestures, tugging the blanket up to drape it over your form. you can feel him lower himself further on the bed, the slight shift in the mattress giving him away. pushing yourself up slightly, you peel your head away from your pillow and slowly curl into minho’s side as he opens his arms, enveloping you in a comforting embrace. his hand makes its way to the back of your neck, playing with some of the loose hairs. you can feel him carefully move your head further into his neck, his comforting scent engulfing the entirety of your senses.

humming in content, you carefully intertwine your legs together. The tranquil ambiance of the dark room and your boyfriend’s rhythmic breaths begin to lull you to sleep.

you still have physics to do. the problem on your screen wasn’t solved in its entirety and you’re still drowning in concepts you don’t know if you’ll ever be able to understand. but the way minho tightens his hold on you in his sleep makes you want to forget your worries, even if just for tonight.

...

you have never regretted becoming a stem major.

sure, there have been a few times where you’ve wanted to give it all up and run away to live a quiet, secluded life away from everything and everyone.

but maybe, just maybe, you’d bring minho along with you, turning your dream into one of warmth and love made just for the two of you.

#lee minho x reader #lee know x reader #lee know imagines #lee know scenarios #lee know fluff #lee minho #lee know #stray kids x you #skz x reader #skz x you #skz imagines #skz fluff #lee know angst #skz fic

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ikinremu · 1 year ago

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|| Nsfw || R U mine? || Tommy Shelby

Tommy Shelby x Fem!Reader

A jealous Tommy smut oneshot! Please feel free to request oneshots/drabbles/blurbs on my page :)

The glare of Tommy's eyes punctured your chest, shooting through you like the spear of a dart. Usually this gaze you'd been subjected to would set your heart racing - but today was rather different. You peered across the well-lit hall, an idea suddenly sparking in your mind. Your relationship with Thomas Shelby was exceptionally complicated - that was no secret, though earlier that morning, said relationship had crossed a bump in the road. It was a simple situation - he'd pissed you off. And in this moment, you knew exactly how to return the favour.

If there was one thing to note about Thomas Shelby - it was that with a substantial amount of provoking, his jealousy could defy the scale. You knew that like the back of your hand, and had no shame in using it for your own petty games.

You ambled through the throngs of people, passing figures adorning silk dresses, waistcoats and suits as you approached the bar. To your delight, a familiar face loomed behind the polished, wooden island, bottles arranged on the collection of shelves behind the man. You took it upon yourself to perch atop one of the vacant bar stools, swivelling the copper plating slightly as you adjusted yourself to a suitable position.

"Frankie?!" You lifted your lips into a graceful smile, the barman flickering his gaze away from the stained cloth bunched between the hooking of his knuckles - looking to inspect who had called for him.

"Oh, hello!" He chuckled, his thick, untamed brows raising ever so slightly, "Fancy seeing you 'ere"

"Tommy brought me." You spoke, the mention of his name prompting you to send a swift glance in his direction. And as you'd suspected - more so planned - his focus was completely set on you. "And.. you too, I thought you strictly worked at the Garrison?"

As Frankie began spluttering out a rather tedious monologue about how he 'wouldn't miss an event like this..', you allowed a wave of smugness to wash over you.

Tommy hated Frankie, he utterly detested the man. You were unsure as to why, always had been, but you certainly knew it was a long lasting affair. You'd never cared to get involved in what you viewed as such a minor situation - this very moment finding you particularly grateful for your lack of interest.

"But anyway, can I get you somethin?" The barman's voice suddenly snapped you back into the room, dark eyes briskly wandering across your person.

"I'll just have a French seventy-five please." You requested, sporting a sweet smile as Frankie nodded in response.

"Coming right up."

As your view alternated from the front of his waistcoat to the back, you turned your head to scan for Tommy's whereabouts - though this time it wasn't so simple. All you could truly see was some rather eloquent looking groups making small talk beneath the hall's chandelier.

Before you knew it, the man responsible for completely baffling you was stood directly to your right.

"Tommy." You beamed, presenting a weak attempt at concealing your self-acclaimed victory.

"We best be off." He spoke, the low tones of his voice snaking into your ear, "Something needs takin care of at the Garrison."

Internally, you called very obvious bullshit - however, externally you found yourself willingly demounting the copper plated stool.

"Bye Frankie, we've gotta leave!" You exclaimed, briefly eyeing the sight of the man turning to face you - looking somewhat disheartened. He offered a rather idle wave, granting himself a sip of what would've been your beverage.

The sound of Tommy's muffled disapproval lingered aside your ear as the two of you exited the hall - his fingers still tightly clutching your lower arm. The pair of you took a sharp turn, a sleek door swinging open, soon clanking against the doorframe as it trapped you inside.

It wasn't so much a room you'd arrived in, more so an ill-lit cupboard.

"Garrisons had a redo, has it?" You mimicked curiosity, apparently nowhere close to amusing the man stood before you.

Tommy's piercing eyes returned to you, shooting a warm buzz down your body.

Mere seconds passed of you awaiting the gruff tone of his voice, but instead you met a significantly different form of response from his lips.

His callous hands went to cup your jaw, lips intertwining with your own in a deep, messy kiss. In a rather instinctive sense, you melted into the embrace, his tongue snaking a path between your lips.

Without breaking contact, Tommy stepped forward, surrendering you to a fairly harsh bump against the wall. His left palm weaved it's way down your silk-clad stomach, sneaking it beneath the gentle ruffles of the dress he'd treated you to. He reached the now sodden fabric of your underwear as his lips pressed further against your own, his nimble fingers beginning to trace supple circles around your pulsing clit.

"This what you wanted, eh?" He grunted, softly nibbling the skin of your ear.

You nodded, an arch hollowing out between your back and the wall supporting it. A whimper escaped your throat as you helplessly sank into the feeling of your panties being dragged down your legs.

"Off." Tommy huffed, pitch pupils sending a clear signal in the direction of your black dress.

Before you knew it, any previous cover of yours had been wholly discarded, leaving your body shamelessly bare - Tommy being a single garment away from matching your state. His underwear was shortly hauled down and tossed away, releasing the sight of his erect cock.

"On your fuckin knees." He grumbled, gently tilting his chin towards the polished flooring.

His words alone had the power to intoxicate you - and weren't afraid to do precisely that. A roaring flame couldn't help but ignite in your lower abdomen, tantalising your growing arousal as you kneeled before him.

The intense wetness of the earlier kiss transferred from the plumpness of your lips to Tommy's tip with a single connection. Pushing your lips further, his cock slid down your throat with one swift motion, the sweet warmth of your mouth wrapping his length.

"Such a good cocksucker, int' that right?" He taunted, words parted by the vibrations of his low groans.

You began sliding your now dripping mouth up and down his shaft, finding the perfect rhythm as his throbbing tip slapped the damp surface of your tongue. Now presented with enough slickness, your soft hands began trailing teasing strokes over his erection.

"Get up." He instructed, watching as your brows contorted into a rather notable furrow. "Up."

At the repetition, you complied - taking a puzzled stand.

The familiarity of Tommy's large hands gripped your behind, beginning to grope the smooth flesh as the two of you took a collective fall against one of the chipping walls.

"Spread your legs for me." The heat of his breath tickled your neck, his mouth trailing sloppy, open-mouth kisses down your clavicle. The split second of your legs parting, Tommy somehow bridged the minute gap between you.

His cock pushed into you, your own drool serving as a lubricant as he filled your tight hole in the most pleasing way - the pair of you slipping sharp moans at the sensation.

As he marked his first thrust, a burning desire seeping through you, Tommy suddenly buried his now reddened face between your exposed breasts. His hips began relentlessly bucking, increasing in several factors as his hot tongue flicked at your hardening, left nipple.

"Fuck!" A breathy whine fled your mouth. It took no longer than a second for his leaking tip to locate the importance of your sweet spots, hard length slamming deeper into the mess of your dripping arousal. His moistened lips nibbled at your pebbling nipple, licking tender circles around the areola.

"Frankie couldn't have you like this, could he? Eh?" Tommy grumbled, detaching his assault on your left nipple.

And there was the jealousy.

"He couldn't fuck you like I do." He punctuated his words with a gloriously deep buck of his hips. "You're mine, mm?"

"Shit!" You moaned, the next words reducing to the simplicity of panting. "I'm yours, only yours. I only want you Tommy.."

A familiar sensation possessed the very pit of your stomach, the beginning of a euphoric release winding itself up.

"I'm getting close." You whimpered, pearly teeth digging into the thin layer coating your bottom lip. Your tight hole pulsed at a rigorous pace, soaking walls clenching around him.

"Fuck, with the way you're squeezing me, so am I." Tommy groaned, pounding deeper into your sopping cunt.

The alluring knot within your stomach expanded, winding tighter and tighter until you felt your arousal peak. The orgasm tore through you, the heavenly sensations transporting you to a whole different realm as you called out - the volume of it taking yourself aback.

"You gonna let everyone know how good i'm fuckin you?" Tommy's pinkish lips curved into that ever so familiar cocky smirk, delivering one final thrust as you felt a warm inflation spread within you.

Your head lolloped atop Tommy's shoulder, strands of your now completely disgruntled hair flopping over with a sense of accompaniment. Placing a gentle peck on your lips, Tommy slid out of you - a rare smile on his face.

You return the soft nature of his expression, "Oh and I think everyone got the message."

Thank you for reading and hope you enjoyed! As I said, please feel free to use the requests/asks feature on my page - it’d be greatly appreciated <3

#tommy shelby #thomas shelby #peaky blinders #peaky blinders smut #tommy shelby smut #smutty #tommy shelby x you #thomas shelby smut

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angelsleepinggurl · 3 months ago

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𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐥𝐞 𝐦𝐢𝐬𝐬 𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐟𝐞𝐜𝐭, 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭'𝐬 𝐦𝐞

.⋅˚₊‧ 🜲 ‧₊˚ ⋅.⋅˚₊‧ 🜲 ‧₊˚ ⋅.⋅˚₊‧ 🜲 ‧₊˚ ⋅.⋅˚₊‧ 🜲 ‧₊˚ ⋅.⋅˚₊‧ 🜲 ‧₊˚ ⋅.⋅˚₊‧ 🜲 ‧₊˚ ⋅.⋅˚₊‧ 🜲 ‧₊˚ ⋅.⋅˚₊‧ 🜲

your day seems to be filled with more than one hiccup. firstly, the infamous oikawa seems to be all up on you as you try to use the vending machine, heatedly deciding to just skip lunch today, there are only a couple hours till your school hours end anyway. you hastily walk off, failing to politely shake off the longer-legged boy, who seems persistent in feeding you, by handing you food items in his bag. "i know, pocky will do just the trick, or dorayaki-" you stop walking and place your hand up in a stop sign in his direction.

"oikawa, i appreciate the gesture but i'm not that hungry." you hold eye contact with him, making sure he understands before he nods, standing still as you walk away. who the hell even has so many snacks? you take a deep breath, trying to refocus your mind.

classes seem to go on as usual. with you scribbling down notes, with every additional mind link your brain can make and every word the teacher says. it's almost as if a bubble falls around you, so deep in thought that no external information penetrates. a bubble which reduces to your personal bubble after class ends. no one dares to disturb you when you're in class, they know better. well almost everyone. kuroo leans over from behind you, whispering for his pencil which seems to have rolled over next to your next, far from his reach.

you try ignoring him, snapping yourself back into your zone, hoping he'll solve the problem himself, but to no avail, he continues pestering you with psts and heys. you slowly turn around, mentally affirming to keep your composure.

"yes." you answer once fully facing him, batting your eyelashes in false kindness. his face is fixed with a smug expression with irritates you further.

"i think my pencil is by your desk." he explains, leaning over his desk further and using his eyes to point in the direction of the pencil.

how annoying! if he knew he had butter fingers then he should've tried harder with gripping his pencil when near you. he should've left the pencil there and faced the consequences of clumsiness. he should've not even brought his pencil case to begin with, if he can't be trusted to hold onto his own stationary.

reluctantly, you lean over, your ass slightly lifting from your chair as your fingers graze the wooden pencil before firmly grabbing it. you turn around to hand it to him, your smile clearly forced yet his smirk never leaves his face.

stupid jerk.

you are not having a good day and it's evident when you bust the door of the Student Council Open causing all previous conversations to die down. Even your sway is angry as you make your way to your seat at the head of the table. Knowing what's best, everyone stays silent, as anything that could happen would cause you to rant endlessly about its incompetence or idiocy. 4 PM and two other members filter in, scurrying to their seats, but you're faster. "Stop." you call out and they freeze. Your gaze on them is hard as you slowly lift your head from staring at the wooden desk in front of you to them. "What time is it?"

your second in command chirps in, "4PM."

"student council meetings start at 4, they don't mean arrive at 4."

the two bow their heads in shame, not daring to look up at you, they understand that you're having one of those days. "I'm so sorry miss." the two apologise in unison. you brush them off with a warning, making it clear that this shouldn't happen again. the meeting rolls as usual, helping to calm you down. being the last to leave the meeting, you check your schedule for upcoming conversations with the headmaster, check for school events and tidy the place. it's sad to say that this after-school hobby is the only thing in your life you have control of, only thing that is consistent. strapping your satchel around you, you step out of the room, locking the door behind you. only to bump into the wall behind you.

wait.

you turn and look up to see you bumped into wakatoshi ushijima, the starled expression on his face matches yours and he apologises, which you brush off.

lockers are shut tight, classrooms locked, and the usual chatter and laughter are replaced by a profound silence. the sunlight filters through the windows, casting long shadows on the polished floors.

you walk down the corridor, your footsteps echoing with each step. the usual hustle and bustle is replaced by a calm stillness, almost serene. you pass by the gym, its doors slightly ajar, revealing the empty bleachers and abandoned equipment. the only sound is the repetitive smacking of balls hitting the surface of the court. curiously, you peer your head inside. kita shinsuke seems to be deep in thought with his volleyball drills. you don't care enough to tell him to leave, deciding to leave that with the actual teachers of the school.

outside, the school grounds are bathed in the golden light of late afternoon. the playground is empty, swings swaying gently in the breeze. the sports fields lie still, devoid of the usual energetic activities. the silence is only broken by the distant sound of birds and the rustle of leaves.

twisting the front door open, you take a moment to gather yourself before stepping in. there your mother is, sitting on the floor crossed-legged, a tea in her hands and a usual stern look on her face. "good afternoon, maam." you greet, bowing and keeping yourself down. your mother doesn't reply, instead, she sips her tea again, before placing it on the small tea plate she's holding, the clink of them going together filling the room instead.

"the afternoon can't be so good if you haven't received a consistent set of perfect grades all around. always something wrong with you. slipping in one subject or the other, i did not know i gave birth to a complete fool."

the words hurt like they usually do, but now you don't have remarks to bite back. it's all old news really. "i'm sorry mother." you apologise, your head still down in the bow. she scoffs, silently, but you can still hear, you know your mother's antics inside and out.

"go child. go try make something out of yourself. if you even can."

you bow again before making your way upstairs, careful to not annoy her.

(please send a dm or comment on my the pinned blog to join.)

𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐯𝐢𝐨𝐮𝐬 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫…

𝐧𝐞𝐱𝐭 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫…

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serpentface · 2 months ago

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What is Imperial Wardi architecture like? I don’t recall seeing many drawings of buildings and stuff like that

The architectural styles across the region are pretty diverse, both due to different environmental conditions and a variety of cultural influences. Past occupation by Imperial Bur is the strongest external influence (with most older buildings in the major western cities being built in this period), in addition to well-established immigrant communities (Burri, Kos, Titen, and Yuroma being the most populous and thoroughly integrated into the cultural makeup). The historically native population of the region is also very diverse and lends distinctive regional influences to architecture, with the Wardi nationality alone being formed out of thirteen tribes (though few in the contemporary retain a strong sense of individual identity), in addition to the Hill Tribes, Cholemdinae, Wogan, and Jazaiti peoples.

The base commonalities in Wardi architecture region-wide are that most urban buildings are built with brick (depending on the part of the region/its environment, these are stone, clay, adobe, and cement), and often covered with plaster and painted with decorative patterns and imagery. Most native style buildings have flat or domed grass roofs, Burri influenced buildings tend to have sloped, pointed roofs.

Timber is used sparingly or is entirely absent in contemporary architecture, as there are very few intact forests remaining in the region (lost both to deforestation and a drying climate) and trees grown agriculturally are used mainly for fuel and other wood products (particularly to be used in tools and to produce bark paper). The city of Lobera is an exception due to its proximity to one of two remaining intact forests, it's architecture is still mostly stone/brick but known for distinctive carved wooden doors and pillars.

I don't have a lot of architectural drawings because buildings hard but here's a couple south Wardi houses.

Modestly sized commoner house in the traditional style-

This is the native architectural style of this part of the region- built with clay brick, plastered and decorated, straw roof, guardian lions above the door.

Upper class villa-

This is a synthesis of the native style with significant Burri influence- made with clay bricks and decorated with paint and plaster, guardian lions, with the most distinct Burri elements being the sloping roofs with murals on their faces and walkable outer walls. It also contains a balcony with a garden above its entryway, and an open courtyard space at the center.

Homes commonly have guardian lion statues facing outward from the front entrance- while the Face Ganmache (ox) presides over the domestic sphere as a whole, the Face Odomache (lion) acts as a paternalistic guardian of the home (and particularly women and children). Most representations of Odomache depict a maned lioness (as Its broad nature is a protective mother to the collective people, nurturing via the female body and breasts and empowered via masculinization), but Odomache as household guardian represents fatherhood and the intended role of the family patriarch (protector and arbiter of the family, engaged with the public sphere so women and young children can be protected within the domestic sphere), and these statues are almost always distinctly male.

Houses tend to be built with a philosophy of a strong delineation of a semi-public and private sphere. The Wardi cultural sphere views blood family as the foundation of identity, you ARE your family name first and foremost, and an individual/member of your broader community second. Having a space that privileges only one's family and separates their domestic world from that of the public is tantamount to maintaining this sense of familial identity, as well as being both a physical and spiritual protection for its members. This delineation can be very small (or absent) in common, smaller homes, or very significant in a large, wealthy household like this.

There are strong elements of class stratification in this value system- poorer households both cannot have this physical delineation in full due to size constraints, and cannot experience this social delineation due to most or all members of the household having to frequently engage in the public sphere for labor (it is considered a privilege of wealth and security for women to live most of their lives secluded in the home).

In the villa example, a large entryway and 'living room' and courtyard are the spaces in which most guests will be received. These will have sets of couches and tables for eating. A large courtyard will have a central pool that drains into a cistern in the event of rain. Most large houses will have a kitchen adjacent to the public spaces, and quarters for any live-in servants usually occur in this area. The rooms beyond are a private sphere, containing bedrooms (which guests will virtually never enter), an additional 'living room' which will contain the hearth and household shrine, and other familial spaces. Most houses are one-story, though will often have accessible paths along the outer walls and/or an upper balcony.

Most households will keep some form of garden when possible, often for largely decorative purposes (in additions to practical growing of vegetables and spices). Flowers are culturally prioritized for both aesthetic beauty and symbolic value in relation to seasonal fertility and abundance (with the most dramatic native wildflowers growing in brief abundance after the first seasonal rainstorms), and are among the most common basic sacrificial offerings. A smaller household may just maintain wildflowers around the exterior of the home, while wealthier households often have high maintenance gardens (often with imported flowers from wetter climates) within courtyards and balconies.

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fantasticsandwich · 3 months ago

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yandere influencer x fem! reader (pt 8)

The final chime of the lecture hall clock marked the moment you had been waiting for. Your gaze snapped from the hypnotic dance of dust motes in the sunbeam to your open notebook. You flew into action, scrabbling to gather pens and papers into a haphazard pile as you shoved the last textbook into her overstuffed bag with more zeal than care.

“See you later, Y/N!” a voice called out.

“Bye! Take care!” you responded without looking up, your words tumbling over each other in their haste. You slung the bag over your shoulder and shuffled out of the classroom. As soon as your worn sneakers hit the hallway, they picked up speed, transforming your shuffle into a purposeful stride.

Rushing to the library, you burst through the double doors, the familiar scent of musty students, old books, and polished wood enveloping your senses. Navigating the maze of bookshelves with practiced ease, you soon reached your sanctuary—a small, nondescript door at the end of a secluded aisle. You withdrew a key from your pocket. The metal was cool and reassuring beneath your fingertips. You unlocked the door, and as you stepped inside your favorite study room, your frenetic energy waning. Gently closing the door, you turned the lock with a soft click, sealing yourself away from the world outside.

The room was a cocoon, dimly lit by a single lamp that cast a warm glow over the desk. You leaned against the closed door for a moment, breathing deeply, allowing the quietude to wash over you. Here, there were no prying eyes, no expectations pressing down upon your shoulders. It was just you and your ambition, cloistered together in this borrowed space.

Clicking through Spotify, you summoned the Cranberries then set your phone aside. As ‘Salvation’ began to play softly, you finally allowed yourself a small, tentative smile. The song always reminded you to focus on the present, to find solace in the moment before returning to the fray. You needed this—a brief respite from the chaos of your life, from the complexities of her relationship with everyone, and from the relentless pursuit of a future that sometimes seemed more mirage than milestone.

Your hands moved with practiced precision, aligning your textbooks in a neat row on the edge of the desk. Each notebook followed, their spines perfectly parallel to the wooden surface. Your pens, pencils, and highlighters were sorted by color and placed within arm’s reach. It was an ordered array, a visual manifestation of her yearning for control in a life that often felt like it was dictated by external forces.

You exhaled slowly, sinking into the chair that had molded to the contours of your body through countless hours of study. The room embraced her silently, the warm lighting casting a soft halo over her workspace.

You leaned back and closed your eyes, breathing in the quiet sanctuary. For a few precious moments, your mind wandered through the tranquility, touching upon the theories you so loved and then to thoughts of Cillian, whose presence loomed even in his absence.

But for now, those thoughts could wait. There was work to be done, knowledge to be absorbed, and a future to be crafted with each page turned. With a final deep breath, you opened your eyes and reached for the first textbook, ready to immerse yourself once more.

“Much better,” you murmured to yourself, a small smile teasing at the corners of your lips. The song had become a ritual, a means to ground yourself amidst the ever-present hum of anxiety that accompanied your ambition. It was your personal spell to ward off the specters of dread that lurked at the edges of your consciousness—remnants of past insecurities and the looming pressure of expectations.

Your study routine now accompanied by the haunting music, you felt your focus sharpening. The page in front of her, dense with medical terminology, seemed less daunting. Your mind, usually buzzing with the needs of others and the drive to succeed, settled into a rhythm dictated by the cadence of the song. The world outside the sturdy walls of your study room, with its web of complex friendships and relentless demands, receded into the background.

Then, without warning, a loud banging shattered the quietude, jolting you from your reverie. Your heart leaped into your throat, pulse thundering in your ears as the serene atmosphere splintered into disarray. The abrupt noise was a physical force, striking against the door with an urgency that resonated through the wood and into the very air of the room.

The banging persisted, each knock a hammer blow to the fragile peace you had constructed. Adrenaline surged through your veins, your earlier tranquility replaced by a sudden, sharp-edged alertness.

“Who could that be?” you whispered to yourself, the question laced with a twinge of annoyance and a flicker of concern. With a reluctant sigh, you paused the music, the absence of Dolores’ voice leaving a hollow silence in its wake. Your hand reached out, still trembling slightly, to steady yourself against the desk. The quietude of the study room now felt breached, the warm lighting and scent of old books overtaken by the pounding on the door.

You reached for the handle, fingers grazing the cool metal. With a gentle pull, the door creaked open, and there he was, eyes blazing with an intensity that seemed to pierce through the dim light of the hallway. His face, usually the picture of composed charm, now bore the weight of raw emotion.

“Cillian, wha—” you began, but your words were cut short.

In a flash, he stepped forward, his presence overwhelming the small space between you. His hands found the wall on either side of you, his body pressing close, trapping you in place. The force of his entrance pushed you back against the cool plaster. You could feel the heat radiating from him, smell the faint scent of his expensive cologne.

Your pulse quickened, the thud of your heart loud in the quiet room. His proximity was suffocating, his eyes locked onto your with a desperate fervor. You could sense the tempest brewing, cracking his polished facade.

The room felt smaller, the walls closing in as the weight of his stare bore down on her.

“Cillian,” you whispered, breath caught in your throat, hands trembling as they found Cillian's chest. With a force born of panic, you pushed against him, the muscles in your arms straining to reclaim the space his body had stolen. “Stop. You’re scaring me.”

The resistance seemed to break through his fervor, and he staggered backward, his feet tangling beneath him. He crumpled to the floor like a marionette with its strings cut, his usual grace abandoned in a moment of vulnerability. His eyes, once sharp and penetrating, now brimmed with tears that spilled down his cheeks, carving clear paths through his immaculate facade.

“Y/N, I’m… I’m sorry,” Cillian's voice cracked, a stark contrast to his typically smooth tone. He reached for you with an almost childlike need for comfort. His hands encircled your waist, cinching it. His head bowed until it was pressing against the soft fabric of your shirt and belly. You watched as his shoulders shook, his sobs muffled by your clothing.

“Please don't leave me. You can't,” he murmured into the cotton, his grip tightening ever so slightly. “After my parents split, it felt like I’d fallen through the cracks. Everyone’s praise turned hollow, but you were different—you saw me, not just the façade.” His voice broke, and he clutched at you, as if you were his lifeline. “You saw me. You treasured me. You always have. I can’t lose that. I shouldn’t speak about Rian like that, but I can’t stand seeing you give that same attention to anyone else. I never knew how much it hurt because I only ever clung to you. I only need you, so why can’t you only need me?”

In that moment, with the raw honesty cutting through his usual veneer of control, your heart softened. Your vision blurred as tears welled up, witnessing the anguish of a man who had built walls so high and yet stood before you, dismantled by his own past.

“We need others so we can learn and grow.” You leaned down, your embrace enveloping him, your shirt absorbing the evidence of his despair. “I’ll still always be here for you. Mistakes are just part of it. We can make it right, but we have to respect each other’s space and feelings. Boundaries, Lee. We need boundaries.”

His sobs quieted as you embraced him, his breaths syncing with your own. It made him feel like he was an inalienable part of you.

“Anything, Y/N,” he choked out. He nuzzled against you, then lifted his tear-stained gaze to meet yours. “I’ll do anything if it means I get to keep you.”

Your knees buckled. Your descent to the floor was as gentle as a leaf on the wind. Cillian's arms never left you, his embrace a vice holding you even in your descent. He cradled you, softening the impact of your fall. Still, the cool touch of the tiled library floor seeped through the fabric of your clothes.

The coldness was quickly replaced by warmth. Lip jutting out in a pout, Cillian crawled onto your lap. His chin dug into your collarbone, tickling. His breaths came in ragged gasps, each one carrying a fervent apology.

Glancing down, you saw bags beneath his eyes, stubble and acne dotting his once-immaculate face. You were attacked by a surge of guilt when you realized you were glad to see that he was suffering over you.

“I’ll do better,” he murmured into your neck. “I’ll change for you. No more jealousy. No more.”

“Good,” you soothed, fingers weaving through the silkiness of his hair. Each strand easily slipped through your touch. “Because of your efforts, we’ll be alright. We’ll be able to work through this.”

Wordless, he merely nodded. His head rested comfortably on your chest, moving slightly with each hitch of his breath. As the song's haunting melody wound to a close, his grip only tightened.

a/n: think i'd actually kms if i saw these drama queens while i was trying to study ^^

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of-tatooine · 5 days ago

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DULCE PERICULUM. | CHAPTER VIII - COMFORT

abandon hope, all ye who enter here.

(John Wick x Reader, Santino d'Antonio x Reader)

full work

Over the course of trips around the sun, New York City had grown to be a lot of things to you - sometimes, everything all at once.

It was a place of new beginnings, and of closing the door to potential ones.

A place of fiery warmth, and of an icy cold seeping in through your veins, making your teeth clatter. A place of fluttering hearts, beating against each other. A place of recklessness, of endless crimson liquid flowing through glasses. A place for silent admiration, lost in the cacophony of the external.

Above all, it had been a home.

The neon lights blended in with the softer hued ones as the chauffeur made headway through the city - shining through the darkness, red bricks a pleasant backdrop to the people roaming the streets with their coats fastened up tight. An acquainted sense of solitude would dawn on you from the moment the entrance of the historic building appeared in your sights, the vehicle pulling up to let you off seamlessly.

Your security detail had occupied the entrance to the penthouse, no matter how much you insisted offering them a small break to freshen up and have some sustenance.

“No, signora, grazie - this is my duty.”

This was Camorra - the only way to unity, to success was through the most loyal of men. Without unquestioned, ever-growing loyalty - you were as good as another gang off the street, not that there was a shortage of them.

Santino must have talked to them good.

Accepting defeat, you would then ensure in the following moments the chef sent down some of the freshly prepared late dinner.

The private elevator doors opened to the foyer, the vast expanse of diagonal windows overlooking the bustling city from above visible through the arches leading up to the living area. It must have been the feature that sold the not-so-humble abode to the d’Antonio family, yet another addition to the network of safehouses around the globe.

A hotel room had not been a need for the longest time.

Unless you were with him.

The remodels had been specifically conducted to your taste, over the course of many revisions - Santino had spared no expense as you had browsed through catalogues of design elements, furniture and décor, catching onto which ones your eyes lingered just a little bit more on.

Collections of various items from the countless travels you had been on around the globe, placed meticulously on the floor to ceiling display cabinets lining up the hallway. A study encircled with shelves and shelves of books, custom-made sleek leather furniture to add a modern contrast.

The makings what would eventually become a home for you both.

A gentle hum of a low aria emanated through the wooden paneled walls, speakers embedded in every corner of the ceiling to never cease the ambient music as you walked across the apartment. Soft melodies always helped calm you down, relax your senses and unwind - as much as you could with the daunting task in front of you.

Failure had not been an option when a marker was involved, with the invisible threads of the High Table looming above you - ever seeing, ever knowing.

A much welcome distraction then appeared. Light taps of shoes against hardwood, then marble as he approached the foyer resounded throughout, a smile on your trusted helper Enzo’s face - always sharp in a smart black suit, short black hair perfectly coiffed. The staff must have been instructed to await your arrival in New York, as the pleasant smells of delicacies managed to escape the kitchen.

It was a relief to see familiar faces in your safe haven, always ready to help and feed you - yet it was an unknown just how much your stomach could handle.

“Buonaséra, signora. Benvenuta.”

“Grazie mille, Enzo.”

“Is Signor d’Antonio accompanying you this evening?”

A brief shake of your head was the answer he needed, yet you offered him as kind a smile that you could while taking off your coat and handing it over, your body grateful to step into warmth.

“Sono sola stavolta.”

That night, you were alone. Only the silent contemplations, tangled up pieces of information - and maybe some wine.

“Certo, signora,” your trusted Enzo would reply before retreating slowly to the kitchen - he had been your eyes and ears when in the New York penthouse, whenever you had the chance to find solace there. Always there to assist, with any need you might have had, he would remind you as he reached for the duffel bag your security had placed on the floor.

You were grateful, as always. Your limbs would have betrayed you had you attempted to do anything else but recover, your raging worries draining the energy out of the already weakened body from constant travel, changing timezones as fast as breeze.

“I will rest up in the lounge for the evening. Please, ensure everyone is fed.”

His dark eyes glinted slightly with concern for the wellbeing of Camorra’s lady in front of him - cheeks hollowed from the fatigue, eyes threatening to close. Enzo, with all the good intentions in him over the years of serving your chosen family, tilted his head as he spoke with a soft tone.

“Signora, con tutto il rispetto - food can only help you feel better.”

If only he knew.

As you slipped out of your tailored suit jacket, you did not have it in you to tell him no - instead responding with the conceding shake of your head, a tired smile stretching your lips.

“Bene.”

Sleep had finally found it’s way to you that particular night, merely in the form of passing out on the expansive leather lounge framing the living room - the moonlight seeping through the tall uncovered windows, the crackle of fire encased in glass. Leather boots haphazardly laying on the floor. A soft woven blanket draped over you, still in the suit that you had arrived into the continent with, sans the jacket, a few buttons unbuttoned on your blouse.

A state you would not have wanted anyone to find you in.

Crystal wine glass filled with only a couple more drops of red. The notebook left open on the last page you had been scribbling on, noting down any details on the targets as you could remember. Some names familiar, some less of an acquaintance. A draft of a graph with lines drawn between each target, tracing their potential links, with all the information you could recall. Countless question marks adorning the pages.

Whatever knowledge you had - it was not much. It would never be enough.

The incessant buzz of the cellphone placed face down on the marble coffee table had woken you up from your not-so restful slumber. With a sigh, your fingers reached to grab the device.

“Sì?” you would answer, trying to rub the sleep off of your eyes, slowly getting into a sitting position with your legs folded sideways under you.

“Amore mio, mi dispiace. I did not want to wake you - I can call in the morn-”

It was still a phenomenon of unknown origin - just how, even a moment of hearing his rich voice over the phone, instantly calmed your senses.

“No, Santino, va bene,” you would reply as softly as you could with your slightly muffled voice.

“Mi manchi.”

Oh, how he had missed you. Days seemed like individual eternities to him whenever you had been away, having to go through each incessantly as he thought of you.

There was no one else he could spill his heart to like this, no one who he could divulge all his worries in. Calling you had been a motor movement at that time, with emotions and thoughts colliding in his mind. Your felt presence, even through the static of the phone, was the light at the end of the tunnel.

“And I, more. Ascoltami, amore - I need to tell you something.”

Worry was etched into his whispered words - the underlying suffering, the love, the hurt, all blending in to form the clouds in his soul, blurring his green gaze.

In an instant, you could come up with a couple of things that might have followed the words - none of them good. Anticipation clawing into your mind, nails digging into your being.

“Sta peggiorando.”

You sensed your heart drop within you, it was almost as if you could feel his constrict as well.

“No.. Come?”

Last time you had visited il Padrino a mere couple months ago, the old man had clung onto your hand with a hearty smile, telling you tidbits of just how much of a troublemaker Gianna and Santino had been when they were little - stealing lemons and breaking precious plates. It felt like yesterday that you had seen the sparks of nostalgia in his eyes, as if longing to be with the memories once again, and not bound to the ring on his finger.

Santino sighed, his footsteps over stone echoing through the call, the faint voice of hissing leaves and a sole bird chirping - he must have stepped out into the vast gardens of the estate to talk privately. You knew he had his hand running down through his curly locks, pushing them back - a reflex developed purely out of stress.

“The doctors are saying it’s not looking good - that it had developed further.”

As his words resonated with fear of the unknown, your thoughts went to the other d’Antonio, wondering what she would do had she been there.

“Non so che fare.”

That made two of you.

How could he know what to do? It was his blood, his lifeline, slowly dissipating right in front of him, mother nature gently lulling in the due ones to their rightful slumber. With full knowledge of the facts of life, due to his quite risky occupation - Santino knew when the day came, it would never be easy.

It had not crossed his mind that it could have been this soon.

“Ce la farà, amore,” flowed out of your lips in habitual reassuring, voice echoing a reduced mess of conflicting thoughts. The moonlight hit the diamonds still attached to your wrist, gentle reflections swaying across the vast living room ceilings, a welcome distraction.

Would he really make it?

Winston’s words flashed into your mind instantly, echoing through the thoughts, the relevance of the advance quite uncanny.

“Go home to him.”

It was the sole correct action to take - to fly back home, back to the estate, to accompany your partner who had been there for you for worse moments, ever since you could remember. To be with him, providing him comfort - whether in the form of a warm embrace, a shoulder to lean on, or a comfortable silence. To whisper to him, in the faintest of voices that everything would be just alright.

Just like he had, too many times to count.

There would have been absolutely no hesitation on your part, if you had not been scheduled to meet Mr. Wick himself the following day for updates on his assignment.

Knowing just how much the raven haired assassin controlled the shape of your thoughts even years after, did nothing but scare you - and in some twisted way, you had been looking forward to seeing him again, in the corners of your subconscious that resurfaced every so often. Maybe, just maybe, a faint voice within told you - it would be another excuse to gaze into his dark eyes again, no matter how unreachable they had always been to you.

Hearing Santino’s scattered breathing on the other end, made you slowly come back to your senses, quietly scolding yourself for the brief moment of dissonance.

How could you even think of anything else, at a moment like this?

“I will be over there tomorrow. Non ti lascerò solo.”

A promise that he made it easy to keep - that you would not leave him alone. His relieved sigh vibrated off of the phone, his tone apologetic for keeping you away from your duties. As you excused yourself to catch on couple more hours of sleep, an anxious, empty feeling in your stomach accompanied you while you tried to lull yourself back to rest for the journey ahead.

John would just have to wait this time around.

#john wick #santino d'antonio #santino d'antonio x reader #santino x reader #john wick x reader #mafia reader #camorra #john wick reader insert #complicated relationships #val writes #john wick universe

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ehlnofay · 1 year ago

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Summerfest Day 3 - STARLIT

The Key in Arabella’s hand is a hauntingly beautiful thing.

It’s like a shard of midnight biting into her palm, its teeth dark and jagged, its neat round bow spangled with constellations. A pattern of pinprick dots. It doesn’t glow, but it feels like it does. It feels like Arabella stole it out of the sky.

(She didn’t, of course; she stole it out of Karliah’s pocket, easy as anything.)

The Key doesn’t glow. It doesn’t do much of anything, truth be told; whatever hidden potential it’s supposed to be unlocking remains securely fastened in whatever secret recess of her mind it’s stuffed in. But it’s fine – this is probably something that takes time, and she’s only had it for a day.

Arabella twists the cold metal shaft in her unbandaged fingers, ignoring the spike of pain the motion provokes, and glances at the door. Still shut; firelight seeps in from the other room through the cracks. This room is lit with a tall tallow candle, dripping its wax across the surface of a wooden nightstand. It’s quiet – though she can hear people shuffling about behind the door, they seem to be trying not to make too much noise, hesitating to disturb the sweet young traveller that came pleading for aid. How kind of them.

She thinks she has an hour, perhaps a little more, of resting quietly before someone comes knocking. Best use it wisely.

So she strips off her top few layers, dropping them crumpled onto the bedspread, and then pulls off her patchy blue underdress. It’s not exactly comfortable – even with the air heated by the hearth in the next room, it’s still bloody cold, and everything she touches with her right hand rasps painfully against the glowing burns. The bandages on her left aren’t much better. At least they’re silk, from her poor old scarf; easier on her mind that way, if not on her skin, and the dregs of the honey poultice they bind in is still somewhat doing its job. Unfortunately, she needs both hands. She painstakingly undoes the bandage, stuffs it into the pocket of her pack, wipes her still-sticky hand on a goose-pimpled thigh, and turns her dress inside out.

It's a shame, she thinks; this is one of her favourite pieces. Bought and then altered and dyed by her own hand after her first pay at the Guild. She can see the patches where she applied the pigment unevenly, where the expensively imported dye began to run out. A shame; oh, well. She finds the silk thread under the bust where the cloth is gathered for the dart to be stitched in, pinches the fabric between her fingers, brings it to her mouth.

It’s good quality stuff – doesn’t rip easy. But she’s not got her nifty little scissors – left them in the other pack – and can’t be bothered to sift through the one she took for a small blade when she can tear it open with her teeth just as well. It only takes a minute. When it’s done the fabric hangs, uneven and frayed – but it won’t show, it’s just the inside, and this is so much more important.

(Y’ffre, it’s so much more important. There could be nothing in the world more important than this, this hurts-to-hold chip of nightertale, its stelliform bitting, the hypnotic lustre of its bow. It will move mountains. It will move her.)

Arabella slips the Key in between the piece of fabric she tore and the one external. She doesn’t have all her sewing things – the scissors left at Brynjolf and Karliah’s poorly improvised camp, half her threads left behind in the waterlogged ruin – but she has a couple trusty bone needles and a skein of unpigmented thread. With neat, sturdy stitches, she sews the gap back up again.

From the front, you can’t tell it was ever disturbed.

(Not strictly true – there’s a little lump. But when she’s wearing it, it won’t be noticeable, disguised by its location under her bust; if she could get something else to wear – something with the inelegant silhouette of the loose dresses and aprons so often preferred by the women of Skyrim, for instance – it would never be seen at all.)

Arabella pushes herself up off the bed and tugs the dress on over her head. The knobby shape of the Daedric artifact sewn into her bodice presses against her ribs. She flexes her hands – searing in the cool air, most of the blisters still swollen and glistering – and prowls over the floorboards, silent and sure-footed, to riffle through the coffer chest pressed up against the wall.

There’s plenty in there – more than one person’s worth, she thinks. Maybe she got lucky and this little side room is where all this kind clan of cattle-farmers store their clothes. She sifts through it all with the care of a surgeon – taking out a yellow ribbon-belt here, a plain brown kirtle there, a dark blue overcoat, a garishly orange apron-dress. They’re not awful, but they’re also things she would never wear; if she can just get her hands on a hood for her hair, she’ll be able to move with much more ease. Her friends won’t know how to ask after her –seen any gorgeous Bosmer women in hideous linen garb, wearing a hooded mantle that makes them look like an egg? She’s aware that she’s not the most visually unidentifiable, but if she changes just a few things, she can blend in. She’s done it before. She’s willing to do it now, if it means that afterward, she’ll never have to again.

The talk outside the door has risen, just a little. Arabella nudges the coffer closed and darts back to the pack left on the bed, rolling up the clothes into tubes and stuffing them under Karliah’s bundle of medicines Arabella would refuse to use and Brynjolf’s drawstring bag of dice. (They were surprisingly useful – provided many an eve of entertainment while they travelled, though the fact that the game dice came out the cave with them and much of their food and tools did not is ridiculous.) By the time the doorknob rattles, Arabella is lying curled up on the bed next to her crumpled pile of jacket and overdress, blinking sleepily at the light pouring in through the chinks.

The door creaks open. The woman who led her to the room is standing there silhouetted, a stout-fingered hand on the knob. In this lighting, Arabella can hardly make out her face, the grey in her hair washed out in the hearth-gold. She blinks again, to sell it.

“Hey there,” says the woman whose name Arabella has already forgotten. “How are you?”

Arabella smiles, then – closed-lipped and sunny. “Oh,” she says, with a careful handle on her voice, keeping the posturing under control, “so much better. I can’t thank you enough for letting me impose on you like this.”

The woman flaps a hand. Her eyes, Arabella can just about see, are glittering; there’s a dimple folded into the fine seamed wrinkles on her left cheek. “There’s no imposition at all. There’s not much chance of meeting new people so out of the way – it’s a big to-do when someone from the next farm on comes a-visiting. We’re happy to have you.”

“I’m so grateful,” Arabella says brightly. There’s a haze of cooking-smoke in the doorway, and with it open she feels like she can hear voices rising all through the house.

The woman smiles, drawing back a little from the doorway; the light falls over her face, long nose and big teeth and downturned eyes. “No trouble at all,” she says, fingers tapping on the iron knob. “I just came to check – make sure you’re awake, and all, seeing as the food is ready.”

Arabella blinks. This time, her surprise is mostly genuine.

(Ah, shit. She’d more or less forgotten the conventions of hospitality, and now she has to politely extricate herself from its trappings.)

“You’re so kind,” she says, voice as sugary earnest as she can make it, “but that’s not at all necessary! I was just going to begin to make my way to our rendezvous point – we did make plans for some kind of event like this, I promise we weren’t complete fools.” Oozing hell, what name had she given them? She remembers the names of her companions – Viatia and Bravyn, the three of them a group of intrepid would-be adventurers that got separated fighting a couple of frost trolls, and please, ma’am, I’m not entirely sure what to do out here in the dark, could I come in out of the cold for just a few minutes? But she’s not entirely sure what she told them her name was. And she wasn’t careful enough about stressing that when she said just a little while, she meant it.

(It’s not safe to stay still.)

Brusquely, the woman says, “Ah, don’t be ridiculous.” Her face twists, and she’s quick to add, “No-one thinks you’re a fool, dear, just young. But of course you’re not running off so soon – you’ve been injured, you need to rest a little while.”

“My hand’s much better,” Arabella objects. She twirls her fingers in the air too quickly for the woman to notice that it very much is not – then busies herself putting on the layers she’d taken off to alter the dress. “It was the bandages stopping me from fighting more than the injury, truly. I took them off. And besides, I don’t want to make my friends worry. They’re already there, most likely, and I can’t make them wait –”

“You can’t travel at night. You’ll get horribly turned-around in the dark.”

“You already pointed me in the direction of the road. I know how to get there based on that.” The guileless little voice is beginning to rasp on Arabella’s throat; this is an act she prefers to play when she’s sure of getting something out of it, and a stead of cattle-farmers out in the middle of nowhere don’t have much for her to connive for. But she has to stick to the play she’s chosen.

The woman’s fingers are callused on the tips. She wrings them, rough as wet wool, and frets, “It’s really not safe. You should stay the night, get some food into you and some sleep, and we can have someone travel with you in the morning.”

“I can’t,” says whoever Arabella is pretending to be, all frowning and softly regretful. “I’m sorry.”

It’s so astonishingly easy to say the words when she doesn’t mean them.

The woman deflates. “If you’re sure,” she says. “It’s your choice, of course – but I can’t have it on my conscience, if someone I promised shelter came to harm.”

How stiflingly sweet. “I won’t,” Arabella promises.

It’s a positive cacophony behind the door, now; rather nice that all these seemingly very loud folk were keeping quiet on her account.

The woman claps her hands together. “Well,” she says, bright again, “if you will go marching off into the snow again you must at least eat first. Can’t go venturing on an empty stomach.”

It would be sweet, how responsible this complete stranger feels for her wellbeing, how determined she evidently is to stuff her with food and keep her as safe as one might expect to be in the middle of nowhere in the dark, if it weren’t so frustrating. Arabella rolls back her shoulders, conscious of the press of the Key against her ribs. “I can’t possibly impose –”

“I insist.”

She really should go.

But. Eating isn’t a terrible idea – last thing she had was Brynjolf’s poorly-butchered horker, his soft city-blitzed hands barely able to slaughter the thing much less carve it up, and that was last night. She’s out of luck trying to hunt until the swelling of her hands goes down and she returns to a more reasonable level of pain. (One would think the mythical artifact sewn into her dress would be able to help with this; apparently not.)

Arabella isn’t a fool. She fully expects Karliah, at least, to try to track her down without delay – and Karliah is good. She’s seen it. Until she’s put a little more space between them, she can’t afford to let her guard down. But Arabella is good at what she does, too – she’s been on the run near as long as Karliah has, and she had more than a bleeding-out Guild and a backstabbing coward on her tail for a good bit of it. The only tracks she left them were her boot-prints marching unfaltering into the river, and the first place they think to look won’t be the longhouse of some backwater acreage.

“I only eat meat,” Arabella says.

The woman scarcely blinks. “We’ve plenty of that to hand,” she says, gestures to somewhere in the smoke-tinged hall behind her. “Nanna’s just made a new batch of tallow, so there’s fresh beef scratchings.”

(There’s one more advantage Arabella has, if Karliah does manage to sniff her out: Karliah is a better person than she is. She’s in no state to fight after half searing her hands off on Mercer’s fickle hide, but if worst comes to worst she can torch the wooden walls and slip away in the aftermath.)

Arabella smiles. “I do like scratchings,” she says, and lets the woman take her to feast.

It’s actually not bad, as these things go.

Soon as she steps out of the room, pack slung over one shoulder, a gaggle of people she is reasonably certain weren’t even in when she arrived greet her extremely loudly. The room had seemed so enormous scarcely an hour ago – long and narrow and taking up most of the building, a proper storybook Skyrim house – but now it feels small, so filled with people and noise that Arabella can scarcely cross the floor. The hearth-fire eats merrily away at its wood logs, casting everything in orange light. Cooking smoke clings to the cluttered rafters. The long table is laden with food, most of the strangers standing or sitting around it, one bright-haired child sitting on top of it with their legs swinging off the side. Someone has a horribly tuned catgut lute that they’re plucking at ineptly at various intervals. It’s all very sudden; Arabella feels gloriously dizzy.

The woman who persuaded her to stay – who fussed over her when she arrived an hour ago – drags her around, ever-helpful, to introduce her to every bright and blurring face in the jumble. Arabella learns all of their names, greets them with painstakingly exaggerated politeness (if she’s locked herself into playing this way then she’s going to at least have what fun she can with it), immediately forgets who they are. It’s all an anarchy of siblings and cousins and the child of someone’s good friend and oh, it’s a funny story actually, he came here just like you one day, great slab of ice in his gut and the wraiths following him, we had to light a bonfire in the fields to get rid of them before they got at the cows – and so on, and so forth. There’s no real difference between any of these things that matters; Arabella chatters with them all, smiling closed-lipped so none of them would be put off by the teeth, lets them drag her onto the bench next to a small child who stares with great fascination at the jangle of her earrings and tries to touch the bars jabbed through the cartilage. She’s seen children, of course, in the last few years – even talked to them, on occasion – but this one is so very small. She stares back at it until it gets bored enough to look away.

The food is fine. A bit boring, but then it’s improvised – they hadn’t expected a guest – and, of course, it’s Skyrim, so all the good cuts of meat are drenched in herbs. There’s even beer in the delicious-smelling stew. But there are scratchings, as promised, and boiled eggs, and something lean and tender cooked in ghee; the old woman she’d met, pupils almost as pale as her hair, glares ferociously at a platter of liver when she hears that Arabella won’t eat it when it’s cooked with leek and says something about sour milk that she can’t quite catch over the noise. The noise never quiets, everyone shouting over one another to be heard; she quite likes it. She listens to whatever she can pick out as she peels her egg with her fingernails, demurely covers her mouth as she eats.

The kid keeps trying to grab her hair, now. One man across from her tells her that he used to go out venturing, back in the day, and attempts to give her a great deal of advice. It’s entirely well-meaning, so she nods and smiles with just the edge of her teeth and does not, under any circumstances, spit at him. (She’s acting inexperienced, she knows. Even so, it grates.) She refuses all the wine she’s offered – fruit and honey both – but it keeps getting offered by new people, red-cheeked and grinning. She learns about the ins and outs of cattle herding, and the story behind that pale young man’s nickname, and that they don’t normally have so much food to hand but there are a few neighbours visiting at the moment, isn’t that lucky? She’s getting a free meal out of it, and everyone is so delightfully clamorous, so she keeps smiling, keeps nodding, keeps eating until her plate is clean and the child is now, inexplicably, asleep.

There’s no signs of the company winding down, so she says very quietly to her woman (who is engaged in a spirited debate over the best way to figure out which chicken of a coop has developed at taste for egg) that it’s time for her to go, and then she has another five of them trying once again to persuade her to stay – just until morning, it’s not safe.

It’s a rather dull thing to dodge through, the second time.

Half of them walk her to the door. It’s very kind of them. It’s all very kind. She pulls her coat tighter around her shoulders and bids her goodbyes individually to each of these people she’s met within the hour and won’t remember by tomorrow. They all wish her well. It’s very sweet.

When she finally ducks out into the dark she’s struck by the silence. The needles of the trees are rimed with frost, the house roof covered in snow; it’s a shock to the system, all of it cold and clean. Arabella feels, standing at the end of the shovelled-clear path at the beginning of a copse of trees, like the world has stopped moving.

Fields and forests before her. Beyond that – forests, the proper ones. The stars glitter above her in their high-north formations; Arabella presses the heel of her hand to the metal at her ribs, feels the shape of it cold against her skin. She can’t wait to forget these constellations.

She’s going home.

#girls will betray every friend they've ever made and scam innocent people who were nice to them rather than go to therapy :)#(and plan to destroy said innocent people's livelihoods and potentially kill them. as a just-in-case contingency plan.)#(I'm still not over that detail I was going 'girl something is so wrong with you' as I wrote it. like I was not writing it)#anyway #tesfest23 #oc tag #arabella #my writing #fay writes #skyrim #the elder scrolls #tes #tesblr #thieves guild #karliah #brynjolf

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zeph0r · 10 months ago

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We get the keys on Tuesday and I'm so ready

Things I am looking forward to:

our own rubbish/recycling bins we don't have to share with a family of 5 - no more hoarding rubbish until the bins have been emptied!

our own washing line we don't have to share with a family of 5 - I can wash sheets and not have to dry them inside on a clothes airer in front of a pedestal fan!

our own hot water cylinder we don't have to share with a family of 5 (6 when the eldests boyfriend is here, which is every night of the week at this point) - I can shower whenever I want and not have to worry about there not being any hot water left!

our own driveway/garage we don't have to share with a family of five that have 3 cars (4 when the extra person is here, see above) - partner currently parks his car on the grass verge on the street.

a bathroom door that closes (all the wooden framing has warped due to hot/wet/being a basement)

a ceiling that I can't touch (I'm 5'6" and yes, the ceiling height is illegal)

In-built air-conditioning and ceiling fans

Windows that get sunlight, and that don't have the aforementioned family of 5 and/or their guests immediately outside (our bedroom/bathroom look directly onto the driveway, the kitchen windows look out to the backdoor steps that lead to the driveway, the lounge windows look directly out to the upstairs front steps so literally anyone coming on the property walks up to our sliding door)

A back door that is an external door and not an internal door that has splintered from being exposed to weather

A roof - this does not sound like a big deal but we live underneath a family of 5 who likes to drink and crank music on fri/sat nights and their 5 year old doesn't have a bedtime and likes to run and squeal between the hours of 6am-12am.

Being able to leave the house independently, there are bus stops and footpaths and street lights. Unlike here, where there are two streetlights on the whole road, no footpath, and it's on a hill next to a main highway. I don't drive so I pretty much spend 24/7 inside this basement. Now I can go for walks or take a bus to the mall?!

Being able to watch tv with the volume above 5 so I don't annoy/inconvenience anyone living upstairs.

The new place is pet-friendly and hopefully I am able to get permission to GET A CAT. I was going to get one here, but the Upstairses have two, and the eldest daughter also has two, and the amount we are allowed on the property is two. There were already two more cats than allowed so adding a third forbidden cat was not on my agenda.

Things I am not looking forward to:

Not being able to take the magpies and kookaburras with me and them not understanding why I have magically vanished

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ravendruid · 1 year ago

Note

If you're still doing the mental day prompts, I would really love what you could do with #27 (Person A singing Person B to sleep) with Vax and Scanlan (platonic) but it's Vax singing, for a change ^^

Hi Anon! Sorry for the delay! This was really fun to write. I hope you like it!!! Person A singing Person B to sleep

Scanlan’s mansion is quiet, especially since it is on a different plane and not subject to external weather and the spectral servants who don’t make a sound. Tonight, the occasional break in the silence is due to Grog’s snores in the training room where he sleeps or the soft pattering of small gnome feet in the corridors as Scanlan paces back and forth in front of the wooden door that leads to Pike’s room. It’s one of those rare occasions when she is able to join the group in their adventures, not having to look after the temple or injured people, and Scanlan wants to make sure she is comfortable and doesn’t need anything. But nerves have been assaulting him for hours (something that rarely happens to him), and he has, instead, found himself standing at Pike’s door, limbs locked in place and his brain in a turmoil of thoughts.

The noise in Scanlan’s brain is so loud that he doesn’t hear a door open and close a few rooms down, nor does it register that the slender figure of Vax’ildan is leaving a bedroom that does not belong to him with a stupid, goofy smile as he walks down the corridor without a sound to his step.

“Hey, Scanman. You alright?” Vax clasps his hand on the gnome’s shoulder, bending down so his face is within Scanlan’s eyesight.

“Vax? I didn’t see you there.”

“I noticed. What are you doing out here?”

Scanlan looks from Vax to Pike’s bedroom door and then back to Vax. He knows what it looks like: he is probably trying to find his way into their Cleric’s bed again, but, in all honesty, he just wants to be sure Pike is safe and comfortable.

“Uh. Nothing,” Scanlan lies. Vax grimaces, clearly not buying into the lie, but he doesn’t press the issue further.

“I couldn’t sleep, and I came for a stroll.” This time it isn’t a lie. Scanlan tossed and turned in bed for a couple of hours before he decided to check in on Pike.

“Well, let’s get you back to bed, shall we, gnome?”

“Trying to slide into my bed, are you, Vax’ildan?” Scanlan jokes, allowing the rogue to lead him back to his room. “Don’t get me wrong. In different circumstances, I would never say no, but…” He glances at Pike’s room one last time before he crosses the threshold to his much larger and ostentatious bedroom.

“None of that, Scanman,” Vax laughs. “Hop on, I’ll sing you to sleep.”

“What?” Scanlan stops with his silky purple sheets halfway on his body. He stares at Vax incredulously, not really believing what his ears just caught.

“My mother used to sing Vex and me a special lullaby whenever we couldn’t get any sleep. I figured it would help you fall asleep too, and you would be the one getting serenaded for a change.”

“Alright,” Scanlan gives the other man a side glance but lies in bed, covering himself up to his chin. Vax sits on the edge of the bed and takes a deep breath as he starts to sing in a language Scanlan doesn’t understand but recognizes as being elvish.

Vax’s voice is deeper whenever he sings. He isn’t totally bad at it either—not that Scanlan would ever admit it out loud. And he is right. Scanlan does feel his eyelids becoming heavier as the song goes on. He allows himself to drift off, and when the song ends, he is already half-asleep.

“Hey, Vax,” Scanlan whispers almost incoherently. From his half-closed eyelids, he sees Vax standing at the doorway with a soft smile. “Thank you. And tell Kiki I’m sorry I stole you for so long.” The last thing Scanlan sees before he falls asleep with a crooked smile is Vax’s tomato-red face closing the door behind him. Your secret is safe with me, lovebirds.

#critical role #cr fic #vox machina #vax'ildan #scanlan #prompted #I want to hear Vax sing.

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