#fic: I must wait for the sunrise

[youngerdrgrey]

I must wait for the sunrise // the marvels (mcu), carol/maria, carol/valkyrie, chapter one

about: Moments from the Blip and beyond in the lives of Carol, Maria, Monica, and Valkyrie. Genuinely here to unpack and explore the richness of memory and the ever-expanding relationships of our girls. One of the hardest things for Carol to grapple with is what she and Maria were to each other. And it’s Valkyrie (King, friend, more depending on the year) who asks her if it matters what they were, when what they are now is more important. There’s so much that they still can be. Together and apart. (alt title: higher, further, faster, remember?)

fic notes: interconnected memories! Lock in for ValCarol rights, Danbeau angst and fluff, and a joking use/creation of the tag 'Monica has three moms??' This chapter's within the Blip and takes place after That Memory Scene in The Marvels. (Other chapters will include early ValCarol, more CarolMaria memories, Carol and Monica confrontations, etc.) ~ subscribe + read on AO3

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Carol can’t remember the last time she was in Maria’s bed, but she imagines there must have been one. They slip into bed together as if they’d been doing it for years. Carol would love to remember that. Or anything from the memories she doesn’t have anymore.

Maybe there were other nights like this. With borrowed pajamas and the hint of mint in the air from Maria’s toothpaste. The brush of Maria’s fingers against Carol’s cheek as she unbraids the left side of Carol’s hair. Even that this one-handed unbraiding, Maria does with practiced ease. She loosens Carol’s armor, gives Carol a place to hide within the conversation.

Not that she can hide much when they’re only a pillow’s length apart. Face to face, as Maria runs tired fingers through Carol’s blonde hair.

Maria chuckles. “I can’t believe a white girl’s aging better than me.”

Carol rolls her eyes. They both know her powers are the only reason she hasn’t aged. As thankful as she is for them, they’re the reason she missed out on six years with her family, and every year since then too.

“Don’t flatter me,” she says. “You look better than I ever could.”

Maria scoffs. Then coughs bad enough that she has to shift from laying in the bed to propping herself up. Carol’s quick to sit up as well. One hand to Maria’s back, the other to her elbow. There’s something familiar about this. 

“You still —“ Maria clears her throat. She turns to get her water from her nightstand and take a sip. “You still look lost. Just say it. Whatever’s bouncing in that big brain of yours.”

“Was I… here? I know I was here when she was little, but when you were pregnant?”

Maria chuckles again, but this time is winded. Weathered. She sets one hand on the hand on her elbow, and she leans back into the hand between her shoulder blades.

“Sometimes,” she answers. “Frank said only one of us needed to be in the air. His early firefighter days were long. And cruel. And you and me, we were still getting to know each other. You were still so upset that I had left you in that cockpit by yourself.”

“He’s staying home with the baby,” Carol said. “You need to be back up there with me. Promise me you’re not going to be one of those women who gives it all up for diapers and sack lunches.”

Carol tenses. She must’ve meant it as a joke, but that sounds horrible now. Begging Maria to abandon Monica. “I’m sorry.”

Maria waves her off. “You must not remember me egging you on. I wanted the reminder of what was out there. I was too big for the pilot seat. Frank was off at all hours all around Louisiana. And then you would come over to keep me from losing my damn mind. And Monica—“ Maria’s voice catches, and Carol instinctively rubs circles on Maria’s back. “She was your co-conspirator even then. She’d move around in there all day until you came around to talk about the stars and everywhere else we’d go. I wish….”

She trails off, but Carol nods.

“I wish we’d gotten to go too.” They still could. Just the two of them. Carol could show her every planet that Carol’s seen in the last twenty years. But she knows what Maria’s answer would be. Not until Monica gets back.

Maria shakes her head with a laugh. “Good luck taking her with you. She grows her hair so big, even though she knows she has to put those caps on to even fit in the helmet. So hard headed.”

Carol smiles. “Her mother’s daughter.”

“If she doesn’t—“

“Maria.”

“Carol, I’m serious—“

“We’re not talking about this,” Carol says. 

“Who’s in charge here?” Maria asks.

“I’m a Captain.”

“Not in here you aren’t. You’re —“ Her eyes soften, and Carol’s breath catches as she waits for the next word. What is she? Who is she in their lives? “You’re just Carol here. And it’s my house until I’m dead and gone, and then it’s Monica’s. And I’m going to hold on as long as I can, but if I slip up, you have to promise me you’ll come back, and you’ll be here when she needs you.”

Not without you. I can’t be here without you.

Carol swallows that down. Clenches her jaw as she resolves to figure out some kind of fix for what Thanos took from them. The other Avengers are trying, but they haven’t gotten anywhere. They need to move faster. They need to bring Monica back before it’s too late.

“I promise.”

.

.

notes: subscribe on ao3 for more. I really do forget to update tumblr as much. any specific moments/memories you're curious about?

[pomefioredove]

*ੈ✩‧₊˚ green is the color of envy (and poison)

type of post: fic characters: neige, vil additional info: romantic, reader is gender neutral, reader is yuu, vague possessiveness maybe angst idk, oooh drama author's note: I wanted a break from headcanons and had this strange urge to do a character study for neige. here I am, writing this at midnight

Neige Leblanche does not hate Vil Schoenheit.

The thought had not even occurred to him.

In fact, if you had even asked as much, his wide, doe-like eyes would fill with pretty tears, and he would ask you, in a trembling voice, if you really thought of him so cruelly.

Neige Leblanche did not hate anyone. On the contrary, he had so much love, it practically overflowed from him, touching the ground at his feet and imprinting itself on everything he held.

He was, for all intents and purposes, a vision of loveliness, a sunrise, morning dew on the petal of a white lily. He would have gladly, if you asked him, plucked each star out of the sky for you, written you a thousand songs, laid himself at your feet in adoration.

He was cupid, a chubby-faced, blushing cherub.

He had been content, for a time. Happy, even, with his little life, the family and career he had built with his own two hands, though you wouldn't know it from their softness.

Then, there was you.

You. You. The magicless prefect of Night Raven College. An otherworldly being. A hero.

You. So kindhearted, always gentle with the first years and animals. So polite, with him and his friends. So brave, facing danger and coming out unscathed. Your hope and gratefulness despite your circumstances reminded him, in a way, of himself.

There was no other explanation for it. You were sent for him.

Neige had simply never been so sure of anything. It felt right. It felt perfect. You were the one he'd been waiting for. You were his.

After the VDC, he couldn't stop thinking about you. You! You were perfect for him, his soulmate, and he didn't need to know you to know that. He'd never felt like this before, after all. It must be love.

You feel it too, don't you?

Limb by limb, he sews together a ragdoll of you in his mind. Something simple. Soft. Beautiful. Something for his thoughts to play with. He gives you a sword, one day, and he makes you a knight. He dresses you in the finest of silks, and he makes you a noble. He pushes up the corners of your sewn-together mouth, and he makes you smile back at him.

You're kind. You're brave. You're loving. You're loyal. You're chivalrous. You're anything he could want or need, anything at all, because you're his.

Why would fate lead him to someone who wasn't already perfect?

And, oh, how he wants to pick you flowers. Neige will make you breakfast in bed, and sing for you. Everyone loves him; and he loves everyone. But it isn't enough. You're his soulmate. Don't you know?

Why do you keep looking at each other like that.

You're so friendly, just like Neige, always so eager to please. Right? That's what it is. Right?

There could be no other reason for you and Vil Schoenheit to look at each other like that. As if you know something that Neige doesn't. As if you're having a conversation with only your eyes. What is that? What does it mean?

Why does he feel so comfortable touching you?

A hand on the small of your back, an arm around your waist. He corrects your posture with both hands on your shoulders. He taps your thigh when you're distracted. He holds your face in both palms to scold you for smudging the eyeliner he had so tediously put on you before coming here...

Why do you smile at him when he lectures you? Why does he smile back?

This strange, dizzying feeling, this tightness in Neige's chest, this unwelcomed weight, can't just be confusion.

He can only lie to himself for so long.

You feel it, too... don't you? Don't you get butterflies when you look at him? Don't you feel dizzy? Don't you think of him?

Vil murmurs something in your ear with a sly smile, and you laugh.

And you haven't even looked at Neige once yet. The thought makes him clench his fists under the table.

As this new, painful weight settles in his stomach, a dizzying thought sits with it.

Neige Leblanche is jealous.

Of Vil Schoenheit.

[feinv]

black beauty. john wick x fem!reader. smut. fluff. unprotected sex on a couch (it’s big and comfortable). missionary. praise, oh god. established rp. john the loving husband. 1.5 words

summary. john comes home to you after a long day, only to find out you missed him just as much as he missed you ;)

a/n. first ever full fic lesgooo. feedbacks and reblogs are greatly appreciated. enjoy! 💌

the moonlight shone through the panel glasses of the house you and john now shared together. for john, this house was nothing but a concrete construction — lifeless, dull, and lonely. just a place where he could eat, shower, and sometimes sleep, if he could return before sunrise. ever since you came into his life, the house was now home to him, a comfort place where his lover awaited him with open arms and a heart full of lust and desire.

you were on the couch, tucked tightly under the blankets. you must have fallen asleep while waiting for john again: a constant occurrence. but you didn't mind, not at all. how could you? he was the best man out there, your favorite person in the whole word, so devoted to you. you would wait an eternity for him if it meant you would be together in the end.

the sound of an approaching car accompanied by a lock turn woke you up. you rubbed your eyes slightly, hoping to get some sense of time and place after the nap before a mild panic seized through your body, but quickly vanished when you realized it could only be john. no one in their right or even wrong mind would dare to break into the infamous baba yaga’s house.

john sighs heavily as he closes the door behind him, being relieved that he has finally made it home to you. he took in his surroundings, the moonlight casting pale and ghastly shades — the only light in the living room. his eyes then locked on your sleepy figure covered in blankets — the only light in his life.

“oh, sweetheart…” his tired and hoarse voice echoed as he approached you slowly, stopping in front of the couch, looking down at you. “you didn’t have to stay up for me.”

“can’t sleep without you,” you turn your head up, looking at him with your doe eyes before moving your hands up to reach his neck. he cranes his body down to hug you, hands wrapping around your waist and lifting you up. he turns both of you around before sitting down on the coach with you straddling his lap.

his hands still resting on your lower back, he casts a glance at your face, the lamp illuminating your beautiful features. his look is so gentle and loving instead of his usual cold exterior - one he always carries around others, but never with you.

“i missed you,” he whispers in the dark, one of his hands brushing the hair out of your face. you smiled softly before his lips crushed into yours, kissing you so tenderly, so gently, as if he was afraid you would break. you return the kiss while your hands find the end of his soft raven hair to play with.

“missed you too…so much,” you say in between. there is a soft groan at the back of his throat as he deepens the kiss, sliding his hands under your shirt, his calloused fingers sending shivers down your spine. as your lips move in unison, john becomes more passionate, taking your bottom lip between his teeth, earning a soft moan from you, and pulling you closer to him.

you break the kiss only to catch your breath when his lips start kissing your jawline. you move you head back, giving him more access to your neck where he is leaving red bite marks and bruises. john moves his hands from your waist, pulling your shirt off, cursing to himself when he realizes you weren’t wearing a bra. you got off him for a second to quickly get rid of your shorts, only panties covering your body now. your cheeks flush due to bareness of your body, all exposed to him, in contrast to his full suit.

right when you were about to sit back in his lap, he flipped you onto the couch, towering over you. john takes a moment to admire you, lips reaching to your collarbone and planting a kiss there. he continues to plant soft kisses all over your body, hands roaming just about everywhere.

“so goddamn beautiful,” he whispers between the kisses, his beard tickling your soft skin, making sure to worship every inch of your body — like he always does. he always told you you were a goddess. and he would worship you like one. you let out several moans under his touch, unable to control your voice, eyes sparkling at the thought of what you were about to do.

john tugs the waistband of your panties, slowly sliding it down your legs, moments before it joins the pile of clothes long forgotten on the floor. he kisses your lips again, more urgently this time, more messier, hungrier.

“look at you…so perfect, so flawless,” he murmured, his eyes shamelessly roaming all over your nude body, your every curve — so vulnerable and trusting for him.

you move your hands to his trousers, clumsy fingers unbuckling his belt, letting them fall loose, visible bulge through his underwear making your stomach squirm with excitement. you quickly tug his underwear down, letting his dick sprang free, tip glistering with pre-cum. you didn’t have the time to undress the rest of him when john did it himself, watching as you occupy yourself by gliding your fingers down to your folds.

what a sight to behold, he thought to himself.

what he didn’t know is that you were thinking the exact same thing looking up at his body. all six feet of him completely naked for you, his toned muscles and bulky arms, scars and decades old wounds making your head dizzy.

you loved every inch of him. he was perfect to you, although he would never admit that to himself.

“no, darling. let me make you feel good,” john took your hands and pinned them behind your head with his one hand. his other hand slowly replacing yours and moving to your folds, fingers lazily drawing circles on your clit, his head now buried in the valley between your nude breasts, kissing and sucking your soft skin.

“john…”you moan at the sensation, falling your head back on the couch. he looks up at you, his dark eyes boring into yours. he sets your pinned hands free when he shifts back a little, aligning himself in front of your entrance. his one hand was now readjusted on your thigh, gently holding it while his other hand held yours. he always did that when you were making love. it was a silent gesture, a sign of affection — love, lust, trust.

you both grunted when he slowly entered you, inch by inch, careful not to hurt you as you took a minute to stretch and get used to his sheer size. once you gave him a little nod, john started thrusting into you, in and out, keeping a steady pace. you wrapped your legs around his torso, allowing him a deeper access.

as his thrusts become more violent and urging, a groan escapes his lips as he watches him disappearing in and out if you, taking the scenery in front of him. your mouth slightly open, your hooded eyes struggling to focus, your desperate moans filling the room, breasts bouncing with each thrust. this sight alone could send him over the edge.

john hits your sensitive spot every single time, having memorized exactly how your body works, making you produce all kinds of sounds. you grip the couch, the soft material clenching under your fingers as your eyes start to water at how good he’s fucking you.

“don’t-” you fail to form a sentence, which instead came out as a whimper, as your pleasure was nearing you, making your mind clouded and brain all fogged.

“what was that, sweetheart? couldn’t hear you,” john replied to your plea, simultaneously moving closer to you.

“i- fuck!” you mewled when he took your one breast into his mouth while his hand was toying with your clit. he licked your nipple, gently sucking and swirling on it with his skilled tongue, before moving to give the same attention to you other breast. you were now fucked into oblivion, almost unconscious, goosebumps seizing your whole body, eyes rolling back as he kept pleasuring you in different ways.

he was delighted to know he was making you feel those things, and he would tease you about it. he slowed down his movements, not giving you the satisfaction you needed yet. “use your words, darling.”

you sigh frustrated, needing him to move faster. “please…i need you, john. need you so bad, please.”

what could he do if not comply?

he continued his voluptuous rhythm, your previous pleasure building up again. you move your hand to his back for additional support, leaving red scratch marks all over, earning a groan from him.

“there you go. doing so good for me, angel,” he was dangerously close too, nearly unable to hold himself, but for him, your pleasure was a priority.

with few final thrusts, you scream out his name so loud — almost pornographically — as the waves of orgasm wash over you, vibrating through your whole body. john follows, not far behind. with a particular loud groan he spills his release inside of you, head falling back with a few strands of hair stuck on his forehead.

after you both ride out your highs, john moves both of you so you find yourself straddling him again. he tugs you closer to him with his arms draped around your body, drawing small soothing circles on your back. your arms crossed behind his neck, you let your head fall on his chest, buried in the crook of his neck while his cock was still buried in you.

you both stay in that position for a minute longer, silently indulging in each other's embrace before exchanging i love yous and slow kisses, moonlight shining over your sore figures.

[devnmon]

too sweet. || a.m.

a/n: heyy ok i know you guys have probably seen enough of the fics with hozier songs but i also love him and when i heard this track the minute it was released, i was like oh yeah this is arthur morgan core. if ur bothered by me writing this then i say that is simply your problem ngl. in the case that you are reading this, it's just a silly little blurb that sums up arthur morgan in the eyes of the song too sweet by hozier !

wc: 632 | warnings: mentions of smut (that's all)

Arthur Morgan was never an early bird. In fact he despised it. Most times he did was only during a hunt, when he woke smelling like a bonfire, lost in a haze. You– you were different; completely rising before the sun rose like clockwork. While you always told him never to stay up till the sunrise, he did, arrogantly, anyways.

He was amazed at how you were so easily able to exist in a world that fought against you– not only in the gang, but as a woman. Drunk on life you seemed to be, Arthur would say, while he took his whiskey neat. In his bed at 3am many nights, he took pride in getting to lay next to you when the slower moments came to pass.

You kissed him in the early mornings when you rose, lips still tasting of the previous night's wine. The sweet morning greeting of your lips had him praying for you to lay with him longer. Arthur was lovesick and kept you wherever he went; whether that meant drawings of you from across camp, or your name written with a heart next to his on a different page. On the off chance he gets back to camp early in the mornings before you wake, he leaves you the most exquisite trinkets for you to remember him by.

It's not often he must stay out of camp for longer than a couple days, but when he does, he returns with a heartfelt apology that takes place in your shared bedroll, begging you to accept his apology with every praise. Your touch has been ingrained into his mind, body. and soul, and yet– it burns his skin every time. Each press of your lips and swipe of your tongue over his skin.

He's so goddamned lucky you've let him at your body long enough to know how well his melds with yours like putty. You're the cream he voids from his coffee– because you're too sweet for him. You're too sweet with your sweet lips like heaven's gate, and Arthur is marveled at how you let him of all men kiss you.

The natural beauty you walked around with every day made Arthur seethe with envy at the fact that other men would gaze upon what was his. Most times when you clock his jealous stares and frustrated grunts, it's instinct when you immediately reassure him that you're not going anywhere.

His frustration is released among his true aim towards the spots on your body that make you mewl and call out his name like a mantra. It boosts his ego through the roof like a rocket when you respond and intertwine your soul even more with his.

When he's free from the constant back and forth from camp and jobs, there's a rare moment where Arthur dedicates two or three days to only you. He whisks you away to an expensive hotel, and uses his every power to bring you a new kind of ecstasy when he shares the bed with you. Arthur never wants you to think he doesn't have time to spend on you; he proves that any moment he can.

At that point, he'd gladly die between your thighs just to hear the wanton noises of carnal desire you feel for him and only him. He's seen so much pain in the world, that he's astonished someone like you can be beautiful and perfect so naturally.

You're the sun he wakes to every morning, the contrast of the heat during the cool rainy nights. As sweet as wine and the grapes it has been made from; he'd wait forever to taste your kiss again as long as you were there to ease the aches and pains.

Until then... he'll take his whiskey neat.

[mossycobblestonewrites]

DC X DP FIC,, THING

Based in the Allegheny AU from this post.

Danny had a plan. It was not a good plan, in fact, he was pretty sure this was the worst plan he could have come up with. You see, he knows others have tried this, and he knows that they failed. But Danny's different, okay? He's got the panache, the oomph, the moxie - he's a dumb teenager, and he's leaving. He's taking Sam, and Tucker, and Vlad, and Ellie - fuck, Ellie - and he's leaving. It's going to work. It has to work.

He's stayed up for two weeks straight, coming up with ideas and strategies with Tucker. He's prepped with Sam, leaving her in charge of all the physical prep involved. He's told Vlad to pack up and be ready.

Tonight's the night. Tonight they were going out through the Southside woods - the ones with the least amount of agent traffic and the most danger. It was the only way (Tuck had run the numbers.) Originally, they weren't supposed to leave until next week, but the GiW had come far to close to wait any longer.

He almost got caught - Danny had almost got captured. They couldn't wait any longer. So Danny took his designated bag, strapping it against his back. He took Ellie's hand, and he snuck them off to the designated meeting place. Sam was the only one there when they arrived, chouching in a shroud of darkness over the additional run bags. It only took a few minutes for Tucker and Vlad to join them.

"We must go, I tried to lose them but I may still have been followed." With that, they took off into the woods.

~~~

There was a buzzing sound that had only gotten worse through the years. It was driving Clark insane - he had to find it. Noone else in the league (besides Bruce) had really believed him, pushing it off as electrical wires and such. And yeah, Clark could hear those - but this was different! This was worse! It was somewhere between high pitched and warbling and it was just constant.

Clark was going to find that noise. He was going to do it tonight even if it took until the sunrise. He didn't need sleep! It's not like he would be getting any with the ringing in his ears!

What used to be a simple one pitched hum turned into a three pitched wail (sometimes four) and it was going to be what made Superman evil. Superman couldn't be evil, so finding the source it was! Clark had managed to narrow down the general location, Americas, Midwest, isolated, ending in Illinois, but when he looked for it in a map nothing came up. There was literally nothing there, not even from salitlites. Maybe it was a natural phenomenon? (He hoped not)

He followed that god awful noise till he reached something that surprised him. A full fledged settlement, one that didn't show up on anything he had every seen before. The town was in a black out, the only light being that of a spinning spotlight in the center. He didn't know what to make of it.

Clark could hear the footfalls of patrolling men - soldiers, ones with guns of some kind. He could hear the resting hearts and breathes of the residents. He could hear the small group making a break for it in the woods.

Why was a small group fleeing?

[changenameno]

Fingerblast PART 1

(Complete, link for the second part, down below ⬇️)

Summary:

It’s the middle of summer and therefore incredibly hot. Of course right then something had to be wrong with your AC. How fortunate for you that a handyman can come right over…

Pairing: Syverson x Short Fem. Reader

Warnings: 18+, MDNI, cursing, explicit description of sex, thirst trap named Sy, teasing, size kink, chasing?, choking (if you squint?), p in v (use of y/n = Your first name) -> most of these warnings apply to the second part

Word count: 1.3 K

A/N: Okay here goes my first attempt at writing smut…This is way longer than I intended it to become, whoops. Honestly this just came to me while stumbling over a song (aka the title of this specific fic 🤣). Also I think this reads a little like a bad porn video SORRY…but anyway….here goes nothing🙈😅….

It’s not proofread, any mistakes are my own. Please be kind, comments/reblogs are very appreciated…Thank you❤️✨

!Syverson is not my own creation (unfortunately)! And the song/lyrics don’t belong to me either!

🍑🍑🍑🍑🍑🍑🍑🍑🍑🍑🍑🍑🍑🍑🍑🍑🍑🍑

PART 1

It hadn’t even been twenty minutes since you’ve called but apparently the handyman had just arrived, if the heavy rumble of tires on gravel was anything to go by. So you made your way onto your porch, because honestly it didn’t make any difference if you’d wait in- or outside.

The heat had been crawling into your house since sunrise and now it was nearly more stifling inside, than out on your shaded porch. And at least here the stone beneath your bare feet was somewhat cooling.

You squinted at the huge red pickup truck now parked not far from your house.

Whoever was still seated inside was listening to music, clearly above a healthy decibel level, because you could hear it blasting even from where you stood quite a distance away.

At that exact moment the door swung open and you heard just a snippet of the song still playing, “Use my index, I can use my thumb.

Even use my pinky, it'll make you come. Close your eyes, it'll happen real fast

I just got you off with a fingerblast…”.Before you could hear more the door of the truck shut loudly. The sudden noise almost startling you.

Shaking your head you tried to compose yourself after overhearing what must have been a most charming song. You took a step forward, hell bent on pretending you hadn’t heard anything. Only now you’d noticed the mammoth of a man that had existed the truck.

Chiding yourself on how you hadn’t noticed him before.

You wrote it off as shock, because how else could you not have noticed the biggest fricking man you’ve ever laid eyes on.

Said man raised his left hand in greeting, while pushing his sunglasses up on his shaved head with the other. He wore a red T-shirt and a pair of cargo shorts. Realizing you stared way too long at the handsome stranger without reciprocating his greeting, you quickly waved back; albeit a bit too late, as he had already turned his back to you.

Fortunately for you, he took his sweet time getting to his toolbox or whatever. Giving you the perfect opportunity to stare some more and that you did.

Good god, how did his shirt not rip when he moved? All that muscle had you salivating.

As he turned towards you, with his toolbox in hand, you couldn’t help but notice the ominous bulge in his shorts.

And then one thought lead to another, having you think about, how something entirely different would most certainly rip, upon his movement. That image had you clenching and swallowing thickly.

“Hey, I take it, you’re hav’n problems with your AC?” he drawled in a rough southern accent. You didn’t trust your voice, lest only a squeak would leave you, so you shook your head yes.

“Alright then, may I come ‘n?” He continued, an amused expression on his face, after you didn’t make a move to let him past you or into your house.

Finally you found your voice again, “Mmh yes, please do come…in,” you finished awkwardly, wanting to hit yourself for behaving like a middle schooler with a major crush.

It didn’t seem to bother him though, he simply chuckled deeply and entered your living room. As he walked by, you caught a whiff of his colon along with what must be his own natural musk, making you swoon on the spot. Damn it, he even smelled fucking fantastic.

From inside he called, “The name ‘s Syverson by the way, if you were wonderin’. But everyone calls me Sy anyway.”

Taking a second to draw a deep breath to calm your nerves and more accurately calm your ovaries, you headed in, after him.

He was standing in the middle of your living room, toolbox standing on your little coffee table, taking in your interior. Shaking your head, as if you could rid yourself of any indecent thoughts, you studied him once more.

Sy was big in every way possible, from his height, to his built and presence. Easily taking over your normally at least middle sized living room, making it seem shrunken.

This time you were a little bit more prepared when his sparkling blue eyes landed on you. Smiling you replied, “I’m y/n. Thank you for being here so quickly. The AC is right over there.” With a wave of your hand, you gestured in the direction of your adjacent kitchen, where the damned thing was let into the wall. He picked up the toolbox once more, before he followed closely behind.

As you lead the way into the kitchen, you could feel him staring at you hungrily, making you shiver from anticipation alone.

Sy swallowed thickly as the white dress you wore, showed even more of your pretty legs, with every bouncy step you took. Once in the kitchen you pointed up, at the opened AC. “I don’t know what seems to be the problem, normally if I do this…” you tried reaching the green button, even going as far as getting on your tiptoes, to show him, what normally did the trick.

As if hypnotized, he kept staring at the hem of your dress continuing to ride up, now almost getting a glimpse of your perfectly white panties. Fuck it, he thought as he drew impossibly closer, putting the toolbox on the kitchen counter in one swift movement.

You squeaked in response, when you felt his broad chest collide with your back. Before you could lose your balance, a beefy arm pulled you back by your midsection and against his sturdy body. A hot breath tickled your ear as he growled, “Darlin’ that dress of yours, might be a tad short for what you had in mind.”

His deep, lust filled voice made you reckless so you purred right back,” Mmmh I think it’s quite perfect for what I had in mind, no?” To emphasize your point, you pushed your rear purposefully against his groin, making him growl some more. “Careful there sweetheart, once the beast is awakened, it got a hankering…and…for one thing only.” You could undoubtedly hear his cocky grin. So you playfully replied, “Oh no, we certainly don’t want that now, do we? You know what they say, about sleeping dogs …”

Following your teasing you grabbed his arm and swiftly pulled it away to be able to slip from his grasp. Striding over to the door, making sure to sway your hips, all the while stifling your giggles. When you turned around, lightly leaning against the doorway, Sy still stood unmoving, glaring at you with dilated pupils. He was sure he’d never wanted a woman as much as he wanted to have you.

One more push and you knew you had him right where you wanted him. You bit the insides of your cheeks, trying to conceal the gleeful smile forming on your lips. Deliberately slow you blinked up at him, readying yourself for what you were about to do next, “Catch me if you can…” You didn’t wait for his reaction, you just bolted through the doorway and straight up the stairs.

PART 2

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[moghraidhs]

because i cannot stop thinking about it, have a bikeriders fic :)

crossposted on ao3.

Johnny's awake when he hears the knock.

He's always been a light sleeper; since the war, light sleeping has turned into the occasional night of no sleep whatsoever. Betty had called it "insomnia", whatever the fuck that is. To him it just means staring at the ceiling until sunrise.

He gets out of bed. Betty's still fast asleep. The knock isn't heavy enough or loud enough to be a Vandal, so it must be something else.

Briefly, he thinks about that punk kid from Brucie's funeral. Mean look in his eyes. He could be standing on the porch right now, waiting with a knife in hand.

Johnny's vaguely surprised by how little the thought bothers him.

He goes downstairs and opens the door.

Benny stands on the porch, one foot already on the steps as if he was in the middle of leaving. Lit up in the yellow glow of the streetlights, he looks for all the world like a hallucination. A memory of the worst night of Johnny's life.

But it's cold outside, and Johnny had heard the knock, so this must be real. Right?

"Hey, kid," he says quietly, not wanting to scare away this maybe-hallucination. And doesn't that just make him the most pitiful man in the world, clinging on to the imaginary vision after he'd driven the real thing away?

"Hey," Benny says, and that's when Johnny realises two things.

1) This is real.

2) Benny's hurt.

His face is angled away towards the street, and one arm is pressed against his middle, almost protectively.

The sight makes something inside Johnny howl. He doesn't want to think about why that is. Refuses to even consider it.

All he says is, "Come on in."

The injuries look even worse under the ugly yellow-white light in the kitchen, but maybe that's just Johnny's thinking. Two cuts, one across Benny's cheek and the other at his hairline, both needing stitches. His knuckles are wrapped up, which doesn't bode well, but he can move his fingers okay so nothing's broken.

"Who was it?" Johnny asks as he awkwardly threads the needle he'd stolen out of Betty's sewing kit. She'd always teased him about his hands. Big enough to cover the whole state.

Benny's hands are big too, but there's something almost fine about them. Those long, slim fingers of his look like they were made for playing a guitar or working with animals or something. Not bikeriding and getting into bare-knuckle fights.

Shut the fuck up, Johnny tells himself harshly just as Benny answers.

"Couple of guys in a bar." He doesn't even flinch as Johnny starts cleaning up the first cut. "It's fine."

Of course it's fine. Johnny's seen Benny in a fight half a dozen times, knows he can handle himself and then some.

None of that does a thing for the side of Johnny that wants to know exactly who and where and then call the others so he can go take care of it. So this never happens again.

He's getting fucking sentimental in his old age, that's the problem. Twenty years ago, someone like Benny wouldn't have made a dent in him. Wouldn't have been allowed to. Real men don't do that shit.

Real men. Johnny's lived through a war, a dozen motorcycle club rumbles, and now another war, and he still doesn't know what the fuck that means. Honestly, he's tired of trying to figure it out.

All he's wanted for the past six months is for Benny to come back. And now he's here, all Johnny can think of is how not to fuck up and make him leave again.

So he swallows the questions and stitches Benny up, carefully as possible. Benny doesn't make a sound the whole time, doesn't even wince as the needle slides in and out of his skin.

A real man. Or maybe someone who's so used to being hurt he doesn't feel it any more.

Johnny doesn't like thinking that last bit, doesn't like the way it makes him want to tear the room apart. He finishes stitching and starts to tidy up. "Your ribs okay?"

Benny nods, even though his arm is still pressed across his middle, the set of his shoulders the only other sign that he's in any kind of pain at all.

The temptation to push the issue threatens, and Johnny gets up. "Want some coffee?"

They sit at the table and drink in silence. After, Benny takes out his cigarettes and offers Johnny one. Johnny lights both of theirs and selfishly uses the opportunity to get a better look at Benny up close. Beating aside, he looks okay. A little tired, maybe. Definitely thinner. Not that Johnny cares. Why the fuck does he care?

"You got somewhere to stay?" he asks halfway through the first cigarette.

Benny nods. "Motel."

"Good. That's good."

Where were you? Are you staying? Are we okay now? The questions tumble over themselves in Johnny's mind, demanding to be spoken.

He doesn't, of course. Being sentimental hasn't made him fucking stupid. He'd already fucked this up once.

A little bit of Benny is better than none at all.

They finish a couple of cigarettes each before Benny gets up to leave. Johnny walks him to the porch. He's surprised to see the sky turning pink-grey, dawn on the horizon.

"Thanks, Johnny," Benny says. He'd looked beautiful enough at night. Dawn makes him look like a fucking angel, wounds and all. Fallen angel, maybe.

He's just a man, though. And so is Johnny, which is why he can't stop himself from asking, self control and fucking sentimentality be damned. "So, you gonna be around now?"

Benny looks up at him, and just for a second Johnny catches what looks like surprise in his eyes. "You want me?"

He sounds almost vulnerable, and it's for that reason and that reason alone that Johnny ignores the thoughts those three words put in his head. "Yeah," he says. "Yeah. You n' me, kid."

That gets him a lightning-swift, half-shy smile, which disappears almost as quickly as it came but leaves him speechless nonetheless. He watches as Benny walks back down the porch steps and climbs back on his bike. The growl of the machine cuts through the morning quiet, and then just like that he's gone, the street empty as if he had never been there at all.

The sun is coming up. Johnny smiles and heads inside.

[thursdayinspace]

Made up title: The Ginger Invasion

ohh okay. that is so very clearly sick!fic?!

Mulder is sick. He never gets sick, and it's awful. It's terrible. He can't even get out of bed, that's how terrible he feels. He tries, he does, but finds himself on the floor after only two steps. The room is spinning, his stomach is extremely angry at him, and he doesn't know how other people do it. He's been beaten up, he's been shot, he's been tortured, but he thinks this bug, whatever it is, might finally be the thing that defeats him. He can't even go to the bathroom.

Everything hurts. He's too cold, then too hot, his head is pounding and Scully will be wondering why he isn't at work. He should call her. What time is it? He doesn't know.

"Mulder?"

He just about manages to lift his head and there she is, Scully, in his bedroom doorway; she turns on the light and it hurts his eyes, but even as he squints against it the glow of her red hair in the sudden brightness is enough to make him let out a relieved breath. "Hi." He hates to admit when he needs help. But he needs help. And help just showed up.

"Oh god, Mulder," she says, crossing the room in a few quick strides, and as she puts a cool hand on his burning forehead, he knows he's gonna be okay now.

--

He drifts in and out of sleep. He's lost all sense of time; it doesn't matter. He opens his eyes and sees her hovering above him, hair falling over her eyes as she leans down to put a cool cloth on his head. He wakes up and sees a flash of red, turns his head to see her putting a cup of tea on his nightstand. She helps him to the bathroom, and even with how small she is she manages to hold him up -- he looks down on the top of her flaming red hair and feels such a rush of affection it makes his heart clench in his chest. The back of her head as she stands and looks out of his window. Her hair fanned out all around her as she naps on the other side of his bed, seemingly unafraid of catching whatever it is he's not dying of, she has assured him that he will be fine. He's already starting to feel better.

When he closes his eyes, the light of the room turns to orange sunrises behind his closed lids.

"You really don't have to stay," he tells her after the first time he manages to make it to the bathroom on his own.

"I know I don't have to," is all she says, and makes him sit in the chair she dragged into the room while she changes his sheets.

"I'd be okay on my own now," he insists.

She turns towards him, pillow case in her hand, and looks unsure. "If I'm invading your privacy -"

"No!" he interrupts her quickly. "No," repeats, shaking his head. He can do that again without making the room spin out of control. "You aren't. I promise."

"Good." She sounds relieved. "Just let me know when you've had enough of me."

The chances of that ever happening are below zero, he thinks. "What about work?"

"I called Skinner yesterday" she says," and told him we were both sick. He doesn't expect us back for another two days at least."

"What if you get sick too?"

To that, she just shrugs. "That's a risk I'm willing to take. I'm not just going to leave you here, Mulder."

This is not the right time to tell her that he loves her, he thinks, but it is one of those moments where it's hard not to. "I'd take care of you too."

"I know," she says, and gives him a smile. "I've never doubted it."

"Scully?" He waits until she meets his eyes again so she can see how much he means this. "I really, really appreciate your invasion."

She turns her head away but she can't hide the smile that's taking over her face. "Anytime," she promises, and he believes her.

There's a red hair on his freshly-washed t-shirt. She must have left it there when her head brushed against his chest as she guided him over to the chair.

He leaves it there.

[fruitcoops]

Fic O’Ween Day 2! Characters belong to @lumosinlove , header is from @noots-fic-fests!

Yesterday’s Halloween movie reference: Practical Magic (1998) ❤️✨ Feel free to guess this one before tomorrow’s reveal!

“I would have loved you at Harvard…I would love you in, I don’t know—in the arctic. I would love you at war, or stuck on some island together, or I would love you in fucking ancient Rome. I’d love you anywhere, Leo. I love you now. We both do.” (Coast to Coast, Chapter 8)

A test tube crossed the bench, its pink tape stark against steaming sides. Glass clinked softly as it slotted into place with the others. Blue-gloved hands double-checked the cap with an instinctive touch. It took Finn a moment to remember they were his own.

ARC Trip 3

Core 6

Sample 4A

The date beneath had been smudged. He must have spilled some ethanol on it earlier, or maybe there was residue on his gloves from testing chlorophyll.

(Chlorophyll? The fuck?)

Not a problem. He had set the Sharpie down on the other bench, most likely, back when he was bothering Logan in the compter labs. A rookie mistake, but one he made often. (How long have I been here?)

The wind was strong outside today. He was grateful for the thick underlayers beneath his lab coat; New York had cold winters, but it was nothing next to the Arctic Circle. The door would most likely be frozen shut for the next few days. No field trips, then. Finn had plenty of samples to process in the meantime. The chill that crept inside the research center kept him focused, and he wasn’t even as bothered as—

“Knutty!”

Blond curls popped up behind the far monitor, then goggles, then a grin. “Hiya, Harz. Early morning?”

“Always,” Finn found himself saying with a shrug. There was work to do at every hour. He wasn’t sure when he’d been up this morning. Hopefully early enough to see the sunrise.

Leo shook his head with a teasing tsk. “Crazy. Anything fun?”

“More of the same.” The same? Same what? “Logan’s doing some melt stats in the other room. Icebergs wait for no man.” Finn tipped his head to the side. “Or breakfast.”

Leo’s nose scrunched. “Aw, I just saw him. Could’ve brought a muffin or something.”

“He’ll live. Rocks?”

“Rocks.” Leo held one up above the shelf dividing their benches for him to see, turning it back and forth.

“Delicious and nutritious.”

Leo gave him a funny look—that frown-smile Finn liked so much, the one Leo gifted to him when he was being an idiot for kicks. “Salty, sometimes,” Leo conceded. His lip slid forward in an exaggerated pout. “But my funding doesn’t cover nutrition.”

“I’ll give you twenty crisp dollars if you let me lick one right now.”

“I guarantee it will taste like a rock.”

“You’re bothering him again,” Logan announced as he passed behind Finn without a glance up from his clipboard.

Finn followed the line of his shoulders with his eyes. “How are your ice caps?”

“Still melting, unfortunately. How’s your grass?”

“Lichen,” Finn corrected without thinking. His mouth was running away from him today, it seemed. “Still growing, thanks for asking. The spec needs to be calibrated, but I’m doing that after lunch.”

“Come with us,” Leo offered, a small smile on his mouth. Oh, right, they were doing lunch today. “Harz and I were going to go at eleven.”

Logan paused. His big green eyes looked pale in the bright lighting of the lab, blinking slowly back at Leo. The shadow of his eyelashes was so clear Finn felt as if mere inches sat between them instead of half a room. “D’accord,” Logan said. “Sounds nice.”

“You forgot breakfast,” Finn informed him.

“Ouais.” Logan gave a half-shrug. “Distracted.”

“We’re getting lunch at noon,” Leo said with a small smile. His goggles had been pushed up into his hair, leaving faint red lines behind on his cheeks. “You should come. Everyone’s in from the field today and tomorrow, did you see the email?”

The email, yes. High winds, and something about the risk of frozen doors. It would be good to have some dedicated lab time. Finn shivered despite himself. The howling, shearing storm outside echoed through the research station’s crisp walls.

“Wooooo, so scary,” Leo teased, leaning back against Finn’s bench where they stood beside each other.

Logan widened his eyes in mock fear. “The ghosts stole my breakfast.”

“Oh, yes, we’re very haunted.” Amusement played across Leo’s face like sun off clear ice. “Breakfast-stealing ghosts and pet penguins.”

“I don’t think Loops keeps them as pets,” Finn tried, but Logan was suddenly quite close and he was having a hard time concentrating. “I think—I think I’d be more afraid of him than the ghosts. Or the penguins.”

Logan’s dark brow twitched up. “I’m not afraid. Are you?”

Leo and Logan were so lovely when they kissed. The knot in Finn’s stomach eased; he feared no ghosts or scientists or mean, flightless birds when they were there. They were keeping it chaste, perhaps for the lab’s sake but certainly not for his. No, they’d been together too long for that—no, hadn’t Leo just come here just this season off a nasty breakup?—had Finn tasted him yet? He wanted to, desperately. His bench partner, someone who looked at Logan the same way he did, like daylight after a polar night.

Logan’s hands were warm on his cold face. He tasted like snow and mint when Finn traced the tip of his tongue against Logan’s mouth. Lovely, lovely.

(My toes are cold.)

He had been kissing Leo long enough to be perched on his own bench, now. The rushing of blood in his ears overwhelmed the blizzard outside. His test tubes were chiming behind him, gentle glass-on-glass. Finn reached back to steady them while Leo bent to catch Logan’s lower lip between his teeth for a pull that made him smile. Tender in their way, so in love it filled Finn up. The weight of the ring on his left hand was familiar.

Unnamed science and screaming blizzards could wait. Surely this is what they were funded to do.

[thatartiststudios]

WIP Wednesday

Finally started on the prequel to 'I'll Give You My Life, From Now Till Forever' (and if there's any inconsistencies between this and the other fic, you don't see them)

Callum wanted to marry her, he was sure of it. He’d known from the moment he’d kissed her again at The Starscraper. Known it after every brush with death, every time her smile lit up the dark corners of his heart. And now, with both of their 18th birthdays behind them and the war dragging on, he couldn’t shake the feeling that the time was right. The battle against Aaravos had shown no signs of stopping, even though the archmage was somehow weakened. Callum didn’t understand it—it didn’t add up.

But he wasn’t about to question their good fortune.

The thought of waiting any longer, of letting another moment slip by, weighed on him. As much as he tried to be optimistic and hopeful, this war had taught him that nothing was guaranteed. In a world where they had to fight to see the next sunrise, he didn’t want to risk another day without taking this step.

He couldn’t bear the thought of looking back and regretting not seizing the moment, not telling Rayla how much she meant to him, not making her his forever.

Though this would prove easier said than done. Callum had long decided that her parents’ opinions didn’t matter when it came to this. He was going to marry Rayla whether they approved or not. But, for her sake, he wanted to at least try to get Lain and Tiadrin’s blessing. Runaan, however, was another story. Callum had no intention of telling him until after the fact.

He decided to start with Ethari. He found him among several other Sunfire elves in the forges, hammering out weapons and armor. The forge was hot, and the air thick with the smell of burning metal. Callum caught Ethari’s eye and motioned for him to come over. Even if their conversation was drowned out by the pounding of anvils and the hissing of steam, he wanted a bit of privacy.

Ethari approached with a welcoming smile. “What can I do for you, lad?”

Callum took a deep breath, glancing away for a moment, before meeting his gaze again. This wasn’t just a request—it was almost a declaration, a quiet but firm order.

“I need you to forge a ring and a pair of horn cuffs for me,” Callum said, keeping his voice as steady as possible.

Ethari blinked, surprised for only a moment before a broad smile spread across his face. He clapped Callum on the shoulder warmly. “Very well, son. I must say I’m not surprised. I’d be honored.”

Callum couldn’t help but return the smile, a weight lifting from his chest. Ethari’s approval meant more to him than he realized, and hearing those words gave him a surge of reassurance.

“Thank you,” Callum said earnestly.

[sourtomatola]

The dark Sun's approach

Spin off for @sinclairmaxwellao3, based on their fic, "Lambs and slaughters" (the original fic is 18+, but what I wrote here isn't)

2300+ words (takes place before monty dies)

Eclipse laid reclined on his couch, pregnant with thought. In his top left half, a card was being juggled around his fingers. He stared at nothing in particular as the gently ‘fwipping’ sound of the card turning in his metal digits filled the room.

Ruin came in and hung up his coat. “Couldn’t find any signs of the dirty bugger in the club.” He reported. “Must have sent in a stand-in.” He swayed over and sat between Eclipse’s legs, taking one of his free lower hands in his own. “Have you come to a decision then?”

One final snap of the card sent it firmly in the Underboss’s fingertips as he let out a deep thoughtful sigh.

“This Pertenca piko always seems to know who needs him…” He grumbled as he looked over the card that shimmered black and gold. The words on the back read ‘Call, leave no message.’

“A cryptid in his own right.” Ruin chimed and delicately plucked the card from Eclipse’s hand. “Want me to make the call?”

“Get it over with.” Eclipse sighed.

Ruin began to hum as he followed the instructions on the card, calling and hanging up in all of 30 seconds. “Think it will take long?” He asked, looking up to the underboss.

“Theres few things Umbra is known for, but one thing he’s fairly well known for is efficiency.” Eclipse said as he played with Ruin’s hand in his.

“Then my reputation precedes me.”

The two spun around, guns instantly in their hands and aimed at the intruder in their room.

The Dark Sun model stood perfectly still as he stared at the two boredly. His optics shared the same sky blue color as Sunrise’s, but were instead surrounded by black, giving him an eerie and unsettling stare. If not for that, and the sharply cut black suit he wore, they might have mistaken him for their Sunrise. It was almost uncanny to see someone so similar. His rays were a duller color as well, but other than that, they were identical.

“Problem with Fazbear?” Umbra stated simply.

“Efficient and perceptive.” Ruin giggled as he stood up, allowing Eclipse to stand as well.

“I May live under a rock, but I don’t miss anything. I also am aware of Sunrise being in your care. I wish to see him.” Umbra said before quickly stepping out of the room.

To that, the underboss and hitman rushed after him. “Wha-hey!” Eclipse called angrily. “Ne kuraĝu tuŝi lin!!”

“I don’t intend to, I just need to see him before I can get to my work.” Umbra stated almost boredly.

A Squeak came form the hallway, catching Umbra’s attention. Sun stood, holding his hands to his chest in shock of the sight of another sun model in a fine suit. Umbra’s eyebrow twitched up, as if resisting to raise in surprise as well. They stared at one another for a moment before Umbra spoke. “Sunrise.” He gave a gently incline of his head in greeting.

“H-hi…” Sunny blinked at him. Eclipse and Ruin stood nearby, glaring at Umbra as they waited for him to make a move.

The dark sun Model walked around Sunrise, as if appraising him. “Hmm…nice dress.” He said simply. He then paused in front of Sunrise and looked him in the eyes. “Do you want Fazbear gone? Wiped form existence? To give him a free taxi ride to the river Styx?” He asked in a low menacing tone.

Sunny stood in confusion and glanced to the underboss who stood at the ready, fully expecting something to go wrong. He then looked back in to the black and blue optic’s of the other sun model.

“Yes.” He stated. “He’s…He’s done unspeakable things to me and the people I love. I don’t want to live in fear of him hurting us again.”

“Consider it done.” Umbra said and walked swiftly past him, heading straight to Eclipse, seeming to have the intention to plow right through the massive four-armed animatronic. “Have my payment ready right away.” He said before vanishing before he could run into the underboss.

Eclipse flinched from the shock of not getting bumped or shoved. He looked around, but Umbra had left no signs of even being there.

“Goodness, his magic might be greater than your fathers.” Ruin marveled. “Teleporting shouldn’t be possible here, save for the family.”

“W-who was that?” Sunny asked. He still felt a chill from the gaze of those cyan and black optics.

“Don’t worry your pretty self, Sunny. That’s for Ruin and I to worry about.” Eclipses assured.

***

A Sun Model Animatronic sat at the bar of a club on the far side of town. A simple black spaghetti strap dress adorned his casing as he swirled the liquor in his glass. His make up was smudged with sadness, telling a familiar story to the bartender.

“Sunrise? Is that you?”

He hand holding the glass flinched and held the glass tighter before the animatronic looked back slowly. The tall muscular gator animatronic stood over him and closed in quickly.

“M-Monty?! W-what are you doing here??” Sun squeaked and leaned away from him.

“This is my favorite bar, cher.” Monty smirked and swiftly wrapped his arm around him, making him flinch. “My my, those wouldn’t be tear streaks in your eyeliner, would it?”

Sun quickly rubbed his eyes, as if trying to hide the evidence. “No! It’s none of your business anyways. I was just leaving!” He said and tried to slip off his stool, only to have been swept off before his feet could even hit the floor. Monty held him firmly and began to carry him out.

“Don’t be like that Cher! I know just how to cheer you up. The boss has missed you a lot you know, I’m sure he’d give you the warmest welcome back!” Monty chimed as he carried Sun virtically.

“I-I can’t, I…M-my brother is nearby, I need to go get him!” He said and tried to get out of Monty’s strong arms.

“Good, then he’ll just follow us.” Monty smirked and carried him out to his car, shoving the sun animatronic in.

The ride was tense as Sun stayed huddled as far away from the gator as possible. He was then dragged into the pizzaplex. Staffbots rushed out of the gator’s way as he stormed through the halls and past the lounges.

He pounded on the door of the don. “Hey boss! Got a little surprise for you!” He laughed as he dragged Sun in and threw him to the floor. Sun had been spun slightly in the force of his fall, causing his dress to flare out. He lay on the floor a second to gain his baring’s, realizing that the slit on his dress was now wide open, exposing his legs almost completely.

He heard a satisfied hum as he looked up to see Moonrise sitting on Freddy’s desk. Behind him, with a wicked grin, was the bear himself.

Sun’s optics were set wide and fearful as he stared up at the don who has done nothing but reap from disaster and pain.

“Sunny dear! How wonderful to see you again!” Fazbear smirked.

“Freddy…” Sun breathed.

“Brother.” Moonrise sneered and hopped off the desk to walk to him. He grabbed him by the arm and yanked him to his feet. “So sweet to see you again…” He ran a finger under Sun’s eyes, making him flinch. Moonrise rubbed the smeared make-up between his fingers. “Tragedy strike at the old celestial’s home?”

“I…M…moon…” Sun said softly. “Moon’s dead…T-the star went off and…The celestial’s kicked me out. Said I was too dangerous and I killed their best weapon’s designer…” He sniffled and rubbed his eyes again.

“Sound’s like you killed him to me. Good job.” Moonrise smirked.

Sun’s face hardened into a glare for but a second before breaking down into tears. Fazbear’s brow lowered curiously before reaching a hand to him. “Come here.” Sun stood firm until Moonrise shoved him around the desk and making him face Freddy, their knee’s practically touching.

Freddy grabbed Sun’s arms and yanked him onto his lap to get a better look at him. He studied the sun animatronic’s face, as if trying to look for flaws. The only thing broken on his face was his emotion. Pain and fear enveloped his features, but deep behind it was a fighting spirit.

Freddy let go of one of his arms and reached up to gently place a claw on his shoulder and delicately pull down one of Sun’s spaghetti straps. His claw was gently, threateningly so. Gently grazing Sun’s casing, as if to say how easy it would be to dig deeper and cause real damage. Sun’s hand shot up and grabbed Freddy’s hand in protest, but otherwise didn’t fight him off.

That’s when the Don’s eyes narrowed darkly and he grabbed Sun’s arms harshly again. “My Sunrise would never behave in such a way to me, or risk getting hurt. Who are you?” He snarled.

The room went still as Monty stared in confusion. This…WAS Sun though, wasn’t it? Sun models were rarer, and how many of them would not only know Monty by name, but also wear a dress like Sunrise would?

Moonrise narrowed his eyes as well and snaped out his gun, aiming it at the Beautiful sun model.

Sun sat still, staring at Freddy before glancing at Moonrise. “Careful now Moonrise, wouldn’t want to hit your boss, would you?” He said evenly, his tone lower and darker and the scalar’s of his optic’s suddenly faded to black.

Freddy’s eyes shot open before he shoved the animatronic off his lap. Umbra miraculously landed on his feet and stood tall, his posture immaculate and the strap still hanging off his shoulder. “Didn’t I play the part well enough? Surely Sunrise doesn’t just, LET you do such things to him?” He questioned as he grabbed the skirt of his dress and lifted it a bit, swaying it whimsically. “Though I will say, this isn’t too bad. I like how it flows.”

The click of the hammer being pulled back on Moonrise’s gun didn’t go unnoticed, but Umbra ignored it. “Don asked a question. Who are you?” The moon model snarled.

Umbra lifted his skirt slightly to do a mock curtsy. “Oh pardon me, dear don, how could I not introduce myself in such circumstances.” HE said almost sarcastically. “Most call me Dark sun, but I go by Umbra.”

A small choke from Monty came from begin them. “Whispered death??”

“Kill him!” Freddy barked.

Just as Moonrise took his shot, Umbra flipped his skirt up as he ducked, hiding him from the hitman. His hand stayed in a firm flat position as he thrust it up, aiming for the seams on Moonrise’s torso. With the force and angle of his hand, his claws easily slid under the seams and granted access to Moonrise’s battery. As soon as Umbra’s hand touched it, he grasped it in his hand and shattered it, causing Moonrise to go limp, almost dead.

Monty was rushing for his own gun but at the sight of such fast action, he hesitated. As he did, the Moon animatronic’s body was hurled at him, throwing him off more. With another flare of black fabric, Umbra was now behind him, doing a similar action that he did to Moonrise, slipping his hand under the seams of their plating and crushing their batteries. He knew it was a temporary fix. But when it was many against one, it was what was needed to neutralize threats to make them all easy to finish off later. It’s what it took to take out animatronic’s.

Freddy shot at them, not seeming to care if he hit Monty. Which Umbra made sure he did just to finish the job that was Monty.

Umbra peeked from behind the gator. “Thanks for the help killing Monty, Superstar.” He said in an unenthused voice.

“Umbra…I thought you didn’t play favorites.”  Freddy glared. “I tried to contract you last year and never heard back from you. Yet here you are, against me.”

“Yeah well, Lets just say I don’t take unsolicited calls. The fact you tried to hunt me down, PERSONALLY offended me. I just want to be left alone.” He said before lifting Monty’s corpse enough to cover him completely. Then, the lifeless body dropped, proving to no longer being a hiding spot.

Freddy turned quickly but was swiftly shoves to the ground, landing hard on his back. Umbra was now standing on his arms, keeping him down and unable to struggle. Umbra glanced at the wall of Freddy’s collection. He stared for just a second before looking back down at the bear.

“I like your eye collection. Maybe I’ll start my own.” He said before raising his hands, that dripped with Moonrise and Monty’s blood.

****

Eclipse entered his office in Totality, ready to start the day. He paused at the sight of a sun Model in a black dress, facing away from him as they sat on his desk. “Sunny?” He asked curiously.

Umbra turned, showing his black optics. Eclipse narrowed his eyes before they widened in shock as Umbra held up a box. “Proof of service.” He said simply as he pushed the box closer. “Call it the witches broomstick.”

Eclipse narrowed his eye sat Umbra as he watched the sun animatronic hop off the desk and wave his hand across himself. His attired changed back to his sharply trimmed suit and his face clean of make-up. He watched Eclipse stare at him before he motioned to the box. “Well?”

Eclipse opened the box and stared back at the vibrant blue eyes that sat on soft velvet to keep them from clattering together. Under the eyes, were several photos of Freddy’s office after Umbra had completed his task.

He closed the box and stepped around to his desk and held out a briefcase to Umbra. “Accepted. Thank you.”

“Thank you for keeping this short and simple.” Umbra said and took the case. “Feel free to leave me alone.” Was all he said before he vanished once again.

[softpascalito]

Pedro Pascal Kinktober Day Nineteen

Brushing Teeth - Joel Miller/F!Reader

Summary: Grief is cruel and just because you and Joel live in the safe haven that is the Jackson community it does not mean you're immune to it.

Possibly the saddest (but also kinda best) thing I have written so far.

Relationships: Joel Miller x F!Reader

WC: 2400

Tags/Warnings: Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Angst, Character Death, Grief/Mourning, Established Relationship, jackson era, No use of y/n, Crying, past trauma, Survivor Guilt, Protective Joel (The Last of Us), Good Parent Joel (The Last of Us), Tooth Brushing, This is like seriously sad pls beware, Author has already scheduled a therapist appointment

AO3 LINK

notes: a huge thank you to my beta babes maria and aura for reading this a month in advance. i love you both so much.

this is a really, really sad fic. it's likely not gonna go the way you think. please continue with caution <3

_________________________________________

Circles

He died just after sunrise.

It had been supposed to be a simple shift, guarding the perimeter from one of the high posts along the fence that stretched around Jackson. The wood had been icy, slippery. There had been a railing. But when his heart had failed and he had collapsed to the ground, slipping over it like an ice rink, it hadn't been able to stop his body from falling.

There was nothing that could have been done. He had been old, older than most. Even with modern medicine, his condition would have caught up to him sooner or later.

Fate had decided on sooner.

Word hadn't reached Joel before he had left for patrol and so he had spent the day clearing Infected and checking the lookouts, unaware of the tragedy that had, for once, struck within the very borders of home. It wasn't until he came back in the early evening, that he noticed something was off.

There were no children bustling around on the playground, no adults studying the notice boards to see which movie was on tonight or who offered guitar lessons. Curtains were drawn shut. It was quiet.

The somber look on Tommy's face, who was waiting for Joel at the stables, was enough to send him into a panic.

Where is she? Where is she? Where is she?

Tommy must have seen it coming because he had already raised his hands, as if surrendering to his brother, ”They're both fine.” Joel nodded solemnly as Tommy explained, repeating the events of the day in a few words.

He could live with that. As long as it wasn 't Ellie. Or you. Never you.

Ellie had spent the day with you, trying to look after you, doing the best she could. She was waiting in the large armchair in the living room, as close to the front door as she physically could.

Joel practically barges in, his gaze quickly checking the adjacent rooms. When he sees Ellie, he immediately relaxes a bit, knowing that at least someone has been here. Someone who kept watch.

“How is she?” He asks, disregarding any need for a greeting towards the teenager. She doesn't seem to mind, instead hopping up from the seat and walking with him, the pair quickly moving through the hallway.

“I gave her some food. I don't think she ate any of it. She wouldn't talk to me either. I'm sorry, Joel, I-'' He quickly shakes his head. He'll take care of Ellie, reassure her that she did a good job, which he undoubtedly knows she did. But Ellie is not the person in this house who needs him the most right now. Ellie is not the person who lost someone today.

“Later, okay?” Joel demands softly. His voice carries an underlying, stern tone that he rarely uses anymore. In other circumstances, Ellie would get mad at him, but she understands. He is in survival mode. He is making sure the people he loves are still there. He is scared.

Joel remembers your form that he had left behind this morning. Still in bed, sleepy, only reluctantly pressing a small kiss to his lips, the sweet promise of a few more minutes of sleep too tempting to ignore. He remembers the night before, the bubbly, talkative personality you usually have, that is a just little too much for him sometimes.

Your world had changed in just a few hours, a few minutes. And he hadn't been here.

Why had he not been here?

“Are you okay?” Ellie asks hesitantly and only then Joel realizes that he's stopped in the middle of the hallway. He continues his steps.

“Why wouldn't I be?” Ellie gives a shrug next to him but Joel barely notices, still too caught up in his thoughts.

He needs to see you. See that you are fine, just like Tommy had promised. Not truly fine, maybe, but alive. Breathing.

As they reach the old, wooden staircase, Ellie stops, taking in Joels gaze, that to her, still seems miles away, ”She wouldn't leave the bed. I barely recognized her.”

Joel just nods, his worry growing with every word. His grip on the banister tightens slightly, knuckles turning white.

“Go see her,” Ellie whispers and gently nudges him.

“Right.” That finally gets Joel to move again, his voice a little higher than usual and trembling slightly. Ellie knows he is close to crying. She presses her fist into his back a little harder and he nods again before he hurries up the stairs two steps at a time.

It's not until he reaches the end of the landing, until he is two steps away from the bedroom door that he slows down. Once again, uncertainty takes over his body. What does he say? Do? He's not equipped to handle this, he's not good with emotions, much less sad ones.

He's not sure what happens. An instinct takes over, steering his body steadily towards the door and pulling his fingers towards the brass handle. Maybe it's some old, parental instinct from before the outbreak, that he still carries buried in the back of his mind. Either way, he sends a silent, thankful prayer that it's there, that it allows him to continue putting one foot in front of the other despite having no idea how to.

The wooden door creaks slightly as he pushes it open. It's a familiar sound, more comforting than unnerving.

Joel is greeted by cold and darkness. He shivers as he steps into the room:'' Jesus Christ.” He mutters under his breath. He doesn't have to wait until his eyes adjust to the light. He can find his way in the darkness. 

He quickly turns the radiator higher, another familiar noise flaring up. Familiar is good. Familiar is safe.

He doesn't want to turn on the big light but he finds the switch for the small lamp in the corner and finally, he can take in the scene before him. His gaze is immediately caught by the bed in the middle of the room.

Whenever he goes out on patrol and you get the bed to yourself, you make use of his absence by occupying the entire bed, sprawling yourself out in the middle of the worn-out mattress. More than once, he had to physically fight you if he wanted his side of the bed back.

Now, however, you aren't in your usual position. You are curled up, tucked into the far corner of the bed, blankets and pillows wrapped around what Joel can only assume to be your body, some of them resting against the headboard.

It almost looks like you are trying to protect yourself, shield yourself from the grief that is knocking on the door downstairs, that is coming the same way he just has, slipping into the dark, cold room. A nest, to fend off the grief. Joel knows it wont work. He has tried.

A few of your limbs poke out from holes in the fortress of pillows and blankets and Joel softens slightly as his gaze wanders over them. He suddenly wants to run again, but he is afraid it'll startle you so instead, he approaches slowly, softly, like one may approach a wounded animal.

The bed dips slightly beside you as he sits down, his strong arms immediately wandering under the covers, searching for you. He finds the fabric of a shirt first, and then there's skin. Soft, gentle skin and he wants to cry with the familiarity of it. Looking down, he isn't surprised to see the shirt he had discarded last night, his favorite green flannel, now wrapped around your trembling body.

The thoughts come back. A small body, wrapped in a flannel shirt. He has seen it often enough to fill several lifetimes. He doesn't mind it anymore.

He knows it's a lie. He does mind it.

They had wrapped Sarah in flannel.

He can still see her. Still see the shirt, stained with blood. There had been so much blood.

Joel thinks about his daughter, his everything, his whole world, taken from him, wrapped in a shirt and buried in a backyard under a tree somewhere in Texas.

Joel knows he can't have these thoughts right now. He takes a deep breath, filling his lungs until they feel like they're bursting. He pushes the thoughts away. Later.

His right arm finds your hair and you finally make a noise, whimpering softly at finally, finally having him here with you.

The blanket is gently pulled to the side, allowing Joel to see your face. Your hair is messy, your cheeks tear-streaked, eyes red and puffy from crying. You look like you have just been through hell.

Joel reminds himself you probably have.

His insides clench as he pushes down his own tears. And then you open your mouth.

“It was supposed to be my shift.”

That's all it takes. He hates himself because he's supposed to be there for you, he's supposed to be strong. But the fear is stronger, the knowledge that he could've lost you today gripping him again and not letting him breathe.

He leans forward in an attempt to hide his tears, his face, his own sorrow and you break too, shamelessly sobbing into his chest. You stay entangled like this, bodies pressed tightly together, you crying loudly and him crying silently. It feels like a long time. Your voice becomes hoarse but the sobs wont stop. You're not sure they ever will.

Joel moves, eventually, kneeling down on the floor so that his face is level with yours and he can study your face. His hands remain on your skin, not once breaking contact. He rubs small circles into your skin, caressing every part of you he can reach. 

Nothing can touch you as long as he does.

“Gonna help you a bit. That alright, darlin'?” He mumbles softly. Your answer comes automatically, the same one you've given Ellie throughout the day, ''I'm not hungry.”

“I know you ain't,” Joel mumbles. He lets it slide:” But we should clean you up. Just a bit.” He promises as he leans forward and kisses your cheek. You don't struggle as he picks you up more carefully than ever, hoisting you onto his hips and wrapping his arms around your legs to keep you upright against his chest. It's almost like being carried by a father.

Joel takes you into the bathroom, sitting you down on the counter. There is a bald patch on the wall where a mirror used to be until he gave it to Ellie. He always gives.

Patiently, he waits until the water is lukewarm and then begins wiping your face with a washcloth. You probably smell but you can't bring yourself to care and neither does Joel.

He moves on to your hair, untying the knot that once resembled some sort of hairstyle and brushing through it with his fingers for a moment before tying it back again. His movements are so gentle, so smooth. You watch as he grabs your toothbrush, gently wetting it and putting some toothpaste on, his left hand all the while remaining on your thigh.

Joel gently nudges the toothbrush against your mouth and you dutifully open up, allowing him to start brushing your teeth, still as gentle as he can.

He can feel the sadness again, threatening to overwhelm him. He brushes in small circles.

The last time he had done this was with Sarah. She was eight. She had been sick then, caught a stomach bug at soccer camp and thrown up for days. Joel had dragged his mattress to her room, sleeping beside her.

He moves on to the other side of your mouth. More circles.

Sarah had vomited on him, in the middle of the night, staining both the carpet and his pants. He hadn't batted an eye, just stripped the beds and taken her to the bathroom to clean her up. All he had needed was for her to feel better. And if him enduring it would lessen her suffering, he would have chosen it time and time again.

He doesn't say this. He thinks he may, some day. But not anytime soon.

Circles. Joel brushes in circles.

When he's done, he holds a cup to your lips and you lean sideward, spitting into the sink. He is still caressing your thigh, a constant, reassuring touch. He brings his other hand up to your face, using his thumb to wipe the last bit of toothpaste off the corner of your mouth.

“Let's get back to bed, hm?” You don't trust your voice again yet so you just nod and sniffle a bit. As he picks you up again, you feel another wave, a nauseous wave of grief coming down on you. You think he feels it too because he grips you a little tighter. You start crying again.

You return to the mess of pillows and blankets that still cover half the bed. But now he is there with you. His too large frame under the covers next to you, watching with sad, brown eyes as you curl up against him. He pats your hair, leans down and gently presses a kiss to your forehead. It has been ages.

The small streak of light that falls through a hole in the blankets reflects in his broken watch for a split moment. He looks down at it, the motion so familiar still. And he knows. He knows how you feel.

“Get some rest, babygirl,” he whispers. He'll do right by you. He won't let you go through the things he did. You close your eyes, taking in his smell, his warmth. It feels different now.

It could've been her. It could've been her. Thank god it wasn't her.

You're still in his arms, you're still here, still breathing, chest falling and rising in a semi-steady rhythm. He makes the choice in that moment. Or, he realizes it. He feels like he has made it a long time ago.

He will endure it. He will endure everything if it just takes away a little of your grief, of your pain.

He doesn't need to say it. It's an unspoken truth.

Joel Miller will be there.

[rowaelinsdaughter]

𝖓𝖊𝖛𝖊𝖗 (𝖓𝖊𝖘𝖙𝖆 𝖝 𝖗𝖊𝖆𝖉𝖊𝖗)

i think this fic is one of the longest ive ever written before, but i couldnt stop, i love every single thing about this fic. WARNINGS: lot of angst, mentions of d3ath, fluff, suicid3 mention

you didn't know what had happened in your apartment four decades ago. the feeling that someone lived there was present since you moved in, but you didn't believe in ghosts, or in heaven and hell. You didn't believe in the paranormal, but that feeling was still there. like now.

you notice a look penetrating every pore of your skin. little by little you open your eyes and look at the foot of your bed to discover that there is no one there, however the window that you know you left closed before going to bed was now open, and the air moved the curtains creating a dance. You get out of bed and close the window, the smell of fire, iron and winter sunrise permeates the room slightly. with that aroma that aroma, you get back into bed, hoping that the aroma has faded.

weeks go by and strange things continue to happen. open closets and drawers, clothes in places where they don't belong... one day you decide to try something you had never thought you were going to do, a Ouija board. Sitting on the floor of your living room, you had everything ready to start. You rest one hand on the pointer.

"anyone here?"

anything.

“if there is someone, give me some sign.”

anything.

you wait a few more minutes and nothing happens. you blow out the candles, pick up everything and go to your room. you enter it and find a letter on the bed.

hi little girl

your hands start to shake and some hands cover your mouth so you can't scream and a mouth approaches your ear from behind and tells you to shut up.

“don’t shout”

trembling with fear, you turn little by little to see what or who it was that had entered your house. when you turn around you find the most beautiful woman you had ever seen. her golden brown hair fell down her back like a golden waterfall. with defined features, taller than you, with a slim build and blue-gray eyes, she was the personification of a goddess.

with a trembling voice you ask. “who…who are you?”

a grim smile appears on his lips. “in my world they call me nesta archeron. but you humans know me as hecate."

hecate the goddess of magic, night, ghosts and death.

you hear a noise in the kitchen and nesta tells you to shut up by putting a finger on your lips. with a movement of your hand, you notice a wave heading towards the kitchen and a high-pitched scream is heard. you start to shake more and nesta takes your face with her thin hands so you can look at her, with a kiss on your forehead, you melt back into a deep sleep.

when you open your eyes again it has already dawned and nesta is still in your room. it hasn't been a dream. sitting in a chair next to your bed, it seems that she has slept in the chair, although you doubt if goddesses sleep.

“i'm going to be concise with you. when you decided to do that stupid ouija board, you opened a breach that was already in this apartment, but that made more spirits enter here, that last night i appeared before you, it was only because things had gotten worse and it's still bad. as the goddess of ghosts and death i must make everyone cross to the other side, but it is never that easy and now i must protect you because you were stupid.”

and she is fulfilling it. nesta hardly sleeps, and she hardly eats either, and you don't know how she keeps her skin and hair clean, the only thing you know is that you are falling for the goddess.

at first nesta slept in a chair and although you knew she didn't need it, you managed to get her to at least lie down in your bed, and one morning when you woke up you saw her sleeping next to you. her usual tense face was relaxed, making him look younger than he looked. everything changed for you that morning.

you walked through your favorite neighborhood while nesta was behind you protecting you. although paranormal things were no longer happening, you knew that this was not over. you stand in the window of a bookstore and see the fifth edition of your favorite book. “that's my favorite book. it tells the story of two lovers and one of them dies. lost in pain, he decides to commit suicide to meet her, but he is left in limbo and has to find a way to find himself.”

you turn to look at nesta and find that she is already looking at you.

“and they meet at the end?”

you nod your head. “but he falls in love with the goddess who helps him and she finds herself in the afterlife with her old and only love.”

she narrows her eyes and turns to face you and look directly at you.

“you understand that ours cannot be, right?”

"why not? what's wrong with falling in love with nesta? i already know that you are a goddess, that you are immortal, that when your work with me is finished you will leave and i will stay here, but we do not choose who we fall in love with. and i have fallen in love with you, nesta archeron.”

nesta shakes her head. “ you can't be with me."

“why nesta? tell me, why can't we be together?” you raise your voice without caring about the people around you.

“because if we are ever together, if i ever decide that i want you to be by my side, you will die, it's the price I have to pay for my idiocy, seeing the person i want die and i can't see you die y/n. ”

you notice the tears falling down your cheeks but you make no attempt to wipe them away.

“so, is that it? this is the end? aren’t you even going to try?”

“there is nothing to try, nothing that can be done”

you cover your eyes with your hands trying to calm down and stop crying. you notice a hand caress your hair. you move your hands away and look at n7esta's smile, one you've never seen on her before.

“we will meet again, love”

_____________________________________

2 years later you find yourself walking through the same neighborhood where Nesta left, leaving you heartbroken.

you stop in the window that brings back so many memories. the tenth edition of the book exhibited to celebrate it. you sigh to calm yourself and the aroma of fire, iron and winter sunrise reaches you from behind you.

you can't turn back. you fear that everything is a product of your imagination. you notice how someone approaches you, and nesta's hand rests on your shoulder to turn you around. and there it is. it's her. her blue-gray eyes have lost that shine that characterized her, but a different shine is reflected in them. her features, her hair, everything has changed and now she seems a little more natural... more human, as if everything that made her a divinity had vanished.

you open your mouth to speak but nesta's lips are faster and rest on yours. you had always thought about how her lips would feel on yours, and you still think that this is all a dream, but her lips are real, her body is real, she is real. you separate and his forehead rests against yours.

"how?..."

her finger rests on your lips to silence you, and that same finger gently runs over the shape of your mouth.

“not now, let me enjoy the moment. now that i have you, i'm never going to let you go again."

"never?"

“never, love”

tags; @danikamariewrites @throneofsapphics @thehighladywrites @shadowdaddies @vanserrasswife

all rights reserved to ©rowaelinsdaughter. no tranlations allowed. no copy theme. don not copy my work.

[etherati]

Taproot - (1/25)

To celebrate finally finishing this monster of a fic after 4 goddamned years, I'm going to be posting the full chapters here on Tumblr, serialized like in the olden days, to make it easier to digest a bit at a time. Expect an installment once a week. This is a sequel to Wellspring, and is a post-S2 AU with, at this point, established Trephacard--plus some historical flashbacks, family drama, bloody showdowns, and a lot of secrets waiting in the wings. And feels. All the feels. If you like those things--or, for reasons I cannot disclose at this time, dear old Leon Belmont--consider giving this one a spin.

Summary from Ao3:

Taproot (n): The oldest, most central root; that from which all else arises.

Every family has its roots, diving down into the shadowy, secretive earth--and there's no such thing as a bloodless inheritance.

🎵 Music pairing: The Old Ways - Loreena McKennitt

Next -- >

Go to part: one | two | three | four | five | six

Sunrise over the Black Sea—golden light spilling into the water like its own sort of glowing, glittering liquid, diffusing through the brine and illuminating it in hues of orange and amber and violet-pink—is one of the most beautiful sights the natural world has to offer. There are other striking sunrises to be had, and other bodies of water prone to making a person feel overwhelmingly small, but nowhere else do the two combine into such a spectacle, delighting the eyes even as it harrows the soul.

At least, nowhere else that Sypha has been, and she has been a lot of places.

She twists the end of her walking stick into the damp sand and gravel. This means that she’s close; she can tell by the particular mineral-laden smell of the salt and the angle of the light that she’s still a bit north of Enisala, but not by very far. There’s no shame in having arrived at the sea slightly off from her target. The only truly accurate navigation is by the stars—and the lingering presence of the night creatures and the winter’s bitter chill have had her travelling mostly with the sun.

Overhead, the keening cries of shorebirds as they dip and weave, coming in low to gather at the waterline, to pick over the tide pools and sandbars. The breakers beat the rocky shore, relentless. There’s a stark beauty to the place, to the way life struggles forward despite its days being filled only with further struggle. Tenacity. Tenacity, she understands, and all the spoils it brings.

This would be a lovely place to bring Adrian and Trevor to, she thinks; let them see this dawn, let the three of them roughhouse in the waves and drink sweet fruit wine in the sun and make love in the cool, damp sand once twilight settles in, all softness and blue-black shadows and the murmur of the tide. When the weather is warmer. When the sea is greener than it is grey, and the wind coming off of it doesn’t threaten to peel the skin from her face and hands. When they feel safe, leaving the castle unguarded for a while.

That time is, with certainty, not yet now. But she’s working on it. She’s still not gotten used to travelling alone, honestly hopes she won’t ever have to, but sometimes needs must. And that’s the entire point of this, of having to be away from them for so long.

She misses them—misses her family, too, but that’s an old ache that she’s grown accustomed to. Missing Adrian and Trevor is a different kind of hurt, sharp and fresh, made worse by knowing how badly they’re missing her in return. When she was growing up, travelling constantly on journeys measured in seasons, a month had felt like nothing. Now, it feels like an eternity.

There’s no snow and ice out here, this close to the water; there never is, in her experience, until you get to the deep, deep north. The sand is wet and the coarse stone crushed into it grinds under her staff. It’s blunt and thick, as writing implements go, and there’s no way to get any detail—and anyway, she’s no artist.

She still leaves a chunky, lopsided heart in the sand, as if marking the spot to return to later—as if the waves won’t wash it away mere hours after she’s left this place.

The sun is high overhead by the time the crumbling stone fortress of Enisala comes into view on the horizon. It feels wonderful, even if winter sun never warms one through the same way summer sun does; she drops her hood to bask in it, shifting her pack on her shoulders.

The ruins themselves are all beige-grey rock, the sky even more devoid of color, stormy and brooding. As she gets closer, though, she can see little pops of color all around the perimeter of the old fortress—blanket-draped caravans, colorful paper lanterns, artifacts of every culture the trains have come into contact with over the past year. Anything to make the space lively.

This place has always felt oddly significant to her—with its ruins that no one will claim ownership over, that seem to belong only to themselves, like slumbering giants from the birth of the world. Really, anywhere on the eastern edge of a landmass would do, for the Speakers’ winter solstice celebrations. But this is where her family group has always come, and so she knows she will find them here. For a week on either side of the solstice, many trains gather here in the sprawl of the mysterious ruins, and they eat and dance and share stories, all the stories of the year before, and Sypha knows she has a few that will make even the elders jealous.

She smiles to herself, framing the narrative in her head as she sets off down the narrow, meandering path to the gathering below.

“Sypha!” a familiar voice calls out, along with the clatter of scattered and dropped firewood; she’s barely made the edge of camp, is still lost in thought, but that voice would snap her out of just about anything.

“Kiri,” she oofs out, as the woman barrels into her, catching her up in a crushing embrace that’s more robes than anything else—layers and layers of them, to keep out the damp chill. Sypha hugs back just as hard; she’d been expecting her family and the others, the ones she’d watched leave Greşit all those months ago and then had to say farewell to again late in the spring. She hadn’t been expecting Kiri, Kiri who knows all her secrets and remembers what she looked like when she was young enough to go about with her hair unshorn, who she spent more time with growing up than she did her own family—throwing rocks into rivers and climbing trees and playing rough games with the boys. Testing every limit, challenging every rule, pushing for every wild dream.

Kiri, who’d been away from their clan for at least three years now, off studying the healing arts with the Ottoman scholars in the east when their own collective knowledge had proved insufficient for her. Three years that now feel like nothing—and isn’t it odd, how the friends of childhood are so often forgotten when the demands of adult life catch up, but the body never forgets what it’s like to hold them?

“I’m so glad you made it,” Kiri says, her face buried in Sypha’s hair. “My first Solstice back with our people and you weren’t here! I was getting worried.”

“What, did you think I would miss it?” Sypha asks, faux indignation through her own laughter. “Never.”

“Well, I’ve been told that you have your hunter, now,” Kiri says, pulling away, a sudden swell of distance blooming between them. No wonder—too often, Speakers who marry outside the tribe never quite find their way back. She and Trevor hadn’t been that to each other the last time she’d seen her family, had just been circling ever closer without quite making contact, but fair assumptions could be, and often were, made. “And your sleeping soldier?”

“Mm, yes,” Sypha says; it’s been a long time since she’s thought of Adrian that way, though he’s never stopped fighting for them. “But this is important, being here. And seeing everyone again! How have your studies been?”

Kiri’s eyes flash with excitement, bright against the wind-bitten redness of her cheeks; her skittishness evaporates in an instant. “It is incredible, Sypha! The things they know, in the south—the things they’ve kept track of, that others have forgotten. There is a book one man there has written on how to repair a person as if they were a torn garment or a broken wagon. It’s remarkable.” Adrian probably has a copy of that, somewhere in his mother’s medical library—if not, she’ll have to remember to track one down. “I understand why we do not record our stories, but after three years there, I wonder if we are foolish to not record knowledge itself? Raw knowledge I mean, the kind that is hard to frame in the context of a story.”

My people are idiots, she remembers saying, during that

interminable stay in the Belmont hold; she’s usually more inclined to be generous, but there’d been an infectious kind of frustration and cynicism they’d all been fighting, after a certain point. 

“I’ve wondered that, too,” she says now, far more diplomatic; the journey has done her outlook a lot of good. “About an entirely different body of knowledge! Not something that would be as useful as the medicine you’re learning, but yes—if having something written down can save a life, how can that be wrong?” 

“Don’t let the elders hear you say that!” Kiri admonishes, laughing.

Sypha blows a dismissive breath through her nose. “I am sure they already think I’m a terrible member of our tribe, just for raising a hand against the enemies of humanity. I cannot imagine their opinion of me can get much worse.”

Kiri throws an arm over her shoulder, pulls her in. “It’s not that bad,” she says, trying to be encouraging, but there's a tension there. “Our Sypha, the warrior of Wallachia. But I always knew you were destined for something special.”

Sypha frowns in thought, takes a few steps in silence. Did you? She wants to ask, and she wants to ask, Why?

Destined. Destiny is too large an idea, is the sort of thing that hovers around other people, people with remarkable families, with mysterious pasts. Sypha is a magician like any other Speaker magician; her father was the same, and his mother before him, and there is nothing unusual about any of it. These things run in families, and magic users are common, and sure, she'd gotten herself sucked up into an epic story because of it, but it could as easily have been another.

Couldn't it have?

Would another scholar of magic have done just as good a job? Would another magician have melded into the team as well as she did, have communicated in battle so effortlessly, have picked up the slack the other two dropped and protected them when they needed it? Could just any magician have snatched Dracula’s castle out of the aether like it was a feather on the breeze?

Would another Speaker have tossed aside the principles of a lifetime to stand up and fight, or is there really something dark and burning in her that sets her aside?

If there is, is that a good thing or a bad thing? Is that even the question to be asking?

“...how does it feel, to fulfill a prophecy?” Kiri asks, as they start to make their way toward the rest of the camp. It’s clear from the suddenly uncomfortable undercurrent in her voice that she’s not talking about the whole killing Dracula part; that story, her family has already heard, and it’s surely made the rounds. No—she’s talking about the rest of the prophecy. The part that’d had Sypha so uneasy clambering down into the catacombs and so defensive when she awoke there in the face of a hunter; the part that she’d like to believe any random magician would not have been able to fulfill.

“Strangely?” Sypha says, pitching her voice low. “Like I did have a choice in the matter.”

“Truly? You did not feel fate’s hand pushing the issue?” A pause, a few scuffing steps in the snow. Then, carefully: “Or another hand entirely?”

And oh, Sypha understands why her old friend is concerned, understands all too well given the way the world has sometimes treated their people. How non-Speaker men have often regarded them—worldly and experienced and incapable of ever saying no, as if rejection of the church’s self-loathing, oppressive morality somehow made them into succubi. But the implication is so absurd in context that she still laughs, conspiratorial. “No. My God. I had to push them. I thought I was going to go crazy.”

A smile then, more genuine. The tension drains out of the arm across Sypha’s shoulders. “What kind of heroic warriors are they, if they’re not fighting for the hand of maiden fair?”

“In what world, I wonder, would I be considered a fair maiden?” Sypha asks, smiling despite herself. Her robes are ragged with wear, her hair recently chopped short again, her feet swathed in cloth bandages beneath her sandals to keep out the cold. Fair indeed. But she knows that society outside of their caravans frames the world in certain ways. “And they were fighting with me, not for me.” 

“Still. Most would expect some sort of reward for saving the world—even if only from fate.”

Sypha shakes her head, remembering that sunrise through the castle doors, the way they’d all started drifting apart before she’d pulled them back together. Those first few hours of having no idea what to even do with themselves, in this tomorrow that they hadn’t expected to see. “We were all shocked to still be alive, in the end. I imagine that would be reward enough for anyone.”

Kiri looks to her feet, swallows. They walk in silence for a moment. It had, perhaps, been unfair to go into such dark territory—to invoke how close they’d all come to dying that night. But these are the stakes Sypha has gotten used to, the way she’s become accustomed to thinking of the world. Speakers don’t fight; they are always in danger from those who don’t understand them, but that is a danger that brings itself to one’s door. The memory of choosing to walk across an enemy’s threshold, certain she would not ever cross it again, is uniquely hers.

“If you met them,” she says, gently bringing the topic back around, “you would understand. They honestly are good men. They understand what trust and respect are.” And they have enough baggage to fill an entire wagon, between them both, but that’s not for her to say. She’s not so dense as to think that they’d been dragging their feet just to frustrate her. “They do respect me, and I had to do nothing extraordinary to earn it—only what I’m truly capable of. We are equals.”

“Enough so that they trusted you to make this journey alone,” says a voice from her other side, mild and gentle, and Sypha turns without thinking, throwing herself into her grandfather’s arms.

“My angel,” he says, stroking her hair, and as it always does, the endearment makes her heart clench up a little around something—something hard and painful, like a rock in her chest, that she has never understood.

She huffs a laugh against his robes, pushes through it. “It was more a matter of whether I trusted them to survive a month without me.” Kiri laughs then, and her grandfather does too, and it warms her to know, with this kind of certainty, just how lucky she really is.

“…and it was in this way that the houses were joined, the scorched land of one family and the usurped fortress of their oldest enemy, and from the ashes of tragedy and loss and centuries of discord arose the hope of an unexpected and brilliant future.”

A long silence, broken up by the crackle of logs in the fire, by the quiet rustle of voices from elsewhere in the camp. There’s no need to pronounce the end of a story here, not if one is half decent at telling it; Sypha knows that they are just letting it sink in.

“A remarkable story, more so even than the first telling, which we have all heard,” one of the elders says, one she isn’t familiar with. In front of the old woman’s feet, a pair of young children are still staring raptly at Sypha. The elder’s voice is warm, pleased. “It will be quite a thing to add to our memory stores. And quite a thing to know that one of our own played a role, in such a difficult time for our country.”

“One of ours, one of Dracula’s, and one of their own that they threw out,” says a young man a few places to Sypha’s left; his voice carries the twist of a smile. “I wonder how the church must feel, in the face of such irony.”

And oh, that’s a thought that has given Sypha much satisfaction over the last year—to be a fly on the wall when the heads of the church met to discuss what had happened!—but the old woman frowns. “I imagine they feel as though they nearly caused the extinction of all human life in Wallachia,” she says, a touch sharp. “Perhaps that is enough?”

One of the children at her feet giggles, a Look who’s in trouble kind of sound, and the man ducks his head. But he’s not in trouble. That isn’t how they do things. “Pardon me, Elder,” he says, “but I disagree. That they made a horrible mistake is knowledge that can fade or be downplayed over time. That they were saved by the very people they ostracized and cast out—that carries weight that cannot so easily be shrugged off. Even if we cannot share this with the rest of the people of Wallachia, that lesson should at least be preserved.”

Because it is about hubris as much as it is about blame, she can remember saying, after that first meeting they’d had with Acasă’s strange new church. Blame can be washed away with a convincing enough apology, and hubris will make the same mistakes over and over again. Both must be undermined if any progress is to be made.

It had been a hard sell. Adrian tends to want to place blame if only to have something to aim all of his anger and sadness at, now that he’s allowed himself to start navigating them; Trevor only wants the world to feel more just than it is. But in the end she’d brought them around: more needs to be done than to just rub the church’s nose in the mess it’d made.

Which is why they’d agreed, in the end, for her to finally tell the story in its entirety—nothing masked or obfuscated, no details left aside. Only for her people’s ears; a closed telling, a rarely invoked practice used when the full story needs preserving but would put the participants in danger, should it get out into the general populace. The people of Acasă are just now starting to truly accept Trevor for who he is; tolerating a witch and a vampire is a bit much to expect of them, just yet.

“For whatever it’s worth,” she says now, “as a participant in the story? I agree. How this was ended, and by who, is just as important as who started it in the first place. There are lessons in both of those things."

The elder regards her for a long moment, thoughtful. Then nods, just a tiny dip of her face into the firelight. “Very well. This story will sit alongside the previous version. The nature of Wallachia’s saviors is to be preserved, as a means of emphasizing the church’s shortsightedness and the need for it to not repeat that mistake.”

Sypha nods deeply, a long and slow dip of her head nearly to her knees. “My thanks, Elder. May your tribe live happily and well, in the coming year.”

“And yours.”

The crowd disperses, some going to hear or tell other stories, some retiring to their caravans for the evening meal. One figure stays nearby, hunched over a nearby fire, close enough to have heard her telling but not actually part of the group receiving it. In the fading light, the shape is just that: a shape, a silhouette, blue-black against the blue-white of the snow, limned in the cold violet light of sunset. They have a branch in their hands, are stripping it of its side-shoots methodically, tossing them one by one into the fire.

It’s a silhouette Sypha would know anywhere. 

“What stories have you to tell,” Sypha asks, settling down alongside her, the ritualistic question feeling strange in her mouth, “since this time last year?”

Kiri huffs a laugh. “None as exciting as yours. You’re a hard act to follow, Sypha.”

“You seemed excited about all the knowledge you’d gained, earlier.”

Twist, pull, snap. “That’s nothing, compared to having a grand destiny.”

“I still say that destiny is too strong a word. We basically fell down a hole.” 

“Directly into the vault of Greşit’s sleeping soldier. At precisely the time the three of you were most needed. That sounds like kismet to me.”

Sypha can’t help but laugh, remembering. “It felt more like incredible clumsiness, from where I was standing.”

“Falling.”

“From where I was falling, yes.”

A stretch of quiet, then, broken only by the crackling of the fire.

“So,” Kiri says after a while, tossing an entire handful of twigs into the flames. There’s a smile on her face but the firelight has turned it bitter, all shadows and edges. “Your soldier is a vampire.”

“Dhampir, really,” Sypha corrects, kneejerk. For so long, it’d been Trevor she was correcting, then after a while, Adrian himself; she’s used to being quick on the draw with it, because either of them saying vampire had generally been a sign of badness brewing.

Kiri breaks another few twigs free from the branch, twists them in her fingers. “I don’t know what that means.”

Right. Of course she doesn’t. “It means his mother was human.”

“Oh,” Kiri says, seemingly still not sure what to do with this information. “I knew that, I guess. From the story itself. I didn’t realize the distinction mattered.”

“Yes, it… it matters. A great deal. I do not think a true vampire would have ever sided with humanity.”

"Still. I wonder if I would have been able to guess, had we met in the summer instead of the winter."

Sypha plucks at the scarf around her neck, the wool scratchy but warm, dyed in a hundred vibrant colors. It’d come from the market in Acasă, knitted by an old blind woman, and had been a gift—gratitude for the work they’d done securing the town against the demon attacks. They had saved her son’s entire family, and gone home that night and celebrated it, a battle with no casualties save the demons themselves. She’s wearing it because of the cold, but she knows what Kiri is asking. "Perhaps."

A huff of breath. “So much for your gentle warriors.”

“You would probably be surprised,” Sypha says with a shrug, not even bothering to take offense on Adrian’s behalf, because she can tell this isn’t what Kiri’s actually upset about. Some people compare words to weapons, and it’s truer than they know; you can dodge and feint and mislead with them as well as you can with steel. “But that isn’t—Kiri. What’s going on?”

For a long moment, no reply. The fire cracks and pops, splitting the wood apart in a spattering of sparks. Kiri throws the whole branch into it like a spear, a hard burst of frustration.

“Taerna married, this summer,” she finally says, the words quiet. 

That stops Sypha cold, her fingers poised in mid-reach for a branch of her own. She curls them back up around the empty air, feels the nails bite into her palm. “She always said she would wait for you.”

“Why should she have bothered? We were only friends.”

“You were more than that.”

“She married,” Kiri repeats, short, face tightening as if to hold something inside. “Like all of my friends and sisters did. Marriage and children and… it’s all anyone does. We had plans. We were going to, to travel, and she was going to hunt our food and I was going to heal people and we were going to see the world together. But this is the only life anyone seems to care about.”

And even you’re going down that path, Sypha can hear, unsaid. You and your prophecy, your exiled hunter and your inhuman soldier. 

Sypha closes her eyes, takes a breath. “She cares about you.”

“She also cares about her hound.”

“She loves you,” Sypha says, insistent.

Kiri laughs, bitter, tears threatening. It’s like watching an old dam crumble, flawless limestone threading through with cracks and stress fractures, and then: an outrushing of things held back for far too long. “Not enough,” she says, curling forward over herself, arms tight around her belly. “Not more than she loved the idea of having a child. Not enough to be with me.”

“Oh, Kiri. I’m sorry,” Sypha says, threading an arm over her shoulders, pulling her in. “I’m sorry.”

“Do yours love you?” Kiri asks after a moment, muffled by the layers of robes. “Enough to change the world, to defy everything for you?”

Sypha thinks about Trevor punching Dracula in a ridiculous, suicidal attempt to keep him away from her, thinks about Adrian in her garden, enduring the sun to make her happy—about a castle and a watchtower and the ending of the story she’d told, and her grasp on her friend tightens. “They do. And each other.”

A laugh into her shoulder, rough and wet. “I’ve always thought it would be terrible, to be involved in a prophecy,” she says, barely audible. “I never thought I’d be so jealous.”

There’s a stream that runs past the ruins, a narrow but swift-moving current that cuts through the ground here like a knife. It leads into the tough, gnarled pines and firs that grow this close to the sea, into these dark and uninviting woods that are nevertheless filled with a thousand secret places.

Sypha follows it, as she always has, year after year. 

Things are different, this year.

She finds them by the water, bundled up and talking quietly. There’s a fire burning, but it’s been banked and allowed to subside down to embers, giving off heat but very little light. In the heavily filtered winter moonlight, they look like faery folk—Arn with his delicate, dignified features, Lily with the luminescent white bone beads threaded into hair the color of pitch, both of them beautiful and earnest.

They look up when she steps closer, their faces dark, shadowed. Painfully anxious.

She sits down on the ground, near to them, facing them. She is just as filled with anxiety. She has never done this, has no idea how to approach it—she knows they are not being blindsided like Kiri was, knows they have had time to adjust to the idea of this, but all she can see is her old friend’s face, broken up in grief over a friend-love she—and everyone else—had thought was something more. For once in her life, Sypha cannot find the words.

Then Lily smiles, the brilliant, passionate smile Sypha remembers, and holds out her hands, and Sypha lets herself fall into the woman’s arms, nearabout crushing her in the embrace.

“It’s all right,” she whispers, against Sypha’s ear. “You’ve found your loves. It was always bound to happen to one of us.”

Sypha nods against her, feeling the tears welling up. Turns to embrace Arn, the familiarity of his touch painful in this context, in knowing what she has to do.

“Are you set to marry?” Arn asks, quiet, solemn.

Sypha shakes her head. “I haven’t brought up the subject yet. There are a lot of complications—no human establishment would ever welcome us. But...”

“But you would like to.”

“Yes.”

“Will you come back to us then, for the ceremony?” Lily asks, and her voice sounds like the fear of paths diverging, not knowing if they will ever converge again. “Or even just to visit? You know there are none here who wouldn’t welcome all of you—or if there are…”

“Lily will convince them to change their minds,” Arn finishes for her, a small smile at the corner of his mouth.

Sypha closes her eyes, takes Lily’s hand. “Of course. I could not stay away for long. And you can always visit us—we’ll have a lot of space, once we rebuild.”

Visiting, seeing old friends: it’s not the same, won’t ever be the same. And sometimes things change, and people change and what they are to each other changes. But these two were always dear friends first and foremost, and that will never—can never—be any different. She gathers them both into her arms, and it’s a sweet, comfortable place to be.

“Please tell me,” Arn whispers into her hair after another long moment, “that Belmont at least bathes regularly, now?”

And like that, the seriousness of the night vanishes, goes up like a twist of smoke into the black. Sypha laughs, and keeps laughing, until it turns to tears again and she can’t sort out which she’s feeling more of. 

“Yes,” she says, with a little hiccup of sob-laughter. “He does. He fights the darkness and protects the innocent—like he was born for. And washes the monster blood off, after.”

“Good,” Arn says, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. “We could tell from the beginning, that he was capable of being more than he was pretending to be.”

A long measure of silence, only the water rushing past, too swift to freeze even in the heart of winter.

“Will you let us give you a proper farewell?” Lily asks, hesitant. “Do they know—”

“They know,” Sypha says, biting her lip. “I talked with them about it before I left. They don’t mind.” As long as it’s a farewell, she hears Trevor saying, laughter in his voice even as he’d tried to be serious about this. And not a ‘till next time’.

Adrian had just been quiet, and had smiled softly in that way that is always disarming to her, and had simply said that traditions, and closure, are important. For everyone involved.

“Do you want this from us?” Lily asks. “Whether they mind is not the only question.”

It’s secluded in the little copse of trees, even the starlight blocked by the arching branches thick with green needles, and warm from the banked fire. Sypha nods, and reaches out with both hands, palms up in invitation. They each press a kiss to her open hands, and they hold her and she holds them, all of them swathed in the shadows of this secret place. She lets them say goodbye to this part of their collective lives, lets them put their hands and their mouths on her and push her to giddy exhaustion—one last gift from her youth, and one that will have to hold her over through the winter chill until these two weeks are out and she can begin to make her way home.

When they wander back to camp late that night, appetites sated and tension shaken away, things are different between them, always will be different, now—but that’s all right, in the end. Change, like liquor in a wound, can sting, but it is sometimes the only thing that makes the blood run truly clean.

The next day passes quickly and well. She gives her grandfather the gifts that Adrian and Trevor had sent along with her; scouring the castle library, Adrian had found a rare volume of supposedly true stories from the far east that he thought the tribe would appreciate having to add to their memory stores, and    Trevor, feeling some cabin fever in all of the early season snow they’ve gotten, has taken up carving—which is to say, he isn’t very good at it yet, may never really be. But the two simplistic figures he’s sent are easily recognizable as rough caricatures of priests, one missing a finger and one missing an eye. In memory of the day we all met! he’d said, performative, trying to disguise the sentimentality as tactless humor.

Her grandfather laughs to himself as he holds the figures up, and she can tell he’s trying hard to mask how entertained he is; violence is so anathema to their people and yet, somehow, this particular act of violence never seems to have unsettled him. Context, she supposes; Trevor had been acting specifically to save his life, and he could have done far worse.

She wanders the camp, looks at all of the lovely exotic decorations, and plays with the children, an odd pang in her heart as she watches their innocent games. She helps prepare lunch, lighting the fires for the ones doing the cooking, chopping vegetables and kneading dough for flatbread, and she goes into the woods with Kiri to gather more firewood—they will need a lot of it, tonight. 

They don’t talk, while they gather. It’s not awkward, just an understanding that the space between them needs some quiet, needs time to breathe.

She visits with the others in her family, with the surrogate aunts and uncles that are not actually related to her by blood, with the childhood playmates and the mentors, and with Taerna and her husband, a man from another tribe who’d chosen to join hers

instead of the other way around, had chosen to take her name. He seems sweet enough, and Taerna seems happy, if a little haunted around the edges of her eyes. Everyone she asks says that yes, of course they will be there, tonight.

Last night had been for stories, and tomorrow will be as well. But tonight is for celebration. All things in equal measure.

Hours in, Sypha drops onto one of the logs around the edges of the clearing; she slumps forward with a happy groan, reaching to rub the knots and strings out of her calves. Her walking muscles are conditioned like no others, but dancing muscles are a different story. It’s a good ache, though, like that burn in the cheeks that comes from too much smiling, too much laughter. She feels overheated from the exertion and the fire, no matter the chill in the air, and she unwinds the scarf, loosens the top layer of her robes to let the air move through.

Between where she sits and where the fire burns, silhouettes move, a chaotic display of human joy and beauty. They have no structured dances, really, though longtime partners often grow into each other’s steps. She can smell warm food nearby, bread and stew and hot mead, sees all of her family and friends and the strangers that come here as well, all her people, all dressed as she is, and wonders again: could any of them, the ones with magic at least, have done what she did?

She stares into the fire, remembers the feel of the castle’s engine between her fingers, the way she’d felt reality bending and brittle fracturing around her, so much more power at her disposal in that moment than she’d ever brought to bear conjuring fire or ice—and she thinks that no, maybe not. She’s met other magicians; she’s not sure any of them have ever trapped an eldritch monstrosity or blown apart an Enochian ward or—or done the things she’s come here to learn how to do. The things her father and her grandmother could do.

Later. Later, when the Nasaii tribe arrives. They should be here by morning. She will learn what she needs to, and she will go home, and she will be able to protect that home more thoroughly than she ever has before.

In the meantime, she watches the dancers, contemplates getting some stew, contemplates whether her legs will fall off if she tries—watches Arn and Lily together on the far side of the clearing, twisting in a tight curl that makes Lily’s hair lift, the fire lighting up her bone beads and glinting in Arn’s eyes. Watches the children imitating the adults, the youngest pairing off with their siblings, stumbling all over each other. Watches strong, tough Taerna with her husband, insisting on leading him, as much as anyone can lead in this sort of dance. 

Watches the elder she’d told her story to last night, sitting across the fire from her, watching Sypha right back with a gentle smile that says Don’t worry,  that says You will be with them soon.

And there’s nothing inherently romantic about these dances on the solstice—friends dance with friends, parents with children, and many dance alone—but she remembers being young and everything being about those early, tentative relationships, remembers that there was a thrill in getting the chance to dance with those people she called heart-mates, or to be asked to dance by someone she wished to be that close to.

So she can’t help but smile when she sees Taerna whisper something to her husband and break away from him, sidling hesitantly up to where Kiri sits. She’s poking at the dirt with a crooked, bare stick, and her sandals haven’t touched the dance ring—are clean of the dust and soot that coats the ground here, the

remains of a hundred years of bonfires.

Taerna holds out a hand, uncertain.

It won’t solve all of the problems, won’t make Kiri’s love hurt less or magically mend things between them. But there’s something of healing in Kiri’s eyes as she reaches up to take that hand, leaves the stick behind in the dirt, lets herself be pulled up and into the ring of dancers, the two of them falling into each other’s space with an ease that says We belong here, that says Even if we must change, there is still us, that says You will never be a stranger in these arms.

Next -- >

Go to part: one | two | three | four | five | six

[knullanon]

please please please please! write a continuation of the symbiotes fic where reader gets token way from knull and into the hands of anti-venom. i beg of you. 😥

a/n: anti venom will appear next chapter I promise but for now you just get the glimpse of what he's got. also sorry to that one swedish anon bc Knull is mentioned many times here. and yes it's a venom gif because theres no knull gifs so yeah 😭😭 also, please mind the tags.

REDO: Symbiotes Being Assholes Part 3

words: 2787

warnings: kidnapping, physical abuse, talk of dismemberment, arguments, probably incorrect medical treatment for the broken nose, lmk if I missed any!

~~~

"WAKE UP!"

Cletus jumped up, immediately regretting it as he felt his headache arise. He leaned back, his head swirling with pain.

"What the hell...?"

Get up, Cletus! We must go, we have to move!

Ignoring the pain, Cletus got himself up and looked around. He remembered the night before- leaving the apartment, driving for a few hours...

He sobered up once he realized what had happened. He looked around, seeing if he could see you, but you were nowhere to be found. Neither was Knull.

He got up, glass crunching under his feet as he jumped over fallen shelves. He rushed outside, seeing that it was empty. Just the truck, glass, and the gas pumps.

"Fuck," he breathed out, and moved towards the truck. Carnage was yelling about every idea and curse they had, and it was becoming more of a nuisance than any help. He opened the door, seeing that nothing was taken or broken, including the keys.

He took them! We have to get them back! What are we waiting for?! Let's go!

"I know that." He grabbed the keys and got into the driver's seat. "We gotta lay low for a minute, though."

He started the truck, and started to back out into the freeway. "We can't let Knull know we might be alive, because if he figures it out, we're probably never gonna live another day."

The truck rolled forward, and Cletus hit the gas. "We need a plan, and sooner than later."

---

The first thing you had noticed when you woke up was how comfortable you were.

The bed you were given was the best you've ever had, even if you didn't want to admit it. There were layers of blankets and pillows stacked up on each other, and the mattress was so soft. It was like you were melting into it when you laid down.

The next thing you noticed was that your broken nose was patched up. It had bandages around it, along with some gauze. Fortunately for you, it didn't hurt that much. They must've given you something to combat it.

The room you were in was extremely spacious, and even though the bed was huge, it wasn't even taking up a third of the space. There was a vanity mirror on your left, a dresser and a door to your right, and in front of the bed was a window that stretched across the wall, with pink curtains that were pulled back. It showed a beautiful landscape of a wide farmland, with a forest to the sides and a beautiful sunrise.

You ignored all of that, though, and instead pulled the covers off of you. You got up and walked to the window. It seemed thick, not thick enough that you couldn't break it, but enough that it would have to get something big to break it. There wasn't anyone outside, either, so they would have either been in the house or somewhere else.

There wasn't anything else in the room that could help you. You found a pair of shoes and socks, but other than that, you were wearing what you were from the night beforehand. Was it the night before? You couldn't tell.

You went to open the door, finding that it was open. When you tried to open it, it made a loud creaking noise. You stopped, hearing and listening for anyone that would come by.

But nobody came.

You peaked your eyes out, seeing that there was no one there. When you opened it more, and looked the other way, no one was there. At first, you didn't want to move, in case it was some delayed reaction, and they were just behind the wall. But eventually, after a few more seconds of silence, your curiosity couldn't take it.

Making sure that you weren't making more noise, you slowly stepped out of the room before shutting the door. The hallway looked similar to the room, run down but still... homey.

Turning to the right, you decided to find the staircase since you were definitely on the second floor of the house. The hallway itself was more decorated than you originally had thought, as well. There were pictures, family photos, of an older man, probably in his late 50s, along with his wife. They both seemed very happy in the photo.

There were more photos of them, along with different awards and degrees, showing the accomplishments of the couple. You didn't give much focus to them, however, because you were already going down the stairs by the time you found the end of the hallway.

The stairs, while old, didn't make any noise when you went down them, which you were extremely thankful for. Once all the way down, you turned the corner, standing on the last step. The stairs went into a kitchen, which then led into a living room. You walked into the kitchen, looking around.

The first thing you looked for was a knife block, but either they didn't have one or they had been taken away. So, you continued opening the drawers, trying to find something to help you. Most of them were just utensils and tools, but eventually, you found the silverware drawer.

There were a few butter knives, but to the side, there were a few steak knives. You picked one up before you closed the drawer. You slid the knife into your pocket, being careful to make sure you wouldn't stab yourself by accident. When you were sure that it was secure, you moved into the next room.

The living room wasn't anything special. Two armrest chairs, a TV, and a coffee table. But there was a door on the other side.

You walked to it and turned the knob. It was unlocked, and while you wanted to run away, you again checked and made sure that there wasn't anyone outside waiting for you.

When the coast was clear, you swung the door open, and you shut it behind you. There was a little porch, and again, two chairs. Looking around, it seemed like there wasn't anything around you. No car, no buildings, just the house and the land in front of it. It must've been somewhere really remote.

Just when you were about to go back inside to see if there was anything else you could take, you smelled something. It was rotten, terrible, and even though your smell wasn't as prominent, you could tell it was from the side of the house.

Covering your nose, you walked over to the left side of the house, trying to see if the smell was from there, but there was only a few tools and some buckets

You turned towards the edge of the grass, where it was cut just enough to walk through, and the smell became more prominent. You tried to peak over the grass to see if something was there, but you couldn't see anything from where you were.

Before you could even walk to see if there was anything, you were picked up by the back of your neck and pulled off the ground. Your feet dangled while you grabbed the hand that held you, trying to pry it off.

"What are you doing?" You looked to your right to see that same symbiote from last night, Rumble? The orange streaks seemed more prominent than the previous night, probably due to the better lighting.

You continued to grab at their hand, trying to pull it off, but to no avail. Suddenly, you remembered the knife you had taken from the kitchen. You reached for your waist, only being able to pull out the knife, trying to stab the symbiote before it was grabbed and yanked away from you.

For a few seconds, you tried to pull the knife away from the symbiote but were unsuccessful. They held it above your reach, eyeing it, before they turned to you.

"Where did you get this?" When you didn't answer, they shook you harshly. "Where did you get this?"

"Fuck you."

Shaking their head, they walked back to the house while you struggled to get away. They walked all the way from the living room back to the room you were put in. They tossed you onto the bed and then slammed the door.

You rolled onto your stomach and pushed yourself up to sit. The symbiote moved towards the vanity mirror and sat on the bench. It creaked with their weight, but it held itself up.

"_____, where did you get this?" They held up the knife, pointing it towards you. You didn't respond.

It seemed to piss them off as they got up from the bench, seemingly going to lunge at you. But they stopped. They seemed to be thinking, and they sat back down. Maybe they thought it wasn't worth it?

"Look, I know that you may be a little... stressed from the recent events, but you have to be cooperative. Knull will not be as forgiving as I might be, and if he finds out you were outside... it won't be good."

Silently rolling your eyes, you pushed yourself against the wall. "Then why did he break my nose?"

They cringed for a moment but quickly composed themselves, "He did not mean it: you were simply acting out."

"Acting out? I was trying to get away from him because he grabbed me!"

Rumble hissed, whispering, "Do not raise your voice."

Before you could even answer, they continued, "_____, you must calm down before he comes back. He- urgh," they got up from his chair, and paced around for a moment.

They turned back to you, and held out the knife. "I won't tell him about this," he gestured the knife towards you, "But what I will say is this- if you continue to act out, either to me, or worse, Knull, I won't save you from the consequences. Do you understand?"

You looked at their hand, and then back to them. You remembered how worried Cletus and Carnage were about Knull, and how easily he was beaten. While Eddie nor Venom never said anything about either Carnage or Knull, you knew that it would be the same for them.

"...I understand." Rumble nodded, and began to walk out. "I'll leave you here for now: Knull will be back by noon, he should bring you lunch."

They opened the door, but they turned back to you. "I'm... sorry for shaking you. But please, next time just cooperate."

They shut the door, and you heard it lock.

You already checked the room beforehand, so you took off your shoes and socks, setting them down next to your bed. You laid down, trying to rest, while also trying to think of any way to escape.

---

The next few hours were just sleeping. You didn't dream at all, but when you woke up, you saw that it was probably already noon. You pulled back the covers, and noted that your shoes and socks were gone, and replaced with slippers.

You looked back to the window, trying to see if anyone was outside. You couldn't tell, so you laid back down.

While you were thinking about what to do, you heard a knock. The door opened, and you saw Knull peer inside. He smiled, and pushed open the door fully. He walked in, and you saw Rumble follow behind him.

Even though the room was huge, it looked small when Knull fully stepped inside. He looked around, humming a little tune, before he walked over to your bed and sat at the edge.

"How are you feeling?" He asked, holding a plate of food. You didn't really care about the food, though. Instead, you glared at Knull, not looking away for a moment.

You could see Rumble give you a nervous look, but you didn't give him a glance. Knull's smile faltered a little, but he held out the plate of food, trying to get you to take it.

"It won't kill you to eat." When you didn't reach out to take it, he continued, "_____, it's just meat and potatoes, how hard can that be to eat?"

While you were going to continue to ignore him, you gave a quick glance at Rumble, and the genuinely seemed worried. They were holding their hands, and their eyes, while just blank, still held some sort of warning.

I won't save you from the consequences.

You turned back to Knull, and reluctantly grabbed the plate from him. His smile returned, as he beamed at you. "Good, eat as much as you can."

He reached out to touch your face but you moved to the side. He frowned. "_____." You heard Rumble quietly protest, but you did not care.

"Why did you take me?"

Knull looked at you, and shook his head before he suddenly stood up, and yanked the plate out of your hands. He threw it at the wall, a loud crash following suit. Food and ceramic bits were all across the dresser and the wall, but he didn't seem to care and he grabbed you by your shirt and hoisted you up.

"Why are you acting so difficult? I saved you, I'm bringing you to a better life and all you can do is act like a brat."

"Why did you take me?" You could see him get irate when you repeated yourself, and he was about to do something to you, but suddenly, a hand was placed on his shoulder.

"_____ is simply worried, they're not in the right of mind-"

Knull dropped you, letting you fall to the bed, and lunged towards Rumble. They tried to dodge, but were unsuccesful. Knull backhanded them, hitting them across the room and through the window. Glass shattered everywhere, and you heard Rumble hit the ground below the room. What was with Knull and throwing people through windows?

While you tried to peek over to see if they were ok, Knull marched over to the broken window. "You will not interfere with this!" He pointed down, probably to Rumble, before he turned back and walked to you.

He kneeled, grabbing your face before you could stop him. He rubbed his thumbs across your cheeks, and he embraced you in a hug.

"_____, I love you very much, you are very dear to me. You are my baby, and you will have everything you will ever ask for once you are ready. But..."

"The next time you run away like you did this morning, I will cut off your legs and make sure you never leave me again."

You were silent, trying not to show your fear. He gave you a kiss on your forehead, smiled and stood up. He walked to the door, saying, "I will see you tonight. Fix your attitude by then."

He stopped and turned to the window, yelling out "Rumble, replace that window before tonight."

He slammed the door behind you, and you were left shaking, as you wondered what you were going to do.

---

By the time you were getting ready for bed, Rumble had finally fixed your window by having another symbiote in the nearby city get a new window panel for him. He had let Knull be in charge of giving you your dinner, as he did not want another window to be replaced.

They were just getting down from putting it in place when they heard something from behind them. They turned around, seeing nothing. They looked closer, and saw an outline of someone in the trees.

"Who's there?"

A voice shushed them. "Be quiet."

Just before Rumble could attack them, the stranger put their hands up. "I am not here to fight you, but I need you to listen to me."

Rumble scoffed. "Why should I trust you?"

"Because I know that you feel somewhat bad for _____. I have a way to get them out."

Rumble did not falter in their stance, but they were intrigued. "How can a human defeat a god?"

"Oh please, I'm not that human."

The figure stepped out, and Rumble realized they were another symbiote. A white and black one, and while they looked familiar, they couldn't remember who it was.

"Who are you?"

"My name is Anti-Venom, I am a... offspring of Venom. I have a proposition for you, that I think you would benefit greatly from."

Rumble considered his options. He gave a glance to the window, knowing Knull was either still there or was somewhere in the house.

"Let's find somewhere more private, yes?" Anti-Venom smiled, it's teeth glinting in the light.

Rumble relaxed, and fully turned to Anti-Venom, nodding. "You have one chance."

Anti-Venom chuckled. "That will be all I need."

~~~

I was rereading the previous parts and got inspired to write this. I hope y'all like it tho because this was fun to write, love you guys sm <3

also yes Anti-Venom will appear next chapter dw I just feel like I'm not giving anyone in the story any dialogue so I wanna work on that

[gingerlee-holds]

okay so this is gonna be something different lmao- my beloved @lionkid gave me an idea when i was visiting her and i wanted to make this for her-! its not a tword fic, but hopefully it'll become a good story if i keep at it- its the first chapter, and please let me know what you think!! i cant wait to build on it more heehee

also im sorry its kinda short lmao

the title for this story is Trains out of Tranton! enjoy <3

Chapter 1: Home

Words: 630 Warnings: Post-Apocalypse setting

It all happened so fast. I suppose it's easier to see the danger of a situation afterward when you have all the facts, and to us, it feels like the world that came before was a house of cards just begging to be toppled over. Frankly, it's a miracle that humankind lasted into the 20th Century. The scholar says the current year is 1996; we must take his word for it.

I am Jack Flynn, born to Samuel and Laurie in a world bereft of hope. The collapse of civilization was their childhood, a time of empty stomachs, and they were robbed of their American Dream. Samuel's tribe crossed paths with Laurie's in the ruins of Seattle during the most brutal blizzard in living memory, and my father chose to leave his people and join hers. Two decades ago, I came into this world one year after he made that choice, and with her final breath, my mother named me and promised me warmth.

Samuel Flynn, a natural leader, led our people from the old home in Seattle where wild dogs roam with foaming mouths and monstrous beasts proclaim themselves men. He brought us south from the bitter cold, and we found our new home in Tranton. Before the collapse, Tranton was a mere trainyard, but it took on a new role among the sick, hungry, and miserable survivors of my tribe. I was still in swaddling cloth then, not nearly old enough to form a memory of life before Tranton nor a perception of where elsewhere is. 

The world I know is far smaller than my father's. Tranton is barely three square miles in area, filled with thousands of people desperate for a place to sleep. The rails rust under torrential rain, springing forth moss and weeds between the tracks. Aspen saplings shot from the soil below in a mad frenzy, and the tallest of them stooped over our homes like giants. The boxcars of the old world make for tremendous homes for a tribe of hungry refugees, and the cars harbored two families each. Most importantly, though, those cars that could not be utilized for storage or transportation around the settlement were heaved onto their sides and became the walls upon which our soldiers stood watch against the horrors beyond.

From what our patrols inform us, every can of food for miles around has been eaten or destroyed by the elements. As such, Tranton must import their food from outside, and every week, a mule hauls a freight car into town, the shriek of ungreased axles announcing its arrival. The farms are among the few places unscathed by the collapse, and in return for the goods we can scavenge from the neighboring cities, they share with us their harvests. Well, that's not entirely true - those of us who can't scavenge become tinkerers, forming scrap metal into tools for survival and weapons against marauders. The turbines we've fashioned turn a fierce squall into a warm meal and a well-lit courtyard for my father to speak to our people from. Our home is at the edge of this courtyard, a diesel locomotive too old to turn its wheels but with a commanding presence over the surrounding cars. The roaring hearth I warmed my hands against was the firebox, and it was my father's responsibility to blow the train's whistle at sunrise each morning.

This whistle, choked with age, was what I awoke to every day for as long as I can recall. This whistle was normalcy, home. The whistle was the assurance that humankind had not yet died. The whistle promised that things were alright now and nothing needed changing. I hated that whistle; more than that, I hated the man who blew it.