#hollowed out forehead from over the border

[moomuzan]

— 𝖇𝖎𝖙𝖙𝖊𝖗𝖘𝖜𝖊𝖊𝖙

your wounds are critical! chuuya , akutagawa , dazai , two endings: no-comfort & comfort , requested

Unraveling, the night was a cacophony of chaos. The scent of blood lingered in the air, mingling with the acrid tang of gunpowder. The world around him was a haze of noise and movement, but Chuuya saw none of it. He was focused on you, lying on the cold pavement, your body still and fragile in the growing pool of your own blood.

“Hey,” he rasped, his voice breaking as he dropped to his knees beside you, his hands trembling as they hovered over the wound in your abdomen. “Stay with me. Don’t you dare give up on me now.”

You blinked up at him, your vision hazy and unfocused. The corners of your lips quirked in a weak attempt at a smile, the kind you always gave him when you were trying to reassure him—even now, when you were the one who needed reassurance.

“Ch-Chuuya… I’m fine…” Your words were a whisper, barely audible over the pounding in his ears.

“No, you’re not!” he snapped, his voice raw and desperate. “Don’t say that. You’re not fine—you’re bleeding out!” His gloved hands pressed down on the wound, trying to stem the relentless flow of crimson that spilled between his fingers.

It was everywhere, staining his hands, soaking into his coat, dripping onto the ground—The sight of your blood shattered something inside him. This wasn’t supposed to happen. You were supposed to be untouchable, invincible, his equal in every way. You were his partner, the one person he trusted to have his back.

And now you were slipping away.

He threw his hat aside, his fiery hair clinging to his forehead, damp with sweat. His eyes glistened, but no tears fell—not yet. Instead, his fury burned hotter than ever.

“They’ll pay for this,” he growled under his breath, his voice low and venomous. “Every single one of them. I’ll make them regret the day they thought they could touch you.”

But his anger was hollow, a desperate attempt to distract himself from the reality unfolding in front of him. Every breath you took was shallower than the last, and he couldn’t stop the dread creeping into his heart.

happy ending

Chuuya didn’t leave your side—not for a second. He carried you in his arms, running through the streets with a single-minded determination that bordered on madness. The people who dared to get in his way didn’t live long enough to regret it.

When he finally reached an empty building, he laid you down on a makeshift bed, his hands working with frantic precision to tend to your wounds. He tore off his gloves, his fingers shaking as he cleaned and dressed the injury, his mind screaming at him to stay calm.

“Don’t you dare die on me,” he muttered under his breath, his voice cracking. “You hear me? I’m not letting you go. Not like this.”

As the hours passed in agonizing silence, broken only by the sound of your labored breathing, Chuuya sat beside you, his hand wrapped around yours, his thumb brushing against your knuckles. He spoke to you—soft, quiet words filled with guilt and love, his usually sharp tone now trembling with vulnerability.

When your eyes finally fluttered open, your voice was faint but steady. “Chuuya…”

Relief flooded his face, and he leaned closer, his forehead resting against yours. “You scared the hell out of me,” he whispered. “Don’t ever do that again, you hear me?”

You smiled weakly, squeezing his hand. “I’ll try.”

Chuuya didn’t let go of you, not that night or the nights that followed. He stayed by your side, caring for you with a tenderness that only you ever got to see, his usual brash demeanor softened by the sheer relief of having you alive.

sad ending

Chuuya’s fury burned like a wildfire, consuming everything in its path. He carried you to the nearest safe house, his movements quick and precise, but his heart was a storm of fear and guilt.

Once inside, he worked tirelessly to tend to your wounds, his hands steady but his mind fractured. He talked to you, begged you to stay awake, to fight, but your responses grew weaker and weaker.

When he finally finished patching you up, he collapsed into a chair beside the bed, his elbows on his knees, his head in his hands. The room was too quiet, the sound of your breathing too faint.

“You’ve got to pull through,” he murmured, his voice barely audible. “I can’t do this without you. I need you.”

Hours passed, and Chuuya didn’t move. His eyes were fixed on you, on the shallow rise and fall of your chest, on the pale color of your skin. He wanted to believe you would wake up, that you would pull through like you always did.

But doubt gnawed at him, an unrelenting reminder of the fragility of life. The memory of your blood on his hands, of the way your body had gone limp in his arms, haunted him like a ghost.

When dawn broke, the faint light spilling through the window did nothing to ease his torment. He sat there, still as stone, waiting, hoping, praying for a sign that you would come back to him.

But you didn’t wake—not yet. And Chuuya was left in the agonizing limbo of uncertainty, caught between the hope that you would survive and the crushing guilt that he had failed to protect you.

For the first time in his life, Chuuya Nakahara felt truly powerless. And it was a feeling he would never forgive himself for.

,

As a mentor Akutagawa had always been unrelenting, cold, and merciless. The way he barked orders and pushed you beyond your limits was suffocating at times, but you knew it stemmed from something deeper—a warped belief in perfection, in power, in survival. He demanded nothing less than absolute excellence, and you worked tirelessly to meet his expectations, even when they left you bruised and battered.

However, this mission was different. It was dangerous, even by his standards, and the risk was glaringly obvious. He had chosen you for it anyway, confident in your ability to deliver. Confidence that now felt like arrogance as he scoured the desolate streets, his coat whipping around him in the wind, his sharp eyes darting in search of any sign of you.

You were late—far too late. And by the time these hours turned to days, dread began to sink its claws into him, deeper and deeper with every second of silence. He replayed the last time he’d seen you, the way you’d nodded with quiet determination when he gave you your orders. You had trusted him, relied on him to prepare you. And now, the thought that you might be gone, that he had sent you to your death, was a weight he couldn't bear.

When he finally found you, collapsed in a heap in the shadows of a back alley, his breath caught in his throat. Blood soaked your clothes, dripping onto the cracked pavement below. Your skin was pallid, your chest rising and falling in shallow, uneven breaths. You looked like a ghost of yourself, barely clinging to life.

Akutagawa stood frozen for a moment, his mind racing with emotions he didn’t know how to process. Anger, guilt, and something else—a foreign ache that felt far too close to grief. He approached you slowly, his usual sharp, deliberate movements replaced by something hesitant, almost tender.

“Fool,” he hissed under his breath, though his voice wavered. “Why didn’t you retreat when it became too much? Why didn’t you come back to me?”

Stirring slightly at the sound of his voice, your eyes fluttered open just enough to meet his gaze. “I… I thought I could handle it,” you whispered, your voice so faint it was almost swallowed by the wind.

Akutagawa clenched his jaw, kneeling beside you. His hands hovered over you, unsure of where to start. He had always been so sure of himself, so in control, but now? Now, he felt powerless.

happy ending

Akutagawa wasted no time. He lifted you into his arms, his expression hardening into a mask of determination. He wasn’t going to lose you—not like this.

Instinctively, he brought you to the Mafia hideout, ignoring the startled glances of the other members as he stormed through the corridors. His focus was singular, his steps purposeful as he gathered everything he needed to tend to your wounds.

For hours, he worked in silence, his sharp, precise movements betraying the storm brewing inside him. He cleaned and bandaged your wounds with care that seemed almost out of character, his hands steady despite the turmoil in his chest.

When you finally regained consciousness, your voice was weak but steady. “Why are you… doing this?”

Not looking at you, his focus was hyper-fixed on tightening the last bandage around your arm. “Because you’re still my responsibility,” he muttered, though the words carried an undercurrent of something deeper.

Over the next few weeks, he rarely left your side. He ensured you had everything you needed to recover, from medical supplies to food, though he never lingered long enough for the conversations to grow soft. He kept his distance emotionally, even as his actions betrayed his concern.

On the day you were finally strong enough to stand on your own, you thanked him quietly, and for a brief moment, something unspoken passed between you. His gaze lingered on you a second too long before he turned away, his coat billowing as he walked toward the door.

“Don’t fail me again,” he said, though his voice lacked its usual bite. And when you joined him on the battlefield once more, it was as though nothing had changed—except for the silent understanding that he would never let you fall again.

sad ending

Lost in motion, Akutagawa carried you to a secluded place, far from the chaos of the city, where the air was still and heavy with the scent of earth and rain. He laid you down gently, his hands trembling as he tried to stop the bleeding, to keep you alive. But the wound was too deep, the damage too severe.

“You’re going to be fine,” he said, though his voice lacked its usual conviction. It sounded more like a plea than a statement, a desperate attempt to will the universe into giving him more time.

Smiling faintly—your lips pale and cracked. “You don’t… have to lie,” you whispered, your words slurred with exhaustion.

“Stop talking,” he snapped, though his tone was more broken than angry. “Save your strength.”

Of course, you didn’t stop. “I… wanted to prove myself to you,” you murmured, your eyes fluttering shut for a moment before you forced them open again. “I wanted… to be someone you could rely on.”

As Akutagawa’s chest tightened, he surely didn’t know what to say. He had always believed in power, in strength, in the cold, unfeeling logic of survival. But now, as he watched you slip away, he realized how hollow those beliefs felt without you by his side.

“Don’t go,” he whispered, his voice barely audible. His hand hovered over yours, hesitating before he finally took it, his grip firm but trembling. “You don’t get to leave me like this. Not after everything.”

Your breathing grew slower, more labored, until it finally stopped altogether. Akutagawa didn’t move, didn’t speak. He sat there, his hand still clutching yours, his usually cold, emotionless expression shattered by a grief he couldn’t contain.

When the sun rose, casting its golden light over the world, he was still there, silent and still, watching over your lifeless body as though he could bring you back to life through sheer force of will. But no matter how much he wanted to, you were gone. And he was left with nothing but the ghost of your presence and the crushing weight of his own failure.

,

Dazai Osamu had always been an artist of detachment, a master of keeping the world at arm’s length, of slipping between roles and masks until even he could no longer remember where the performance ended and the truth began. But with you, he’d let himself forget the artifice, if only for fleeting moments. You, the civilian who had somehow carved your way into the abyss of his existence, had become an unwelcome but intoxicating anomaly.

Though he never admitted it—not even to himself, you were his sanctuary. The weight of his sins seemed lighter when he lay beside you, your warmth an anchor against the ever-present pull of the void. You were the only piece of his life untainted by blood, betrayal, and violence, and that was why he kept you far away from the shadows that clung to him like a second skin.

But no matter how hard Dazai tried to shield you, the world he belonged to always found a way to destroy everything good.

The hitmen weren’t looking for you. They wanted him—Dazai Osamu, the man who had walked out of hell and left corpses in his wake. But when they didn’t find him, they found you instead. And they made you their message.

He came home to silence—a silence that wasn’t the kind you filled with soft conversation or lazy laughter. This silence was heavier, darker, and it hit him in the chest like the memory of a long-forgotten betrayal.

Dazai knew before he even saw the blood.

The sight of you lying there, your body broken and barely clinging to life, stole the air from his lungs. For a moment, he stood frozen, his mind blank as the weight of it all came crashing down. And then something primal snapped inside him.

His voice was low as he called out your name, trembling, barely audible. He dropped to his knees beside you, his fingers shaking as he touched your blood-streaked face, as if he were afraid you’d shatter beneath his touch.

You were still breathing, but it was faint, so faint that he felt like every second could be your last.

“Why—why did this have to happen?” he whispered, his words more to himself than to you. He pressed his forehead to yours, his eyes burning with unshed tears. “I kept you away from all of this, didn’t I? I thought I did...”

And yet, even in this, he couldn’t escape the guilt, the bitter irony of how his world devoured anything it touched.

happy ending

Against all odds, you survived. Dazai, his hands unsteady but precise, tended to your wounds in those first crucial hours, working with a focus born of desperation. He called in favors, used every connection he had to ensure you lived.

When you finally opened your eyes, weak and disoriented, he was there. His face betrayed nothing, but his hands—gentle as they brushed the hair from your face—told a different story.

“You’re safe now,” he murmured, though the words felt hollow even to him.

In the days that followed, he didn’t leave your side. He cared for you with a devotion so intense it bordered on obsession. He bought you whatever you needed, whatever you might want, as if material things could erase the pain, as if spoiling you could atone for his failure.

But no matter how much he gave, the guilt never left. Every time he looked at you, he saw the scars—both the ones on your skin and the ones buried deeper, in places he could never reach.

Dazai, the man who had once thought himself untouchable, now found himself tethered to a new kind of torment: the knowledge that he had been the one to bring ruin to the one thing he loved.

sad ending

But fate wasn’t kind, and this time, the genius himself couldn’t outsmart the universe.

You didn’t make it.

Holding you as the life drained from your body, his voice was soft and trembling as he whispered words meant to soothe, to distract you from the pain.

“Just stay with me a little longer,” he pleaded, his tone almost casual, as if he could trick you into staying by pretending this wasn’t goodbye. “We’ll laugh about this later, won’t we? You’ll make fun of me for being so dramatic, and I’ll tell you how ridiculous you are for worrying me like this.”

Still, even as he spoke, he felt your breaths grow weaker, your body heavier in his arms. And when you finally stilled, when the silence became absolute, Dazai didn’t cry.

Instead, he sat there, holding you, his mind a maelstrom of thoughts too fractured to form words. He replayed every moment he’d spent with you, every smile, every laugh, every time you had looked at him like he was more than the sum of his sins.

And now you were gone.

The hitmen who had done this would pay—of that, he was certain. But even vengeance felt hollow, meaningless, because no amount of bloodshed could bring you back.

As he laid your body down and stepped away, he thought of all the times he had tried to leave the darkness behind, all the times he had thought you might be the one to pull him out of it.

In the end, Dazai was a man who destroyed everything he touched. And now, as he walked away from the life you would never return to, he realized that perhaps he had always known this would end in ruin.

Because that’s what he was: ruin, wrapped in charm and wit and hollow smiles. And this—losing you—was the cost of pretending he could be anything else.

thx for reading <3

[jaesblogstuff]

I UH- i need to get back to my anatomy studies. I have block 3 exams to ace :(

Love, in its rawest form. Worship, in the shape of ruin.

—

The night wrapped itself around the city like a velvet cloak. heavy, warm, and soaked in secrets. Rain streaked the windows of the apartment, the soft hiss of it against glass the only sound that dared speak aloud. The candlelight flickered low, throwing shadows across bare walls and skin alike.

She stood in the doorway of the bedroom, robe hanging loosely from her shoulders, the soft silk clinging to the curve of her spine, to the places his eyes always lingered. He saw her before she saw him. Sitting at the edge of the bed, forearms resting on his thighs, shirt discarded somewhere behind him. His breath hitched the moment she stepped into the light.

There was nothing hurried about it—only devotion.

When he rose to meet her, his fingers ghosted over the place where her collarbone met her throat, like a man unsure if he was allowed to touch something so holy. Her breath trembled at the contact. Not from fear, but from anticipation.

His mouth found her skin first, lowered to kiss the hollow of her neck, the slope of her shoulder, the space behind her ear that always made her sigh. He unraveled her robe slowly, like he was peeling away layers of myth. She was no goddess, but he looked at her like one. And she worshipped him in return, with hands, with gasps, with whispered curses that dripped like honey from her lips.

The bed welcomed them like a sanctuary.

He laid her down with a gentleness that bordered on reverent, lips brushing her knee, then her thigh, then higher. She reached for him, desperate and dizzy, but he only smiled. Slow and dangerous, a man with all the time in the world.

“Not yet,” he murmured, voice rough with restraint. “Let me.”

And she did.

He touched her like scripture. Kissed her like penance. Drew every moan and tremble from her body with deliberate slowness until she was begging—softly, sweetly, so close to unraveling that her hands trembled when she touched his face.

He didn’t take her until she was pleading. Until her voice broke on his name like prayer.

When he finally sank into her, it was a quiet kind of ruin.

Their bodies moved together like the only truth in the room. Nothing hurried. Nothing wild. Just deep, drawn-out worship. His mouth on her jaw, his fingers locked in hers, their chests pressed so close it hurt. Every thrust was slow, aching, too much and not enough. She cried out softly when he angled just right, his name tumbling from her lips again and again like she didn’t know any other word.

He kissed it from her mouth.

Tears caught in her lashes. The beauty of it. The ache of it. The weight of being seen like that—laid bare, adored, wrecked by a man who loved her like it was a sin he’d gladly die for.

They came together in silence. no thunder, no cries. just a desperate exhale shared between mouths. Just his forehead against hers, their bodies trembling in the afterglow, slick and shaking, neither of them speaking. There were no words holy enough.

Later, he pulled her into his chest, burying his face in her hair. She laid there, boneless and blinking, while his hands roamed her back like he was still trying to memorize her. The candles burned low, the rain softened, and the silence between them was thick with meaning.

He pressed a kiss to her temple and whispered, “You’re all I believe in.”

And that was enough.

[aquaquadrant]

i would do anything for more pathos and dbubs interactions, they have my whole heart

well i don’t exactly take requests, it’s more just people sending in asks that happen to inspire me to write. and it’s not a guaranteed thing; i’ll hoard the asks in my drafts until i find the time/energy/motivation to write (i’m still sitting on some from over a year ago hafshdgah)

but i’ve really been feeling the pathbubs love lately so i got a little something for y’all :3

~*~

dbubs wipes his forehead with the back of his hand, leaning back to admire his masterpiece.

it took him five freaking days to gather the materials (only stopping to sleep, of course). chests and chests of diorite, oh yes, mined deep in a cave beneath the jungle. rows and rows of spruce trees grown by hand- they stuck out like sore thumbs in all the natural foliage. stacks and stacks of colored glass, the sand emptied from the bottom of several little lagoons. and then he had to clear out a space, of course. a pretty big space. which unfortunately… meant a lotta choppin’.

it’d pained him to take down so many trees, but it couldn’t be helped, really. jungles are just too dense for any real building. it’s- it’s really not a big deal, the jungle’s huge, it’ll be fine! it’s fine. what’s a few trees, right? he’s not gonna- the beauty of this place, the natural sort of… whimsy and- and majesty, it’ll still be good. he’s just gonna enhance it with some of his own uh, creative… work. yeah. and- well, if there’s anyone in hels who understands how to build in harmony with nature, sure enough, it’s ol’ dbubs!

anyway, he did that, and then the real work started. another three days of solid building. which- it’s not a massive build, alright, it’s- it’s respectable. two stories. maybe three, with the… the crenellations and spires and things. but building ain’t exactly the easiest thing to do, in the jungle. there’s terrain difficulties, big trees and mushrooms and things, and mobs, of course. hoglins, always stickin’ their noses in his business… uh, the ocelots and parrots aren’t really a problem, no, just a little annoying. oh, but then- there was a brief period where a ghostly- a- a ghast spawned outside the jungle’s border and then sorta… drifted into the air above the canopy, and it freaking- it took potshots at him every dang time he climbed up his scaffolding! (he killed it in one shot, of course, first try).

but it was worth it. it’s a lovely temple, a perfect temple. overgrown with vines and moss, with specifically- uh, specially placed cracks and holes to make it look all in… dis- disarray? dishevelment… or uh, abandonment? he even- this is real cool- he put a small custom tree growin’ out the side. the stained glass windows catch the light beautifully, yes, what gorgeous- he really outdid himself, with this one! his other builds, of course, they’re still… uh, wait, did- he can’t quite remember, actually, when his last build was. or, what it was. where did he… wait…

… anyway! his glorious temple is done, and he can’t wait to show patho the next time he visits.

should be any day, now.

~*~

the jungle stirs.

it has been uneasy for many days and nights, now. hissing and flinching as trees are ripped from its shell. groaning and chafing beneath the weight of unfamiliar blocks piled on its surface. its caves and lakes are hollowed out, a gnawing void at its core.

it is disappointed, but not surprised, that its player has tried again. it is in their nature, players, to spread and dominate every biome they encounter. it knew this when it decided to claim him.

natural resources, it can replenish easily. dirt, sand, and nylium will bubble and shift to fill the scarred land. fungi, trees, and bushes will spawn and sprout to cover the barren hills. but that… thing. that blight. the jungle cannot remove the machinations of players, not alone.

it may become a hoglin, to root and dig at the foundations. it may become a ghast, to breathe down fire and ruin. but these are crude forms. the best suited hands to dismantle this structure are the ones that built it in the first place.

the jungle becomes a player; its favorite player. at the dawn of a new day, it rises from sleep in a body that is foreign yet familiar, a fond but distant extension of the whole. vines and limbs move in tandem grace, guiding his feet back to the scene of his heresy. with strong, callused hands, it begins to pick the structure apart, block by block. no mob interferes, and there is no need for food. when the jungle sleeps, it merely drops him where he stands until the cycling of the unseen moon has run its course, before it raises him to his task again.

after days of endless work, every single unnatural block has been removed. whatever did not fit his inventory is left to despawn. the jungle walks its player back to his den (this structure is permissible, a nest among the trees) and finally releases him to sleep. now it turns its focus to regrowth and rebirth, healing over the ugly scar left on its terrain.

the jungle spends no energy on retribution or resentment. it will teach its player this lesson as many times as it needs to.

~*~

dbubs pulls patho through the jungle, excitement bubbling in his chest.

“okay, so- it’s right through here,” he calls over his shoulder. “my perfect- i- i built a whole temple, a sorta fallen temple, y’know. and not to took my own horn, here, but i- eughh, i- i think it’s some of my best work yet!”

patho’s chuckling behind his mask as he lets dbubs pull him along. “oh, yeah? what, uh… what about this build is so special, then?”

dbubs actually pauses at that, giving patho a shrewd look. “y’know, i- why do i get the sense you don’t believe me?” he puts his hands on his hips. “you- i build! i- i good builder!”

patho waves him off. “no, no, i know, i’m- it’s an honest question!” he defends, voice lined with amusement.

“oh-kayyy.” dbubs makes a show of rolling his eyes before resuming his trek, patho dutifully plodding after him. “well, then, to answer your question, i think it’s the uh… sorta vibe, or atmosphere of the build? ‘cause you- it’s like, you’re goin’ through this thick jungle, right, all wilderness, and then- all of a sudden, ka-blammo!” he throws his arms out, nearly smacking patho in the face with one of his vines. “there’s this majestic, ruined temple just there, all by its lonesome, overrun by nature. so- it makes you think, sure enough, like- what happened? who built it? where are they now? so it’s- hyeughh, it’s got a- a mystique, i feel…”

“oh, i see,” patho hums. “well, i can’t wait to see it.”

“yeah, yeah,” dbubs huffs, pushing a tangle of weeping vines out of the way, “you’re about to eat your words, mister! ‘cause heeeeere we are!”

he bursts out from the treeline to his temple clearing- only to be greeted by more jungle. seamless, unbroken jungle. he stops short, doing a double- no, a triple take. ‘cause he could’a sworn this is where he built it, wasn’t it? what’s the big idea?!

patho comes to a stop beside him and lets out a whistle, low and steady. “i- i see what you mean about the mystique, dbubs.”

“wait- no.” dbubs blinks, shakes his head. his chest is tight. “this isn’t- i- i built it here, i swear! it was perfect, it was beautiful-”

“i’m sure it was,” patho says easily, wrapping an arm around dbubs’s shoulders. he turns his head to nuzzle against dbubs’s temple, a masked substitution for a kiss. “c’mon, it’ll be dark soon, yeah? let’s head back.” his tone is knowing, almost consoling, and it feels wrong-

“but…” dbubs wavers, suddenly feeling like he’s on the edge of a cliff, grasping at air. “i- i wasn’t…” he pulls his inventory up, frantically scanning, ‘cause he’s sure that he- he knows that he-

his inventory is filled with stacks of diorite and spruce and colored glass. he inhales sharply.

“i dreamt it,” he announces, loud and abrupt. he gives patho a sheepish look, despite the relief that rushes through him. “i must’ve- listen, i know i- quit laughin’! ohh, you-!”

patho’s laugh is soft as he tugs dbubs into an embrace. “alright, sorry… hey, how about we build it tomorrow, okay?” his mismatched eyes gaze down at dbubs with fondness- and yet, there’s something else there. something almost… sad.

dbubs pushes the thought away, flicking a vine through the air. “oh, great,” he says sarcastically, even as he allows patho to steer them back into the jungle towards his base, hand-in-hand. “yeah, that’s- just what i need, you sittin’ around and crit- crita- critiquing my build! ‘oh- oh, why’d you put that block there, dbubs? why this wood type, dbubs?’ sheesh, gimme a break!”

“so, like… does that mean you don’t want my help?”

“well, hang on- i didn’t say that!”

“okay, just checkin’. you know, i don’t have to-”

“oh, stop it! you can- yes, okay, you may help me, please. for goodness sakes.”

“that’s what i thought.”

dbubs grumbles in feigned annoyance as contentment slowly seeps back in to wash away his earlier unease. it’s fine. this is fine! he just dreamt the whole building process, again, he wasn’t- he didn’t mean to lie. he just… must’ve been really excited about it, is all. yeah.

he glances back at the build site. “but maybe,” he pipes up tentatively, “uh- maybe… we build it somewhere else. i just- there’s a lotta trees to clear out there, y’know?”

patho’s cybernetic hand tightens around dbubs’s organic one, a comforting squeeze. “sure thing, dbubs.”

dbubs exhales slowly, the last of his worry falling away as he walks deeper into the jungle.

they’ll build it tomorrow. he can’t wait to show patho.

~*~

[psycho2-0]

Rosie's Requests pt. 2:

Lan and jer have been playing cat and mouse for a while now so what happens when jer has had enough and whisks lan away for a steamy first night together

Landon King prided himself on control—over his art, his life, and most of all, his emotions. But Jeremy Volkov made that damn near impossible. Every calculated glance, every stolen moment, every smirk aimed his way chipped at Landon's carefully constructed walls.  

Now, standing in the dimly lit corner of a lavish gallery where they’d been dancing around each other for weeks, Landon knew the game was coming to an end. Jeremy’s piercing gray eyes held him captive, daring him to deny the inevitable.  

“I’m done waiting,” Jeremy murmured, his voice a low rumble that sent shivers racing down Landon’s spine. The larger man’s presence loomed, intoxicating, as he stepped closer, invading Landon’s space with a predatory grace that left no room for escape.  

“Waiting for what?” Landon shot back, his tone as defiant as ever, though the slight tremor in his voice betrayed him.  

Jeremy’s lips curled into a knowing smirk, but his gaze was anything but amused. It burned with intent, a promise of what was to come. “For you to stop running from me, Кукла. (Doll)”  

Landon barely had time to process the words before Jeremy’s hand wrapped around his wrist, firm but not harsh. A silent command, one Landon’s body obeyed before his mind could catch up.  

---

The car ride was silent, tension thick in the air. Landon watched Jeremy’s profile in the dim light of passing streetlamps, his heart thudding in his chest. There was no mistaking the determination etched into the sharp lines of Jeremy’s face.  

When the car stopped in front of a private estate, Landon’s curiosity peaked, but he held his tongue. Jeremy led him inside, his grip unwavering as they moved through sleek, modern hallways until they reached an expansive bedroom dominated by floor-to-ceiling windows. The city skyline glittered in the distance, but Landon barely noticed it.  

“What is this?” Landon asked, finally finding his voice.  

Jeremy turned, his intense gaze pinning him in place. “This is where you stop pretending you don’t want this.”  

Before Landon could respond, Jeremy closed the distance between them. His hands cupped Landon’s face, his thumb brushing over his cheekbone with a tenderness that contradicted the storm brewing in his eyes.  

“Tell me to stop,” Jeremy said, his voice rough, barely controlled.  

Landon’s lips parted, but no words came out. The room seemed to hold its breath, waiting.  

“I thought so,” Jeremy murmured before capturing Landon’s lips in a searing kiss.  

---

Heat bloomed between them, igniting every nerve in Landon’s body as Jeremy claimed his mouth with a hunger that bordered on desperation. Landon’s hands found their way to Jeremy’s broad shoulders, clutching at him as if he were the only thing keeping him grounded.  

The kiss deepened, all-consuming, until Jeremy pulled back just enough to press their foreheads together. His breath was hot against Landon’s lips, his voice a gravelly whisper. “I’ve wanted this—wanted you—for so long.”  

Landon’s chest tightened at the raw vulnerability in Jeremy’s words, but before he could respond, Jeremy’s lips were on him again, tracing a fiery path along his jaw and down his neck.  

“Jeremy…” Landon’s voice was breathless, his resolve crumbling with every touch.  

“Say my name again,” Jeremy demanded, his hands roaming over Landon’s body, mapping every curve and hollow as if committing him to memory.  

“Jeremy,” Landon repeated, his voice breaking on a gasp as Jeremy’s teeth grazed the sensitive skin of his collarbone.  

Clothes disappeared in a frenzy of movement, leaving them bare and exposed in every sense of the word. Jeremy’s hands and lips were everywhere—devouring, worshipping, possessing—until Landon felt like he might combust from the sheer intensity of it all.  

When Jeremy finally guided him to the bed, his movements slowed, a stark contrast to the earlier urgency. He hovered over Landon, his gaze softening a little, as he took in the flushed skin, the swollen lips, the darkened blue eyes.  

“You’re mine, Landon,” Jeremy said, his voice steady, resolute. “Say it.”  

Landon’s breath hitched, but he didn’t hesitate. “I’m yours.”  

The words seemed to unlock something in Jeremy. He kissed Landon again, this time with a reverence that left Landon trembling beneath him.  

What followed was a night of unrestrained passion, their bodies moving in perfect synchrony, each touch and caress speaking the words neither had dared to say before.  

As the first light of dawn filtered through the windows, Landon lay tangled in the sheets, his body deliciously sore and his heart dangerously full. Jeremy’s arm was draped possessively over his waist, his face relaxed in sleep.  

For the first time in a long time, Landon felt at peace. And as he drifted off, he knew there was no going back.

Part 1

[redux-iterum]

Charred Legacy: Chapter Five

(AO3 counterpart here.)

Whitecloud’s kindly-delivered orders could only do so much, ultimately. Fireheart and Greystripe didn’t stalk their friend around the territory, at least, nor did they offer advice (since, really, what advice could they give in this situation?) or cheers every time Ravenwing succeeded in a small mentoring task. They did, however, “accidentally” wander by the training hollow and just decide to pop in for a small visit and check on how “all of the apprentices” were doing. If that happened a little more often than it should have, no one said. Mousefur would give them a dry look every time they poked their heads out of the woods and made a pathetic attempt to strike up conversation with her and the others, their eyes glued to Ravenwing and his little white apprentice.

As it turned out, Whitecloud was right. With every visit and reunion in camp, they watched in awe as Ravenwing’s eyes steadily glowed brighter and brighter with focus and energy. He came home and brought Snowpaw to the prey-pile, then greeted his friends with a shaky sigh and a weak twitch of the whiskers, but these gestures graduated from stress to a more satisfied exhaustion.

“How was tonight?” Fireheart would ask, or Greystripe.

Ravenwing would plop down beside them and half-chuff, saying something like, “Snowpaw’s quieter than you’d expect on dry leaves,” or “I can’t even count how many times we had to redo that battle move; he is definitely not a fighter” (that one always cheered Fireheart immensely). Sometimes Snowpaw would come over and drop a woodrat at Ravenwing’s feet, and sometimes he would just bump his head on his mentor’s before trotting off merrily to join his siblings where they sat and ate.

“He’s smart,” Fireheart remarked one night after Snowpaw had pushed a skinny squirrel into Ravenwing’s reach and went back to get prey of his own. “He knows better than we do what to give you after a night of training.”

“And boundless with his energy.” Ravenwing purred and pulled the squirrel closer to his chest. “I swear he got body language down without me having to teach him. Stars, I hardly have to correct him when he’s hunting—he just looks right at me, and I look at his belly or tail, whatever he needs to fix, and he corrects his posture without me saying anything.”

Greystripe’s eyes widened and he craned his head to look at Snowpaw in respect. “You got a way easier apprentice than I think any of us expected.”

“Well, it’s not all that simple,” Ravenwing said, following Greystripe’s line of sight. “He’s still deaf. Tonight he nearly walked right into Snakerocks because he couldn’t hear me. I had to catch him and lead him away before he woke up an adder.” His eyes were affectionate regardless. “And we’re still figuring out how to communicate more easily. I have to do a lot of exaggerated poses and faces, and sometimes he gets confused anyway.” With his jaws halfway open to bite down on the squirrel, he looked back to his friends. “Actually, that reminds me: what do you think says ‘badger’ more? This—” he wrinkled his brow and set his head level with his shoulders, his ears perked upright “—or this?” He flattened his ears sideways and uncreased his forehead. “I’m trying to get the look of a badger’s head, I think that’ll make it easier to understand.”

Fireheart hummed thoughtfully. “Well, the wrinkling does look like their head-stripes a bit.”

“I’d say do the latter,” Greystripe replied. “That forehead thing’s hard to do. You want everyone to be able to sign it, right?”

“Good point.” Fireheart nodded and said to Ravenwing, “Do the latter, then.”

“Thanks.” Ravenwing pulled off a bit of meat and chewed, then swallowed, adding, “Earlier, he scented a badger by the border and wanted to know what it was. I couldn’t exactly just walk him up to the thing, but I didn’t know what to call it. And mouth-movement is hard for him to follow if you’re talking too quickly or you’re saying a word he doesn’t know.”

Greystripe grunted, his mouth full of pigeon. He barely swallowed it down before talking. “It seems like you’re having fun, honestly. Are you?”

Ravenwing’s eyes unfocused for a moment as he thought the question over. After a bit of silence, he looked back to his friends, eyes bright again. “Honestly? Kind of, yeah. I mean– like– I’ve been watching everyone else really closely, to see how they teach, and I get stressed when it’s something new I have to show him, especially when I’m not good at it. But it’s, like, a fun kind of stress? Like I’ve been given a riddle and I have to solve it before midday. Does that make sense?”

“That makes total sense,” Fireheart said, his relief stretching his face into a beam at his friend. “We’ve been worried that this was too much for you.”

“I mean it was, initially, but…” Ravenwing let out a breath that was much steadier than normal. “It’s just gotten easier. Watching Mousefur and Dustpelt do it helped. They’re both really good for first-time mentors.”

“What about Willowpelt?” asked Greystripe.

Ravenwing looked around camp cautiously and leaned in to his friends, keeping his voice low. “She’s fine, but it’s pretty obvious she’d prefer to be doing something else. I don’t think Brackenpaw has noticed yet, thankfully. He’s just enamored with the forest. And always asking when we can visit the other territories. It’s a miracle Willowpelt can get him to come home and not jump in the river to see where it goes.”

Fireheart snorted and Greystripe shook his head in amusement, saying, “That little ant is going to get in trouble one of these nights.”

“Oh, Brightpaw is way worse.” Ravenwing dropped his voice even further into a gossipy whisper. “Always trying to sprint after a deer or chase fox-scent to fight its owner. She and Thornpaw are very into battle-training, and they just keep tackling each other when we have downtime. And you should see Brightpaw try to climb every tree we pass by. She’s awful at it, honestly, but it’s really funny. Poor Mousefur can’t relax for a moment. But I think she likes it. She always looks really amused when chasing after her.”

Greystripe snickered. “Where did these two get that energy? Frostfur and Lionface weren’t exactly adventurous.”

“Maybe they—” started Fireheart, but a noise interrupted him. He turned his head to the nursery.

For the first time in a month, a massive golden molly was straining to squeeze out of its entrance.

“There she is!” Greystripe said, and immediately gave Fireheart a tickled look as he jumped to his feet and darted across camp, leaving his half-eaten prey behind.

“Mira!” he called, barely remembering to slow down and stop.

The matriarch, Goldenflower, didn’t waste any time either, crying, “Honeymouse!” and greeting him by rubbing her cheek on top of his head, purring loud enough to drown out the rest of camp that was trying to greet Goldenflower as well.

Fireheart drew back to look up at her, tail curling. “It’s been forever! You must be excited to be outside again.”

“Oh, I’d live my life entirely in the nursery if I could.” Goldenflower gave him a lick on his ear. “But then I wouldn’t see you, would I?”

“Good to see you!” Speckletail called, approaching with Teaselfoot behind her.

Teaselfoot cocked his head teasingly. “Your kits finally forced you out of there, huh?”

Goldenflower twitched her whiskers. “They’re ready to come outside and meet their Clanmates.” Her voice leaned into sternness. “Be kind to them, alright?”

Teaselfoot blinked in surprise. “Of course!”

Fireheart caught a glance at Frostfur, and her face was… oddly tense. If he didn’t know any better, he’d say she looked a little afraid. Afraid of what?

Goldenflower turned her head back to the nursery’s entrance and murmured something sweetly into the darkness of the den. An indistinct voice, high and soft, answered her, followed by scuffling of the densely-packed soil as a pair of kits came out, one after the other. The first was an impressively big tortoiseshell-tabby covered in splashes of pale ginger and warm brown, with an already-bold face and immensely fluffy fur. The second…

The second…

Fireheart stared as a dark brown tabby, solidly built and with big paws, carefully maneuvered around his mother. He had stark stripes and his claws, almost too long to be fully retracted, curled on the sand and parted it neatly into lines.

He looks exactly like his father.

Fireheart chanced a look at his Clanmates. Even Teaselfoot was stiff in shock, all jovial warmth gone from his face. Speckletail stood still, and when Fireheart looked at his friends, they stared with open mouths. Frostfur had her head ducked in discomfort.

Goldenflower had a face of very thin happiness, poorly concealing a protective glaring light in her eyes. The molly, the tortoiseshell, stood beside her, looking up at her in confusion, while the tom hid a bit behind his sister, the many eyes on him turning him shy.

Fireheart didn’t let the silence continue any further; he stepped towards the kits and bent down to their eye level, purring. “So you’re my brother and sister!”

Goldenflower’s glare blew out and she looked down at him gratefully. “Bramblekit, Tawnykit, this is Fireheart. He’s your big brother.”

Tawnykit did not look particularly impressed, going by her eyes scanning Fireheart flatly, but Bramblekit cautiously stepped out from behind his sister and sniffed Fireheart’s nose, his voice almost as soft as his brother’s when he murmured, “Hello.”

Fireheart immediately lowered his own voice and kept his eyes creased and friendly, careful not to make direct eye contact, as Bramblekit shrank away a bit when he did. “I’m really happy to meet you at last. I’ve been waiting since you were born—I didn’t get to visit you before now.”

Bramblekit tilted his head. “Why?”

Fireheart’s mind scrambled for a reason that wasn’t the true, dark one. “Well, too many cats in the nursery can upset the kittens and the mothers. Even someone as small as me makes it too crowded.”

Tawnykit eyed Fireheart, like she was scrutinizing him. Bramblekit, at least, seemed content with the answer and nodded, mumbling, “Okay.”

Fireheart glanced back at his Clanmates. Their initial shock seemed to have worn off, though a few still looked a bit disturbed. Several cats slowly approached as Goldenflower gently nudged her kits forward, some greeting the twins and some speaking to Goldenflower herself.

Fireheart, relieved, backed up a bit to give them all room. Bramblekit watched him go with wide eyes, but Tawnykit came to stand by him and nosed his ear, making him straighten up some and respond to the adults in a slightly louder voice.

They’re Goldenflower’s, alright, Fireheart thought affectionately. Big and fluffy. They’re going to be taller than me by the time they become apprentices. I wonder who will mentor…

With a feeling like spider crawling up his spine, Fireheart sensed eyes on him. He looked this way and that, trying to find the cat responsible. His eyes settled on the most shaded part of camp, and glinting in the dark were a pair of furiously blazing yellow eyes.

Darkstripe, once again. He glared directly at Fireheart, tail twitching.

Fireheart grimaced. It wasn’t that he wasn’t used to Darkstripe glaring at him with all the hatred he could muster. This time, it was just his happiness draining out of him and into the sand, when he had been so excited to see his Clan family.

I get it, he thought, stifling his irritation at the drastic shift in mood. You hate my guts. Could you at least try to be more subtle about it?

Out loud, he said (a bit loudly so he could be heard from a distance), “Nice to see the kits, huh? I’ve missed Goldenflower.”

Darkstripe’s lip twitched now. He lowered himself into a half-crouch, his fur flared.

Fireheart half-anticipated being attacked, so he simply gave the warrior a nod and returned to Goldenflower as the crowd dispersed one by one. Bramblekit noticed Fireheart first as he hid behind Tawnykit, emerging with a look of relief.

“It’s a lot, I know,” Fireheart said kindly when he was close enough and the Clan had spread out again. “But you’ll like it when you get older. We’re all just very excited to meet you both.”

Tawnykit yawned. “I’m hungry.” She pawed her mother. “I want a mouse.”

Bramblekit brightened up immediately. “Yeah. Can we have a mouse, mi?”

Goldenflower looked down at them lovingly. “Just a couple bites, loves. You need to chew it.”

“Oh!” Fireheart straightened his posture. “I can get it. I think I saw a fresh one earlier.”

“We’ll go with you,” Goldenflower said, and stood, touching her nose to Fireheart’s forehead. “I’ll admit, it’s nice to walk around again.”

“I can imagine!” Fireheart walked with her, the kits waddling along at their hocks. “You must take up half the space in the nursery.”

Goldenflower chuffed. “I’m not that fat, honeymouse.”

“I just mean you’re, well, generally big. Fur and muscle and motherly plush.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.” Goldenflower stopped as they reached the prey-pile and looked at her kits, down at her front legs. “Now, let Fireheart pick out the mouse, okay?”

At the prompt, Fireheart hurried forward and scanned the admittedly-small pile. He found the mouse he’d mentioned, still fresh and soft, and picked it up by the tail. He turned around, stepped up to his siblings and gently lowered it at their feet. They sniffed it with sparkling eyes and then looked up at Goldenflower.

“You have to peel off the fur to get to the meat,” she explained, a look of serene delight on her face. “Can you do it?”

“I can,” Tawnykit said immediately. She gripped the side of the mouse with her tiny, tiny teeth and yanked. The mouse flopped onto its other side and she dropped it with a frown.

“Go like this,” Fireheart said, putting a paw on the mouse and miming biting it. “Hold it in place.”

Tawnykit nodded gravely, like he had just given her the most important task in the world, and copied him. Bramblekit helped by putting his wide paw on the mouse as well, and with the combined efforts, Tawnykit succeeded in stripping a wide chunk of the skin and fur off of the prey. The kits took a heartbeat to sniff the meat before hesitantly tasting with a lick, and then chomping down ferociously.

“Not too fast, loves, you’ll give yourself a stomachache!” Goldenflower leaned in and carefully pawed their backs. “Only a couple bites, now.”

As the kits ignored her, the sound of shuffling hit Fireheart’s ear. He looked up from the scene to see Bluestar entering camp and blinking wearily.

“Evening!” he said brightly. “Bluestar, come look.”

The leader squinted at him, but padded over to him. “What do I need to see?”

Fireheart drew back and gestured with his paw to the gobbling kits.

He expected some sort of reaction—it was hard to ignore Bramblekit’s appearance. He did not expect Bluestar to flinch so hard that she almost lost power in her back legs and stare at Bramblekit in horror. Her fur along her spine and tail bristled.

“Bluestar?” Fireheart asked hesitantly. “Are you alright?”

Goldenflower’s eyes snapped up to her leader. She shuffled a bit closer to her kits, a defensive near-glare zeroed in on Bluestar.

Bluestar did not appear to notice her. She was staring at Bramblekit, mouth slightly open like she was trying to speak.

Fireheart, not sure exactly what to do but desperate to do something, hurried up to her and positioned himself to block her view. He spoke a bit louder. “Everything alright, ma’am?”

That seemed to do the trick. Slowly, Bluestar settled down, her eyes finding Fireheart’s. He gave her a pointed-but-sympathetic gaze. With that, her fur flattened and she cleared her throat.

“It’s good to see you, Goldenflower,” she said slowly, looking at the matriarch. “Your kits… your kits are lovely.”

Before either of them could respond, she nabbed a vole and turned, trotting with some speed away from the little family and back out of camp, a few uncomfortable and confused faces watching her go. The apprentices whispered to each other and Speckletail murmured something to Teaselfoot.

Fireheart bit the inside of his cheek.

Oh, boy.

[sentientsky]

happy wednesday or whatever anyway here’s a tender lovely-dovey scene from one of my actual good omens fics but i’ve spliced and diced it into bullshit :)

Aziraphale, tear-streaked and frenzied, reached to touch the demon’s chest, to confirm he was real and alive and unharmed. “Oh god. Oh…somebody, my love,” he murmured, hands finding Crowley’s face. Tears swam in his eyes, and fell down his cheeks in glittering rivulets. His demon wiped them away with soft hands. “I—I don’t understand,” Aziraphale managed to choke out.

Crowley blinked. “Neither do I.”

“I thought I lost you,” his voice broke on the last syllable.

The demon leaned forward, pressed a kiss to his angel’s forehead. Tension still lived in the hollows of his bones, a heavy innate fear. An awareness of where they were, the danger looming nearby. The blue shock of the Metatron’s eyes. An awareness of how many countless things could go wrong.

And yet, unbidden as ever, a familiar warmth took residence in his chest, in the very pulp of his marrow. He felt a small smile form on his mouth, cautiously optimistic and brimming with affection. “Never. Can’t get rid of me, angel. Warranty expired thousands of years ago.”

His angel laughed, softly, bordering on a sob. The world burned around them and countless angels looked on. And still, Aziraphale never tore his gaze away, his face cupped in Crowley palm. Pale wings fluttered behind him. His thousand eyes flared, heavy with residual worry and… oh. Crowley couldn’t sense love. Hadn’t been able to since before he was an angel in the time before time even knew it was a thing. And yet. And yet, something barely-remembered shifted as he met his angel’s gaze; an atrophied muscle, a phantom limb. A ring of dust where a vase once sat.

He looked up at Crowley, a soft smile playing on his lips. And then he turned his head to kiss the demon’s palm.

“I love you.”

Aziraphale had murmured it quietly, soft breath whispering against Crowley’s palm. And he had said it so simply , as though it were a fundamental fact of the universe—as though the words had been sitting right there, just under his tongue, since the dawn of time.

Despite the calamity unfolding around them, Crowley was, of course, malfunctioning. His hands were shaking. He was pretty sure he’d forgotten how to keep his corporation upright and breathing. Lungs and the whole oxygen thingy kind of cease to take priority when the love of your (very, very, impossibly long) life admits that that love is reciprocated. The world was ending (again), and that was the moment his body decided to verge on the precipice of discorporation. Amazing timing, Crowley. You’re being so devilishly suave about this, he chastised himself.

After he’d had a moment to catch breath he didn’t really need, he spoke at last, reverence catching on the corners of his consonants. “That’s really fucking gay, angel.”

again, if you’re interested, here’s the actual fic (fair warning, it’s a bit all over the place but I swear it makes sense in my head and it’ll make more sense once I pull all the strings together in the next 2 chapters lmao): x

[the-narwhals-awaken]

Bloody Hearts Bingo Day 26

Prompt: Kisses, Romance | Peppering their face with soft kisses

Chad knew full well that the end of any war nominally was never the actual end of the work. There was all the treaty negotiation, the disbanding of armies and the coordination of funerals and memorials and service benefits, and all the mop-up work- those who didn't believe the war was over, those who didn't know the war was over, and those who'd used the war as a source of profit. All the end of a war offered was the promise that the work would be over and a decrease in organized conflict- and while it was worth it, sometimes Chad longed for the days when he'd thought that winning a war meant that everything was over.

Fortunately, the same lack of care that had meant poor supply lines and late reinforcements also extended to paperwork- they'd kept up with the after-action paperwork and had little more to do as Karakura remained juureichi and thus on limited jurisdiction. Ukitake-taichou had given him a wink when he'd mentioned limited patrols since the local forces were handling things quite well, though Chad still wasn't quite sure if the wink was a promise of regular patrols coordinating to help cover the times when they were ran thin or a promise of limited Shinigami presence.

Now, though, Chad was concerned for Ichigo. He'd collapsed after defeating Aizen (leaving him bound in Muken, the Hogyoku nestled in his chest ensuring his survival but equally that he'd be bound by its mercurial nature until somebody peeled them apart, a process which would likely kill Aizen and destroy the Hogyoku) and Chad hadn't seen him since- despite his and his partners' best efforts. At first, it had been reasonable- put on a show during mop-up, along with the fact that supporting Ichigo and Zangetsu's balance had left all of them in great need of a nap (along with a shower to get rid of all the sand) and the paperwork afterwards was mostly independent- Chad had done it nestled in a clearing in the woods bordering Karakura, alone with his thoughts and the quiet pulse of the world around him.

But Kurosaki-sensei had been insistent that Ichigo was both perfectly fine and not up to recieving visitors, and the twins had looked increasingly concerned the one time Chad had managed to work his way into the Kurosaki house. There were no signs of injury on either of them- and Chad knew that Yuzu, at least, wouldn't have hidden it when there was a chance to bait others into either acknowledging what was going on or becoming fully complicit in Kurosaki-sensei's lies.

Karin had snuck out after Chad had been firmly escorted back out, and given him the last piece in the puzzle he needed for right now- Ichigo was currently immobile, exhausted and clearly missing his partners. Even Zangetsu hadn't bothered moving the body for anything more intensive than getting to the bathroom and back, which was concerning enough that Karin had already tried getting information out- only to be stopped by Kurosaki-sensei before she could make it halfway to the Shouten.

It was late evening- the calm quiet time of day when people cared least about what was going on outside their houses. Chad slipped up to Ichigo's window with the ease of having done this hundreds of times, sliding the window open and settling on the sill.

Ichico laid in his bed, staring blankly at the ceiling, and his reiatsu was so worn that for half a second Chad feared that they'd failed, that Ichigo had suffered from what he'd done in the way that Mugetsu would have brought upon him.

Then a flicker of Hollow power reached up in response to his presence, and Chad relaxed. He slipped the rest of the way through the window and settled in his usual spot when he came to visit- by the head of the bed, blocking the door. A soft kiss to the forehead proved there was no fever and had Ichigo's eyes shifting over to him, hope blooming in a way that had Chad hissing internally. Were it not for the Patricide Rules, he'd have killed Kurosaki-sensei right then and there and not lost a wink of sleep over it.

"You're here?" Ichigo whispered, voice raspy like he'd been screaming for far too long.

"I'm here," Chad agreed, leaning down and kissing him again, gentle as Ichigo deserved. "The others are covering for us. You ready to go?"

Ichigo nodded immediately, and Chad shifted back. He'd prepared for Ichigo being unable to get himself out- the only reason he wouldn't join them- and now he bundled Ichigo into a sushi wrap of his blankets, lifting him and a small bag of his things and wiggling back through the window (a slightly awkward proposition, but one that was managed without dropping anything).

It said something about Karakura that there was no response to the sight of him carrying a person-sized tube of blankets bridal-style. Chad appreciated it- he could have fought off any attempted muggings, but the police were slightly more difficult to deal with, if only because he didn't want an explicit criminal record until after university- and soon enough he found himself in the Shouten, tugged forcibly into the observation room that they'd turned into a nest.

Orihime had been pacing, while Uryuu had a length of fabric in his hands that Chad suspected was going to end up a tapestry with all the stitching being done on it, though both had immediately swarmed him the second he stepped past the doors. There were kisses pressed to his face and to Ichigo's, the kind of desparate touches from people who were not meant to be alone anymore.

They ended up tucked together, Orihime still twitching slightly with leftover adrenaline. None of them were inclined to let go anytime soon, and Chad couldn't say he was upset about any of it. The war had been hard, and staying curled up in Kisuke's lab, tucked in close with his people, sharing gentle affection without the need to be on guard- that sounded like paradise.

[quartzhearted]

[ 𝐥𝐨𝐬𝐬 ] : after being misinformed that the sender has died, receiver is grieving. (heh)

"HE'S WHAT?!"

the fury in morion's voice is instinctual. he's yelling before the information has truly settled in to his mind, and the thunder he spews frightens even the hardiest of his generals. he rises from his seat, the speed sending now-forgotten documents fluttering to the floor.

morion rushes to the doorway of his office where his generals stand and stops just short of the leader, fists shaking with a barely-contained rage never before seen in him. it sears his blood like a brand and makes him feel like he's two seconds from exploding (figuratively AND literally speaking). it's not the general's fault; he's just doing his job; he looks just as horrified as anyone about the news; none of these thoughts that should be registering can fit into morion's mind now.

at this moment, all he can think about is one thing, drenched in utter disbelief and complete unacceptance:

alcryst is dead?

but that cannot be; alcryst was only going out for a general survey of the border. had morion known anything remotely dangerous were to be present, he would have gone himself with no qualms. no, his scouts would have found something before alcryst even had the thought in his head to go patrol that day. that week. that month. morion would never have sent his son out, knowingly, into overwhelming danger. not where he himself could have substituted.

and yet, his generals are no liars. they are honest in their despair---eyes are sunken hollow into each of their pallid faces, and the frontmost of them looks the most out of sorts. with him he carries a ripped quiver and a bow with a broken string; seeing these items here instead of where they should have been is enough to make morion feel faint. restring the bow and bring it back to him, his mind shouts. damnation, the kid's without his weapon! bring it back to him!

but there's one thing off about this whole mess.

"if he's dead, where's the body?"

he knows that if he sees something like that, he very well may lose his mind. even still, the lack of a body gives him hope, if only a little. the generals exchange looks hurriedly, and when one speaks, strangely, the relief fuels his rage even further.

"w-we... we didn't see one, sir," stammers an accompanying knight in the back. "we just saw blood and prince alcryst's weapons... plus, a lot of his battalion were heavily injured or killed by the time we'd g---"

"so you didn't see his body." the cold snap in morion's voice is more frigid than an elusian winter. everyone knows where this is going, but refusing to answer may just infuriate him more than being outright.

"...no sir."

"so you didn't see his body, but you decided you'd take his weapons, call attention to the area, and leave, eh?"

veins visibly begin popping in morion's forehead, and his whole face gradually darkens in color. it's such a terrifying sight that one of the other knights lets a whimper escape him. the generals think of correcting him, but their own total fear has robbed them of their voices. this is a morion scarcely even seen on the battlefield, demon that that man is. nay, this is something far worse:

this is a morion that has just found out his own knights have left his son, potentially injured and now defenseless, to die on brodian soil. the man rises and the world around him crumbles like a great landslide, preparing to take down anything that resists his gargantuan descent, yet his voice comes, initially, like a speck of dust sweeping through the air.

"you are going to restring this bow," flickers dust, "and you are going to get me a new quiver."

"you are going to gather the best men we have," rolls a stone down the hill, "and you are going to assemble each and every one of them in the next ten minutes."

"you are going to point to me EXACTLY where you found these things," clatters rocks one over the other, fighting to reach the ground, "and you will do so QUICKLY."

"AND FINALLY," comes the final roaring of boulders razing the earth beneath them, "YOU LOT ARE GONNA BEG ME NOT TO CUT YOUR HEADS OFF FOR LEAVIN' MY SON OUT THERE TO DIE! DO YOU UNDERSTAND?!"

some men fall on their rumps, others shrink back simply because their body tells them to. this man is positively alight with the most primal and fiery wrath; if a dragon's fire were divine punishment, then whatever morion currently harbors within him is enough to create and destroy galaxies. with a jumble of "right away!"s and "yes, sir!"s, the knights and generals vacate the area.

meanwhile, morion swiftly rips his sword from its rack on the wall---so harshly does he pull that the metal holder misshapes. he takes his tomahawk for ranged coverage and turns, pushing out into the hall with little time wasted.

if he wants something done right, he has to do it himself. wait for him, alcryst, because father's coming to get you home.

[traittor]

i only wish to stay one night. (He Xuan. And he’s struggling? 👀)

Where did he come from? Was the nether of his onyx manor so beguiling that the eel had to come crawling to the hollow willow tree sanctuary? This realm was a mere memory, a hint of what the former Prince of Wuyong could remember of his kingdom. Surely, it was HIS realm, but he made it unwelcoming to everyone else. It haunted Xie Lian with a whisper of its lingering, ghostly scent. This is where the wind died, where animals could not feed. And a PITLESS HUNGER came to seek refuge? Misery loved company, White No Face thought to himself as he glared, his head tilted slightly up, at the dark Ghost King lingering about. His eyes were distant and complicated. It tugged Bai Wuxiang's hidden lips into an indulgent smile.

"A Ghost King needs no sleep. He's DEAD." Bai Wuxiang laughed, mocking. He Shui was always pathetic, yet tonight he was particularly SOLEMN. By the deal of cruel magic, it worked wonders on the parasite who enjoyed making others just as empty as himself.

He stepped forward where He Xuan crossed the border between an illusion and reality. Here, even the grass was ghostly gray and the willow trees appeared hauntingly white, like snow. Bai Wuxiang approached without fear, sizing up the taller Calamity like he was a mere insect at the mercy of his shoe. "Mmm, where are you?" Bai Wuxiang's voice was surprisingly soft, and it doubled in the echoes of his garden. He noticed He Xuan's desperation but now he saw it clearly through the slits of his mask. "Ahh, has Heaven tormented you?" Bai Wuxiang took a guess through the eyes of Jun Wu, who, with pleasure, observed the meandering Earth Master riding the coattails of the brilliant Wind Master. While the other martial gods were fooled, He Xuan stood out with his grimace alone. Foolish eel.

Bai Wuxiang sighed, delaying his desire to STAB the fish's belly and pour out its nonexistent guts. Instead, he reached out with his porcelain hands to cradle He Xuan's sulking face. The White Calamity's touch was warm despite their shared nature. His slender fingers framed Black Water's sharp features, thumbs gliding over his cheeks as if to flatten his tension.

"To seek ME out here, you must have realized how truly POWERLESS you are." Bai Wuxiang whispered through his grin, tugging He Xuan's face to his own. He pressed the Black Calamity's forehead to his mask's cool, wooden surface. A snicker escaped him.

"Ask me again." The Calamity whispered. "Ask me to stay here AGAIN."

[drake-wayne-enterprise]

[Tim's focus was razor-sharp, his mind a torrent of calculations and hypotheses, yet every action he took seemed to compound the system's instability. The diagnostic results had been useless, only confirming what he already knew: the superconducting coils were degrading, it collapsing under the strain of prolonged operation. The cryogenic fluid, once a pristine, ultra-low-viscosity solution optimized for thermal conductivity, had thickened into a sluggish, sludge-like consistency, its molecular structure breaking down under the stress of continuous thermal cycling. The stabilization field, a delicate lattice of quantum-entangled particles designed to maintain cryogenic equilibrium, had flatlined entirely. It was a miracle the chamber hadn't already undergone a catastrophic failure, releasing its stored energy in a burst of cryo-thermal shock freezing both Tim and his son, Dickie, in an icy grave till they were found again. Maybe Dickie would survive that, maybe that's how he'd keep his son alive... ]

[Tim had managed to restore the cryo-fluid to a functional state, recalibrating the thermal exchange pumps and injecting a similar batch of cryo-stabilizing agents to reduce its viscosity. The fluid now flowed as it should, but the victory was hollow. The system was still teetering on the edge of collapse, its components pushed far beyond their operational tolerances. He was deep in the machine's guts. Tim had to force himself to stay steady as he rerouted power from the secondary cooling array to the primary cryo-circuit, when he heard it: a dull, metallic cuplunk.]

[The sound snapped him out of his hyper-focused state. He turned, his eyes widening as he realized the chamber's access hatch had disengaged. The temperature inside the lab had risen steadily, the ambient heat overwhelming the chamber's compromised thermal regulation systems. The internal sensors, likely fried from the strain, had failed to alert him to the breach. The chamber was no longer maintaining cryogenic conditions—it was warming rapidly, its internal environment shifting from -196°C to something dangerously close to thawing temperatures.]

[Tim's heart stopped as he he heard Dickie's limp form slump out of the chamber, collapsing onto the lab floor with a sickening thud.. The cryo-preservation process had been interrupted mid-cycle, the delicate balance of vitrification shattered—cellular damage from ice crystal formation, potential neural degradation, the risk of reperfusion injury as Dickie's body warmed. He lunged forward, his training kicking in as he assessed his son's condition. The biomonitors on Dickie's were flashing erratic vitals, but there was still a pulse—weak, irregular, but present—]

[Then, a sound—soft, fragile, but unmistakable—cut through the chaos. A whimper. Tim froze, his breath catching in his throat. His son, Dickie, whimpered, and oh God, it was the most beautiful noise in the world. It was life. His son was alive and whimpering. God this must be how doctors feel to hear a baby's first cry. He's not dead. He's not dead. Jesus Christ, he's alive. Tim scrambled to and reached for his son, his hands trembling as he lifted the boy into his arms. Dickie's small body was cold but pliant, his chest rising and falling in shallow, uneven breaths. Tim held him close, so close. The lab was still a nightmare of blaring alarms and flashing warnings, the machinery groaning under the strain of its own malfunction, but none of it mattered. Not now. Not when his son was alive. Not when he could feel the faint pulse of Dickie's heartbeat against his own chest.]

[Tim laughed—a soft, disbelieving sound that bordered on a sob. The relief was so profound it felt like a physical force, washing over him in waves. He had been so close to losing everything, so close to the edge of despair, and now... now he had his son back. His hands shook as he brushed a strand of hair from Dickie's forehead, his voice barely above a whisper. ]

"Dickie, baby, how are you feeling?"

[The question was absurd, given the circumstances, but Tim needed to hear his son's voice, needed to confirm that this wasn't some cruel hallucination. Tim quickly grabbed his blanket, his son's blanket from the nearby table, wrapping it tightly around his son. The warmth was crucial now. Tim held him closer, his own body heat seeping into the blanket, into his son. For a moment, Tim just stood there, swaying gently, his face buried in Dickie's hair. The alarms still blared, the machinery still whirred, but Tim's world had narrowed to this single, fragile moment. His son was alive. He was here. And for the first time in what felt like an eternity, Tim allowed himself to breathe. The relief was almost too much to bear, but it was real. It was real, and it was his.]

The cyro-chamber had been finicky all day. But it only started taking a turn when the system completely puttered out causing the alert to go out. It didn’t take long for the system to slowly start melting the freeze inside of the chamber.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

[Tim's heart rate spiked as he burst into the lab, his breath shallow and uneven. The cryo-chamber's status alerts had been pinging his interface since dawn, signaling erratic fluctuations in its thermal regulation systems. The chamber, designed for short-term stasis with a maximum operational duration of 168 hours, had been running for approximately 672 hours—four times its intended limit. The strain on its superconducting coils and the degradation of its cooling matrix were pushing the system to its breaking point.]

[ Tim had considered transferring his son to a secondary unit, but the risks of destabilizing the cryo-preservation process were too high. Even a minor deviation in the thermal gradient during transfer could cause irreversible cellular damage and Tim didn't know how much his son could take. He knew Dickie had been healing ever so slowly; under normal circumstances, he would have risked the move, but with how sluggish his healing factor was, Tim couldn't risk it. Now, with the chamber's alarms blaring and its internal diagnostics flashing critical warnings, Tim was paralyzed by the weight of his earlier indecision. He silenced the alarm with a sharp gesture, the sudden quiet amplifying the hum of the overtaxed cryo-pumps and the faint hiss of escaping coolant.]

[ Tim took a breath to control his trembling before he accessed the chamber's control interface, a labyrinth of outdated firmware and proprietary protocols. Tim was an engineer, but this machine was a relic of his father's infuriating work, built on principles and technologies that he swore only that man understood. Under normal circumstances, he would have disassembled the unit, run diagnostics on its cryogenic circuits, and reverse-engineered its thermal management algorithms. But these were not normal circumstances. The chamber was actively sustaining his son's vitrification, and any misstep could trigger a cascade failure. ]

[ Tim cursed under his breath, his mind racing through the possibilities. His father, ever the secretive genius, had left no schematics, no technical manuals.. nothing! Nothing that could guide him through this nightmare! If the documentation existed at all, it was likely in the hands of the Court that had done this. The thought of losing his son again, this time to his own incompetence, was unbearable. ]

[ He initiated a system diagnostic, his fingers flying across the interface. The chamber's thermal sensors were reporting sporadic fluctuations in the cryogenic fluid's viscosity, a sign that the superconducting magnets were losing their coherence. The stabilization field, already operating beyond its design parameters, was on the verge of collapse. Tim's mind raced through potential workarounds: rerouting power from the secondary cooling array, recalibrating the thermal sensors, or even attempting a controlled thaw to buy time. But each option carried its own risks, and the margin for error was vanishingly small. ]

[ As the diagnostic results streamed in, Tim felt a cold sweat break out on his forehead. The chamber's cryo-fluid levels were dropping, and the thermal gradient was becoming unstable. He was running out of time. His son's life was slipping through his fingers, again, and the machine that held the key to his survival was a black box of archaic and maddening engineering. Tim clenched his fists, his mind a whirlwind of desperation and determination. He would fix this. He had to fix this. Failure was not an option. ]

[theres-whump-in-that-nebula]

Quirks for your Characters: Faces

(Also doubles as a positivity post. You’re gorgeous whether you like it or not (this is a threat).)

- Faces that, in their resting state, look like they’re smiling on one side and frowning on the other; and thereby become unreadable

- Noses that are straight until the very tip, which is slightly rotated to the left or right to make one nostril appear larger than the other

- Eyes that are spaced unevenly from the nose, making their expression appear “wild” when viewed from specific angles

- Faces so symmetrical they activate the uncanny valley response

- Noses that are flat to the face from the side

- Tooth gaps! bonus points if it’s in a weird spot in the bottom teeth

- Extra-sharp canines

- Extra-sharp noses

- Deep, dark pit of a chin dimple

- Deep, folded-over smile lines

- Eye bags on top of eye bags

- “Mischievous” looking resting expression (like they’re up to something)

- Noses with that little vertical line indent up the middle of the bottom of the tip (think an extension of the philtrum that goes up the nose)

- Uneven folds of the eyes where one is hooded and the other is not

- Prominent, heavy brow bones that stick out from their head 😍

- Chins with no definition whatsoever that kind of fade into the neck unless their head is tilted back a great deal

- Tiny nostrils on a big nose

- Philtrums that curve to one side

- No philtrum

- Lips, of which the border isn’t clearly defined (it just kind of fades into the rest of the skin)

- Tall foreheads

- Squishy chins

- Downturned everything (eyes, brows, mouth, nose are all “droopy”)

- Long midfaces

- Short midfaces

- Wrinkles right between the brows (vertical) and between the nose and forehead (horizontal)

- Noses with big dorsal bumps (is that the right term?)

- “Messy” eyelashes that overlap each other in unique ways

- Prominent upper palates

- Hollow spaces between the nose and cheekbone

- Upper eye sockets so deep they look black from a distance

And again if you have any of these: you’re gorgeous! (Still a threat) And to hell with everyone who says you aren’t

[aquilathefighter]

Fluffbruary 23: Scrap

This is late because oops! a plot happened! It's a lot of fun though :)

Find all of my @fluffbruary ficlets on AO3 here!

Fandom: The Sandman (2022)

Relationship: Dream of the Endless/Hob Gadling

Hob isn’t home, Dream realizes as he appears in the dark flat. Papers are strewn everywhere. Dream looks to the calendar nailed to the wall to orient himself to what Hob’s up to.

The entire week is labelled “MIDTERMS” in thick black marker. That explains the paper. He walks over to the coffee table, piled high with exams and essays. Dream fingers the stapled pages, catching bits of panicked midnight typing and occasionally salient analysis. As he’s flipping through, a scrap of paper flutters onto the floor.

It’s a torn bit of a legal pad, clearly scribbled out while Hob was supposed to be taking notes in a meeting. The writing is messy, but still intelligible once Dream looks closer.

It reads:

To-do

order rose delivery—100 RED!

horse and carriage to inn 7:30

practise speech

pick up ring—lunch

His hands shake as the paper threatens to fly from his hands. He manages to tuck the slip back inside the stack of essays and sits down. Dream is at once elated and anxious. Has he ruined the surprise?

In hindsight, it seems pretty obvious what was to happen tonight. Hob had asked him to be early and to wear something special. He’d even hinted at Dream getting a manicure! Dream puts his head in his hands, still shaking. His lips threaten to break out in a full grin, and he lets them, for once.

Then, he hears the unmistakable combination of humming and jingling keys, someone who is entirely too peppy after a full workday. Hob bursts through the door, flicking on the lights and illuminating a Dream who is bordering on giggling.

“Oh! You’re here already. Good to see you, love.” Hob shucks off his shoes near the door and hangs his messenger bag on the hook. Then, he crosses to the couch to give Dream a peck on the forehead.

“Hello, Hob,” Dream attempts to straighten his face.

“What’s got you all smiley, sweet Dream?”

“I am.” He schools his face, though his excitement still glimmers in his eyes. “Merely excited for our outing tonight."

Hob comes around the couch to grab Dream’s hands and pull him up.

“You are so gorgeous tonight, dove.” He fingers the silk cuff at Dream’s wrist.

Dream’s wearing a black silk shirt, loose and billowy in the sleeves but tight around the waist. The laces at the chest are loose, exposing his pale skin from the base of his sternum up to the hollow at the bottom of his throat. Hob drops Dream’s hands to hold him. His hands slip lower to rest in the back pockets of Dream’s tight leather pants, giving his arse a brief squeeze.

“So beautiful for me. Just hang on a sec and I’ll get changed. Then we can leave.” Hob presses a kiss to Dream’s lips as he drops his arms. He walks into the bedroom and shuts the door. A little suspicious, since Hob never had any shame about getting changed in front of him before. The door was shut before he went in there, too. Dream wonders what Hob is hiding.

When Hob emerges, Dream’s jaw drops. He’s wearing a fantastically tailored tuxedo that accentuates his broad shoulders and narrow waist. A red rose boutonnière completes the ensemble; Hob is glorious in Dream’s preferred colors.

But more shocking than his boyfriend’s appearance is the truly absurd number of roses in his arms. Hob smiles as he approaches, taking pleasure in Dream’s reaction. Although Dream understood what 100 roses meant in concept, seeing them here in the Waking, in Hob’s hands was overwhelming. He steps closer to Hob, reaching out to accept the gift as tears glimmer in his eyes.

“My beloved, whatever is the occasion for a gift such as this?” Dream asks, trying to keep his tears from spilling over.

Hob grins even wider, his excitement starting to show.

“It’s a secret,” he sings, leaning in to kiss Dream again.

“You and your secrets.”

Dream sniffs the roses, taking in their sweet and heady scent, then reaches into the dream of an award-winning florist for a vase wide enough to hold the vast number of stems. He fills it with water and looks around, searching for an empty space to set it down. Every surface is still covered in students’ assignments. Hob wraps his arms around the vase, which Dream releases from his grasp.

“I’ve got a special place for these, love. Be right back.” He pops into the bedroom and quickly returns with a plastic case containing a matching boutonnière.

Setting the case on the table, he grabs the flower and pin. Then he moves into Dream’s space to pin it on the fine silk near the collar. Dream holds very still, enjoying the attention his partner is showering upon him tonight. He’s almost forgotten the secret information he wasn’t supposed to know.

“With that,” Hob steps back, checking his watch, “it’s time for us to be on our way. And we’re going the slow way. I insist.”

He takes Dream’s hand, leading him down the stairs and heading through the door that will take them through the New Inn. He preens at the knowledge that Hob wants to show him off tonight. As they cross the threshold, he hears several patrons gasp.

“What’s the occasion you lot are all dressed up for, Rob?” The bartender, Ted, asks.

Hob leans on the bar top, still holding Dream’s hand.

“That, my friend, is a secret,” he juts a thumb at Dream. “Surprise for that one.”

“Right, then,” Ted grins conspiratorially. “Enjoy your night, Rob, Murph,”

Hob leads him out the door and parked in front of the inn is a horse and carriage. A white horse. Dream feels the tears well up in his eyes, knowing Hob absolutely made sure of the color of the horse on purpose.

The driver opens the door as they close in, and Hob gives him a hand as he climbs inside. Hob follows him in, presses against him from shoulder to knee, and wraps an arm around him.

“Hi,” he says, grinning at him.

“Hello again, my love.”

The carriage starts to move, the clip-clopping of the horse’s hooves a familiar sound, steady and natural unlike the cars, trains, and buses Hob often tried to take him on. They do not talk during the carriage ride, comfortable silence taking over as Dream enjoys the warmth of Hob’s body. He rests his head on his shoulder, which Hob takes as an opportunity to kiss the top of his head an excessive number of times.

After some time, the carriage slows to a stop and the driver comes around to open the door. Hob climbs out first, offering his hand again to help Dream down the stairs though he knows he doesn’t need it.

As he steps out into the night, he realizes they’re in front of the White Horse. Gone are the chain-link fence and graffitied signs, and in their place… The building is restored, lit by candles as it had for most of its life. Dream turns to Hob and finally lets his tears loose. Hob pulls him into his arms as Dream sobs, rocking back and forth and rubbing his back soothingly. As his crying slows, he pulls his head away from the wet spot on Hob’s shoulder to look in his eyes.

“Hob… how?”

Hob smiles, the warmth in his eyes overtaking Dream. If he weren’t already completely lost for this man, he would be.

“Well, got more leverage now with the history department, met a few historical reenactors with more money than sense, some more magical beings owed me a couple favors… et voilà.” Hob briefly lets go of Dream to throw out jazz hands in celebration.

“You have restored it. To its former glory.”

“All for you, duck. For us.” He presses a hand to Dream’s cheek, wiping away the few remaining tears. “Now, my darling, shall we?”

Dream nods, sniffling one last time.

Hob leads them” to the door. When they enter, the inn looks as it always did. Warm candlelight fills the room, rustic wood refinished and rotting planks replaced. At the center of the room is a table with an elegant candelabrum and another bouquet of red roses arranged in a crystal vase. Hob pulls out a chair for Dream, then seats himself opposite him.

“Well?”

“It is most wonderful that you have done this, Hob.”

Hob smiles.

“Well, since I didn’t get to have our last meeting here, I wanted to make up for some lost time.” He fiddles with something in his jacket pocket that Dream pretends not to notice.

“So, I thought I’d tell you about the 21st century so far! It’s been lovely. I’m a history professor, teach medieval history, try to dig up sources for what I know happened then. And I own a pub! Bought it after the White Horse shut down. It’s a nice place to go for a pint.” He shoves his hand in his pocket again.

“They’ve got a word for people like me now, too: bisexual! Somebody who likes all sorts of people, men, and women, and all the people who don’t fit in those boxes. Pretty cool, that. It’s legal now, anybody can marry anybody! Been going to pride parades, mentoring my queer students, making sure everybody knows ol’ Robbie is there for them.” He scratches the back of his neck, the sweat beading there giving away his anxiety.

“Erm, yeah, so I’ve got a boyfriend now. He’s really great. Breathtakingly gorgeous. Endlessly creative. We sure took a long time getting together, several lifetimes it feels like. But he’s my oldest and best friend, he is the most ridiculously romantic person I have ever met, and,” Hob is out of his chair and walking over to Dream’s side of the table. He’s pulled whatever could possibly be in that pocket out and he’s down on one knee beside Dream’s chair.

“And I’d love to spend the rest of eternity with him,” his voice wobbles a bit. “Dream of the Endless, most impossible creature and love of my life, will you marry me?”

Dream doesn’t even realize he’s stood up from his seat as he smiles down at Hob.

“It would be my honor to accept your hand in marriage, Robert Gadling.”

Hob slips the ring onto his finger, which he reshapes to make a perfect fit. No need for resizing when you can resize your own body parts. Dream laces his fingers together with Hob’s and pulls him to stand. As soon as he is up, their mouths lock onto each other, magnetically charged as if that’s where they’re always meant to be. The wet heat of Hob’s mouth is doubly intoxicating when Dream realizes that he’s kissing his fiancé. He delves his tongue into his mouth, tracing over smooth, warm flesh, the ribbed texture of the roof of his mouth, his perfect, beautiful teeth. Hob moans in response, pulling him closer and running his hands down Dream’s sides. He has no clue how long they kiss for until Hob has to pull back to catch his breath. Ugh, human lungs.

“So, did I surprise you?” Hob pants.

“My fiancé,” Dream is going to milk that title for all it is worth, “I must confess something to you.”

“Go on,” he says, furrowing his brow.

“I would be remiss not to tell you I became aware of tonight’s events prior to your arrival in your home. Your list fell out of a stack of essays I had been investigating. My greatest apologies, Hob.”

He studies Hob’s face, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

“Oh, is that it?” He grins. “I was expecting you to say something way worse! Most people figure out they’re gonna get engaged before they actually go on the date, silly creature.” Hob brings Dream’s hand up to his mouth and presses a kiss to the ruby set on the black gold band. “I really don’t care that you found the list, love. I know how nosy you are.”

Dream huffs at the comment.

“However, I have greatly enjoyed the night you have planned for us, beloved.”

“I’m so glad, duck. Now, would you like to continue the night? Our carriage awaits to take us back home, where I am going to make love to my fiancé.”

Dream shivers as Hob uses his new title.

“Lead the way.”

Hob takes him back outside where the horse and carriage are parked. He grins at the driver, who has a knowing twinkle in his eye. The pair climb inside and manage to wait until the door is closed to get their hands on each other again. Hob slides close, turning to kiss Dream again but instead finds himself with a lap full of Dream, hunched over in order to not bump his head on the ceiling.

“Hello, fiancé.”

Dream growls.

“Oh, you like that one don’t you,” he smirks, leaning in to whisper in Dream’s ear, hot breath tantalizing against his skin. “Fiancé.”

Dream grab’s Hob’s head, pulling him away from his ear and towards his lips.

“Yes. Now put your mouth to better uses than this merciless teasing.”

Hob doesn’t need to be told twice, pressing his open lips to Dream’s, biting at his lower lip and licking it afterward. His hands move to grip Dream’s arse, steadying him against the rickety motion of the carriage. Dream’s hands grip his hair, tugging as he beckons Hob to kiss him deeper. He makes a tiny whimper as Hob’s tongue flicks against the tip of his own. All of his senses are filled with Hob; the Dreaming and the infinity of all that he is seem lightyears away when they are together like this. They press together, like even one atom’s worth of space apart will kill them. Hob’s chest rises and falls against Dream’s torso, providing a rhythm for their lips to match. Their intensities are equally matched in pressure and frequency, and neither can handle how perfect the moment is.

Until they feel the carriage come to a stop. Dream rolls off of Hob into his own seat, managing to look perfectly composed with a wave of a hand. Hob, on the other hand, looks wrecked. His hair is tangled, sticking every which way, the boutonnière has been completely obliterated, and his bowtie is hanging limply about his neck. He glares at Dream.

“A little help, dearest?”

“But you look so enticing this way.”

Despite his protests, Dream restores Hob’s appearance as well. Though surely the driver knew what was happening during the ride based on his smirk as he opened the door. Dream crawls out first and takes Hob’s hand, eager to get inside his flat. Hob barely has time to shout a thank you before Dream is dragging him towards the front door of the New Inn.

The entire room cheers as they walk through the door. Hob grins, glancing at Dream’s smug face.

“Let’s see the ring!” Marie, a regular, squeals.

Dream twists his left hand loose from its connection to Hob’s hand, holding it out like a king expecting it to be kissed. Marie grabs his hand and brings it up to eye level. Dream bristles at the unexpected touch.

“Hey Marie, I know you don’t mean anything by it, but he really doesn’t like people he doesn’t know very well to touch him.”

She drops her hand immediately, but Dream keeps it at her eye level, shooting Hob a grateful glance.

“So sorry! It sure is beautiful though. Congratulations, you two!”

Hob smiles politely. “Thank you. Now,” he slips his hand back into Dream’s, “this one is tuckered out from all the excitement. We’ve got to get to bed.”

Marie nods, making no comment on the half-truth. Hob weaves through the crowd, pulling Dream behind him and through the private door up to the flat. He pulls the keys out of his pocket one-handed, fumbling to pick the correct one out without letting go of his fiancé. He manages to get the door unlocked and hip-checks it open.

“Shall we, fiancé?” he asks, knowing Dream is on the edge of whisking them into the bedroom with their sand. Such an impatient man-shaped thing sometimes.

“Move, my fiancé, or I will make us move.”

Dream looks at him like he’s about to pounce. About to devour him. And Hob couldn’t be more excited.

[theladyofbloodshed]

A Court of Tangled Flames - Epilogue

Big, big thank you to my Neris lovers who've enjoyed this fic. A kiss on the forehead for all of you.

Life as lady of the castle was perfectly splendid. Nesta felt as if she was playing pretend most days - as though somebody would pinch her then she would wake up back in their run down cottage in the woods. Life was good. More than that, it was brilliant. She never wanted to go to bed, always wished the evenings would stretch out for longer, or she looked forward to the next day to see what it held. New servants had settled within the castle including a cook who found Nesta to be far too skinny for his liking, so spent his days concocting new creations in the kitchen for her to try. Eris had established solid trade agreements with both the Summer and Winter court so there had been an influx of new foods and spices flitting over the border for her to try. It did mean though that her body was softening. Instead of hollowed out, sharp cheek bones, when she smiled, her cheeks were like two rounded apples. She resembled Elain more that way.

Her mother-in-law visited from time to time and tried to encourage her to share her love of gardening but it was not for Nesta at all. Flowers were lovely to gaze upon, but having soil wedged under her fingernails was irksome. A handful of times when Lucien had visited in search of his mother, Nesta had gone with him to fish. She despised that too – and screamed the first time her line caught a fish – but it was enjoyable to sit beside the sea and watch the world roll by. Lucien was always good company. They never mentioned Elain or Beron, but found their own conversations. Nesta had also traded getting pummelled into the mud by Niamh for riding. She found she rather enjoyed the company of the horses, once she had learned how to saddle and brush her mare down. It allowed for freedom to explore without needing to know a destination like when she winnowed.

Without any coaxing from Eris, Nesta wanted to take a more hands-on approach to his court. Their court. Her court. Delight lit up his face at her suggestion. There had been no encouragement from him to do it but she felt it was her duty to be seen as their lady. His reign had not been without difficulty; a number of loyalists to Beron still remained though Nesta could not understand how the male had ever warranted such support. 

Her days were spent flanked by soldiers visiting far flung villages to speak with the locals about their lives. It was important to Nesta to be present. There were likely many families like hers who didn’t have a voice, who had empty bellies, and cold, stiff fingers. When she proposed helping those families, Eris did not try to talk her out of it. On the contrary, he led her to the vaults beneath the Forest House and encouraged her to see if she could make a dent in the vast hoard of treasure. Handing out gold did nothing though. Money would have solved many of their problems as mortals but it never got to the root of it. 

‘The farmers need to be supported financially. Farming needs to be seen as desirable to encourage more into the profession. It is hard work and not for the faint-hearted.’

Eris nodded from his seat at his desk. ‘A court with full bellies is a happy court.’

‘Can I count on you to propose it at a council meeting?’

He reached out his hand for her to take then Nesta was pulled onto his lap. He kissed her cheek. ‘You could do it.’

‘Certainly not. You can wage war for me. I will stay here and look beautiful.’

‘To which you do an excellent job, my love.’ His lips grazed against the curve between her neck and shoulder. ‘The offer is always there to speak up in council meetings. You offer a perspective to one of the rarest populations in the court.’

Her brows furrowed at his words. ‘And who is that?’

‘Those lucky enough to be married to such a handsome male. Such a rarity.’

Nesta couldn’t hide her snort as she climbed off from his lap. ‘What a high opinion you have of yourself. For clarification’s sake, Azriel is objectively prettier than you.’ Before Eris could raise a complaint, she held out her hand. ‘Come, my darling husband, or I will begin to think you are having an affair with your paperwork.’

Indeed, Eris shuffled to bed later and later as court duties kept him busy. He needed to learn to delegate, but his upbringing meant that he was unlikely to trust others with such important tasks.

In their new bedroom, Eris collapsed onto the bed with a sigh. Each of them had a pile of books on the bedside table; hers were romances whilst his were ancient texts about Prythian. Out of the corner of her eye, Nesta caught sight of the eight-pointed star on her back in black ink. It was a constant reminder of her life in Velaris. In the bond’s absence, she felt no different. There had been no ill-effects on her. But this tattoo lingered there, marring her skin.

‘What do we do with this?’

Eris caught her eye in the reflection of the mirror. ‘Keep it so we always have a higher ground against he who shall not be named.’

‘I hate it. It’s ugly and reminds me of him.’

It was a discussion that they had had many times before with no clear path through. Although Nesta could understand the merits of keeping it, she did not need a reminder of her life under Cassian’s rule. She wanted to move on from it all. To do that, it meant fulfilling the deal which had to be done face-to-face and she wasn’t ready for it yet, nor did she know what she would ask him for.

A knee sunk into the mattress as Nesta crawled towards Eris. She curled up beside him then brought his arm around her body. ‘I don’t want you to go tomorrow.'

Never in her wildest dreams did Nesta think she’d be begging a male to stay in her bed. And she’d never admit that to Eris because he’d gloat about how amazing he was.

‘It’s one night. I believe you told me that on Solstice.’

‘Yes – and look what happened then. What if you find your mate when you’re apart from me?’

There hadn’t been a night apart since Solstice when everything had gone disastrously wrong at breakfast. Even on the nights where Eris was late to bed, Nesta could never settle fully until he was beside her, no matter how tired her body was. It somehow always knew he wasn’t next to her.

‘I will spend the night with my brothers. I truly hope a bond does not snap to one of them or the Mother has a very wrong sense of humour.’

Nesta made a harumphing noise, still not happy with the arrangements.

‘And it’s tradition,’ he added.

Nesta gave a little groan as she nuzzled closer to him. ‘We are already married.’

As was his nature, Eris had insisted on researching absolutely everything about mortal weddings. He had bugged Lucien to allow him to talk to Jurian about it though the male had little information to pass on and the scant information he did have was severely outdated.

‘That tradition exists because couples never spend time together without chaperones so they do not engage in physical acts. We are married and have engaged in them.’

‘Multiple times,’ Eris said.

‘Exactly. So why do you need to spend a night away from me?’

Eris’ arm tightened around her body, squeezing the air from Nesta’s lungs. He gave a noise of discontent. ‘Because I have arranged for Gwyn and Emerie to stay in my stead but you cannot let me ever surprise you.’

That was a surprise. Nesta prised his arm away and rose up on her elbows, eyes lightening with excitement. ‘Truly? They’re coming here?’

In his dramatic fashion, Eris clutched a hand over his heart. ‘You would accuse me of lying?’

She couldn’t resist arching a brow at his question which made him smirk.

‘I never lie to you. Others, yes. To you, I simply omit some truths on the rare occasion.’

***

The desperation to give Nesta a mortal ceremony was an itch that could never quite by sated. There were countless obstacles that Eris could not manage to overcome. As Elin still required feeding every couple of hours, Feyre Archeron could not attend the wedding without bringing the babe which had been strictly forbidden by Rhysand therefore Feyre would not be attending. Nesta had taken the news well enough, shrugging that she had not expected her to come anyway. He had teased her, asking how she’d respond if he tried to forbid her from doing anything. Nesta had given him a look that suggested Eris would find his knife wedged into his balls if he tried such a thing, having well and truly had enough of others ruling her life.

Elain had not replied either way. Lucien had asked her directly for Nesta’s benefit and Eris would even put up with their shadow singer in attendance if that could coax the elusive, middle Archeron to the wedding. Still, she had not committed herself to the wedding. That one did hurt Nesta. She tossed off her hurts, throwing her hands in the air and declaring why should she care if her sisters couldn’t make an effort, but that told Eris enough.

Emerie had been easy enough to bring to the Autumn Court as Niamh was still a regular feature of her life. Gwyneth had been difficult, but Lucien had managed it all for him. At least there were two guests that Nesta truly wanted in attendance. He had to wonder what the females were up to in Nesta’s last night of freedom. Eris imagined it involved a great deal of squealing and laughing in Orla's home.

A far cry to his evening trying to resurrect a relationship between his brothers after centuries at each other’s throats. Still, Eris tried for their mother’s benefit. It was painful. Wedging splinters into his nailbeds might have been preferable. They had opted for archery and drinking. What could possibly go wrong? Ashur was on hand – sober – to ensure none of his brothers shot a wayward arrow through his heart. Eris did not truly think they would dare because they were utterly terrified of his darling wife. He might have dropped information into conversations between them about her penchant for revenge and devotion to him to enhance those beliefs.  

Eris knocked an arrow to his bow then shot an apple from the tree.

‘Easy shot,’ smirked Phelan.

His brother had adapted well enough to one hand. Instead of the long bow, he managed to use a crossbow and a specially made device that was fitted onto his stump to hold the bow. Phelan’s brow creased as he loaded an arrow then aimed for one of the fruits near the top of the tree. The arrow went wide, grazing the skin but not succeeding in tearing the apple from the tree.

‘I’ve only got one hand,’ he said by way of an excuse.

Lucien, who had always been the best with a bow, could not resist the opportunity to show off. ‘And I’ve got one eye.’

His arrow hit the apple that Fellen had aimed for, but as the fruit fell, he shot another. The arrow pierced it and held it in place against the trunk at head height.

Uther rolled his eyes at the display.

‘Amarantha would have been better off cutting out your tongue,’ muttered Xander.

They never spoke of that time beneath the mountain. It was an unspoken rule across Prythian that those fifty years weren’t to be spoken about. Lucien had freedom during that time, but Eris doubted it was pleasant. Maybe one day, the brothers would heal their wounds together. It was too much to manage for now. Having Lucien present amongst the others was already tentative ground.

‘Lucky for me, I have both hands and both eyes – and my tongue,’ said Eris, stepping in before any words could be said about Hybern’s general. ‘And I taught all of you everything you know.’

He downed a shot then loosed another arrow that embedded itself a whisker away from Lucien’s arrow.

‘Mother will have kittens if we tarry too long.’

It earned a collective laugh from his brothers then Uther chimed in with comments about being a mama’s boy. A secret part of him was glad for them.

***

Being walked down the aisle was a rite of passage denied to Nesta. Had her father been alive, she could not say that she truly would have wanted it either. Eris would have been a perfect choice hand-picked by her mother because, on the surface, he was rich beyond belief, with an outstanding social status. She’d have disregarded the infamous cruelty. They would not have cared if he really was wicked because their goal for Nesta was to stamp her way to the top. She supposed she had simply been lucky that beneath it all, Eris had a heart made of gold.

‘Oh, look at you,’ murmured Orla, dabbing at her eyes, as she gazed at Nesta in her wedding gown.

‘It’s only a wedding,’ Nesta said, casting off the compliment before it landed.

Gwyn’s eyes popped. ‘You’re not excited?’

‘I am,’ she insisted, ‘but he’s already my husband. We already have our life together.’

Niamh, who was finishing threading flowers through Emerie’s glossy curtain of hair, shrugged one shoulder. ‘I think it’s Eris’ excuse to ply you with more cake. Since you’re filling out your clothes better, you both reek of sex.’ She flashed a sharp-toothed grin. ‘More to grab onto.’

It was true that her changing body had been well-received by Eris. Her softer thighs were plastered with kisses. His hand never strayed far from her stomach even when she tried to breathe in and hide it. Where her skin had stretched on her hips, faint threads of purple could be seen, but any discomfort over them was washed away by Eris’ gentle caresses. As Niamh had said, there was more to hold onto. Her wedding dress had been altered a number of times to the point where the seamstress had threatened to cut her off desserts if she had to adjust the gown again. Nesta had asked Eris if he preferred her when she was heavier, but he’d replied that he preferred her when she was happy.

‘The carriage is here,’ Emerie called. Her hands were braced on the windowsill, peering out towards the garden.

A small smile ticked up the corner of Nesta’s mouth. ‘Wouldn’t it be delightfully funny if we did not show up?’

Niamh cackled at the suggestion.

‘Oh, don’t be so cruel to him,’ said Orla though she tried to hide her own smile.

She was tempted to send Safila wearing her veil though she’d miss out in seeing Eris’ exasperate expression.

Her night had been spent giggling into the darkness with her friends at Orla’s house. Gwyn had fallen asleep first so Nesta had moved into bed with Emerie to continue talking without disturbing, but they hadn’t slept until the first rays of light were beginning to bleed into the sky. The thought of having to socialise all day with stiff-upper-lipped lesser lords of the Autumn Court did not thrill Nesta with joy. She could endure it for her husband.

Their chatter didn’t fade as they climbed into the carriage and gazed out upon the rich forests of the court that she called home. It hurt her a lot that Feyre and Elain couldn’t make an effort for her wedding, but she had the females that mattered in the carriage with her. Gwyn and Emerie had gotten her through her most miserable moments in Velaris, and Orla had done the same when she had arrived to the Autumn Court. And Niamh, well, she was just Niamh. The female in question had cocked her legs over the side of the carriage so they hung loosely – wild through it all.

The castle came into view on the horizon. A salty sea wind blew through their hair. Never did Nesta think she’d be so calm around open water after everything that had happened, but she did enjoy spending every moment that she could gazing out across the sea.

Her lips parted in confusion when the carriage veered towards the left rather than the well-worn path towards the castle.

‘Where are we going?’

She craned her neck behind her, trying to catch a glimpse of flowers or guests, but came up empty. None of the others seemed remarkably surprised by the carriage’s direction.

Gwyn and Orla had to force themselves backwards into their seats as the carriage made its way up a steep hill otherwise they’d have fallen into Nesta’s lap. Her own back was pressed against the seat from the tilt of the hill.

‘I do hope the horses will make it,’ murmured Emerie.

Niamh flashed her a wide smile. ‘If they fail, I’ll pull us along.’

It earned a snort of laughter from her sister.

‘Through love, anything is possible,’ Niamh shot back.

‘So it seems, dear sister.’

Nesta raised her eyebrows. ‘Is it bad if I almost wish the horses would stop to see Niamh try.’

‘It can be a wedding gift.’

The carriage rolled to a stop and eyes fell to Niamh, but she jerked her chin to a path ahead. Pink and purple heather had been cut back to reveal a sloping path covered in sand.

‘Does my husband intend we hike to the altar?’

‘You’ll see,’ said Orla with a wink as she held open the door to the carriage for them all to exit. ‘We’ll go first as is your mortal tradition.’

These confounded traditions, thought Nesta. As her friends began the short walk upwards, her heart fluttered against her ribs. It was silly. They were already married. Why did she feel so nervous at the prospect of marrying him again? Nesta had been vehement that in the absence of her father – whom she would not have wanted to do the task anyway – she needed nobody to give her away. No more males needed to rule her. Although Lucien had offered, Nesta knew how to take care of herself now. It did mean that she had to do this walk alone and she was terribly struck by nerves all of a sudden.

When Emerie’s wings became a blur on the horizon, Nesta began her own walk. The warmth was pleasant enough though not stifling and she was helped along by the brisk wind blowing upwards from the sea. She pinched her skirts with one hand, lifting them from the sand, and held her bouquet with the other. It lacked elegance or subtlety; bright sunflower heads were interspersed with deep red roses. They had been grown by her mother-in-law however which made it far more special.

The breath whooshed out of her lungs as she crested the hill. Nesta had expected row upon row of sour-tempered old males who were invited out of duty as well as numerous representatives of other courts who were all strangers.

She was sorely wrong.

Amongst the rugged gorse and lichen-covered stone, a modest crowd was gathered. There were less than thirty in total, and all ones that Nesta knew personally. It was so relaxed. Maceo was there, sat beside Lucien. Ashur sat behind them with two others that Nesta recognised as Eris’ closest males within the army. Her group of females, in their burnt orange gowns, stood to one side of the altar, smiling and whispering. A jolt of shock ran through Nesta at the sight of Elain, hesitant and nervous, but resplendent in a pale-yellow dress in a seat next to Eliška. Her heart softened and her eyes grew teary.

Eris held his hand for her to take as she reached him.

He stood beneath a canopy that was dripping with brightly coloured flowers. The view from the cliff that Eris had chosen for their wedding was incredible. The sea stretched out in front of them; powerful waves met the cliff. Their castle stood in full view amongst the shallows and a tall ship was moored at the port further in the distance.

‘On a clear day, you can make out the Cliffs of Mohirn on the Continent,’ he murmured, squeezing her hand.

‘It’s very pretty, but you assured me you’d never make me hike.’

‘It was a little hill.’

‘In a wedding gown.’

‘And how beautiful you are with colour in your cheeks,’ he leaned down to kiss one.

A priestess that she recognised as the one who officiated their rushed ceremony where Nesta wore a night gown was there to officiate once more. She gave Nesta a smile in greeting, likely thinking of that day. The vows that day had been repeated in a state of numb disbelief.

They held hands, facing each other. There was a slight tremble to Eris’ hands.

‘Why are you nervous?’ She whispered. ‘It’s not like I can say no when I’m already married to you.’

That remark had his lips curving into a smile. ‘True enough.’

Her thumb drove in a circle atop his as she recited her vows. ‘I vow to protect you, to love you, to worship you, and to always be at your side. As the Mother is my witness, I am forever yours.’

Eris turned to the awaiting crowd, ‘We all heard her vow to worship me, didn’t we?’

‘I’ll have a statue built to the sky in your honour,’ she replied, rolling her eyes.

For his, Eris released her hands. She was pulled a step closer. One hand rested on the small of her back, the other cupped her face. She loved those amber eyes, the sharp edges of his face, the constant whirring of the gears behind it all.

‘I vow to protect you, to love you, to worship you, and to always be at your side. As the Mother is my witness, I am forever yours. You lucky thing.’

The kiss was chaste in the presence of his mother, Nesta was delighted to note. A faint pink even stole across Eris’ cheeks. She leaned towards his ear and whispered, ‘Like a blushing maiden.’

The evening was beautiful. There was no awkwardness when all the guests were such good friends. Even the Vanserra brothers were on their best behaviour under the watchful eye of their mother. The female in question had well and truly bloomed once more. She laughed easily, reminding Nesta of Lucien; she had a wit as quick as Eris’ and engaged anybody in delighted conversation. Her and Orla gravitated towards each other too.

Nesta had danced with every guest, including Elain where she took the lead as if she was male, making Elain giggle. ‘I’m so glad you came.’

‘I am glad to be here.’

‘Did Lucien-’

‘Yes,’ she replied quickly. ‘He persuaded me.’

A grin spread across Nesta’s face. ‘Did he now.’

‘Not like that,’ she clarified, colour blooming in her cheeks. ‘He said his mother had rare orchids in a greenhouse amongst other plants and I could take as many cuttings as I wanted back to Velaris.’

Nesta had to wonder whether her mother-in-law had perhaps planted that seed in her son’s mind. It did not bother her either way; she was simply glad Elain could be a part of the celebrations.

Eventually, Eris managed to spirit her away from the dancing by hauling her into his arms and carrying her off. His fire danced above the ground, lighting the way, then they stopped near the edge of a cliff.

‘You’re not planning on throwing me, are you?’

He laughed heartily. ‘Not today.’

His lips pressed against her neck. ‘Did you see the tall ship earlier?’

‘I did.’

‘I heard it is a tradition for newly-wedded couples to take a trip and enjoy each other’s company.’ Another kiss. ‘Winnowing seems dull when I could pretend that I know how to sail.’

‘We’re going on that ship?’   

Eris nodded. ‘If we don’t like it, we can abandon the crew and winnow. I might get terrible sea sickness.’

‘The High Lord of the Autumn Court defeated by waves.’ Nesta linked her fingers into Eris’ and brought his hands to rest on her abdomen as she leant back against him. ‘What is our destination, captain?’

‘The Continent. Elain mentioned that you always wanted to. Think of all the book shops and bakeries that you can explore.’ He gave a soft laugh. ‘I’ve been monitoring Briallyn and Koschei. Azriel too. I’d never take you to danger. Everything is safe.’

‘You are wonderful.’

‘I know,’ he replied, kissing her again. ‘But so are you. My wife is so nice that I married her twice.’

‘Oh no, don’t tell people that.’

Nesta knew that would only encourage him. Once he decided to be mischievous, little could ever dissuade Eris.  

‘I might change my name to Eris Archeron.’

‘Do I need to divorce you twice or will just once do the trick?’

Eris held her hand, ready to lead her back to the crowd. ‘Thank you for taking a chance on me, many months ago. It was the best thing that ever happened in my life.’

‘And now we have a forever together.’

‘Here’s to forever, my love.’

[aries-writingblog]

What A Heavenly Way to Die

Summary: What a heavenly way to die? What a time to be alive? Because forever is in your eyes, but forever ain’t half the time…

Pairing: Jason Todd x reader

Word count: 912

Warnings: lot of religion probably bordering sacrilegious in this one, oops but not oops, some suggestive content, tiny portion of language

AN: little short one today but probably one of my favorites, also I didnt proofread so if there’s any mistakes, no there isn’t

Quite simply put, Jason Todd was a morning person. He enjoyed meeting dawn as she stretched and played over the landscape. Golden light bathing everything she touched. Fresh dew and a soft breeze, leading a thrilled renaissance through grasses and trees. Whisking inconsequential matters to the side. The quiet moments of serendipity, meditative and peaceful.

He liked the warmth of the sheets— the feel of skin pressed to his. Encasing his body in the thick atmosphere of secure bliss. Holding her figure close against his own, shielding her from the night’s chilling touch.

He liked morning.

She never woke at the same time he did. Mornings usually meant Jason had extra time to gaze down at her face, unblemished by smile or frown lines. Or worry, anxiety. Nothing of the sort existed so early.

He could simply stare. Gaze in awe at the beauty lying with her head against his chest. Bask in her glowing presence. Pray that he wouldn’t wake her while he admired.

While he worshipped. Attended a lonesome mass to lay affections at her feet, laving lingering kisses up her ankle, taking the long path to her lips. Over the velvet skin of her body.

Jason exhaled gently— careful in his actions. Careful to not rouse her from her sleep. His body had other intentions as a loud growl echoed from the cavern of his belly.

Damn.

He had hoped to lay there with her a while longer.

Things would only get worse if he stayed there— louder and more compromising. Besides, if he was waking up hungry (which was always), she would be too.

Pulling himself reluctantly from the warmth of the bedsheets, Jason ensured she stayed asleep. No stealth mission or undercover agent could ever compete with the covert, silent movements of the beast of a man who was hellbent on keeping his goddess asleep.

He spared a glance over his shoulder, a smile gracing his lips. Sunlight caressing her as she slept, tucked away and cocooned in warmth.

One of the rare sunny days in Gotham.

Trekking down the hallway, Jason began his morning routine. Checking the windows, brushing his teeth while checking the spare room converted weapons stash for anything unusual.

Then he started on breakfast.

One of his favorite past-times (other than YN of course).

He knew that he would be teased endlessly, if any of his friends were there to witness his endeavors.

How he doted on her. How he would leave barely there kisses to her lips, only to sink to his knees and lay aggressive love bites to her thighs. To leave marks across her neck.

Only to shake himself from the reviere hours later, sweat laden and pressed to her bare chest; Shake himself to take gentle care of her aching body.

To cradle her against him for the come down— to watch the sunset in the windows of his Church.

How he would be teased and mocked— made a fool of— for his actions.

But there he was: The Arkham Knight, Red Hood, Robin, making breakfast.

The same hands that once choked life from collapsing esophaguses, ripped beating hearts out of gaping chest cavities, fired hollow tip bullets into arteries and foreheads. Leaving mutilation and dark ink as footsteps, encroached on the lives of so many.

Those same hands now dropped blueberries into pancake batter, made freshly squeezed juice. Knife skills that were once fueled by mania; Wide sweeping cuts, meant to pierce flesh and slice deep. Now made precise incisions on fruit.

Such juxtaposition to menial, domestic tasks that it was almost laughable.

But peaceful.

Peace. He’d known nothing of the sort in this strange land of after death. Until her.

The catalyst to his healing, the process that Dick and Roy began all those years ago. The one she helped finish.

A soft, sleepy noise from down the hallway turned Jason’s attention to the vacant space. His cursed eyes lifted in time to witness the sun rise— her brilliance nearly melting the decorations from the walls as she entered through the doorway.

Her warmth bled into his bones as she neared; Arms wrapping around his neck, hands threaded through his hair.

A whispered good morning, breathed out between feather kisses against his mouth.

Scarred hands trailed up her hips, accepting her greeting in stride. Keeping careful watch of how close she moved to the stove.

For all her grace and beauty, she was far less agile and dexterous than she appeared. With her sleep mussed hair and lines still pressed to her face from sleep. She must’ve drooled at some point during the night, as a line of it dried against the corner of her mouth. Her pajamas— just one of his own shirts and her underwear— wrinkled and in disarray.

Beautiful.

She tucked into his side, keeping close to his warmth. Jason kept his arm wrapped tightly around her shoulders, using his free hand to finish breakfast.

She traced light patterns against his bare shoulder blade; Her head cushioned on the soft muscle of his pectoral— the abrasion of his autopsy scar against her cheekbone.

Her lips left a gentle kiss to the marred flesh. Unafraid of his past. Unconcerned of everything, but the steady beat in his rib cage.

Because for as much as he worshiped her, she returned without adversary. Without flinching.

While he attended mass for repentance, praising his angel, she attended her church of the wicked, laying claim to the damned.

[peakdeer]

Day 23 - Tooth

Sausage’s ear flicked against Jimmy’s chest rhythmically. It always made an interesting sound when it hit the scales dotted along Jimmy’s gill area—not quite a chink but not a thump. The sound grew ever more curious when it hit the tooth hanging on Jimmy’s chest—a hard kind of thump but with a hollower fwip and the slightest hint of a chink. It almost sounded like a beat, the occasional pause before his ear flicked again, striking either a scale or the tooth; repeating over and over again in some sort of melody that he couldn’t even try to pin down.

He had a lot of time to think about it—it was a slow day, where all he and Jimmy did was sit on the Codland walls; available should an emergency arise but not easily disrupted. The guards of the walls had left a while ago; rarely patrolling the Mythland border anymore since… well, since he and Jimmy got together, really. They’d never officially said anything, or made any claims, but it was undeniable that something was going on. Sausage liked to imagine that this something was love, though he’d never dare say it out loud. It’s funny—they’d kissed so many times now, clearly flirted, and had some of the most domestic moments he’d ever read about in books, and he wouldn’t even dare to call what they had love. Then again, he was a coward in the worst kind of way and would rather jump off the wall into the ravine than ask Jimmy what he thought about it all.

Really, even now—his head was snuggled up to Jimmy’s chest, listening to his every breath and heartbeat; his arms encircled the cod-hybrid, barely able to connect against his back, and he was so far intertwined with Jimmy that any attempts to stand up would prove to be entirely ineffective and more entangling. He turned his head abruptly, burying his face in deeper into Jimmy’s chest. The tooth pressed annoyingly against his forehead, but he ignored it in favor of the comfort it brought him to breathe in Jimmy’s scent. Jimmy responded with a soft hum, webbed fingers reaching up to tangle in his hair. It was an odd sensation in the best kind of way, and he couldn’t resist letting a purr slip out. Jimmy chuckled at that, adjusting them ever so slightly and bringing his other arm down to wrap around Sausage’s waist.

There was nothing Sausage could want more than this—a quiet day with his… partner? Let’s go with that—with nothing to do and nothing to say; nothing at all but the soft presence of the other. Sausage pushed his head deeper into Jimmy’s chest, grumbling slightly when the tooth began to dig into his forehead. He pulled back in a disgruntled sort of way, losing all the words on his tongue when he caught sight of Jimmy’s amused expression. Jimmy looked glorious, an easy smile that make Sausage’s heartbeat double and affection in his eyes that would’ve make Sausage trip over his feet if he’d been standing. Jimmy’s scales shown in the evening sun, sparkling in a mesmerizing way, calling him to trace the outlines of each and every one.

Jimmy’s hand slipped down from Sausage’s hair to cup his cheek, letting out a contented sigh when Sausage melted into his hand. Jimmy’s other arm tightened around his waist, pulling him closer if that was even possible. Sausage’s eyes begin to droop again, tempting him back into the comfortable silence and cuddling. He was about to lean back into Jimmy’s chest when he realizes that his lips are moving and he’s saying something. “Wha’s the tooth f’r?” He slurred, lips clumsy and slow as his head thudded into Jimmy’s chest.

Jimmy chuckled, raising his hand back up to play with Sausage’s hair. “If I say ‘because it looks cool’, will you accept that?” One glance at Sausage’s unimpressed face dispels this idea, and Jimmy sighs with exaggerated exasperation. “It’s symbolic, I guess. Kind of like how you have raven and crow feathers for earrings; except… different. Well, that was a waste of words,” Jimmy interrupted himself, rolling his eyes jokingly. “It’s… well, when I first came here, to the Codlands, there was this… huge codfish. Surprising, I know. But this one wasn’t nice and awesome and handsome, like me.” Jimmy flashed Sausage a charming smile, causing Sausage to turn his head to hide his blush. He wouldn’t give Jimmy the satisfaction of agreeing—though he’s sure Jimmy already knew that he did. “The fish was terrorizing the townspeople—not one could fish or scavenge the seabed or grow water crops or even have water to drink. So… well, I was new. I was small—well, small compared to me now, but still average height to everyone else—and it reminded me of the salmon. It was a big bully, and I hated that. I couldn’t remember why then, but I know now…” Jimmy’s eyes grew cloudy for a second before he remembered where he was. “Anyway, it had just bit one of my friends who tried to protect some overly curious children, and she was screaming and bleeding, and I thought… well, what right does that fish have to do that? So I walked into the water, rolled up my sleeves, and started to tussle with it. My friend nearly lost their mind. She thought I was an idiot. Started yellin’ at me and everything. I went down under the water, and when I came up, I was dragging its carcass and I was holding its tooth in my hand. I’d ripped it straight out and stabbed the fish with it. Everyone was shocked. Thought I was the second coming of the Ocean Queen—I guess I was, in a way. I was her little brother, though I didn’t know that then. Anyway, they elected me leader of the Codlands on the spot. And then… here I am today!” Jimmy’s statement ended in a chortle, smiling bittersweetly into the distance.

“Huh,” Sausage comments, eyes squinting up at Jimmy. “That’s epic.” His eyes slip closed again as he leans into Jimmy, the smell of brine and fish imprinting themselves in his nose.

“That’s all you have to say?” Jimmy sputtered, staring down at Sausage in disbelief. “You ask for a story, sit here listening intently, and that’s all you have to say?!”

“M’already knew you were really strong. I’ve seen you help me an’ my citizens unload the ships. You carry f’ve of those boxes at a time, ‘s very impressive,” Sausage yawned against Jimmy’s chest. “An’ you’re very pretty doing it. M’bet you looked hot when you killed it, that’s prolly why they ‘lected you,” he slurred.

Jimmy stuttered, face going a bright red as it was his turn to look away. “You’re a flatterer, Sausage. You’re just trying to rile me up.”

“It’s true,” Sausage insisted, raising a hand to stoke Jimmy’s cheek scales. “You’re gorgeous.” Sausage’s expression faded into a lovestruck gaze as he stared up at Jimmy.

“You—I—you’re a silly orchid,” Jimmy sighed, hands moving to rest one either side of Sausage’s face.

“But you love me!” Sausage countered gleefully, the words already out before he realized what he’d said. He opened his mouth again to fix the statement, to reword it until it didn’t hit the unseen nerve, but was stopped when Jimmy’s fingers slipped down to his chin. Jimmy stared at him a moment longer, expression unreadable before it softened into gentle adoration.

“I do,” Jimmy sighed, leaning forward to kiss Sausage. His lips were soft if cracked from the salt water; the inexplicably enthralling taste of codfish drawing him in as he kissed back. Jimmy’s hands were warm against his cheeks, holding his head in gentle and cradling hands, holding him as if he were the most precious thing in the world.

Who wouldn’t fall in love with that?

[princessfbi]

❛ shh. there’s people in the other room. ❜ With ❛ i’m not wearing any underwear. thought you’d like to know. ❜ if it sparks joy

I'm going to put the more spicy stuff under the keep reading!

It was Buck's fault really.

Though, to be fair, they weren't on the clock. The firehouse was offline for the party and the music was too loud in the open space for anyone to hear what Buck said as he pressed up against Eddie's side, whispering, "I'm not wearing any underwear. Thought you'd like to know."

And Eddie did not like to know. Not at all. Because knowing meant he had to make a choice and really there was no choice when it came to Buck and the way he bit his bottom lip in that almost shy smile. The one that drove Eddie crazy every time he saw it and Buck knew that.

So, there was no choice and Eddie was left having to conveniently find a place to ditch his drink before he followed Buck back into the corner closet no one used.

Buck didn't even go inside, the shameless bastard, and waited for Eddie with that half bitten smile that Eddie immediately kissed off his face the moment they were locked inside.

His knuckles took the brunt of the impact against the door as his fingers carded through Buck's hair but Buck moaned into his mouth like he wanted more; wanted it harder so he could feel it for the hours they still had to mingle before they could go home. His nimble fingers yanked Eddie's shirt out from his pants so that he could slip his palms up Eddie's waist and Eddie hoped he never got tired of the way Buck's touch could burn him from the inside out. Eddie shifted his hold to Buck's face, pressing his thumbs into the bolt of Buck's jaw so they he would open for him and Buck did. He always did with an earnest edge to the way he presented his tongue for Eddie to suck and tease; claim as his own.

The door shuddered under Buck's weight as he thrusted his hips forward, finding nothing but air before falling back with a whine that keened into the small space like crack of lightning in Eddie's own ears.

"Sssh," Eddie breathed out as he pushed his forehead against Buck's. He drank in his tiny, desperate sounds; his panting that had small, hot breathes fanning Eddie's face. "There's people in the other room."

"Eddie please," Buck whispered, pushing up into Eddie's space until he could feel the hard outline of his dick against his hip. Buck mewled out a bleated sound, one that was just as desperate and urgent as he swiveled his hips; a searching sound that was bordering on begging.

And Buck begged so prettily.

Eddie cupped Buck through his pants and the roll of his fingers had Buck throwing his head back as he let out a soundless cry of relief. It was a hollowed out breath of a thing. One that would be too soft for anyone to hear over the music but one that Eddie wouldn't forget any time soon.

"Good." Eddie praised, kissing his chin, and Buck flushed with that approval like Eddie had licked it into his skin. He shuddered with the hiss of Eddie's breath; clung to Eddie like he was the only thing holding him up. "You have to be quiet and we have to be quick."

Not that that would be much a problem. Eddie was already teetering on the edge, too lost in the danger of being with Buck in that position where they could be caught at any moment and the thrill of feeling the weight of him with his hand.

Buck curled his arm around Eddie's shoulder like he didn't want him to go far, fisting Eddie's shoulder with a clawed hand. Impossible when Buck was laid out like he was: a perfect temptation that Eddie couldn't refuse.

"I'm ready," Buck said and kissed the stunned expression from Eddie's face with hurried lips and a drunk tongue. "I'm already ready. Feel."

His other hand guided Eddie's hand behind him and the slip of his fingers down the waistband of Buck's pants was enough to confirm that Buck had been telling the truth. Gone was the cotton of his usual black briefs, leaving nothing behind but miles of too hot skin and a hole that was stretched out enough for Eddie to slip in two fingers with ease.

Buck arched up at the press, biting his lip to keep quiet as he sank back down onto Eddie's fingers, and fuck Buck was going to get Eddie in so much trouble some day.

But someday was not that day and the tight clench around his fingers was enough to turn all sense of rational thinking off with a sharp click. The slick slide of Eddie's bare fingers into the wet channel left Eddie burning with desire that he didn't know how to quench other than to mouth at Buck's throat. He surged up to kiss Buck's kiss swollen lips again and picked up a rhythm with his hand that only seemed to make Buck cling to him more. It was intoxicating when Buck was like this. Worn thin and like he was being held up by only his tip toes even though he had a good inch on Eddie.

Eddie stroked deep inside, catching Buck's breath as it hitched into his throat, but it wasn't enough. The angle wasn't right. And while he knew eventually Buck would break, beg him for more until he promised so many things, they really didn't have much time.

Eddie latched onto Buck's bottom lip with his teeth and tugged on it as he pulled away. The sound Buck made when Eddie pulled his fingers out of him was unholy on every level and it cut through Eddie like a shock to his system.

"Eddie---" The threat was there in the huskiness of Buck's tone but Eddie shushed him again, slipping a hand over his mouth.

"I'm going to fuck you against this door," Eddie promised and even in the dim lighting he could see the way Buck's eyes went black with want. "Do you need my hand to keep you quiet?"

The nod was almost immediate as Buck's breathing picked up again and Eddie had to count to ten before he lost himself in the frenzy of their time limit.

"Turn around."

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