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w2soneshots · 16 hours ago

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omgg i’d love to see like youtuber!reader and bach, maybe like a silly little q&a? or even one of those cute but kinda cringe couple challenges from like 2010 loll ( like the chapstick challenge or smth ). obviously don’t feel pressured to write this if you don’t want to!! love ur work btw 🩷

Q&A -Italian Bach

words: 0.7k+

warnings: suggestive content.

summary: you and Bach answer his fans weird and funny questions about your relationship.

notes: hello lovely!💗 Thank you so much for your request (I apologise for posting it so late🙈). This was actually so much fun to write and it’s also my first fic for Italian Bach, hehe. I hope you enjoy!!✨🫶🏼

"Hello m' lady," Isaac greeted me at his apartment door, stepping aside to let me in. I giggled before softly pecking him on the lips.

We were both quite new to the whole youtuber thing just eight months ago. We met through a friend and decided to film a video together. The fans started shipping us, as they do, and something else ended up blossoming between us.

"Ready to film?" I asked, after we'd spent a little while chatting on his sofa. "Yup!" He jumped up and then reached for my hands to pull me up and off the couch.

He brought another chair into the spare bedroom so we could both sit at his desk, then he turned the camera on and we got started.

"Hello, my little gremlins," he began in a strange voice, I didn't bat an eyelid since I was fully used to his antics. "Today I have my girlfriend here to answer some of your questions. So get comfy and maybe get some popcorn or something."

I shuffled in the chair as he pulled out his phone. "Okay... Jacob asked, do you guys fuc-" he faked a gasp and I raised my eyebrows. "Jacob that is absolutely disgusting, you little virgin man... ew, but the answer to your question is yes. Anything to say on the matter y/n?" I breathed out a laugh. "Nope. I think you covered all bases."

"Next! Lillian, ah... can never trust a Lillian," I furrowed my brows. "What why?" "I have my reasons. Okay, she asked when did you realise you loved y/n?" "Aw, that's cute!" I smiled.

"Umm... probably when I got some of that poosay!" "Isaac!" I playfully slapped his arm. "No no, I'm joking! It was after we'd just finished filming a video and we ordered dinner and I realised that even the boring, simple things I always enjoyed doing it if it was with you."

"Oh my god, that was actually such a sweet answer, the tiktok editors are gonna eat that up." He chuckled as he knew I was right.

"Do you wanna read this one?" He asked. I nodded and took the phone. "Wolfman57 asked when we want kids," my eyes widened as I read the message. "First of all, I love your username, secondly that's a big question to ask, wolfman." Bach stated.

"Why don't we get back to you in a few years?" I opted. "Yes, we shall do that," Isaac seconded. "Moving on... oh lord, Sam asked, what's the biggest animal you think you could fit up your ass?" "Woah Sam, that's crazy," Bach grimaced.

"Why don't you take the phone back?" I said and he quickly took it. "I'm sorry your eyes had to witness that my love," he joked.

After quite a few interesting questions we were onto the last one. I leaned my head on Isaac's shoulder so that I could see the phone. "Okay... finally, Laura asked, what's our favourite thing about each other?"

"Ooo, I like this!" I grinned. "My favourite thing about you is your ability to find the good in any situation. Though an honourable mention is that fat ass," he answered.

I scoffed. "That was sweet and you know what... I'll take it. Okay, now yours, my kind sir, would be your funny little jokes and the way they make me belly laugh. Along with the mullet," I smirked as I ran my hand over the back of his hair.

"Thank you for watching till the end, obviously y/n will be back soon so put any requests of things you want to see us film in the comments!" "Nothing dirty," I added. Bach chuckled before turning the camera off.

"That was perfect." "You're perfect, now let's go get some lunch," he responded, standing. "You know... if we order something, that usually takes like twenty minutes to come..." "ah... what do you suggest we do while we wait ma'am?" "I don't know, a lot can be accomplished in twenty minutes," I replied with a cheeky smile.

In and instant he'd grabbed me and flung me over his shoulder. I let out a shriek and giggled as he ran with me into our bedroom.

#italian bach #isaac smith #italian bach x reader #isaac smith x reader #youtuber x reader #tiktoker x reader #british youtubers #fanfic #imagine #oneshot #x fem!reader #x female reader #x y/n #x you #x reader #youtube #fluff

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zoswriting · 1 day ago

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✦ happy birthday.

⤷ synopsis: an extremely late shoto birthday post, featuring your kid. (i sincerely apologise, i was meant to write this like last week, but BAM! exams. whoopsies. either way, take it or leave it. happy one month late birthday, shoto.)

⤷ a/n : for some unknown reason all the dividers i had in my photos literally just disappeared? i have no idea where they all went. I had so many cute ones, someone pls give me purple dividers i'm begging. anyways here, take a cute dad shoto on his birthday

⤷ warnings : fluff, f!reader, dad!shoto, husband! shoto, you have a daughter called rumi (but feel free to change the name in your head), absolutely not proofread—what are we expecting?, an unfortunate mention of endeavour, long as FUCK, i don't know what else to include ngl, bonus little smut piece at the end but you can skip over that if you want (it doesn't contribute to the plot)

january 11th. 26 years ago, one of the top Pro Heroes was born-who just so happens to also be your best friend, partner-in-crime, husband, and father of your gorgeous baby girl.

he's never been excited about his birthday (you can thank his father for that) but as the years go by, you're determined to change this—you know you can't alter the past and the memories that come with his prior birthdays, but the pen is in your hands now, and you can write your future. so, when he's out on his last-minute patrol of the city, you're decorating the house for his arrival. you went out the day prior under the pretence of "shopping for rumi", and instead went to go buy him a lot of gifts. he can never have too much, you think; he deserves it all. especially this year, marking the peak of his career and his first birthday with your daughter.

he comes home just moments after you finish setting everything up, and you can hear the house keys rattle in the door. you grin, quickly picking your daughter up—who you dressed up in his merch that looks like his hero costume—and checking your face in the mirror. the door opens as he's putting the keys back in his pocket. "my—Jesus Christ," his announcement of his arrival is cut short as he looks up and at all of the decorations you worked so hard to make absolutely perfect. he looks so in awe, exactly like a little kid who just stepped foot into his own birthday party—which this pretty much is. the house—mainly the living room—is decorated in hues of red and white and gold, the coffee table sporting gifts galore, plus a bouquet of red and white roses (that you arranged meticulously so that the white roses form a heart) with a small card embedded in the middle.

"surprise!" you quickly walk up to him, pressing a fat kiss to his cheek. your daughter reaches out for her dad with her baby hands, and he immediately takes her into his arms, studying her little outfit with the widest smile on his face. "happy birthday, baby."

"i don't—my love, why?" he's dumbfounded as he stares down at rumi whilst bringing her to his chest, who in response just grips at his hero costume in her tight, tiny little fists.

"what do you mean 'why'?" you tilt your head, still smiling at him fondly.

"because... god, love, i don't even like my birthday, and you've gone and done all this," he waves his free hand with a flourish, gesturing at all your decorations you so liberally put up.

"but birthday's are a thing to celebrate, shoto," you say as you dragged him over to the couch by his arm. "listen, i know you didn't have the best birthdays growing up. i mean, they were just treated as every other day, and that's why i want to change that. that's why i always try and go extra, just for you."

"i don't—" he starts, trying to say how he 'doesn't deserve it', but you cut him off.

"shush, you do deserve it, i don't wanna hear otherwise," you put your foot down on the matter, not leaving room for discussion over it. he leans back against the sofa cushions and taking a moment again to take in everything you did. for him. for his birthday. he subconsciously spins the band that sits perfectly on his left ring finger, like he's reminding himself that you're his, that you seriously did this. your daughter also looks around the room with her big, wide eyes, but they're more so on the gold of the wrapping paper.

you bring forward the bouquet from the table. "you always get me flowers, but i feel like i don't get you them enough. so, here you go. flowers," you push them towards him, but you then realise you're missing an important detail. "oh right, the child. swapsies?"

he chuckles at your request, nodding slightly. you set the bouquet down beside him on the couch, taking your daughter from his arms whilst he takes the bouquet. his eyes immediately fall onto the card concealed inside the gold envelope, and he plucks it out carefully. the envelope reads 'My dear husband’, on the front in neat handwriting, and he looks up at you.

"what? it's a card. you can't have a birthday without a card," you plop yourself next to him as he gently opens the card, and rumi's hands immediately go to the discarded envelope. “i pulled out my best handwriting for this.”

“my, your best handwriting? for me? i’m touched, my love. truly,” he laughs, pulling out the card inside. and he runs his finger over it before opening the card, reading its contents. you bounce rumi on your knee as he does—for some reason, you feel like a teenager watching her crush read the confession note she put in his locker, and the way he’s scanning over the words over and over again is honestly making you a little nervous. but he smiles after a moment of reading, and leans over to kiss the side of your head. “you’re cute,” he mumbles against your hair, going to put the card back in the envelope.

“shut up,” you mumble. “wait, don’t put the card back yet. look inside the envelope again,” you tell him, intently watching his face for his reaction when he looks inside.

he looks at you confused before placing the card down beside him (he ends up putting it on the coffee table once he sees your baby reach for it, however. he doesn’t want it to suffer the same fate as the now ripped and slightly chewed envelope, he wants to cherish the letters inside for a little while longer, at least) and looking in the envelope again. two polaroids sit inside, and he pulls them out. “what are these?”

“polaroids,” you say simply.

“i’m aware. i meant as in the phot—” he cuts himself off once he flips one of them around so he can properly look at the picture on it. it’s a picture of you and him at his fourth birthday, sitting side by side as he blows out the candles on his small little cake. you’re wearing a party hat and a toothy smile, and he’s smiling softly. it wasn’t the best day of his life, you both could say that much; the party was only thrown because it was the day he was to get his quirk, and his father��dressed in a reputation he so desperately wanted to build—had invited every parent in his kindergarten class, which included you. endeavour wanted to boast about his youngest son’s quirk to all the other parents, but you were one of the only kids there who actually wanted to be there, everyone else just wanted to go home. most did, actually.

he looks starstruck as he looks down at the polaroid, a little confused as to where you even attained this, even. he sighs softly, running his thumb over your face. “you were cute back then,” he comments, to which you raise an eyebrow teasingly.

“you saying i’m not cute now, shoto?”

“that’s not what i meant and you know it, sweetheart. you’re always cute, you were just cuter back then.”

“excuses,” you mutter playfully before turning the other polaroid around. it’s a picture of his mother in the hospital, carefully cradling a swaddled-shoto against her chest.

“okay, one question before anything else. where the hell did you get these?” he turns his head to look at you fully. you shrug.

“your sister.”

“checks out,” he grumbles before studying the photo again.

“apparently, according to her, this was taken by touya,” he freezes at the mention of his eldest brother. “apparently. i don’t know how true that is, i didn’t press, but see that smudge looking thing in the corner? that’s his thumb. probably. again, how would i know?”

he looks to the right corner and, sure enough, there is a blur of something there. he lets out a breath. “touya, of all people, touya took the first photo of me?” he mumbles, studying the picture once more before tucking both of them, and the card, back into the envelope. he places it, along with the flowers, back on the coffee table and then pulls you into his side, holding you and rumi close.

“thank you, love. really,” he mumbles against your head, pressing gentle kisses to it.

“happy birthday, shoto,” you whisper, and rumi babbles into the conversation, to which you both silently laugh at.

BONUS. (smut ahead) (wow first smut post)

⤷ everyone is over 18!!!!!!!!, f/afab!reader, fingering, oral sex (f receiving), shoto’s a cocky (haha get it) little shit, penetration, tits? is that a warning?, literally made up as i go, first time like properly writing smut pls bear with me i have no idea what the fuck i’m doing, say it with me: shoto’s a little shit, kinda rushed this part cause i really wanna sleep

at this point, the sun had set. the three of you went out to a restaurant (which you paid for, obviously) and ate to your hearts content—although your daughter just had milk, but the way she conked out during the drive back was more than enough evidence that she, too, was full—and then did the whole cake thing after putting rumi to sleep in her nursery. now, you find yourself laying in the middle of your bed with shoto attacking your neck and chest with kisses, plus the occasional nip here and there.

how did you get here, exactly?

“i don’t need thanking, shoto. i feel like a broken record saying that, just shut your mouth and accept this,” you huff as you tell him for what seems like the fiftieth time. your husband’s so set on ‘showing you his gratitude’, as he puts it, and as much as you try to refuse, you know shoto will get his way. he always does, no matter what you do. the minute you guys walked into your bedroom, his lips were crashing on yours as he walked you both backwards to the bed. his hand stayed planted on the back of your head, tilting it slightly to deepen the kiss before he was pushing you back onto the mattress and moving on top of you, straddling your legs to keep them down as he removed your top, revealing your bare torso under. he ran his hands over the newly-exposed skin gently, his calloused fingertips sending shivers through you.

and now this is where you are—under him as he moves down your body, practically worshiping every inch, committing all of it to memory.

“i think you should be shutting your mouth. you’ve done way more than enough for me today, it’s wrong not to thank the provider,” he hums against your skin, hooking his fingers into the waistband of both your leggings and panties. “may i?” he asks as he straightens up and looks you straight in the eye, his voice a little softer, yet still tinged with that lingering desire.

you swallow as you look up at him. he knows what he’s doing, you know that he knows what he’s doing. he has that slightly cocky look on his face, the one that says he’s so aware he already has slick looking in your panties just from a little bit of making out, and yet he has the audacity to ask you if he can take them off. the audacity to think you’re gonna say no—you’re already nodding, even though you know he’d do it anyway, and soon enough, the last bit of your clothing is joining the shirt your husband so elegantly discarded to the floor.

he spreads your legs just that little bit wider, running two fingers through your folds, your pussy already dripping for him. he smiles at the sight. “see? you do want me to show my appreciation, don’t deny it,” he teases, and you open your mouth to respond, but the words are queued behind a moan as those two fingers are thrust into you without warning, curling up immediately to rub against your g-spot. fuck him and his ability to navigate your body so damn well, you think, but god does it feel too good to even try and curse him out. but just as you go to moan for more, his fingers slip out of you, and you whine at the loss of friction.

he raises an eyebrow at your little noise, then shakes his head before pulling you closer to the edge of the mattress by your hips and sinking to his knees in front of you, between your legs. he slowly, slowly, kisses up the length of the inside of your thighs, and just when you think he’s actually going to put his mouth where you want—need—him to, he just pulls further back.

“shoto, i swear to god if you don’t put that mouth o—fuck,” he cuts you off quickly with a soft yet firm suck on your clit, making you mewl in response.

“what was that?” he pulls away, looking up at you from between to your thighs.

“nothing. never mind. i retract my statement.”

“that’s what i thought. let me enjoy my gift,” he says annoyingly calmly, as if he’s not torturing the life out of you. that paired with his smooth, low voice reaching your ears as he says that just serves to turn you on more. and then his tongue is running up your slit, the contact causing your hand to fly up and into his hair. he laughs against your core, the vibrations coursing through you like electricity as he laps at your juices.

it doesn’t take long for you to be writhing on the bed, and your back arches deeply when he returns his fingers inside you again, and it’s like he’s on a mission to make you come quickly. his fingers curl in that same, skilled way as his mouth makes quick work of your clit. shoto’s a tease, that’s well known, but what he also is right now is desperate. the moment he stepped through the front door that afternoon, his mind immediately thought of how well he’s going to fuck you.

the more logical side of his brain is telling him to get you to come first, but his dick says otherwise with the way it’s straining against his boxers, having made quick work of his trousers whilst kissing your body. he doesn’t listen to his brain this time; standing up, he pulls his boxers down and runs the head through your wetness before stroking it a couple times. his breathing is deep, laboured yet controlled—a stark contrast to your short, shallow breaths. his eyes are locked on your tits as you take those breaths, his free hand going to one of them to knead and tug at your hardened nipple. you mewl, the short and sweet sound turning into a loud moan as his cock sheathes itself inside of you fully, his hips meeting yours as he bottoms out in one deep stroke. he lets out a sharp breath, groaning at the feeling of your walls, warm and wet, clenching around him.

“fuck, i missed this,” he curses, his head tilting back slightly as he begins to move, pulling back to just the tip before slamming into you once again, the hand playing with your breast clamping over your mouth before you’re able to cry out again. “i hope you’re aware of the child in the other room.”

you just nod, it’s all you’re able to do now with his hand tight over your mouth, and you bite your tongue to keep from moaning. a small part of you wants to curse at him for reminding you of that fact right now, but the bigger part of you is already drunk on his cock as he drags it through your cunt in that pace that allows you to feel every inch, every ridge. but that’s just the start; it’s not long before he abandons all care and starts fucking you properly, the pace of his hips increasing with every muffled noise you make. he watches your hands gripping the sheets below you, but he doesn’t like that. instead he takes your hand in his and interlocks your fingers, keeping it pinned by your side. it acts as an anchor, as something for you to hold on to as he fucks you. periodically, he’ll squeeze it three times—your little way of saying ‘i love you’—but you barely notice it as your vision already starts to blur.

your back bows off the bed as you near your orgasm, your eyes squeezing shut and brimming with un-shed tears whilst stars dance behind your eyelids. he smiles again when he realises this, when he feels the way your pussy tightens around his length, and he can already tell that he definitely won’t be far behind once you do come. his hand leaves yours momentarily, just to press on your stomach to keep your body still against the mattress, but the feeling of his large hand splayed and applying pressure to the majority of your lower stomach is enough to get you to almost choke on a moan and come almost instantly around his cock without any further warning.

he lets out a guttural groan from deep within him when your walls close in on him intensely, still slamming into you with intense fervour a few more times before he leans down and presses his forehead against yours, mumbling out a spew of ‘i love you’s and ‘you’re so good for me, s’good, the best pussy, the best birthday present’ before removing his hands from your mouth just to shut you up again by pressing his lips against yours messily as he comes, filling you up.

you both sink—you into the mattress and him sinking on top of your body, his chest pressed against yours as he’s still kissing you sloppily. after a second of silence (that’s actually not silent and just filled with heavy breathing from both of you), he smiles against your mouth before pulling back just slightly to whisper to you. “tha—” you don’t let him get a word in, just tilting your head up to meet his lips with yours one more time, and then back.

“i said shut it. you already thanked me,” you mumble.

“i’m thanking you again.”

“no thanks, i’m okay.”

he rolls his eyes at your phrase. “mmkay, sure,” he sighs as he straightens up, pulling out of you. he watches intently as his cum drips out of your hole, and he has to fight the urge to push it back in with his fingers.

the rest of his birthday night is spent taking care of you; cleaning you both up with a much-needed shower, feeding you more cake, plus forcing him to go check on your daughter when her whines can be heard from the baby monitor. when met with the question ‘why can’t you?’, you respond with ‘you just fucked my soul out and tucked me back in, my legs are still shaking—yes, still, even if it’s been 50 minutes, that was probably one of the most intense orgasms i’ve had, never press on my stomach again.’ to which he’ll laugh at and surrender, going to check on your daughter.

#long ass post #i’m sorry #my bad gang #just kidding #i don’t care #bnha shoto #pro hero shoto #shoto fluff #shoto todoroki #shoto x reader #shoto x y/n #shoto x you #shotoncanon #shouto smut

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shojosparkle · 2 days ago

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Confessions from an Actor:

Everyday I stand on a stage, perform for a crowd with a big smile on my face.

It’s what I love to do, it’s what makes me happy. I never feel more alive than I do for those couple of hours with lights beating down on me as I sing and dance my heart out.

It’s a connection to myself, my cast-mates, to our audience in a way that electrifies a room. Performing, I say, is the highest art form. You can reach anyone in the world with a good enough performance.

But when we bow, when those lights go down, I take a step back. I tell my cast-mates good show as they run out to meet their family and friends. I turn to get out of costume, knowing there’s nobody offstage waiting for me.

And that becomes my routine. The brief sensation of feeling alive followed by the hollowness that becomes taking off my costume in a silent cold-tiled room alone.

I walk out of the theatre, bag in hand, as I pass everyone in the lobby. Pictures are being taken, bright smiles are on their face as they chatter with loved ones and make plans together. They’re so wrapped up in everything they don’t even tell me bye.

I never expect them to. I know that I too would be guilty of the same thing had anyone been in the audience for me.

Sometimes an audience member gives me a compulsory, “great performance” or “good show!” as I pass, though I can tell by the look in their eyes they don’t even recognise me. Did my performance really mean so little?

It doesn’t matter, I tell myself, as I hike my bag higher on my shoulder and thank them with a warm smile. They go back to their conversation feeling good about themselves. I don’t mind, it’s what I live for: making other people feel things that I myself seldom feel.

Exhaustion laces me when I finally make it back to my car, throwing my bag in the passenger seat. I sit there for a moment, wondering if any of what I’d done tonight actually mattered. I decide, for my own sake, that it does. Those moments under the lights are the only thing that’s ever made me feel alive.

I take a deep breath, pushing back the feeling that even front and center infront of an audience of a hundred people, I am still invisible. I can still see the laughter and joy from inside as I turn my car on. The radio buzzes full of static and ads, my favourite station doesn’t play music this late. I click my radio off.

I drive half an hour in silence, reviewing my performance for the day, figuring out what I need to tweak, how I can make it better, how I can work with the people around me more effectively. No performance is perfect. It never is. That’s part of the beauty of it.

When I get home I unlock my door to a dark, empty, and quiet house. There’s no one there as I eat my dinner, well after midnight. No one messages me or calls to ask how my performance went. My cat wakes up as I hang my bag on the wall. He stretches and meows at me, angry that I’ve woken him up from his sleep. I give him a pat on the head and apologise as he curls up and goes back to sleep.

Once I’m ready for bed, I check my phone one last time. There’s a notification, I open it, hoping and wishing that somewhere in the world someone remembered my performance and was reaching out to ask how it went or to say good job. My face falls when I recognise the same post I see every night. More notes from my director.

They never say “good show” or “great job” or “I’m proud of you all”. That’s not her job. I respect that. It’s a barrage of “you missed this cue”, “this set change didn’t go right”, “the harmonies on this song sounded awful”.

I add these mental notes to my head for the next day as I place my phone on the charger and fall into an uneasy slumber.

The next day, I walk into the theatre, makeup done, trusty bag on my back. One of my cast-mates asks, “do you have anyone coming to see the show tonight?”

I plaster a smile on my face as I shake my head and reply, “not tonight, it’s alright though, maybe someone will surprise me another night.”

No one ever does, and I know no one ever will. It makes them feel better though, they won’t go through their night feeling sad for me, knowing that no one will watch this performance. Any of my performances. Minutes later the lights in the audience fall, obscuring faces that I wouldn’t recognise anyway, and I step out onstage knowing that as much as I love the stage it will never love me back.

#poetry #sad poem #acting #theatre #poetsandwriters #actress #actor

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espeartz · 1 year ago

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Umineko au where everything is the same except instead of Will saying ”Don’t think about it too much, you’ll get a headache” he says ”don’t worry about it kitten”

#i unironically think he would say this #sorry this man has some cringe ass lines and a cat obsession. you just know he would do it #i apologise for this post but I had to say it #umineko #umineko no naku koro ni #Umineko when they cry #worm talks about Umineko #willard h wright

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ehlnofay · 4 months ago

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One day – as far-off as a century, as near as tomorrow – it will all be a grand old story.

The stories will speak of a handful of champions, rushing headlong against time and logic to save the world; the last Blades, the last Septim, and his hanger-on Hero, carving a bloody path to the Temple doors. The stories will tell of skies like burned blood, of fire and ash and uncountable legions of monsters – hundreds, thousands, millions, the quantity rising with each telling – the city streets cracked and quaking, every civilian locked up in their homes and businesses and praying for deliverance. The stories will tell of the appearance of Dagon, red-hot and roiling, a gory perversion of the sun; they’ll tell that when all seemed lost, Martin Septim sacrificed himself in a blaze of glory, calling down the avatar of Akatosh and casting Dagon and his ilk back whence he came. They’ll tell that the golden dragon threw back its head and roared, and the sky cleared and brightened at its word; they’ll tell how it petrified in place, a magnificent pillar of stone, a sacrosanct statue. A site of pilgrimage. A shrine, to the grace and glory of the gods, and the bravery and benevolence of the last Emperor, the best of men.

It will be a good story. All splendour and triumph, a bittersweet victory right out of the epics; the pages closed, the crisis done, the world saved in as golden a resolution as could be asked for. It doesn’t get better than this, a perfect saviour, a hallowed end.

What the stories won’t tell is how, under clear skies and sunlight, the Hero of Kvatch falls at the statue’s marbled feet and howls like the world is still ending.

“You fucking coward,” Pax is screaming, as best as she can. Her mouth tastes like smoke. Her voice is hoarse. “Stupid worm, fucking – selfish bastard – what’s wrong with you?”

His head is swimming, a bit; he shouldn’t have tried to stand, but he – but – he’s dragged himself up to the dais, just about, and managed to sprawl himself over the edge, a snail’s trail of blood smeared along the floor behind him. The copper tang of it is strong in his nostrils. The statue stands, proud and silent, one marble claw dug into the cracked stone of the rostrum. His whole body is beginning to ache – just because of a stupid stab wound in his side, he’d swear he’s had worse, it’s not that bad, it’s not that bad. His throat burns. He isn’t crying. He isn’t.

The sky is so fucking blue.

“What’s wrong with you?” he demands, again, and brings the heel of his hand thudding against the clawed foot hard enough that he feels the impact down his arm, through his blurry head. “Why would you – piece of shit – sorry spit-gill – I thought –”

None of their thoughts will go through to the end. “I thought,” Pax says again, and she’s not crying, and it hurts so much it’s looped back around to not hurting, and it’s all getting fuzzy at the edges, all the world narrowed down to this and this and this and all fucking hell she’d rather be anywhere, anything else. The statue is cold. Her throat is scraped raw. “Come back,” she’s begging without quite meaning to, “come back,” and she drives her palm into the stone again, and the pain sets her reeling.

And all hell, the sky is so blue; the statue enormous; and here they are, at its feet, vision blurring, staring up at its cold marble face. It’s so fucking tall, so proud, face tipped up towards the new-appeared sun, away from them.

“How could you?” Pax says, and then they can’t even see it anymore, blood unspooling from them like skeins of madder-dyed thread. Red has never been their favourite colour. The shape of the dragon, glowing like the sun, is fixed forever on the backs of their eyelids; gold, they think, is worse. The world is detached and floating about them. They taste smoke and then bile. Stone digs fierce into their spine.

It burned like the sun, the dragon; like all the divine light of Aetherius come to earth just to sear the moisture from her eyes. Where it clawed Mehrunes Dagon, his blood boiled; when it screamed, the world moulded itself to its call. Pax hadn’t known what was happening, while it happened; sure as shit doesn’t know now. What they do know is that he’s gone. What they do know is that the dragon didn’t look at them once. They don’t taste ash on their breath, now; just fear, stagnant, sour, blood jangling bitter in their veins and seeping out to soak their gambeson.

It doesn’t hurt, anymore, there’s just this spreading, vague numbness. It doesn’t feel like their body. It’s just a thing they’re putting on. Their ears are still ringing from the crashing-in of the Temple, but there’s a faint buzzing of noise outside. They might be dying. They can’t be assed to get up.

Skeeving asshole. They’re getting blood on the dragon’s immaculate feet. The hollow sounds of voices feels distant. Could well be worse.

Then, “… a healer, here!” they hear, much closer than anything else had been before, paired with the faraway thudding of the door, and “Pax. Pax! It’s – where’s –” and there’s hands on him, a cautious manipulation of his neck, a shifting of his legs. Pressure on his sternum, and then his stomach, and a pained grunt slips out of his mouth, bound up with a slurred curse.

“Stay calm,” says an unfamiliar voice, soft and steady. “I’m just accessing the wound.”

“Go away,” Pax says, or tries to say, but his voice is whispering-hoarse and the dragon looms in the dark even still. He could open his eyes, but what would be the point?

The hands stay on him even when he bucks, holding him steady; they whisper over the stab in her gut, pulling at the drying blood, mumbling words that she can’t be fucking bothered to listen to, one voice known to her already, one voice not; pressure again on the injury, and they try, half-heartedly, to breathe out a swear – and then light, copper-bright, behind their eyelids, and burning heat, and pain pain pain eclipsing all else as something inside them wrenches back into working order, and then their eyes are open and the sky is blue and they are very fucking aware, thank you.

Pax sits up, fast enough to send the world dizzily whirling, and shoves the mage-medic away from them.

“Piss off,” he says – and it’s still hoarse, smoke-throated and scraped raw, but there’s more bite to it this time, more sound. The strange hands fall away from his side, and he looks down. His gambeson is hanging open, cords untied, the emblem of the wolf split clean down the middle. His undershirt is rucked up around his chest, too, so much of his skin is bared to the clear, bright air; all to get to the wound tucked just under their ribs. It’s an underwhelming thing – smaller than they would’ve thought, a thin short slash like a very red mouth has opened itself up in their gut. It’s stopped dribbling quite so much blood, gone scabby with rough healing, though the stuff is still smeared all over their skin, damn near enough to bathe in. It’s barely anything, really. They’re barely even hurt.

“I’m not done,” says the mage-medic, all stern. The wound itches, the taste of hasty magic gone sour in the back of their throat with all the rest of it. “I might have to find my suturing needle. It isn’t too bad, but it can’t be healed all at once.”

“Piss off,” Pax repeats – and all fucking hell it hurts, and he’s sitting up against the statue, legs lolling. He’s dizzy. He ignores it.

Ocato – his fine clothes sooty, face tight as a wound-up spring – says, “Calm down, please – he’s a skilled healer, he knows what he’s doing.” His eyes keep skipping around the room like he’s searching for another enemy lurking hidden in the shadows. “What happened? Where’s the Emperor?”

Ah – not an enemy, then.

Pax tastes bile.

“Not very quick on the uptake, are you?” she says, elbow braced against the statue’s massive marble claws (she hates touching it, she hates it, she hates it, she wants to set it crumbling apart, she doesn’t want to let anyone else touch it ever again). She can’t stop leaning because then she might topple back down again. Fuck, she needs to keep her head on straight – or lose it altogether, whichever happens faster. Her fingers feel cold. “How’re you going to run an Empire when you’re this fucking clueless?”

Ocato looks them in the face; his brow, high and slanted in that way elves have, furrows. “You’re hurt,” he says, in a tone like he expects Pax to argue with him. “Martin Septim–”

“Can’t you see him?” Pax demands, tone torn in half and uglier than they’ve ever heard it before, and they slam the back of their hand against the stone for echoing emphasis. (They want to shatter all the bones in their knuckles, break every piece in their hand one by one, like wishbones. They want it bloody and bruising. They want to scratch its polished-smooth surface until their fingernails tear. They want – they want – they want –)

Ocato, the Empire’s de facto leader, says, “Ah.”

In his plummy robes, all fruit-rich and stained with ash, he looks very stark against the Temple’s cracked marble floors.

“The Avatar,” he says. “If – the Amulet – joined blood of kings and gods –”

“Ocato,” says Pax, leaning heavy against the statue’s hateful foot, “shut up.” Their voice is bowstring-taut; he looks at them, his eyes too golden to meet. His mouth twists. They tip their head back against the stone, glaring up at the chips of blue sky shown in the crater where the roof once was, and try hard to ignore the tugging ache hooked behind their ribs.

It really fucking hurts. Worse than it did before, maybe, like some gauzy veil has been ripped from it. A veil has been ripped from the world. All the colours are too-bright, hideous. Pax breathes, because there’s no alternative, and waits for the pain to ebb.

(It doesn’t, really.)

“The Gates are sealed,” Ocato says, slowly, and he’s looking at her again, she can see out of the edge of her eye. “We will speak later. I’ll have you put up in the Palace until you’re healed. Ah – Quintus, does –”

“As long as she doesn’t go back into shock,” says the mage-medic, busily flipping through some kind of supply bag at his belt, “her odds are good. Lost blood, but I don’t think anything important was too damaged – get a proper examination, all I did was give her a second wind. Stitches, rest, fluids should do it, with luck.”

“Can she stand?”

“Can or should are –”

“Shut the fuck up,” Pax snaps, “I’m right here.” Her back pressed against the cold marble of the statue, her plait half-loose and knotted, filled with ash. The sky is so fucking blue. It hurts like hell – if the healer took her out of shock, then shit, she wishes he’d put her back in. She can see in too much detail. She can feel the skin, damp and ragged and angry. She presses the heel of her hand to the injury; her palm is crusted with dust, tacky with the same half-dried blood streaked over the floors.

Ocato, in the edges of her vision, shifts, all a blur of rich clothes and sympathetic eyes and solemn voice turned soft like he’s talking to an easily spooked horse. “I know.”

The mage-medic clucks his tongue. “Let me take another look first,” he says, and takes a step forward –

Pax kicks out at him before he even gets close. “Don’t fucking touch me!”

“Pax,” says Ocato – and why, why the fuck is the Empire’s de facto leader here, now, babying them like a whimpering little puppy instead of anywhere fucking else, why is he bothering to talk to them all patronising soft, why does he care? They’ve barely fucking met – talked twice, if you can call either of those times talking. Is it because they’re the Hero of Kvatch? Is this what they’ve earned – a bit of leeway as they throw a tantrum, bleeding out at the marble feet of that stupid bloody statue? Ocato looks so fucking tired; Pax wants to hit him in the nose. “You need care.”

“I need –” and Pax chokes it off in a puff of air. The statue looms behind them. There’s blood on the floors. (Traitor liar coward come back come back I hate you come down I’ll knock your fucking teeth in stupid selfish fraud come BACK. LOOK AT ME.)

Pax closes his eyes.

“My gratitude,” Ocato says, “ – our gratitude for what you’ve done cannot be overstated. The Crisis if over. The gates are sealed. Mehrunes Dagon and his ilk can never threaten Tamriel again.”

The knobs of Pax’s braid are pressing uncomfortably against their scalp. They can hear footsteps, coming closer. They don’t respond.

“It’s a great shame we had to pay such a price,” Ocato says, and Pax would fucking love to know who’s we here, “but it’s done. Dagon is defeated. We’ve won.” He’s much too close, now; his voice pitches softer. “Martin – is dead. But he died an Emperor – and a hero to rival Tiber Septim.”

Pax shoves him.

It’s a good fucking shove – knocks him right to the ground, his elbow hitting the marble with a painfully audible crack, Pax standing over him, shirt rucked up, their handprint on his shoulder marked in blood. “You useless, prattling jackass!” they spit, hoarse, and deal a swift, savage kick to his side. “How dare you act like this is a victory! It should have been me!”

Then their head swims, and they’re sitting again on the edge of the dais, palm pressed to their side, the sweaty cloth of their gambeson pushed half off their shoulder and its cord biting into their hand. The mage-medic is kneeling over Ocato, who still lies, stunned; Pax can’t see his eyes, now, but they remember them, brassy with shocked fear. Their bow is off by the wall where they left it. Pax’s palms are sticky with blood. The sky is so fucking blue. No matter how hard she rages the dragon won’t look down at them.

By the time the mage-medic has helped Ocato up, they’re gone. The Kvatch guard gambeson remains, smoke-smelling and crusted with blood, left like an offering at the statue’s feet. The Hero of Kvatch is never seen again.

#posting these two one after another is. fun :)#I lovee characters that just slightly misunderstand each other. causing pain and suffering for ever and ever #martin goes this will be sad for them... but at least I can apologise before I go. and at least there will be people to care for them #and I will at last atone for my many horrid sins (mostly existing and bearing witness to the terrors)#meanwhile to pax. the only person that cares about them + figurehead for their entire sense of purpose and confidence has abandoned them.#the Big Dragon Statue is apt because when martin died he made himself a monster #both the only good thing in the world and the thing that took it away #pax hates him. hates herself for hating him. loves him. hates herself for loving him. cannot fathom anything she knows to be true #about their relationship #If He Cared About Me He Couldn't Have Done This. so he never cared #so the dragon with its head arched to the sky is insult to extremely literal injury #so I will NOT be comforted or looked after thanks. I will die at your feet cursing your name and failing that I will lash out as hard #as I can and then disappear from historical record #(to go break into a physician's office and stitch himself up. pax says to himself that he's had worse but Worse was also major abdominal #trauma that caused hypovolemic shock. the perspective is skewed)#and everything is so so sad forever THE END thanks for reading :D #oc tag #pax #martin septim #the elder scrolls #tesblr #tes #oblivion #fay writes #my writing #hero of kvatch

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