#i love drawing him doing menial tasks

[ditterdoob]

random arthur doodles cuz i havnt been drawing much

[eldrith]

˗ˏˋ your lips, my lips ˎˊ˗ Jacaerys Velaryon

jacaerys velaryon x fem!wife!reader words: 5.6k synopsis: you remind Jacaerys that there is no shame in accepting help, especially from his wife. notes: this idea came to me in a fever dream the other day idek. this can be read as an au, it is implied that the dance happened but that luke is alive so idk. as i always say: do what you love. i think jace can be happy for a bit, as a treat. this is honestly like 3k fluff and 2k smut lol. pls lmk what you think <3 warnings: canon-typical injury. jace is so horny and in love that he becomes a poet! light dirty talk(mostly in valyrian bc jace is shy), very very brief breeding kink, slightly sub!jace, praise kink (mutual), slight size kink, hair pulling, pussy whipped jace, PiV creampie, reader rides him. valyrian is translated at the end (author uses a translator so if its wrong im sorry). feedback is appreciated<3 requests open. masterlist.

SHADOWS DANCE. 

Toes cold upon empty stone, you pad across a corridor; short, illuminated in torchlight. A path you’ve taken many times. 

Worry twists your fingers together, toying as you watch the silhouette of your night shift swish upon the contours of the wall. Chamber doors which connect the small hall to your own are open; an afterthought, perhaps, though your husband quite often prefers to slumber with his door to yours drawn open. 

He is hurting. 

Not in any dire way, not by far. Burns, the whispers had reached your ears - from maester to house worker to ladies in wait - burns, across the Prince’s palms; some troubles while handling dragonfire. You have been alive for long enough to have seen dragons dance, see the flesh melt from bones of even those coursing with Valyrian blood in their veins. You cannot imagine the pain of it, lying marred in his palms. 

The maester has seen worse, you are told. He is not in too much pain, to your relief - he is neither sick nor hurting but rather unable to perform any tasks, no matter how menial; something you know your husband will not take lightly. Only a few paces and you reach his chambers, taking in the sandalwood and cedar smoking in small dipped sticks; a favor of his mothers, he told you once. He’s taken to them recently, to the comforting scent; as have you.  

Feet move slowly into the archway; his chambers are always so much warmer than your own. Furs, thicker - bed, more comfortable, hearth, drawn larger. Though it is more likely to do with the company. 

Your husband stands before the mirror of his chambers, his back upon you. 

You watch for a moment - his brows, furrowed in the reflection, a razor is held rather uncertainly in a bandaged grasp. A pang through your stomach at the sight of the gauze, restricting his fingers; a kind glow of candlelight dances across concentrated eyes, once-steady hands trembling as he holds the blade against his cheek, head tilted back. 

Slow breaths - your chest moves with his, as it seems to do more and more these days; a drag of a blade, the wobbling of which sets your teeth upon edge. Such a mundane chore, shaving: yet you know just as most how painful the burns of dragons may be upon flesh.

Your sweet husband is a proud soul; you can almost picture him, resolutely dismissing any offers of assistance before he readied himself for the night. Struggling to wet the razor, to lift it upon his face, yet doing so with a bristling determination. You linger, a specter in the doorway, fingers tracing the stone arch beside you as he works. Slow, determined.  

His chest rises and falls beneath the simple tunic; unlaced, revealing the glimpse of skin awaiting beneath as he clenches his jaw, metal dragging against porcelain. 

Though as soon as you draw a breath, a hiss from him - the razor has slipped, blood thinning in a bloom upon his cheek. Stark against such pale skin. He curses softly, thick brows knitting in some helplessness as his wounded fingers, shaking in pain or perhaps frustration, brush and come away crimson. 

You step forward immediately, concern overriding all hesitations and shyness you’d felt previously.

"Jacaerys," your voice, soft and scarcely a whisper, carries through the room. Through the mirror your husband looks up, his eyes meeting yours. 

A whisper of surprise in his visage that melts into some shade of embarrassment as he turns to you. Your name, falling from his plush lips, bitten in previous exasperation. His voice is warm, guilty. "I did not wish to wake you."

You shake your head softly - he’d not made a single sound since you returned from your evening duties to retire. You learned of his injuries through scarce whispers in the corners of your chamber, not from any loud disruptions from within his own. 

 Ignoring his words, you move closer - feet light, heart aching for his felt helplessness; A crimson tear beads out of the thin cut upon the cut on his cheek. You tilt your head to look into the warmth of his eyes. "You should not be doing this with your injuries," you chide, nodding to the strips of bandage around his palms.

A sigh from him, gentle nod as he looks down upon your expression. "I did not wish to trouble anyone," you find a touch of frustration still coloring his voice, but are not foolish enough to believe an ounce of it could ever be directed towards you. "I am not so helpless." he prepends with a clenched jaw. 

Nodding, you gently take the razor from his loose grip. "No, you are not.” You agree gently, “Sit.” 

You guide him to the table aside the mirror with light hands. He murmurs your name; it slips through his lips like honey. "I do not wish to burden you. It is late, I would not want to keep you awake." 

You cannot help the surge of affection; your husband, so doting, thoughtful. A gentle touch to his cheek, your fingers grazing just under the fresh cut as you swipe away the red. "Sleep can wait.” Your voice is just as gentle as his own. “And you are not a burden; You are my husband. Your troubles are mine."

He sighs, a small appreciative smile growing upon his lips. "I resent being unable to tend to myself." he admits sheepishly.

You run your hands gently over his palm, tracing gently over where gauze conceals marred flesh. “You must heal fully so you might be of aid again soon.” You pull away, crossing the room to retrieve the cloth, oils, and small bowl of water; “In the meantime, there is no shame in accepting help. Especially not from your wife."

His eyes follow you upon your return, your sleep gown swishing against the quiet of the apartments; aware of the semi-sheerness of the fabric, you feel yourself flush. His smile is appreciative.

The bowl makes a small noise as you place it upon the table - you watch the soft illumination of your reflection ripple in the water. “I am a lucky man.” He says, as if to himself; you resist the shy smile that grows upon your lips, looking away from the contents of the bowl and shaking your head gently. He does not seem prepared to leave it be, though: “I scarcely know how I came to deserve someone as wonderful as you.” 

He prefers it like this, you’ve learned; kindness, candor, sweet admissions - flushed cheeks, soft smiles. A true marriage, one being built with respect, with love. And still, moons after your union - every compliment you pay your husband he seems to return tenfold. 

It is content, quiet against the spitting of embers in the hearth as you bend before him, seeking an angle safe enough to press the blade to his skin. A soft conversation, scarcely more than whispers in the eve - though you become weary at the prospect of a safe approach. 

His legs spread wide as he watches you pace - expression somewhere between an amusement and puzzle; You let out a breath in a small huff as you draw a decision.

Your hand falls first onto his shoulder - a steadying grip as you slowly slide onto his lap, positioning yourself to see his face clearly; Jacaerys, with eyes widened in surprise and arms instinctively rising to hold you steady. Despite his injuries, his touch is firm, wrists pressing to you where hands cannot. 

A thick swallow within his throat that you steadfastly ignore. 

The touch of his arms around you, of your thighs straddling his lap - you burn, clearing your throat. Your voice comes, barely more than a breath. "Is this- alright?"

His lips, parted with the proximity, flutter before he finds words. “Y-yes. More than alright.”

With a small grin, you school yourself; pouring the oils upon your palms, you begin to smooth the ointment upon his skin. Cheeks, down the short shadow of stubble he has so resigned to eliminate this evening. A sharp jaw, a strong chin, plush lips. His breath is scarcely more than puffs against your cheeks as you press gently into his jaw muscle; his eyelashes flutter closed. 

When you bring the blade to his skin, it is with no hesitation he tilts his head for you; eyeing you through lids, the apple of his cheeks warm in the light. You release a short breath and begin to shave him with slow, careful strokes. Jacaerys remains still, his eyes fixed - you drag the blade with light pressure, a relief building in you as you begin to effectively remove shadows from his cheek. 

As you continue, the room grows quiet; a soft song of the gentle scrape of the blade and the crackling of the fire. Your heart may have fluttered ceaselessly had you been any less focused on ensuring you do not hurt him; Though there is no doubt - a very handsome man he is, and a very lucky wife he makes you. 

“How did you learn such a skill?” His voice, curious as you tilt his jaw slightly. You do not pull your eyes from your task as you hum gently, aware of his warm stare.

“I’ve never done it before,” you admit, tilting your head along with him, focused on the glide of the blade against the bristled shadow of his jaw. “Though I watched my lord father do it many times. He’d often have me sing to my younger brothers before they were put to chamber - he tended to perform tasks as such when I did so. They used to love watching him.”

Jace nods contentedly, humming at your recount. "Lucerys used to watch me when he was younger, as well.” It seems at the memory he laughs gently - the motion stunted as you hold his face in your grip. “One day he decided he was old enough to give it a try. He sneaked into my chambers and took up my razor."

You can't help but smile at the image, lifting a brow. "And what came of it?"

You sit back, preoccupied with the story - your hand wipes the blade upon the rag beside you, meeting his warm gaze as his grin widens. "I found him standing before the mirror, razor in hand.” A flicker of his gaze to the mirror behind you before he finds you once more. “I tried to warn him, but he was too stubborn to heed me. So, I stood back and simply watched."

Your eyes widen, lips parting in mild amusement. "You let him to do it alone?"

He chuckles lightly, tongue prodding his lower lip. "I thought it best he learn a lesson.” His arms unconsciously pull you closer, readjusting your position upon his lap. You swallow down the warmth at such casual intimacy between he and you. “He managed a few strokes, was quite proud of himself, until... he nicked his lip." A small gesture with his jaw towards your own, his eyes focused on the bottom lip that has found itself caught between your teeth. 

You lift your brows, your hand pausing as it rinses the blade in water. "Was he quite hurt?"

"No, just a small cut," Jacaerys soothes, laughter bubbling up again, eyes tearing from your lips up to your own warm gaze; your stomach flutters at the sound and you can no longer suppress a small giggle of your own. "But the look on his face! He was so indignant, I reckon more in his failure than the pain. He turned to me, lip trembling, and demanded to know why I hadn't helped him."

You swat his shoulder gently with the rag, trying to suppress your own laughter. "You are incorrigible, Jace. You laugh at your brother's misfortune?" You chide, teasing; He shrugs, still grinning as his eyes trace over your face warmly. 

"It was a valuable lesson, one I had to learn myself once. Besides, he forgave me soon enough. I helped him finish shaving properly and patched him up. We've laughed about it many times since." His voice is soft against the crackle of flame, adjusting his posture slightly under your weight.

You laugh gently, the image of a young Jace and Luke pulling a grin to your lips. "You two are quite the pair."

Jacaerys’ eyes soften as he hums in agreement. "I have to let him make a fool of himself now and then." 

He’s taken to moving a stray thumb - one not restricted with salves nor gauze - upon the line of your spine. A gentle ghost of affection as you shake your head fondly at him. 

You hum, resuming your efforts, now moving towards his chin with a gentle grasp. "Well, just be glad I am here to ensure you do not cut yourself again. I should not trust you alone with a razor any longer." You tease, wrinkling your nose as you fix him with a faux stern stare. 

Jace’s laugh is rich, warm. "You wound me, wife.”

The gentle laughter between you trails off amiably as you move your focus upon his upper lip; you, dutifully focused, worried of your own skills, knowing you could very easily slip and cut him - he, enduring your hand around his chin, eyes ceaseless upon your face as you move him how you please. 

You finish the last stroke, setting the blade aside; his eyes are pools; sunlit amber. The cloth is wettened - you string it out and gently press it to his skin, wiping away the remnants of shaving oil and the small trail of blood from his previous nick. 

Jace’s breaths rise and fall languidly with your own in the quiet of the chamber. Your movements are slow, tender; your focus entirely on him, ignoring the heat growing in your abdomen, his muscles flexing beneath you. A shift in the calm of the room; a once placated, gentle silence has grown into a thick, tense quiet - enunciated through short puffs of breath and the slow shifting of your bodies as you clean him.

A lean closer, his finger idly trailing your hip as much as the bandage might permit - you inspect his soft skin, the scent of the oils clouding your mind; lavender, cedar, sandalwood. Incense sticks have lost ember in the corner, the ocean rolling in tides upon the distant shores. You find no missed stubble, only undeniable affection in his eyes; you’ve begun to trace the cloth rather idly along his cheek, eyes rising to find his own gaze stuck upon your lips. Echoes of a house attendant walking out in the halls.

“Done,” You whisper, making no effort to rise from his lap; the warmth that has only grown has begun to make you sweat, that desire, still so new, growing between you. He shifts beneath you, staring blatantly, speaking no words. Worry flickers - a foolish thing, to worry when you’re with him - yet you still murmur your words. "Have I overstepped?” you ask softly, gaze flickering down to his plush, parted lips, watching as he shakes his head vehemently.

"Never," he breathes, "I’m merely admiring your beauty."

Heat. Jacaerys has never, not even in the earliest days of your betrothal, hesitated to praise you for your beauty, intelligence, wit, or heart; yet it still sets your mind dizzy each time. You send him a coy smile, hiding the flush of your cheeks under his compliment, “You only say such things because of the blade in my hand,” You tease. 

Expecting a retort from your sharp husband, your eyes flicker to his; he grins at your jest, whispering, “I would speak such words even if you held nothing but air.” 

His gaze roves over the heat of your cheeks, the flutter of your lashes. Want grows hot within you; to be seen, to be so cherished, it is more than you could wish. Jacaerys stirs your heart like no other could. You do not miss when he leans forward slightly, into your own space; the longing in his gaze is rather unmistakable, and it sends a rush of thrill through you. 

Heart, singing in your chest. “Jace.” you whisper.

He breathes your name in response; a prayer. 

“What are you thinking?” You hum, your breath hitting his own; your hands fall to grasp his shoulders, fingers trailing over the crook of his neck, the ties of his tunic. 

 "I'm thinking," His hands, despite their bandages, pull your hips upon his own quite subtly - your stuttered breath, shaky at the feeling of him beneath you, arousal growing just as your own. His voice is husky, "-that I’d like to kiss you."

 A thrill in your stomach; you purse your lips against a smile of affection before closing the distance, your lips meeting his. 

Warm, soft; gentle as he always is with you - but soon in the undercurrent of the late hour, of the thin material upon your frame, you feel fever infect you. 

It comes in a tilt, sliding your nose against his own, lust coiling between your thighs; any tension of before melts, soon replaced by an urgent need to be closer. Your tongue finds the plush of his lower lip, sliding hungrily. 

He groans softly against your mouth, his injured hands pulling you tight; The faint smell of incense, an intensity of desire matching your own - your hands tangle in his hair.

A wince as you shift, his hand flexing and drawing a grunt of pain from his lips. 

You pull back instantly. 

"Jace," you murmur in concern, even as his lips chase your own, a small bridge of saliva between you two in the firelight. Your voice is breathless, filled with longing. "We shouldn't. Your hands."

He shakes his head, his lips seeking yours. "I care not," he whispers fiercely. "If you cease for my sake, I will perish."

Your eyes roll at his dramatics, though your heart flutters at such fervent words. The desire in his eyes is undeniable, and you are finding it harder to resist such pretty requests. "I do not wish to hurt you," you protest softly, though your resolve weakens with each passing moment.

He gazes at you with a mixture of tenderness and longing. “You could never hurt me. Please, let me feel you. The only pain I feel is the distance between us.”

Unbelievable, his cunning knack for dramatics.

Despite the lifted brow you send him, there is an undeniable tremor within you, your hunger growing at the lilt of his tone. Perhaps, you should feel some kind of shyness; Indeed, you’re still learning of each other. You’ve lain with Jacaerys only a few times since being wed last moon—and yet perched so firmly atop his growing arousal, you can’t help the rush of need.

“Well,” You sigh, hand gracing his soft cheek with a small look of pride, “You mustn’t beg.”

He breathes as a smirk of his own grows, “I am a prince, dōna riña. Begging is beneath me.” He murmurs, eyes aflame with that teasing craving, “but I'd gladly beg if it means I get to have you.” 

His ravenous words, mere kindle to the flame. “It is fortunate for you that I am so generous, then,” you murmur, seeking the warmth of his lips once more. He hums in agreement; a reverberation in his chest below your palms stirring a shiver through you. “Fortunate indeed,” he breathes. “Now please do not torture me any longer.” 

You pull away from his searching lips just so, watching as he chases the warmth of your breath. "If you insist," you whisper, your lips brushing against his. His breath is sharp - he dislikes being so teased when he cannot deliver it in return. "I do insist.” he murmurs, words swallowed by the surge of him, teeth and noses clashing as you exhale, stomach flipping. 

His tongue, sliding into your mouth; eager, you part lips for him. The chamber fades into shadows, a dim glow as the witness to your ardor, the only thing to hear such soft sighs and groans from you and Jacaerys. His lips leave you rather soon, peppering kisses upon the flushed skin of your neck. 

A glance behind his shoulder as you cast your neck to the side - flickering shadows, intertwined with each other in a rather sensual embrace upon the wall; Jace’s nose pressed to the heartbeat of your throat as he bites gently against your skin. 

His lips are fervent - the warmth of his breath, his chest heaving below your palms, the scent of his shaving oils - a fierce wildfire within you, consuming every thought but the touch of his body against your own.

An urge, the light pressure of his wrists, desperate to move you upon him - and then his voice, a growl. "Feel me," he breathes against your throat, pulling back so slightly to catch your gaze as his hands, light but insistent, press upon your waist. 

You respond to his urging without a thought; your hips instinctively shifting, meeting the rise of his form with an eager press. The sensation is both thrilling and intoxicating - his moan of pleasure only spurs you on, a shiver of ecstasy as you press just so upon the sensitive of your heat. 

The space between you is gone, the touch of his hands guiding your movements lightly, encouraging your slow rolling hips. The air is thick with the mingled scents of desire and embers low - you, lost in a sea of sensation. His breaths grow ragged, the intensity of his gaze never wavering as he watches you with a look of utter devotion. "Yes," he murmurs, his voice nearly breaking, "-like that, gods - let me feel every bit of you." 

At such words, your cheeks heat vividly - you surrender to the heat of the moment, your movements growing more urgent, more desperate. His breaths are hot against your cheek as you let out a small moan, toes curling as you rove your hips, chasing the heat of pleasure. 

Your movements become more frantic with each passing moment, the need to be close to him overwhelming your senses. His heart, beating as wild as a beast against your own chest; Your head grows dizzy with need, a small noise from the back of your throat as his wrists coax your hips against him. 

“Jace,” Your breath comes in puffs, cheeks hot with the incessant need to feel him within you. “I need you.” 

He hums against your mouth, tantalizing as he tilts his head, “I had not noticed.” 

So cocky; you sigh, hips ceasing slightly, hands trailing over the fabric of his night shirt, feeling the warmth of his lean muscles beneath your palms. “You tease me.” You pout; he kisses the expression away with a small grin. You insist in the absence of a response, “You are cruel, to make it so hard for me to remain composed.” His arms pull you by the small of your back in an embrace - shivers over you as you feel his hard arousal drag along the heat of your aching cunt between too many layers of clothing. 

“I would have you mad with desire, if it means knowing you are as consumed by me as I am by you.” He mutters into the shell of your ear. Your cheeks, constantly heating under his words, so effortlessly setting you afire. 

You pull back enough to trail your lips over his jaw, dropping to press a soft bite upon the skin of his neck; savoring the soft noise, near whimper, from his lips. “You speak as though you haven’t already driven me mad,” You murmur into his skin, “Though I pay it willingly; I would have it no other way.”

To wait any longer would be torture; your hands, hungry and insistent, begin to gather the skirt of your sleep gown - Jace, watching with desire burning heavy in his eyes, hands lying uselessly - the glint of frustration in his gaze is not missed; though you know he wishes to touch you, you revel in the scarce opportunity to take care of him as he does you. 

A soft smile plays upon your lips as you look into his fervent eyes, feeling the heat of his desire merge with your own; Slipping beneath his trousers, you let your fingers graze his skin just enough to drive him wild; deliberate, as slow as his own fingers often are when he finds himself between your thighs. 

His cock is heavy upon your palm; your thighs, trembling with need as you place a few languid pumps upon him. His head, falling back, hands unable to truly grasp your hips - a groan, uninhibited as his brows knit together. “You’re a vision, my love.”

The endearment sends your hips in a short buck - grinding upon his cock, your arousal finds his own; a choked moan from yourself, falling forward to his chest. Laborious sliding of your hips over his own, spreading your need and coating his cock with your desire. Fingers, twitching against your spine - your own threading through his hair. Breaths together, short huffs and unsteady inhales as you finally guide yourself to the tip of his cock. 

“Are you-” His swallow is thick, “Are you sure, love?” He has the gall to question you after such excruciating a wait - though as you stare into his eyes, a flicker, a fleeting observation; He has always taken more than enough time to prepare you to take him; it is no lie that he is rather blessed by the Father - Such memories heat your cheeks. And though you know it may sting, it does not matter to you; You would certainly welcome the sensation. You stir your hips, biting back a noise at the jolt of your sensitive clit against his cock. “Yes, Jace. And you?” You question. An insistent nod, a short groan - "Gods, yes- stop teasing me," he near whines. You conceal a small chuckle of amusement, pressing your lips soundly against him.  

And you sink onto him slowly, eyes screwing shut at the sensation - he, with a low groan, head lolling back to expose the long stretch of his neck. A sharp exhale as you lower yourself, heart slamming as you’re filled; a sating desire within you, growing as you find yourself adjusting to him. 

When you find yourself fully speared upon your husband, you let out a shuttering whimper; his fingers twitch where they lie, pupils blown wide as he gazes upon you. Your lips find his once more in hunger, whispers of moans swallowed, tongue warm as it slides into his mouth. He tastes of the anise candies he favors; a hint of wine, cherry and dark. 

He remains, hips static as you breathe through the sensation of being full of him. His lips are fervent, though any wild need to feel you around him tamped momentarily by his concern for your own comfort and pleasure. 

A distant rove of waves upon a shoreline; the memory of Jacaerys, flushed and wide-eyed the first time you shared his bed. You slowly grow accustomed to his size, the hunger boiling within you as you slowly shift, growing restless. 

And slowly, experimentally - Jacaerys’ hips push slightly up against yours. You stir at the sensation, his cock pressing a spot deep within you - a keening gasp against him, swallowing his short moan with your lips. A slow lift of your hips, feeling him press against you - your eyes flutter shut once more as a flooding of pleasure courses through you, liquid fire within your veins. 

“Gods, my love-” He nearly chokes, “J-just like that-” 

Your small gasp as you begin to rock against his pelvis, cock stirring and pressing deliciously against the deepest part of you; upon shaky legs you rise, gently allowing his cock to drag out of your hungered cunt. “Jace,” Your voice is whiny, breathless - unsure what you plan on saying otherwise, your hands slide into the curly locks, tugging gently. He is rendered unable to speak, mouth open before moving to lick the slight salt from your skin. 

A flush has grown upon your chest; your husband’s lips have found your breasts, peppering bites and lingering upon a spot just under your neckline, his groans reverberating within your skin. Steadying yourself upon him, you find a rhythm - his cock reaching the deepest parts of you, your head tilting back in true satisfaction, a heat coiling within your gut. 

And his lips, ceasing only when your fingers tug at his curls; a curve in his own spine, head falling back against the back of the chair with a groan of pleasure. Heat curls and coils, lit afire by Jacaerys and the feeling of him reaching deep within you. 

“Jace, you’re so deep-” You whisper, toes curling with the sounds of your shared desire echoing in the chamber softly. He lets out a small noise at your words, a smattering of pink across his cheeks; cock twitching with desire within you. 

The hunger calls you. Without further consideration, you snake a hand between you, down to the heat of your cunt taking him, fingers shaking as you seek your yearning bundle of nerves; His eyes, lidded as he watches you. Jacaerys, in his endless pursuit to ensure your pleasures, has always provided his fingers or tongue to bring you closer to finish - though with him injured below you, you do not mind picking up such slack yourself. 

Especially when it brings such deeply melodic sounds of need to his lips. Despite his arousal at your actions, your hand shies away - knowing whatever extension of pleasure you wish to give yourself will be no match for how he so often touches you. Your grip rises instead to steady yourself upon his shoulders, spearing yourself onto him in languid thrusts, ecstasy climbing within you like the wild of fire. 

“Look at you, ābrazȳrys.” He mutters, pupils blown in pleasure, hips canting to meet yours. Though you speak not the language, you are familiar with such a word: wife. A shudder of pleasure at his ancient tongue - of which he has whispered many words to you, most unknown.

He, the picture of the gods below you, letting out a sharp exhale in his own pleasure. His lips, slick and bright, mutter your name - at the summon your gaze finds his own, molten and hungry as your hips move together, the feeling of his cock twitching within you, reaching a spot that has your back keening.

“I’m c-close.” He whispers, a heat upon his cheeks - embarrassment, perhaps, at his eagerness. His eyes find you; you’re met with that dark gaze, regally commanding as he speaks. “Gaomagon ziry. Touch yourself, love, I want to feel you.”  

Gods save you. 

Just as your husband wishes, you drop your fingers once more with no hesitation, jolting. You do not slow your pace; thighs burning, you keen forward, whispering his name against the pulse of his throat, groaning as your fingers press further, tight circles that bring shudders of pleasure. 

“Jaesa, so pretty. Renigon aōla.” Jacaerys’ brows, knitted upwards in gratification; voice, leaking of desperation, of some kind of adulation. He quite often slips into that frantic tongue - the rush of pleasure, of ecstasy, his sharp mind rendered unable to decipher the common from the ancient tongue. You do not know the delicious words that fall from his lips, yet it does not matter - they spur you closer still towards completion. 

“Jace, I’m close,” You hiss, teeth clenched in desire; your hips, dropping upon him slower, deeper; his arms pull you closer with a groan, lips falling to nip small marks into the smooth of your neck. A moan, unbidden from his sweet lips, “Do not stop, please-” he wishes, and who are you to deny such pretty begging? 

When you hit your high of ecstasy, it is with a muffled moan of his name; into the thin linen of his tunic, legs slowing as you roll through pleasure, spasming gently around your husband. His own, quiet moan into your hair, wrists pulling you into him as he whispers, “Yes, ñuha sȳz byka ābrazȳrys, fuck-” 

A thrill within you as you ride your high, such vulgar of a word from your husband; and all, your doing. A frantic whimper from your lips into his throat as he bucks his hips up into you, chasing his own high with a soft whimper. “You feel so good, Jacaerys.” You keen, raising to his face as you feel his abdominal muscles tense beneath you; pressing your forehead to his own, you ride through your completion, heavy breaths upon each other.

Noses sliding against his, you drink his small groans, holding him close; a ghost of his lips against yours, a nip of your lip by his teeth. Long lashes fluttering, Jace finds his own high. He releases his seed into you; you feel him, his hips thrusting up into you weakly as the warmth of him spreads within you. His breath, hot against your cheek, lips chasing yours as you pull away slightly, the slight shift in position sending you both in a harmony of whimpers at the sensitivity. 

The chamber’s hearth spits and crackles; an ember lands near the floor beside the chair. It smolders out, fading slowly into darkness against the stone as you rest your cheek against Jacaerys’ chest, pleased by his gentle kisses upon your hairline.

After moments of silence, basking in your shared pleasure, you press a kiss to his chest. “Are you alright?” He asks gently, soothing over your spine with the soft of his forearms. 

You let out a shaky sigh of satisfaction as you pull back, feeling his cock within you - a fleeting thought; you hope his seed takes. He watches you, eyes warm and gentle as a shaky finger, curled in pain, wipes a stray strand of hair from your forehead - you nod, lifting your hand thumb away the bead of blood that has appeared once more on his cheek; “Yes. And you?” You wonder, pressing a kiss to the freckle upon his lip. 

His smile is the kind that makes your heart skip beats. “Always.” 

translations; dōna riña - sweet girl

ābrazȳrys - wife

Gaomagon ziry - do it

Jaesa - goddess, holy/divine woman

Renigon aōla - touch yourself

ñuha sȳz byka ābrazȳrys - my good little wife

taglist: @bitchydragonparadisee @lukehughes43 @rhea-ripley @jottositto @chloe-petrichors @elaena-aerrin @smurfelle @greenvita @alyssa-dayne

[scoutswritingcorner]

Can I request Hazbin Hotel characters reacting to an artist!reader that draws a lot but never shows anyone their work but one day accidentally left it out and their partner finds it and sees several sketches and finished drawings of them? Sorry if it’s an odd ask, I’m an artist and I thought it would be a cute idea I don’t see nearly enough, it’s okay if you can’t. Thank you either way!!!

Artist Rendition

Hazbin Gang x GN!Reader

TW:A little flirty with Angel’s reaction. Other than that none!

A/N: Not an odd request at all, Friend! For Angel’s part I did write for a male Reader and Fem Reader for Vaggie! KINDA SHORT I APOLOGIZE FRIEND!

-🦌Alastor🦌-

-🦌 Alastor was very curious to see you carry a sketchbook around all the time. He wanted to pry so badly.

-🦌 But he didn’t, he simply ignored the book and only ever asked about it if you were near him. You always get flustered and hide the book even further. Oh now he’s wondering what kind of dark secrets you have in there~

-🦌 But to his surprise when he finds it open and on a page, he sees drawings of him, he carefully flips the page and sees a half down sketch of him sitting in front of the fireplace.

-🦌 Oh boy you just made his ego inflate and his undead heart soar to new heights. His tail starts wagging and that’s the only way someone can catch how happy he is.

-🦌 Now? He’s going to poke a little fun at you, “My Dear, if you had to pick anyone in the hotel to be your muse who would it be?” 

-🦌 Silly deer man loves you and your abilities, he often tells you that your work needs to be displayed in a museum.

-🍎Lucifer🍎-

-🍎 Oh boy- when he finds out you can draw? Oh he gets super excited and asks if you can draw him a duck- even if it’s a little doodle! He doesn’t care!

-He doesn’t really ask or pry into your hobby much but he will admit he does want to see what you draw.

-When he does see that you drew him of all people he gets all flustered and he’s prideful cause his partner?? His darling little angel drew him?!?

-He will volunteer to pose for you, he’s used to sitting still for hours on end! 

-He will even pose naked if you want him to! Just say the word and he’ll drop his clothes right there.

-🎰Husk🎰-

-🎰 He watched you sit at the bar and draw to your heart's content and never really commented on it.

-🎰 When he does peek into your sketchbook it’s to pull behind the bar into a safe place so nothing ruins your work.

-🎰That’s when he notices the drawings and doodles of him and his tail curls happily. The way you captured him doing menial tasks sends his heart into overdrive.

-🎰 You were too good for him, damn it. The next time you find it? It has a little sticky note on the cover of your sketchbook and it has a little drawing of you with a small message, “Had to go out with Alastor. Love you, Dollface.” 

-🕷️ Angel Dust 🩷-

-🕷️ Oh this man- he loves it! You’re an artist and he’s also like an artist! But of a very very different genre.

-🩷 He also doesn’t pry much as he understands privacy. He wants to give you that as much as he can since he doesn’t get much of it.

-🕷️ Once he finds out you draw him? He’s over the fucking moon cause his man? His precious boyfriend draws him! 

-🩷Expect him to start flirting more and more but with art related flirts. “Come on, Suga’~ Draw me like one of your french girls~” im sorry. He’s very supportive!

-👑Charlie👑-

-👑 oh this baby girl..she’s been so busy lately that if she did notice it completely slipped her mind!

-👑 But when she finds your sketchbook? She gets super excited cause you draw this good?? She’s so proud that she immediately goes to find you!

-👑 She is another who fully supports you! You need anything, don't hesitate to ask!

-👑 Will try to convince you to start painting for the hotel! You can say no it won’t offend her.

-🎀Vaggie🎀-

-🎀 Much like Husk she won’t point it out or comment on it.

-🎀Will find out you draw her when she sees it when cleaning up and gets all blushy cause this is how you see her?

-🎀 Comes clean immediately about seeing your drawings and tells you how amazing they are.

-🎀 Shyly asks if she can pose for you next time, how could you say no to her?

[gretavanlace]

Hush

Josh Kiszka x reader

18+ only Minors do not interact

Warnings: graphic sexual content, dirty talk, choking, light degradation, praise, slight dom/sub/switch dynamic, language, etc

Josh is vocal.

That is certainly no secret.

Anyone who has watched him strut about a stage, microphone in hand, knows that.

Off stage, he talks incessantly about both the things that matter to him, and the mundane. Things he is passionate about. Things that light fires within him and drive him to create and pack this world as full of his heart as he possibly can. Arbitrary ideas and notions. Strange ponderings.

Pontification, he likes to call it.

He’s also vocally boisterous when agitated. He loathes waiting, and will mutter complaints near your ear in line until you’re willing your eyes not to roll. A phone call to vent about the antics of one brother or another from the studio is a regular occurrence and can be counted on just like death and taxes.

“Samuel was even later than I was,” he might huff, “and now Jake’s guitar needs to be restrung because fuck this whole world if he has to use a backup. I hate them, and I want to come home to you, light of my life, keeper of the stars, goddess of all that is— oh, we’re ready…gotta go.”

Josh murmurs in his sleep, sings in the shower, talks himself through menial tasks, hums in the grocery store, carries on one-sided conversations with the cat who simply chirps along while swirling around his ankles.

At least twice a night he snatches you from drifting off to sleep with a question: Do you think I should call my mom more? If I miss her, she must miss me. Or, Did I ever tell you about that time that Jake ate shit and fell in the lake? I was thinking about it today, and…

Random thoughts and idle musings he can’t help but verbalize, you hear them all. Mostly. The ones you aren’t privy to, fall upon the nearest ear - but he’s so fucking charming even a stranger is happy to play sounding board.

Josh is also expressive when you’re wrapped up in soft, linen sheets…or wherever else he’s decided he can no longer wait to have you.

Whispers of devotion swelling like a gentle breeze across the hum of your pulse when he makes love to you. Filthy, dirty, blush-inducing declarations when he’s fucking into your trembling body like he’ll never touch it again.

And you love it…all of it. But now - with your visiting sister slumbering in the guest room on the other side of the wall - is certainly not the time.

“Baby, please…” his mouth is sucking gently along your collarbone as he grinds into you slowly, friction hard and constant against your greedy, swollen clit, “let me fuck you faster…c’mon, I need it.”

”What you need, is to be quiet,” your voice is a stern whisper, but your hands are tender in his hair.

He could easily set a pace as brutal as he desired if he felt inclined to disobey…but, ever the sweetest switch, he has opted to play nice tonight.

”I’ll be quiet,” he promises. It is a lie he truly believes, and to prove that point, you clench around him and draw forth a pitiful groan from deep within his chest.

A swift pinch at his side serves as punishment ”Shut. Up.”

”Fuck you,” he sounds deliciously desperate, “You did that on purpose. Squeezing me with that beautiful pussy…goddamn.”

”What’s going to happen if I let you make me cum? Hmm?” Your mouth falls into a delicate pout as if you just feel so sorry for him, “You know how tight I get. How I just hug your cock all snug and wet…”

”And warm,” he adds, lost in it, daydreaming in the dark of night and twitching inside the embrace of your cunt, “Soft as satin, sucking me right in…oh my god, baby, please.”

He begins moving with more purpose, dragging the head of his cock against that lovely little spot that will render you incoherent if you allow it to.

”Oh my god, please,” you mock quietly, “Look at you Joshua, what a whiny baby. What are you begging for? Pussy? Is that what you need?”

He nods frantically against your sternum, as though he doesn’t trust himself to look up at you.

You feign confusion wickedly “But you’ve got that. You’re already inside me…”

“Faster,” he breathes, biting and mouthing at your shoulder now, “Need it faster, and harder. It’s too slow, I need more.”

Clicking your tongue like he is a poor, pathetic sight to behold, you shake your head, “Slow down.”

”No, please don’t make me,” he slows, as instructed, but trails off with a whimper.

So, maybe there’s no ‘like’ about it, maybe he really is a poor, pathetic sight to behold. Yes, you decide, that’s exactly what he is…

…so why not push him even further?

With a swift tug on the roots of his curls, you issue an order ”Stay still.”

Despondent and mournful, he groans into the crook of your neck and grabs at your hips so tightly you’ll be admiring raspberry bruises in the mirror come morning. “C’mon, baby girl…lemme take it. I fucking want it.”

If he were looking at you, he’d see the devilish gleam in your eye. Aren’t you an awful witch tonight? “What? Don’t you like it when I keep your pretty cock warm for you?”

He flexes hard inside of you, simply to gain even a hint of friction. “You’re being so fucking mean.”

”Mean?” You coil around the throbbing length of him and he shudders out the tiniest sound, “If I was mean, I’d lock your pretty cock in a cage and fuck your face all night.”

For a moment, he shirks his submissive edge and hisses in your ear, low and slow, “Liar. Not with little sister in the next room…you couldn’t keep quiet with my face between your legs if someone fucking paid you to.”

In response, you shove him back and roll until your thighs are locked around his waist, the crown of his cock nestled against your clit as your hips swivel heated circles.

”Does that feel good, baby?” You’re taunting him cruelly while, in contrast, lovingly reaching up to smooth the furrow from his brow. “Does that just feel so good?”

”Wanna put it back inside,” his eyes squint shut and anyone who didn’t know better might think his expression is that of suffering. “Perfect fucking cunt, so tight, so…”

”Shh,” you quiet him with a hand wrapped around his throat, relishing the way his adam’s apple slides against your palm when he swallows hard, “shut your mouth for once.”

He’s staring up at you, wide-eyed and needy, like you painted the stars in the sky, gorgeous and glittering, just for him…and how you wish that were true. How you wish you could give him something so profound. Something worthy of his light.

”I won’t make a sound,” his vow sounds out, a cross between the honesty he wishes it to be rooted in, and the lie he knows it to be. “C’mon baby, please…fuck me sweet.”

Does he really want it sweet? Or is he simply aware that that’s all he is capable of quietly handling?

Likely the latter.

Your fingers have found your nipples, twisting and tugging on them as they tighten into pink pebbles that send shivers crawling down into your stomach with every pull. His eyes lock in on you, watching you tease them as his breathing kicks up into a frenzy.

“You’re pushing it,” he warns, grip pulling you down closer as he rocks his hips up to meet you. “Keep it up and I’m gonna fucking take it. Be a good girl now, baby…I’m done with your shit.”

”Yeah?” Your eyebrow raises in silent challenge. Does he have it in him tonight?

“Yeah.” He nods, licking his thumb to swirl much too gently across your clit.

”I think you should just behave and be grateful for what you’re—“

Stunned and dazed, the room blurs around you as you’re flipped and tossed until your cheek is pressed against the cool, crisp sheets. They smell of him, and you breathe Josh in until your lungs ache while his cock teases at your entrance from behind.

His body folds over yours until his lips sweep the shell of your ear, “You’ve done it now, baby girl. Better be quiet, yeah? Not a sound.”

With a swift snap of his hips, the silken glide of his cock fills you full as his palm presses against your lips to muffle the high-pitched moan that gasps out of you.

”Now who’s the whiny baby?” his perfect teeth sink into your earlobe and tug until it blooms with heat. The moan that seeps into his soft skin causes his lips to curl into a smirk you can feel. “This is what you wanted, you think I don’t know that?”

He has begun moving at an excruciatingly slow place, the head of his cock dragging gently inside you just right…but you need more.

”You think I didn’t know that you wanted me to just fucking take it all along?”

You nod urgently, tangling your hair against the pillowcase. Of course he knew, he knows you better than you know yourself. There are no secrets to be hidden away when it comes to Joshua. He hunts each and every one down like glittering treasure with ease…your body his map, the pools of your eyes ciphers he decodes without even trying.

His tongue is dancing its way along your jaw now, springing chills to life upon your flushed skin ”Tell me how good my cock feels and I’ll fuck you full.”

Another woeful sound shakes out of you and a rumbling, gravelly laugh huffs warm against your cheek, “My poor, sweet baby can dish it just fine tonight, but she can’t take it? Is that it?”

With a shhh that makes you feel weighed down heavy with lust, he lifts his palm away from your mouth. “I can take it,” you promise in a hush, “Please…I can take it, I swear.”

He is so still inside you, but the familiar stretch is enough to send a tremble tripping up your spine, spider-cracking like a jolt of electric pleasure. “But can you take it quietly? Can you be a real good girl or should I gag you like a whore?”

”I’ll be a good girl,” you breathe, relishing the sound that slips out of him, a cross between famished desire and worshipful devotion.

“Yeah?” He’s enjoying this little game too much to wave goodbye to it just yet, “You’ll be a good girl if I give you this cock?” He presses in so deeply there’s nothing left for him to give, “You’ll take it quietly and squeeze it nice and tight? Soak it with your little wet cunt when I make you cum?”

He can feel you clenching already, twisting around him like a fist, milking him, pulling him in, starved for more.

”Yes, yes, yes,” you chant softly, begging for him to get on with it, “Just fuck me, Josh…please,”

There’s that sinful mouth of his again, ghosting over your ear, “Just fuck me Josh,” he mocks in a velvet whisper, “Please.”

A sob escapes you and turns the apples of your cheeks pink…he echoes the sound back to you and fans the flames of your delectable shame.

”Quiet now, baby…” he reminds you, tone taunting and laced with self-satisfaction, “You just bite down on the pillow if it gets to be too much, and I’ll bite down on you.”

You tighten around him at the mere thought of it and tug an achingly gorgeous grunt from deep within his chest, “You like that? You want me to bite you to keep quiet? Mark you up all pretty?”

”Fuck…” you reach back and grab for him, fingers sinking into the curve of his waist, begging for it with your entire body.

You can’t seem to manage much more, but it’s enough for him, and with a swift pull back, he snaps his hips hard and fast and sets a relentlessly feral pace in motion.

The head of his cock, thick and suede-soft, kisses your cervix with each inward push, driving a wild sound out of you that you smother into the pillow, tongue dragging against the worn cotton as though it were his mouth.

His teeth are peppering your back and shoulders, gnashing his own moans way down deep into your flesh where you will secret them away forever. He gifts each sound to you on a gorgeous, stinging platter and you only want more, more, more. It is never enough with him…you are gluttonous for whatever he sees fit to offer.

”You feel so fucking good, baby,” it comes undulating across your cheekbone like a warm, languorous breeze, “So fucking wet, I can feel you all over me. You’re gonna make me cum.”

He grows impossibly hard within you and that, along with the filth he is sighing into the night and the drags of his teeth, sends you careening over the edge you had no idea you were so close to. You explode around him, and his weight grows heavier atop you as his thrusts lose rhythm.

“That’s it,” his praise is clipped and winded, “just - fuck - just like that. Keep going, so tight, messy pretty fucking pussy, make me cum, baby, please…make me fucking cum.”

He’s babbling like a brook you want to lie beside and listen to for the rest of your life. So beautiful. So Josh. But so quietly, and you know how difficult it must be for him, how hard he must be trying, and you love him all the more for it.

With a final, vicious bite, he coaxes a hiss out of you that makes him see stars as he lets go, fucking himself deeper and deeper as he rides it out, moans pressed into your glazed, shivering body like flowers in between the pages of a book.

And still, you only want more. You want his jaw to lock, his teeth to break the skin, to draw blood, to scar you…soft pink, raised marks tattooed by his kiss to remind you.

A long sigh flutters your hair, and your eyes drift closed at the soothing lilt of the sound as his fingers begin to card through your hair.

”You thirsty, baby?” His nose nuzzles at you, drawing forth a lazy smile that is half smashed into the pillow.

“Yes, but stay a little longer.”

He cuddles down into you, cheek to cheek, the weight of his body keeping you warm and safe in the silence.

Taglist: @gretasintrees @greta-van-chaos @celestialfauna @s0livagant @groggyvanfleet @kiszkathecook @brokenbellz @llightmyllovee @doodle417 @seventieswhore @jake-kiszkas-smirk @weightofdreams-gvf @imdepressedaf1996 @alisonwonderland29 @gretavanfleas @gretavangroove @sparrowofthedawn @profitofthedune @xserenax-13 @tbagggvf @obetrolncocktails @tripthelightfandomtastic @tripthelight-fanfic @jakeslovehandles @jakesgrapejuice @poofyloofy @70sgroupielovr @heatmyfleet @age-of-nyahh @sammiboo162 @spicedandicedtea @jakekiszkasleftnutsack @saoirsemaeve @mywickeddivinity @lvnterninthenight @paintmyhouse @mckenna4 @sarakay-gvf @theweightofjake @thewritingbeforesunrise @joshsmama @sammysvanfeet @rhythm-of-space @highladyofasgard @calumspretty @sad1lynn @demolitionndann @gvfpal @starcatcher-jake @gretavangroupie

[kentopedia]

hi~! can i rq a scenario with dazai where his s/o finds out he abused akutagawa in the port mafia and gets super pisssd at him because they themselves were abused? thank u!

color me blue

FEATURING. osamu dazai x gn!reader — wc: 3.1k

SUMMARY: mori reveals dazai's true nature as a mentor to akutagawa.

CONTENTS: references to past abuse, arguments, pm!reader, ada!dazai, angst, typical dazai warnings lol, comfort at the end

notes: thank you for the request !! i hope this is okay <3

It’d begun like any other morning. Already exhausted, you woke with an overwhelming list of things to do, tasks that needed to be completed by the evening.

It was a typical routine for you, these days. As a high-ranking member of the Mafia, you never got a break. Not from your job, nor the menial chores you needed to suffer through in your personal life. The laundry, it seemed, wouldn’t do itself, no matter how much your boss paid you for all the illegal actions you’d committed.

And though it was wearisome, everything had been fine. The sun began to set, and you realized that for the rest of the day, you would be free.

That was, until your routine check-in with Mori somehow led to a disclosure of what had been years’ worth of private information.

He’d greeted you as normal, sat you down before his desk with his oily smile, and had you review everything you’d accomplished that week. Though you believed you would be free to go within half an hour, when you stood to leave, Mori released an oh, by the way, and reiterated the unanticipated torment that Dazai had put Akutagawa through.

For the entirety of his story, you sat without so much as a twitch of the muscle, but you couldn’t comprehend why Mori was telling you now. It had been nearly four years since Dazai left the Mafia, and though the Boss had been aware of your relationship as teenagers, he’d never given you any sign that he knew it’d continued after Dazai defected.

You’d both been careful, secretive. You never did anything to draw any suspicion or be labeled as a traitor, and the two of you were successful.

At least, you thought you’d been successful.

Mori had never once mentioned it, had never so much as batted an eye when you spoke about Dazai from time to time. Though, now, his grin was much too conniving, the words made of steel as he drew them out, directing them in a sharp point towards your chest.

He had no intentions of going after Dazai, that much was clear. Nor did he seem intent on killing you for your misdeeds. Already, he’d spun a vile web, knowing exactly how to use you as his best asset. With you still under his command, he had some sort of advantage over Dazai and the Agency.

Perhaps, his comments were just a test of your loyalty. If Mori laid that one tiny seed of doubt in your mind, would it be enough to fracture the bond between you and Dazai that had been unsevered for years?

You wanted to convince yourself, fervently, that the answer was no. You’d been by Dazai’s side for this long and nothing he’d done had turned you away. Yet, you were unprepared for the anger that had risen in you, burning so hot and ravenous that you were unable to think of anything else.

It was all that was on your mind as you returned to the apartment, a barren space that had been used for nothing besides meetups with Dazai since the two of you purchased it. Each wall was entrenched with years of as much sin as there was love. Items that belonged to both of you were scattered across the surfaces, but there was never anything too important.

At the end of the day, neither of you could stay there long.

You paced the apartment, thinking through everything that Mori had said, over and over again. An ache of sorrow fought against your warranted rage, and you stood by the door waiting for Dazai to enter.

As angry as you were with him, as horrified as you wanted to be, there were still years and years of comfort and gentleness that placed a cooling balm over your burning wounds.

Still, a part of you had always been envious that Dazai had managed to escape into something good, and you’d become the enemy to his organization. Now, it seemed, you were the only thing holding him back.

In some other universe, surely, there was a life better for the both of you than this.

Despite your affection, you inhaled, fortifying yourself for a regrettable conversation. You channeled your resentment into logic, rephrasing sentences in your mind until they were perfect, forming an argument that couldn’t be so easily shut down by Dazai’s soothing words.

The door clicked, unlocked by the only other person that held a key to the salacious space. He was humming to himself, an upbeat song that had been stuck on the radio charts for weeks.

Something about that simple action startled you, set you off kilter, and you crossed your arms, protecting yourself. You came here with a purpose, and you refused to diminish the weight of the conversation. A puff of steam left you on a heavy exhale.

Dazai threw the key on the counter and smiled, his eyes softening the moment they caught a glimpse of you. “You got here faster than I thought.” His tone was cheerful, and he seemed relaxed, without the foreboding cloud of misery pushing down on him. It was so unusual that you, almost, regretted bringing up what you’d learned from Mori at all.

Though, it wasn’t something you could just ignore. You straightened, making sure not to deflate under his undeniable warmth.

For a moment, Dazai didn’t realize that anything was wrong. He hung his coat up, stretched his limbs, and talked without facing you. “It’s been too long since we’ve seen one another. I thought about you all day,” he said, drawing out the syllables with a short laugh. “You’re always such a distraction. How will I ever get my work done?”

Dazai seemed so happy, and in all your years together, you’d never thought that would be a word used to describe him. It pained you to ruin that, even as your nails dug into your palm, trying to reconcile the two versions of Dazai that you knew.

You looked away. If you wanted to say what you needed to, you couldn’t bear to see the way his soft expression turned into one of animosity.

For a few more moments, he rambled on to himself, before realizing that you hadn’t said a word at all. You felt frozen in the middle of the room, your mouth dry as you tried to think of the best way to segue into the conversation.

“Hey.” Dazai had grown quiet, and he stopped mulling around the apartment, finally focusing all his attention on you. “What’s wrong, pretty?” There was a pout on his lips, his expression already falling from the bright, joyful one he’d worn when he’d entered. “I still haven’t gotten a kiss.”

You were weak for a moment, questioning if your anger was even worth it. A minute passed of your own silence before you resolved yourself, ending your hesitance. What you’d heard had upset you tremendously; you couldn’t just brush past it like it was nothing.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

Dazai’s face screwed up, eyebrows pinched, as he tried to remember what he could’ve possibly done to upset you that week. Though you often bickered about ridiculous things, it was rare that either of you lashed out in anger at the other.

Your expression was enough to let him know that this was one of those times. He hesitated. “I’m… not sure what you mean, love. Did I do something wrong?”

At that, you laughed, amused that he could play so innocent. He’d changed while in the Detective Agency, that much was certain, but you knew every bit of his soul and he certainly hadn’t been purified of his sins. “Mori told me about Akutagawa today. I doubted how much of it was true until I thought about it, really thought about it, and it makes sense.”

Dazai stared blankly back at you, his eyes searching your face for any more context. They flicked back and forth, round brown irises full of an uncertainty you weren’t sure was genuine. He was a master of manipulation, and you refused to ever be a pawn in his schemes, no matter how small. “I haven’t seen Akutagawa in weeks. Whatever’s happened to him—”

You stood straighter, keeping your hands tight at your sides. “I’m not talking about now, Osamu. I’m talking about years ago; back when you were training him.”

A moment passed; he didn’t blink. Nothing in his eyes betrayed him. “Would you care to provide me with some context?”

“You know what I’m talking about.” You scowled, clenching your teeth so hard that it hurt. “How could you do that to him? All those years, you and Oda kept it a secret from me. You hurt him. You were so cruel.” Your nails dug deep into your palm. “I told you everything that happened to me before I came to the Mafia. Every way that I was hurt, and you told me you understood. You promised me, and you turned around and did the same thing to him.”

Dazai held his body loosely, surprised by your sudden outburst of emotion. It seemed he was unsure what to do with the confession you’d just handed over. Dazai licked his lips, wetting the dry skin, and searched deep into your soul for the best way to soothe you.

But the betrayal, the hurt, was buried deep within you, and the anger wouldn’t fade so easily.

“I never kept secrets from you,” he said, instead of answering any questions. His tone was cool, unaffected, like you hadn’t just raised your voice as your countenance changed into one of distress. “You just never bothered to ask.”

Silence. You swallowed, hard, each notch of your spine stiffening. “That’s not fair. How was I supposed to know his training was any different from mine? Should my first suspicion have been that you were mistreating him?”

Dazai grew grim, the first twinge of emotion you’d seen since you’d spoken. He rubbed his temple. “You’ve got a right to be angry, but I never hid anything from you on purpose.” He reached out for you, his touch soft as he rubbed your bicep. “I just don’t know what you want me to do about it now, sweetheart. Why are you bringing this up?”

You didn’t want to tell him about Mori, not yet. That was a conversation for another time, and he wouldn’t hesitate to claim that bit of information was the more pressing matter.  

Instead, you inched out of his hold, gazing back at him with contempt. “You can’t be serious, Osamu.” His audacity shouldn’t have been surprising, but it shocked you, nonetheless. “That’s all you have to say?”

“What do you want me to say?” Dazai held his hands out like you would hand him over a script, a typed apology just for him to repeat back at you. “Never once did you show any concern for Akutagawa’s wellbeing when he joined the Mafia. Suddenly, you care, and I’m not sure why.”

“That’s not true!” you said, your cheeks hot with frustration. “We we’re friends—”

Dazai laughed, though it was mocking, without any true humor. “You expressed an interest in him that wasn’t ever reciprocated.”

You scrubbed your face, drained from his rebuttals, and put enough space between the two of you so that Dazai couldn’t touch you.

“Fine. Maybe we weren’t friends, but I wantedto be because I knew he understood. I thought we could get to know each other well. Then one day, he wouldn’t even speak to me anymore. He looked at me like I knew so much more than he did.” A finger was in Dazai’s face, scolding. “You fucked it all up. We’re just a year apart, Osamu. I didn’t want him to treat me like that just because I was dating his mentor.”

There was a break of silence. Dazai sniffed, recovering some sense of power in the conversation. “I’m sorry.” he said, but it was merely to appease you, no sincerity in the words. “Perhaps my methods of training were inappropriate and unethical, but it’s the Mafia, my love. What did you expect?”

Frustrated tears welled up in your eyes. “And if it had been me? If I had been under your command, would you have done the very same?”

At that, Dazai softened, his lips curling down. The light in his eyes flickered and faded, any happiness in his face muted. “It would never have been you. You know I could never bring myself to hurt you.”

You buried your face in your hands, his sweet comment doing little to soothe you. “He was just a kid—”

“I was too.” Dazai held your wrists gently, prying them away. He was frowning, dark eyebrows pinched together as he looked at you with both concern and betrayal. “You’re going to blame this all on me, when I was a child too, doing what I thought was right?”

“No. But you’re an adult now, and you still treat him the same way.” You shoved him away, putting space between you, never before having felt so cold in Dazai’s embrace. “He’s nothing more than a chess piece to you. That’s something I can’t accept.”

“Is that the case?” Dazai turned hard; suddenly he’d lost the upper hand. “You’ve got a lot of opinions on what’s right. Yet, remind me who’s the one still in the Mafia?” 

It was meant to hurt you, a low blow that stung and went straight to your chest. You hadn’t wanted to stay in the Mafia, but he’d never given you the choice. Dazai had left you with nothing more than a note and a promise, and you were too stupidly fond of him to ever let him go completely.

“It’s so hard to love you sometimes, Osamu,” you said, quietly, trying to keep your emotions at bay. “Your new friends at the agency get to be ignorant about the man you used to be, but I know just how cruel he was. I see him every time I look at you.”

Dazai stared back at you stunned and hurt. He flexed his fingers, but for once, he didn’t reach out for you.

You couldn’t bear to look at him anymore.

The bathroom door slammed behind you, and you stood in front of the mirror, watching splotchy patches form on your skin from unreleased emotions. The sink ran, a steady stream with no end, to tune out your deep, calming breaths until you no longer felt that immense amount of anger.

You knew what you were getting yourself into by falling in love with a man like Dazai. You’d known it from the beginning. He was no different than all the people that had hurt you, the reason why you’d come to the Mafia in the first place.

Yet, he was so much more loving with you, gentle and patient, and you knew that under every layer of bad intent and regretful crimes, Dazai was a good person.

With a sigh, you turned off the sink and crept back into the room, feeling remorseful and miserable. The knowledge of what he’d done to Akutagawa was something you couldn’t forgive him for. It was horrible and traumatizing, but so were so many other things that he’d done.

You couldn’t place double standards on him for his previous actions. If you had loved him despite all of those things, you weren’t going to be able to stop now.

“Osamu?” you said in a quieter voice, creeping out of the bathroom silently, slinking within the shadows.

He was spread over the length of the couch, his head resting on the arm of it as he stared up at the ceiling. When you approached, he shifted into a seated position, waiting for you to speak.

“I didn’t mean what I said,” you began, walking slowly towards him, drawn to him easily. “You’re not a difficult man to love. I’ve never felt that way.”

Dazai smiled, though it was half-hearted, and extended a hand to you. You took it quickly and he drew you into his lap, squeezing you tight. “Well, I certainly don’t make it easy on you.”

You were silent. He kissed your forehead, running a delicate touch across your back.

“I can’t take back what I did to him.” Dazai sighed, dropping his forehead to your shoulder. “The damage is done.”

“I know that.” You breathed, his calming scent wrapping around you, reminding you that no matter what, he would always be your home. “It’s not fair for me to judge you when I’m still in the Mafia. My crimes are no better than yours. Even if what you did…” you trailed off shaking your head. “No. You’re right, Osamu. It’s not fair.”

He guided your fingers to his lips, kissing each of them lightly with the beginnings of a smile. “I’ll never be a perfect man, but I’m trying to be a better one.” Though he refrained from showing vulnerabilities to most people, he was more open with you, more willing to reveal the parts of himself he despised the most. “I… hope you know that. It may not seem like I’m trying, but—"

“I know you are.” You ran a hand through his hair and swallowed, resting your cheek on top of his head. “Osamu, you’re already so different than you were when you left. You’ve changed much more than I have. It was horrible of me to diminish that.” You squeezed his hand. “I’m sorry I said that.”

A minute passed before he spoke again, his breath so steady, a reminder that he was still there, with you, despite all attempts he’d made to leave you behind. We’ve seen every ugly side to one another. It makes it far too easy to be unkind. Doesn’t mean I’d ever love you any less.”

You smiled, though it was sad, but through your hurt you were still devastatingly devoted to him. It was just easier to ignore the damage he’d caused when you weren’t staring it right in the face, a walking, breathing reminder of the person he held inside him. The very type of man that had once hurt you.

You squeezed him tighter, blocking out the cruel memories of your past. Dazai had never laid a punishing hand on you, had never spat demeaning words at you that could never be forgiven. Through it all, he had adored you, treated you with a gentleness you’d desired, and loved you without conditions.

Brushing dark hair away from his forehead, your eyes softened, the darkness in him cracking as the light began to shine through. “I know, Osamu,” you said, your cheeks pinching, warm. “Despite it all, I will always love you without regrets.”

[juuuulez]

📰 | part two: capulet.

info: Carl Grimes x Saviour!Reader, female reader, father-figure Negan, enemies to lovers, forbidden romance, no use of (y/n) because immersion.

summary: During your first visit to Alexandria, when Carl misfires a gun, you’re instructed to “babysit” him. This does not go very well.

previous | next

I’m glad everyone liked the first part!! This one is definitely more juicy. Kids being kids. Writing the next part now, let me know if you have any particular requests!

Also (finally) titled!! Drawing heavily on Romeo and Juliet, except… more spiteful at the beginning.

A few days later, and you’re back.

The town of Alexandria is actually quite nice, when you aren’t being cooped up in a cell.

Your fellow Saviours seem to think so too, exploring the place, taking supplies they deem useful for the Sanctuary. After all, there’s mouths to feed, therefore you’ve stopped feeling bad for all these communities you bleed dry.

Well, you felt a little bad last night.

The lineup was rough, it always is. You hadn’t seen the brunt of it, instead sitting safe in the RV where Negan had all but interrogated you regarding your time locked up; coming from a place of concern for your well-being. But you stepped out just as dawn was beginning to hit, and saw the aftermath.

It was just for a few seconds, to retrieve a weapon from Dwight, but you felt a twinge of guilt as Negan taunted that poor boy.

At least he wasn’t wearing the stupid hat anymore.

Whatever, it didn’t matter. At least that’s what you told yourself. Guilt had no place in the apocalypse, especially not for the Saviours, a group of well earned apex predators in this bleak world.

That’s how you saw it.

You oversee the work of your people whilst Negan is talking with Rick. Everybody respects you.. or maybe everybody is scared of you. Scared of your father. Either way, it works.

You’re comfortable as a leader. Somebody who can give orders without hesitation. At the start, there was resistance. Who wanted to be ordered around by a teenage girl? But eventually everything fell into place, and people realised that you were a central part to this operation.

Then the sound of a gunshot rings through the air, putting everybody on edge. Weapons suddenly unholstered, dropping whatever menial task they were completing.

You command them to stand down with a wave of the hand, going to investigate yourself.

Fortunately enough, the situation has already been handled.

Or mostly handled.

“Just who I wanted to see.” Negan says with his usual prowess, however it’s dimmed by an underlying irritation. He brings you further into the room with a gloved hand on your shoulder.

He positions you there like a prize, something valuable. Or maybe a dangerous weapon. A constant show of ‘look at what’s mine, look at what she can do.’ You quite like that.

“Now, it appears that young Grimes is too trigger-happy for his own good,” Negan continues, to which you finally notice Carl standing in the middle of the room, “So why don’t you babysit him for me, darling?”

The boy is practically seething. That same expression you’d seen at the lineup, pure anger and rebellion.

You could feel yourself beginning to smile.

“Of course,” You agree, a grin spreading across your lips, “I’d appreciate a tour, to see if anything here interests me.”

There’s no reply. Carl glares at you, then shoots a pleading look at his father, but to no avail. Rick nods his head in the direction of the door, and you feel like you’ve just won the lottery. This was going to be good.

Now, you didn’t enjoy toying with peoples emotions, per-say. But getting them all riled up sure was fun.

And a teenage boy? This was like a gift from above.

Grown men grew tired of your commanding nature, they’d get violent, speak out of line. It was a dangerous game, one that you loved. Like a cat and mouse, or Icarus flying too close to the sun.

A teenage boy was much more in your ballpark.

“You play sports?” You ask Carl, who is walking a few paces behind you, begrudgingly following despite the fact he was meant to be showing you around. But you didn’t mind.

He doesn’t answer.

You turn to face him, shooting him a backwards glare of what the hell is your problem. “What, you took a vow of silence, or something?” It’s snarky, immature, prodding the bear.

But it works.

“No, I don’t play sports.” Carl answers reluctantly, his tone flat and unamused. It’s becoming more and more evident that when you’re in power like this, in control, you can be a nightmare.

You don’t bother to suppress your grin of satisfaction, turning back away from him, “Yeah, didn’t think so, stringbean. Bet I’ve got more muscle mass than you.”

This must do something, as suddenly Carl has closed the few paces between you, and is blocking your path from continuing. He’s in your face, closer than comfortable, but you love it.

“What the hell’s your problem?” He asks, clearly angry at your snide little comments. That righteous attitude is back. “You can’t come in here, and tell everybody what to do. We’re gonna fight back, and when we do, you’ll be sorry.”

You give him a firm shove, letting Carl stumble a few feet back, “Yeah, how’d that go for you back there, huh? Aim much?”

It’s a low blow, you know that, which is why it feels so goddamn good.

He opens his mouth to speak, but you interrupt him.

“Didn’t shoot me at the satellite station, either. I’m starting to think you’re more harmless than you’re letting on.”

“I’m not exactly in the interest of murdering children,” Carl retorts angrily, “What are you, twelve?”

“I’m seventeen!” You yell back at him, walking swiftly past the boy, but making sure to harshly bump your shoulders together. “Now show me your armoury. You’ve got something of mine.”

You’re walking too quickly for Carl to shoot back a comment, and he needs to awkwardly skip in order to catch up. This time he takes a few strides forward, making the effort to walk just fast enough to stay in front of you.

He wants to be in charge.

Luckily, you love to be petty.

As the pair of you reach the armoury, you swiftly side-step Carl, entering the room first, much to his dismay. You’re eyes are scanning the shelves, rows and rows of guns and weaponry, with one thing in mind. The bat.

“Too bad we’re confiscating all your guns, this is quite the collection,” You comment, finding a supply sheet to glance over, “Good job on that one, by the way. Aren’t you helpful?”

Carl essentially ignores your sarcasm, speaking from the other side of the room, “Looking for something?”

You turn, a momentary flash of confusion on your face, until you realise that he’s got it. The metal bat clutched in one hand, held up tauntingly. When you take a step forward to retrieve it, he only takes a step back.

“That’s not funny.” You say, a sense of agitation in your tone, that dominant and teasing persona gone in an instant.

It only causes Carl to grin, taking pleasure in this momentary inch of power he’s gained.

“You even know how to play baseball?” He asks, switching the bat into his dominant hand, pretending to slowly swing it.

“I do, actually,” You snap, reaching out to finally grasp the metal bat, taking it from his grip unceremoniously, “Wanna see? I can use your skull as the ball.”

This works to shut him up, judging by how Carl’s eyes narrow into a glare, but he doesn’t dare to say anything. You take this as a victory, once again knocking shoulders as you leave the small space, not bothering to shut the door behind you.

You’re not even a few meters down the street before there are footsteps again, Carl still following you, despite wanting otherwise. It makes that malicious grin to return.

“Aren’t you obedient?” You quip, not even bothering to look back at him as you speak, as if he isn’t worth the time. It’s a power trip, one you’re addicted to, one Carl is unknowingly feeding into. Or, maybe he does know, but can’t do anything about it.

Carl scoffs, “Coming from you. Do you always do everything Negan tells you to?”

It’s smart, getting you to roll your eyes in displeasure, that metal bat swinging by your side as you walk. “It’s called being a good soldier, like you would understand.”

“Yeah? Soldier, or pet?” He continues, and you can basically hear the grin in his voice.

The fuck does he know?

You finally spin around, grip tightening ever so slightly on the bat. Control is slowly slipping through your fingers, this stupid back and forth game beginning to get on your nerves, despite being the instigator.

“You wanna talk about pet?” You spit, closing in on his personal space, “Rick tells you to murder twenty people, and you do it? That’s called being a little bitch, okay, daddy’s boy?”

This works, as Carl’s face twists into a look of anger, his fists clenching at his sides.

But you continue, “This stupid group has had this coming for a long time. There’s no such thing as being the good guys, you’re just another bunch of stupid pricks, who need to be put in their place.”

It snaps something inside of Carl, because suddenly he’s giving you a harsh shove, where you stumble a few feet backwards. You mirror his childish temper, throwing your body at him with equal force, where the two of you awkwardly wrestle in the middle of the street.

You attempt to gain leverage, steeling your feet into the ground, bending your knees. Then, out of nowhere, you’re raising your arm with the bat, ready to try and dislocate his shoulder, or something. Anything. Just to show that you aren’t weak.

But before you can swing, there’s resistance, and you snap out of this little squabble to realise that somebody else is holding your bat.

“The hell are you doin’, girl?”

Negan swiftly lifts the bat from your grip, holding it at an arms length. You let go of Carl, whipping around to glare at the older man.

“He’s being a total jagoff!” You shout, twisting to see a similar look of discontent on Carl’s face, like he’s itching to leap back into your little fight.

It’s no use, because then Negan is holding your shoulder, giving you a gentle push in the opposite direction, “Truck, now. We’re making our departure.”

And you listen, despite everything telling you to continue. To prove yourself, maintain that power.

To make matters worse, Carl has taken this experience as some sort of mental victory, yelling out from the footpath, “Daddy’s girl!”

You can only turn, angrily giving him the finger as you storm off towards the gates, but it acts as fuel to the fire. Getting sick of that stupid expression, you turn back away, footsteps quickening in an attempt to seperate yourself from the ever so slightly humiliating experience.

Next time you’ll get him.

[ms0milk]

Hi I wad reading your alphabet for Obanai and was wondering since he has different ideas of what is sexual or not does that mean he thinks reader is trying to arouse him while she just trying to go about her day?

Also since he gives gifts in private does he view other guys who give reader gifts like perverts or trying to flirt with her? Especially Tanjiro

✎  ༘⋆obanai’s nsfw alphabet

obanai is certainly distracted by his lover’s menial tasks; when you pull your socks off with the hook of your finger or draw your hems up to apply ointment to a bug bite— there have 100% been times where you get the blame for trying to seduce him in public and the whole time you’re just “Iguro, the…‘cleft of my wrist?’ what are you talking about?” and he’s standing there like he’s got a degree in seduction🙂‍↕️🙂‍↕️ “I can’t be tempted today my love, your attempts at distraction have not gone unnoticed. get those shapely shoulder blades outta here”

he does not always have that self control. his eyes just linger a little too long on the shapes your body makes at the market, the hospital, the gardens— god help you if you try to deliver anything to Hashira meeting as partners sometimes are allowed to do. Lunch or a warm change of clothes— he’s sat in his fuckass little tree red as a cranberry horny as a rabbit, while others watch on totally bewildered. you’ll get a stern talking to later about professionalism littered with “my dearest love” and “sweet darling”

if someone else brings You gifts?? think about a gift like a kiss. you can kiss your parents and siblings, you can kiss close friends on their cheeks and hands and heads. tanjiro??! does not get the friends/family discount.

when tsuguko bring you souvenirs they’re categorized as a level five harassment threat and fired immediately. 8/10 duels at the mansion this year were gift-catastrophe related and so far Iguro is undefeated.

He watches the Uzui family shamelessly reunite after missions apart, flinging gifts of food and clothing and embracing tightly, and honestly gets so overwhelmed he has to go home. There’s just something so intimate about the process of choosing a gift and protecting it through planes trains and automobiles just so it can be placed in your soft hands. Worn by you, cherished by you, kept in your pocket, laid against your skin. That’s hardly an appropriate thing for casual acquaintances to enjoy, wouldn’t you say :,)

[ennas-aesthetic]

Retired!Dream as a Librarian AU

Both @ineffablyendless and I spent a night brainstorming on what we think Retired!Dream would be doing (you know, if he walked away like Destruction did and decided to live life not tied down to impossible responsibilities), and we immediately agreed that he would LOVE being a librarian. So here's a collection of our Retired!Dream as a librarian headcanons:

Surprisingly, joining the library wasn't Hob's idea.

The first few months after he left his duties and responsibilities as ‘Dream of the Endless,’ Morpheus had gone into a bit of an existential crisis. He has basically lost his entire function, which was the anchorage of his whole being and identity. If he is NOT the manifestation of the collective unconscious and the Prince of Stories, then who the hell is he?

(He has no idea where Destruction has gone, too, so it’s not like he can tap him and ask casually how to start living his life as a human. Dream is drawing on a blank, and is completely lost on who he should be and what it is that he wants to do.)

Hob is there for him during those months. He is gentle and kind and patient; he tells Dream that he can do whatever the fuck he wants, and encourages him to try various things. Crafting, painting, writing. Dream has a natural affinity to the arts (of course) but none of them seem to stick (and the Bohemian starved-artist persona was more Destruction’s thing, anyway. Dream may be a ‘human’ now, but the pettiness went nowhere, it seems.)

Hob tells him that he will NEVER mind Dream going out of the flat when Hob’s off to teach at the University. Encourages it, even. He tells Dream that he does not need to be cooped up in the house, that he can go wherever he wants. Dream often stays in, anyway, (because he has got nowhere to be), until he could not take the constant ennui and boredom any longer and books out of the flat.

He goes around the locale for a bit, explores the town he and Hob live in. Inexplicably, he is drawn to the local library.

Stepping into the library reawakens a small part of him that has been dormant ever since he left the Dreaming. Stories had always been his domain, and it is there that a tiny part of his soul (if he has any) is moved – as if the place has put him under its spell. He browses the shelves, reads through books and novels that he has read a thousand times. Often, though, he is content sitting at the little visitor’s nook, looking at readers of all ages exchanging and accepting stories and tales, and feeling a forgotten part of his heart twinge with bittersweet calmness and serenity.

Haunting the library became a daily ritual. And as it is with humans and rituals, the staff become more and more used to him the more he frequents the place. Slowly they integrate him into their tight-knit band of librarians. Dream finds himself in deep discussion with various people over folktales and legends and stories, and they are entranced by how much he knows, endeared by his seriousness and aloofness. It is in conversation with the head librarian that he finds out they are always accepting volunteers. Would Dream like to be one?

When Hob finds out he is overjoyed. It was a no-brainer, really.

And that’s how Dream became part of the staff of the local library.

Sometimes Dream wonders how he had gotten here. Oh, if only his subjects could see him now. If only Lucienne could see him now. He was the owner of the Dreaming’s vast, endless library, sure, but as Monarch he had left the more menial tasks to Lucienne. Which, he realizes, was quite the “dick move” (as Hob puts it), on his part. He gets taught how to shelve books using the Dewey Decimal system, how to administer fines for books that are way past their return date, find the exact shelf for Fortunately, The Milk that a child had wanted for forever, how to wrangle silence with a vehement ‘sssssh!’ and a death glare. The last part he could do with ease, but the others not so much. He resolves to be more appreciative of Lucienne’s work over the millennia, if he ever sees her again.

But the work itself is pleasant, an anchor. He never had a sense that being a librarian is a chore. In fact, the task seems to keep him fixed, hinged on an axis of purpose and drive. After months of senseless brooding he is happy he has this at least, to define the fuzzy boundaries of his identity. He is still crafting who he wants ‘Morpheus’ to be, but it gets easier, a day at a time.

And the people, to his bemusement, love him. He is surprised at the ease of which he gets accepted into the brood, and realizes that people are so much kinder than he could ever have thought. There is Lissa, who is going through her bachelor's degree in Sociology, but who heads the Weekly Library Scavenger Hunt and frequently asks Dream’s help to cut up various visual aids and decorations for their bulletin boards. There is Annalee, who sometimes brings him coffee when they exchange shifts. They help him with the shelving and sorting at the end of the day, and they enthusiastically drag him in to help organize the monthly Slam Poetry competitions. Rupert, an elderly man who comes to stay at the library all day, and who does not forget to ask Morpheus how he is doing. Charlotte, the matronly Head Librarian who notices Dream not eating or taking breaks at the right time (his relationship with food has been complicated and rocky since his imprisonment at Burgess’), and clucks at him like a mother hen for skipping meals.

It’s… it’s a community. Dream has found himself a community: people who CARE about him, who allow him to be part of their little found family, who do not cower away from him or act as if they’re walking on eggshells around him. For once he has found himself an actual, healthy support system. Hob says something about Dream resonates with them: how aloof and awkward he is, how utterly serious and straight-faced he is about the job. They give their kindness so freely that sometimes Dream thinks that there is a catch (because there always was.) But sometimes kindness is brash and natural and emergent - it shows up wherever, whenever, just because.

(He is loved by the community, too. They are obsessed with him, this awkward, no-nonsense, goth librarian in doc martens and earrings and black nail polish. Whose partner, a genuine University professor, comes over occasionally to give historical talks and seminars. This skinny, goth, queer librarian who can and frequently glares people to death for the slightest perceived misdemeanor but blooms like a fresh flower for every nervous child who has questions about books. He’s done so well that they upgrade him from volunteer to full-time librarian, of which Morpheus accepts graciously.)

Another thing the community is obsessed with: Morpheus’ Children Reading Programs.

He was not in charge of Story Time Tuesdays. Peter was, except Peter wanted to move back to Brighton to be closer with his family. Morpheus takes the mantle when he volunteered to adlib a story on the behest of one of his fave kids. Of course, unbeknownst to literally everyone else, Morpheus is in his element. He does not just read: he performs. He takes the voices very seriously, and he is an excellent storyteller, weaving a tale of dragons and knights and pegasi so enrapturing the entire floor goes dead quiet hanging on to his every word. When he is finished they erupt into incredulous, awestruck applause.

Story Time Tuesdays become a hit. The kids are apt listeners and a great audience, and adults come over once in a while to sit in, too. Sometimes he does not even need a book. He's like a fucking bard. An old-timey rhapsode who could string one story into another with ease. EASE. He could recite them as though he himself was there for each and every one. (And he was. HE WAS.) The children love him completely.

He is so good at storytelling that the library club affectionately nicknamed him the Library's "Prince of Stories." This sends Hob to hysterical tears.

One time the kids suggested he tell the story of Mr. Sandman. This is the one time he is taken aback, the one time he sputters as he insists Mr. Sandman doesn’t have his OWN story, because he was the storyteller. He does not have a story of his own.

The kids call BULLSHIT on this, because somehow Dream trained them all into believing EVERYONE has their own story. Hob, bastard that he is, who has made a habit of getting off the university early to listen in on Dream’s Story Time Tuesdays, yells "YOU'RE RIGHT!" So Morpheus is delegated into the sidelines as he watches the kids make up a story of their own for once, about a dream magician named Mr. Sandman with a dragon best friend who goes on a quest to leave his island.

Mr. Sandman becomes a recurring character in all of Dream's adlib stories now, at the kids' insistence. He’s the magical godmother and the helpful NPC that helps the heroes on their quests. The other librarians who are secretly compiling all of Dream's adlib stories are naming it "Sandman Stories". The kids dress up as "Sandman" on Halloween and Dream is beginning to realize the children perceive Sandman to look a lot like himself.

He also DID NOT have a complete breakdown in the bedroom he and Hob share, about how the children are adamant that Morpheus has a story of his own, despite believing for entire eons that he has none. It's still hard to reconcile his issues on self-worth, remember that he deserves kindness and compassion. But Hob is there to help him get through it, and the kids continue insisting that the Sandman is a real character with a story of his own that MATTERS. That he has a life worth living, a tale worth telling.

And slowly but surely, he starts believing that, too.

We have SO MANY MORE librarian!Dream headcanons that we haven’t touched on yet! If you have questions + want some more these hit us up! 

[riddle-me-ri]

The Riddler’s being possessive??? Someone tries to talk to his S/O alone and the Riddler wants attention so he kind of places himself between their conversation or pulls S/O aside? I’m not sure if this is a good ask, but thank you. I love your work!

a/n: oh no anon don’t worry this is a beautiful ask. Being the absolute attention whore he is and the moment he finds someone that will give him that attention, you can bet he isn’t going to let that slip away AT ALL

The Riddlers Being Possessive

Arkhamverse Riddler:

Edward tries to hide his possessiveness over you. 

After all, he doesn’t care what you do or why you do them-just as long as you’re out of his way–

However, there is no denying the weird knot in his gut at you getting closer to the other Rogues. 

Why do you want to spend time with them? Surely, you could be learning far more useful and intelligent things from HIM.

He starts coming up with menial tasks for you to do, so that you are too occupied to see anyone or have anyone steal your attention. 

You have to always be by his side whenever there’s a gathering of rogues. 

Edward will often be the barrier between you and the others, even childishly blocking you from even waving at Harley. 

Edward thinks he’s hiding it well, he’s being clever about it, but it’s pretty blatant to you and the others.  

Reevesverse/Dano Riddler:

Edward already can’t believe that he has you.

He sure as hell isn’t going to let someone else sweep you away.

He freezes every time he sees you talking to someone else. 

Who are they? Who are they to you? Family? Friend? Ex-love?

A possible new love interest to come and take you away and leave him miserable like the world continues to do to him?

Edward is already plotting to find out who they are, where they live, and how to dispose of them–

He’ll already have several different plans by the time you get back to him.

You’ll have to do a lot of reassuring and grounding him back to Earth, and that you aren’t going anywhere. 

Gotham Riddler:

Ed doesn’t like how much attention you draw to yourself. 

And it’s even more frustrating when you don’t even see what you’re doing. 

Edward constantly feels like he has to cut in on your conversations. 

He has to pull you away and bring your attention back to him

Ed will instantly question the conversation, what your intentions were, etc. 

You are by his side the rest of the time no matter what. 

Even if someone approaches you, he’ll instantly interject, and squeeze his arms around you or hold your hand tighter. 

No matter where you are or what the situation calls for, everyone will know you’re his. 

BTAS Riddler:

Edward knows better than most what it’s like to have something you care about taken from you suddenly. 

When it comes to someone he loves…there’s definitely less control and more opportunities for loss. 

He wants to be confident in the relationship, to not be possessive…

But he’s still worried about losing you somehow…

He sees you smiling and enjoying yourself with another person…

Ed has an internal conflict of just leaving you be. 

Or coming over there and making sure…nothing was happening. 

He’s trying his best…

Zero Year/Capullo Riddler:

Pfftt…please.

He couldn’t care less who you are with, who you’re talking to-

Ed’s seeing and talking to other people too, you can too. 

He doesn’t own you and you don’t own him–

Yet when he wants your attention…and you don’t give it to him?

Ed becomes absolutely insufferable. 

He’ll blow up your phone, he’ll show up at your place unannounced, cancel whatever plans you had with whatever company. 

Yeah, you can do what you want, to a point anyway. 

TWOJAR Riddler:

Edward doesn’t hide the fact that he’s possessive.

He always has to have you by his side. 

Ed’s arms are always around you, hands on you, you are always sitting in his lap.

No one should really dare to approach you, but regardless some people don’t get the memo.

He won’t disrupt or anything but he will definitely keep an eye on your interaction. 

Ed will wait for a moment before swooping in and stealing your attention back to him.

Not before making the other person…extremely uncomfortable anyhow.

He doesn’t care, as long as the message is clear; that you’re his.

Telltale Riddler:

Honestly, he’s the least likely to be possessive…

Much like Arkhamverse, however he’s a bit better at hiding it by distracting himself. 

He does have his moments where he constantly asks you what you’ve been up to..

Edward’s very observant, he notices you not being around much.

Or he’ll overhear you talking to someone on the phone–you sound very amused…

He’s not bothered just interested…

Totally not concerned that you may be leaving him for someone more…emotionally available. 

Young Justice Riddler:

Eddie truly doesn’t mean to come off as possessive. 

His possessiveness, like Dano Riddler, is fueled more or less by his insecurities. 

He doesn’t want to lose you, and he’s aware of that possibility at every waking moment. 

However, he’s also aware that he may be coming off…controlling…suffocating. 

Ed will see you talking to someone and will immediately get self-conscious. 

Especially if he sees you smiling and clearly enjoying the company. 

He goes through a bunch of worse-case scenarios that continue to snowball into you leaving him…

Until you walk up to him with a bright smile and hold his hand, instantly comforting him.

[satlun]

Unspoken Truth: Don John x fem!reader

Genre: angst Trigger Warnings: insult

The truth that will never be spoken

Author's Note: THIS ONE IS REALLY GOOD TRUST ME. So, in this writing I included Shakespeare dialogue style in it but if some of you want to read it more smoothly you can focus on the bold text, their meaning. At first, I want to add Shakespeare writing style for every dialogue but I think it's gonna be too long and maybe useless?? So I tried to change the language to be more beautiful instead; more formal?? So enjoy guys, I really love this one.

Credits: -

The place where it is located on the hills in Messina, a port city on the island of Sicily. The big house which is full of vineyards and gardens is owned by Don John's father. He's a rich nobleman who is one of the most richest man in Sicily. A man name Don Predo is the next descendant and Don John is his half- younger brother.

You're one of the servants that his father fostered from an orphanage. He gave his servants chances to not end up or stuck their life in the cage of the orphanage, to have better life or at least have money for their own. You always appreciate his grace for adopting you. You wouldn't have such a better life if he wasn't gave you a chance. At least you don't have to stuck there forever, here you have good friends, food and a nice place to sleep every night. That's enough, you don't need much. Greediness isn't in your blood.

Everything sounds perfect except the fact that his son name Don John, who is arrogant and selfish unlike his older brother. So, the relationship between you and him is not quite well. You are not get along with him since you were young, even he is around your age. He always treats you badly even he seems to treat you better when you both grow up. However, you can't do anything at all because he is also one of your masters and the grace that you have for his father is so strong. Moreover, you are the most beautiful servant in this house, everyone knows that. Some of his guests or his friends that come to his house always compliment you in the way you look or your manners;

“Fair maiden, thy beauty doth outshine the sun and mock the stars, a visage fit for royalty, not menial tasks!” - “Lady, your beauty shines from the sun and mocks the stars. A face fit for a royal family not a disrespectful job!”

“Nay, I curse not fate, nor fortune's cruel hand, but the very stars that cast thee in this lowly role! Thou wert born to grace a noble house, not serve within these walls...” - “No, I didn't curse fate or the cruel hands of fortune but it is the stars that cast you in this humble role! You were born to honor noble houses. Do not serve within these walls…”

“By heavens, mine eyes have never gazed upon such a vision! Beauty unparalleled, a sweetness that doth charm the very air, a presence that draws me like the moon upon the tide, and a heart, I do believe, as gentle as a summer's morn! Surely, fate itself did weave this tapestry, bringing us together on this blessed day. To meet thee, fairest lady, is an honor beyond compare.” - “By heaven, my eyes have never stared at such a vision! Unrivaled beauty The sweetness that attracts the air, a presence that draws me in like the moon at the tide, and my heart, I believe, is as gentle as a summer's morning! Of course fate itself has woven this tapestry. Bringing us together on this happy day, meeting you, lady. It is an honor that cannot be compared.”

“Fair lady, should my humble offer find no favor in thine eyes, then know this: my heart shall conquer any obstacle to claim thee as my wife.” - “Lady, if my humble offer finds no favor in your sight. Know this: my heart will overcome any obstacle to claim you as my wife.”

they all offer you to have a beautiful better life, to be their wife. However, you always end up rejecting them because you do love it here, this place is like your house now and the fact that you want to repay this kindness for his father until you die. You have an oath to yourself that you will not leave this house until his father tells you so or his father matches you with someone to marry to. He is like a real father for you meanwhile he also treats you like his real daughter.

The sound of the music playing in the background, under the sky with many stars. It's such a beautiful night. Tonight, there are many guests come from all directions around Italy to celebrate Don John's birthday. His father ordered his servants to prepare, decorate and cook for this masquerade party. You and your colleagues are done with the things his father desired. The masquerade came out good as you wish it was.

The sound of giggling and laughing behind the wall seems a little loud that his father could hear it. It's the sound of you and your friends giggling and laughing, looking at the party. Obviously, they all want to join even you. However, they are still servants, they know their place. They are not supposed to be there which is not their place. It would be like that if they live in other houses, not this house where Don John's father lives. “My people.” The similar sound comes from behind them. “Come. Come join the masquerade with me. You have this right to do and I will force you to if you still insist to stay here.” He said it as a joke. He won't actually force anybody to go if the person's will is to stay here. However, they all laugh and jump with happiness when he allows them to join. “Go get dress beautifully and have fun. Oh- there are many left masks on the table at the hallway. Grab them and join.” He smiled before leaving. The servants immediately run into the shower door and get ready to join the masquerade.

Soon, you're in your white dress, the dress that his father gave you in your previous birthday which he gave it to all of his servants when they turn twenty, he said 20th year is the year of change. You will have to overcome or face with many things in your life. So, wearing beautiful dress at least it will make you have confidence in your mind and that will makes you believe in yourself, to choose in a good and right decision no matter how many situations you will face. The dress is a plain white dress but the details and patterns that are delicate and elegant which make it look more beautiful. The moonlight seems brighter than usual. You look up to the sky under your mask, the mask that only covers your upper face and reveals your lower face.

You're a kind of person who is not good at socializing and unfortunately your friends seem to have their partner to dance. While you were walking in the masquerade party with nervous, someone's voice stopped you. “Lady” You follow the voice of the man. He's in his elegant white clothes with a mask that cover all of his face. “It would be a shame... if a beautiful woman like you don't have a partner to dance, so let it be my duty?” He offers you his hand. Your smile slowly forms on your face before you grab his hand. His hand is so soft as if he has never been to war or done any hard work unlike you. You feel a bit more nervous when you think about your rough skin. You just hope that he won't bring it up. “Where are you come from, lady? The North or the South? But I assume you are from the North.” He notices your reaction, tumultuous reactions. Maybe it's not appropriate to ask a woman like this for the first time he met. “Please ignore my inappropriate question.” You could feel a smile under his mask, he tries to make you comfortable as much as possible. You just have an idea that he would think you were one of the noblewomen who just comes here to join the masquerade, celebrate Don John's birthday. The man seems like a good person at the first meet but you can't deny that you still have the thought that he might have an idea to flirt with you like the rest of the men you met. They all wanted to marry you but still court with many different women in the same night. “No- I'm from... here.” The man raises his eyebrows under his mask while his feet still keep moving, dancing along with yours. Your hand is now place on his shoulder. “Here? I've never known that Don John has a sister.” His chuckle comes from his throat. Obviously, he doesn't believe it. “No. Sir. I'm just a servant here.” He let you turn your body under his arm before you both continue to dance and the conversation. “A servant?” He still can't believe that a beautiful woman like you with this good manners than the rest of the people is a servant. “Yes, sir.” He nods as understanding, he doesn't judge you by being a servant at all unlike the rest who would say; you're not supposed to be a servant because your beauty is beyond that or you should be my wife because being a servant is a disrespectful job and you don't deserve that. “Interesting.” That was all of his answer.

It is kind of make you disappointed before he continues the conversation. “My mother... was a servant. After I came back from a war with victory, I got the new rank from the king. I told her that please let go of this living and having a better life with me. However, she still insisted to stay the same, she said; it is my honor to live here, the man who allowed me to live in this place gave a better life than I had before I even have you and I will repay his kindness until I die. Yes, she died two months after the conversation. At the house. Under the man's arms.” He paused for a moment before continuing. “He loves her... but he just can't marry to my mother because she's just a servant in his parents' eyes so they don't allow him to marry her.” He looks into your eyes. “And you're the most woman I've ever seen but I will not ask you to marry me.” You are listening to him carefully, his voice shake a little bit but you could feel that he is trying to not make his voice sound more shaky. “Because I know that all the servants here were fostered. I understand the repayment you all want to give. Thus, it is more like my honor to have the dance with the woman I can't marry with.” That moment, all of your judgment that you had earlier is all gone. He is different from the others. You can feel his kindness through his voice and his story. He didn't force her mother to leave, he just lets her be whatever she wants to be. He truly understands the repayment that his mother wanted to give. “Thank you...” you said with a kind smile on your face. You're also speechless about the story, it's beautiful and melancholic. “Did she love him?” You asked. “Indeed.”

That was all he said before one of his friends interrupted you both. The friend whispers something to him. You don't hear that because of the music and the sound of people having fun. “Lady... I need to go. I am truly sorry for my friend for interrupting you.” You just nod and smile in understanding before he kisses your hand and leaves, he leaves without his name. Your eyes follow the man until you see him walking to Don John. That moment, you see Don John's gaze on you, the gaze which is intense and deep as if it is burning on your skin.

Hours later, you're sitting in the kitchen while washing dishes. The masquerade ended for an hour. All the servants are all in here cleaning up things. The works are almost done so you offer your colleagues that mostly are old to go to sleep first and you with young colleagues will do the rest. Soon, they are all gone and you are ready to go to bed after the works done. You're really tired from the party and the work, you need to take a rest after this long night.

“[y/n]!” Before you could leave the kitchen, one of your friends walks in and calls you. She seems hurried. “Yes?” You answered as she walked toward you quickly. “Sir Don John needs a bowl full of cool water and a cloth, he said it is hot tonight and he needs something to cool him up. Could you bring it to him? His father just called me and there's no one left here...” Your friend look around the kitchen because there's literally no one here so you accept the request. Honestly, if you weren't here, she would find someone else because she is so scared of him. Actually, Don John treats everyone badly. Here, you are known as the one who is scared of nothing. So, they all will ask you to do the thing if the order comes from the man name Don John.

You're walking down the corridor with the bowl full of cool water and the cloth in your hands. The corridor is almost dark except the candle that helps the way brightens. This house would be in silence without the sound of your footsteps.

Your presence stops in front of his bedroom door. You barely hear anything from his bedroom like usual, he would bring many different women from different parties to sleep with. You would hear the sound of moan in happiness through his door when you walk past to get to your room.

Before you can knock on the door, he says loudly through the door. “Come in!” He always win in wars so it doesn't surprise if he can hear someone by only footsteps. Your hand slowly spins the knot before walking in. He's already sitting on the bed without his shirt on, turning his back towards you. You slowly walk to the other side of the bed and place the bowl on the side table. Your feet walk towards the door and ready to leave. “Did I tell you to leave?” You're stunned by his words. “I'm sorry, sir.” That was all you said before turning around to look at him. Even, he is still turning his back towards you. He doesn't say anything further but that's the sign for you to do something, to cool him up by wiping his body with the cool water. So, you grab the bowl, the cloth and walk to him.

You place it down on the other side table. His gaze is on you now, lingering all over your face and your body. You hate this feeling, it is like your body is being burned by his eyes. One of your hand pick the cloth and put it into the bowl, anoint it with water. His eyes follow your hand. “Did you find pleasure in your discourse with Leonard?” He asked firmly as his eyes were still on you. “Leonard who, sir?” You asked him while your eyes are still on the cloth. “The man you danced with.” It makes you stop unintentionally. He looked at you for the whole time? “...indeed, sir. He is kind and gentle.” You could hear his chuckle from his throat but it's so light that you almost barely hear it.

Now, you fully face him. He is sitting in front of you while you gently wipe his body with the cloth. “Why didn't you accept to marry him?” You raise your eyebrows with his words. He would hear a lot that you always reject men's love. But at this moment, all you could think is that; what is he going to play with you this time? “He didn't ask me.” You answered. “Leonard... is a good gentleman, handsome, brilliant, and rich.” You can catch the sarcasm in the replies. “He can make you a noblewoman.” He added while the cloth was down on his abdomen. “That's not my desire, sir.” You answered immediately with the pride of your job. “Then what is your desire!?” He whispered sharply to you, grabbed you and you flinched. As if he wanted to shout but he didn't want to let anyone hear that. He continues, “Don't you want a status? Don't you want money? Don't you want a man!?” He raised his voice. He just insulted you. He thinks that a servant like you wants all of those things. You look at him at the eyes with madness in your heart. “What kind of woman do you think I am?” You talked back to your master. Well, it doesn't matter now if he is your master or not. Right now, he is just a man who insults you. You can't stand him. “I am not a woman who needs all of those precious things!” You raise your voice. Treating you badly is alright but insulting you is enough. You have your own pride and no one will judge that. “You insulted me.” Your voice is sharp and is almost like a whisper while all of your madness can be seen on your face obviously.

“Why do you wish to stay here so badly!? I don't understand! When many noblemen offer you to have a better life!?” He swept the cloth and stand up right in front of you. You stumble back and look into his eyes. He's not satisfied with your words much. “Because it is my will.” You just don't want to explain much since he's the kind of a person who doesn't care and doesn't understand you. “I don't want to see your face! I hate the way your hair looks! The way you walk the way you talk! It all annoys me! Why don't you just leave!?” He shouted at your face while his hand swept your hair and your cloth. His words cut right into your heart. Why? Just being yourself is already annoying to someone? “I insist to stay here until your father tells me to.” You say sharply to him. If he hates it, the will to stay here is stronger. You also have a weird thought comes into your mind that you will stay here, get on his nerves until death can take you both apart since he's the most unreasonable man you have ever met.

He knows that he can't do anything since it must come from his father's order to deport you from here which is impossible. His father is not an unreasonable person who will deport someone arbitrarily or without a strong reason enough. Your eyes are still on him watching him staring at you. You're not scared of him at all. He is just a bastard to you now. You had never thought about him in this way until today because it is too much for you. A nobleman who should know how to talk, when to speak or what shouldn't be spoken but this man knows nothing!

All he can do now is staring at you, having the thoughts that you will never know. All of his hatred has their own reasons. The fact that he doesn't want to see you walking around his house or around him because he can't stand himself that he can't marry you, his father doesn't allow him to. And that makes him mad. Yes, it is true that his father is a good man, always treats his servants like humans equally as him and his family, never look down on them. However, he can't deny that fame and family status are still important things to his father and for his own sons. No matter how much kindness his father gives to his servants, he still can't let him marry a servant like you. His father always find many beautiful noblewomen for him to marry since he is in the nice age to get married but he ends up rejecting all of them because he still can't love anyone except you. He really doesn't want to marry any other woman but you. That's why he wants you to leave so much because it will hurt him less if you are gone and married to someone out of his sight. It won't hurt him that much, that's what he thinks. The man that is standing right in front of you with eyes that are hard to read wants to marry you so badly but he just... can't. That makes him feel sick even more because he always hear that many noblemen ask you to marry and he is afraid that one day you may actually accept the offer. Just like today, he is so afraid that one of his closest friends will ask you to marry because if it's true, he will see you in the man's arms until death. Leonard is close to him and it could make him die if he has to see you with Leonard, his closest friend forever. And the fact that he has to bring many different women into his bedroom to pretend that they are you. He needs you so bad and he can do nothing about it. If he sleeps with you, it will become rumored and you are the only one who is going to be fucked up because his father loves him so much. So, he needs those beautiful women to fulfill the space that he still has left; you. He will find all the women who have the same eyes color, the same hair color or even the same height as you to sleep with. And all of these truth that you will never know, it won't be spoken by his mouth.

Since he keeps staring at you, you decide to leave. Why do you need to wait? Wait for him to insult you more? No. Those are enough. Don John is standing there like an idiot watching you leave with the unspoken truth from his mouth. All he can do is letting you go. He still wishes you would leave this house after he said all those things. Since he can't marry you, maybe it is better to not see you anymore. It could make him forget you better.

He can't marry you. He knows. He has prestige which he doesn't care except his father and if you were not a servant, everything would be easier. He would ask you to be his bride and love you until death takes you apart.

END

© satlun, 2024 : DO NOT PLAGIARISM OR ANY OTHER WAY OF REPHRASING

[ghcstao3]

Absolutely loosing it over the idea of Ghost sneaking around to see what Soap is doing on leave. He gets jealous/insecure seeing him set up a date/picnic etc. Can't get it out of his head, has to know who John is getting things for. Stalking only for Soap to call out to Ghost while hes waiting-

"'Knew you were here the whole time, Lt. Join me? I brought tea." (or something along those lines).

-🤺

what a silly thing for ghost to do. also so real. love it

-

Ghost hadn't ever thought of himself as the jealous type until he met John "Soap" MacTavish.

Truly, he hadn't ever had reason to be the jealous type before Soap. Nor does he now, really, but of course the man who brings out the best in Ghost also has to bring out the very green-eyed worst. It's upsetting.

And impossible to ignore.

His envy begins with smaller things, like the casual touches Soap offers to just about anyone, or the smile he always seems to be wearing when Ghost wishes it were just him such a thing was reserved for. It's an ugly feeling that only grows worse with time—but what else can Ghost do but stand in the sidelines and feel miserable for himself? Soap has always and will always deserve better than Ghost.

But even if Ghost's jealousy gets to the point where it's a constant, overbearing presence, he does his best to manage it well. He does manage it well.

On base, that is. Surrounded by other soldiers, his colleagues, and always with something more important to do, Ghost is able to tame the beast that Soap has brought life to.

Then they're sent on leave. Horrible, ever-dreaded leave. The entire 141, including Price for once. And suddenly Ghost's envy cannot be shoved aside for menial tasks and conversation, not for long, at least. Being on his own doesn't bode well.

So he decides he'd visit Soap. Sort of.

The train ticket booking is on impulse. Ghost finds a hotel room even knowing where Soap lives, because he doesn't know if Soap would want to see him.

He's... pathetic, really. Utterly hopeless.

By the time he's mustered any courage to actually show up at Soap's front door, Ghost happens upon the man on his convoluted route there.

Well, happens upon is a strong term. It's more like Ghost sees Soap from afar, sitting on a park bench with his journal, and plants himself far enough that Soap wouldn't see him, but Ghost would still be able to watch.

Forgive him, for being so nosy.

Ghost isn't sure what overcomes him, when Soap eventually stands and Ghost rises, too. He isn't sure what overcomes him when he waits a few seconds before continuing to follow, to lurk like a complete creep. But he does, anyway. Until he snaps out of whatever stupid trance he's in, turns tail and heads back to the hotel.

It doesn't stop that day, though. He figures Soap might frequent the park, knowing the sergeant and his love for any sort of outdoors—and Ghost is easily proven right, as he watches Soap set up at the same bench with his journal the very next day.

He's curious, alright? Nothing more—until jealousy flares through him with the easy smiles Soap offers passersby. Until Ghost is envious of whatever kind greetings Soap offers those same people with that accent Ghost had grown to love even in spite of the nonsense Soap sometimes spoke.

Until a young woman, beautiful and surely Soap's type, joins him on the bench and makes Soap laugh. Until Soap is happily showing her whatever is in his journal and talks to her for ages.

Ghost leaves the park first, that time. But he comes back the next day, and the next. It's the same thing, minus the woman, until one day Soap isn't at the bench. Instead, he's laid out a blanket on the green and is unpacking enough food for two from a plain rucksack.

Ghost doesn't know when, but he creeps closer. He still stays out of sight—God forbid Soap see his lieutenant stalking him—but close enough that he can make out the things Soap has brought. Close enough that he can see the vague shapes of sketches Soap is still endeavouring to draw before whoever he's surely waiting for arrives.

Which is too close, apparently.

"LT," Soap is suddenly calling out. He hasn't so much as looked up from his journal. "I know you're here, ya numpty."

Ghost hesitates a long while, the kind of hesitation that would get him killed on the field. But here, it only stretches on an awkwardness Ghost had hoped never to face. To never have to admit he'd been observing Soap, his subordinate, from afar because he was jealous.

But Soap is patient as Ghost gradually makes his way to the blanket. He doesn't sit right away, however, even when Soap prompts him.

"Aren't you waiting on someone?" Ghost asks. He prays he sounds impassive enough, but he can't help the tinge of bitterness that seeps into his voice.

Soap shakes his head. "Unless I count you," he says. "C'mon, Simon, sit. I brought more than enough for the both of us."

Ghost complies, dropping cautiously across from Soap, staring owlishly at the sergeant who seems far too casual about all of this.

"You're not going to ask?"

Again, Soap shakes his head. "If I wanted to know on my terms, I woulda walked over to you the first day I saw you at the park. Now, I dinnae have much tea at home, so I hope what I brought'll do."

Soap continues to chatter away to both himself and Ghost while he shoves food and drink in Ghost's direction. Ghost just sits in disbelief before he's able to settle.

But once he realizes that the green-eyed monster has finally backed away for once, Ghost allows himself to just enjoy Soap's company, before he thinks to answer any questions and ruin this peace. He has the sergeant to himself, for this one moment, and, really, it's all he's ever been needing.

[wanderersbell]

a birthday wish

traveling companion!wanderer x gn!reader

genre: fluff

warnings: none

word count: 3211

a/n: it's finally his birthday aaaa i love him sm (real). scaranation we gotta come together and make sure he gets everything he could ever want and more!! .:☆*:･'(*⌒―⌒*) enjoy!

something has changed.

over time, the wanderer has gotten used to the unusual things you do. it’s typically no cause for concern when you do strange things here and there, but this time it’s different. he can’t figure out why, but you’ve been giving him these quick thoughtful glances all week that are starting to get on his nerves. 

“if you’re going to look so shamelessly,” he had said in a bored voice a few days into this new habit of yours when he caught you in the act and you averted your gaze. “you may as well just keep staring since you’re not very subtle about it to begin with.”

you had given him an unimpressed glower in response and then closed your eyes as if to prove a point, but he still caught you looking again less than an hour after that, searching his face like you might find an answer there. an answer to what? he doesn’t know - and he’s not too sure he’s ready to find out either. maybe it would be better not to know.

the heavy weight of your gaze became such a common occurrence that he noticed right away when you stopped doing it. as much as he wanted to deny it, it bothered him that you’d suddenly lost interest in whatever it was that kept drawing your attention before. did you get tired of looking at him? did you finally find whatever it was that you were looking for? do you no longer find him interesting? are you going to leave?

he refuses to voice these thoughts, unwilling to acknowledge that he might be a bit clingy despite himself and has resorted to simply trying to bring your gaze back to him in any way possible. 

however, if you’ve noticed how much more effort he’s put into fighting enemies and carrying out the small menial tasks for you that he usually complains about, you stay silent about it and carry on as per usual, eyes never staying on him for longer than a few seconds at a time. 

then finally, on a day that he expects to be as normal as the rest, you stomp over to his side and drop a wicker basket down on the table in front of him with a thud. “we’re going on a picnic.” you state cheerily.

he feels his heart jump into his throat for a split second before he realizes, no, there’s no way you would know. he hasn’t mentioned it once. for you to somehow have figured out today is his birthday is impossible, so surely this is just one of your spontaneous ideas that you like to spring on him without warning. the fact that he allowed himself to think like that, even for the quickest moment, has him curling his hands into fists under the table. he doesn’t deserve anything from you, especially not on a day like this.

“do i even have a say in the matter?” he grumbles, already pushing himself up from his seat. the wanderer moves to reach for the handle of the basket with the intent of opening the lid and finding out what's inside, but you react faster than him and swipe it right out from under his prying hands.

he raises a suspicious brow at the basket that’s now hidden behind your back. “what did you pack? it’s not a bunch of sweets, is it?”

a knowing smile finds its way to your lips that makes his blood run cold and burn hot through his veins at the same time. “you’ll see when we get there.” 

“and where might that be?” the wanderer asks impatiently while crossing his arms over his chest. “oh wait, let me guess,” he follows up sarcastically, trying to ignore the fond look of exasperation on your face. “i’ll find out when we get there?”

you make a small affirmative sound through your soft giggles and start leading him in the direction of this mysterious destination. he follows you without resistance and makes sure to walk at the same speed as you so he remains directly at your left side. 

it’s nearing late afternoon as the two of you weave down winding paths that lead to varying parts of the rain forest, and the warm light that blankets everything in its reach paired with your presence next to him brings him the same happy contented feeling that being near you always draws out of him. 

it’s a feeling he still struggles to accept, to convince himself he can allow himself to have. the burden of the things he’s done in a past life of his and the instinct to shut out anything that threatens to break through his resolve always make themselves known at the worst times; hanging thickly in the air and trailing slowly behind him like they’re waiting for him to turn around and fall back into his old beliefs. 

but when he looks over to see you walking closer to him than necessary but still making sure to give him his personal space, clearly wanting to be near him but still respecting his boundaries all the same, the wanderer finds that it has become much easier to ignore the part of himself that still craves self destruction. 

the wicker basket swings back and forth in your hand and your eyes are fixed on your feet as you walk, trying to mirror your traveling companions’ pace step by step. a small determined smile rests at your lips while you try not to mess up the timing of each movement. 

eventually, the path you’re on splits and tapers off into a smaller trail that you both merge on to. a bit farther ahead where the trees give way to a clearing, a lush green field that sits on a small hill comes into view. the grass is strewn with wildflowers of all sorts, dancing gently in the wind that sweeps through the delicate blades. 

he comes to a halt next to you when you stop abruptly at the bottom of the hill. “we’re here,” you announce proudly, squinting a bit against the sun. “it’s nice, right?”

the wanderer hums indifferently, secretly admiring the vast stretch of greenery that glows golden under the setting sun while you dig a small blanket out of the basket and unfold it to sit on. he joins you a bit too eagerly, kneeling to lower himself down on his knees right across from you on the fabric. 

it’s almost unfair how enchanting you look against the backdrop of vibrant flowers with the orange sun framing you from behind like a halo, and he can’t help but be grateful that he doesn’t have to breathe in the first place because he surely would’ve passed out from a lack of oxygen by now with how often you take his breath away. 

far too distracted by these thoughts, he fails to realize how long he’s been admiring you until you suddenly speak up. 

“now who’s the one with the staring problem?” you tease with amusement evident in your voice. he doesn’t miss the sly glance you give him and scoffs to cover up his embarrassment. 

“i wasn’t staring,” he starts to refute, but quickly forgets to finish his sentence when he sees the things you finally start unpacking from the picnic basket one by one. four perfectly made cat shaped onigiri lined up on a rectangular platter are placed in the middle of the blanket, followed by two servings of cold soba noodles in hand painted porcelain bowls and a small roll of bird egg sushi. 

a very rare positive moment of nostalgia and longing for his home region swirls through his chest at the sight of dishes that he’s sure he hasn’t had in at least two hundred years. “it’s…” the wanderer trails off, unable to stop the frown that weighs down his eyebrows. 

“traditional inazuman dishes!” you finish for him, unaware of the confusion brewing up a storm in his head. it’s blatantly obvious you did all of this with him in mind, but he just can’t figure out why. he knows for absolute certainty that he has never mentioned the date of his creation, but what kind of coincidence is this? if he didn’t know any better, especially with all of the staring you had been doing recently, he’d probably assume you’re a mind reader, but he knows that isn’t possible so what on earth-

“do you… like it?” you ask quietly, sounding almost unsure. the wanderer realizes with a start that he’s been sitting here scowling at the food for the last few moments and the proud expression on your face had at some point morphed into one of nervousness. he internally chastises himself before nodding in response to your question. 

“it looks nice,” he says honestly, picking up one of the feline shaped onigiri and inspecting the carefully molded rice that resembles two pointed ears. the seaweed wrapping is cut into small shapes to form whiskers and eyes and a smiling mouth. 

he’s reluctant to admit it but they’re… cute. adorable, even. it’s safe to say in all the time he’s been around he has yet to see such innocently crafted rice balls, and he isn’t even aware of the small grin on his face as he looks at it against his palm. 

“you made all of this?” the wanderer asks despite already knowing the answer. he reveres in the way you shrug proudly and nod at his question, eyes sparkling excitedly as you hand him a pair of chopsticks from the basket. 

“mhm!” you confirm while carefully lifting a piece of sushi from the platter. “i found some recipes in an old cookbook and wanted to see if i could do it. try it!”

at your insistence, he finally takes a bite of the onigiri and hums appreciatively at the tuna filling in the center when he chews. the portions are perfect, the rice to filling ratio was obviously measured carefully, and the mental image of you in the kitchen putting so much care into these dishes makes his chest swell with so much fondness that the wanderer has to start digging into the other items to keep his cool. 

everything you made is delicious. there is certainly room for improvement, but to say the wanderer is impressed is nearly an understatement. he’s sure there’s no way you got it this perfect on the first try so there must have been multiple failed attempts before this, and plenty of trial and error. it doesn’t take long to finish everything between the two of you, and thinking about how much effort you put into this food from his place of origin on this conveniently timed picnic in a field surrounded by his favorite flowers has him seconds away from giving in and asking if you somehow knew, but he doesn’t get the chance when you reach into the basket and present two empty glass jars. 

he quirks a questioning brow and at the same time takes notice of the fact that the sun has already descended into the horizon and the sky has taken on a cool blue and orange ombré that draws out tiny flickering fireflies with every passing minute. they look like miniature floating stars against the darkening field of wildflowers, and when he looks back at you he can see them reflecting off of your eyes in an enchanting light show that carries with it a million unspoken words. 

“well,” you say while handing him one of the jars. “lets catch some fireflies, shall we?”

he takes it from you and stands up to entertain your plan, but still grumbles out a, “this is so childish.” just loud enough for you to hear. the melodic ring of your laughter fills the cool dusk air with an ever so comforting familiarity. 

amidst the dimming and glowing sea of lightning bugs, the wanderer watches in awe as you gleefully uncap your jar and start trying to usher them inside. he can’t take his eyes off of you as you skip after them, as graceful and carefree as a leaf fluttering in the wind. 

pretty, he thinks to himself amidst the field of flowers. though he had expected nothing from today, this turn of events is undeniably better than he’d like to admit. 

while he wasn’t looking, a single firefly had found its way into the jar in his hand and rested lazily at the bottom, almost as if it was tired from flying. like living up to its own purpose had taken everything out of it, and in a last attempt to be useful it let itself settle into the hands of the enemy. he watches the firefly glow weakly with a complicated expression, finding himself feeling strangely empathetic for the pitiful thing.  

unbeknownst to him, you had managed to catch a handful of fireflies in your own jar where they flew around leisurely and bumped into the sides of the glass every now and then. you return to his side without saying a word and uncap your jar, tilting it over the opening of his and letting one of the fireflies in your jar find its way into his before securing the lids on both of them. 

the firefly you had given him immediately makes its way to the bottom of the jar where the other one sits idly, and within seconds the once pitiful lightning bug starts flapping its wings and joins the second one in a speckled yellow dance near the top. when he looks over at you, you’re already staring at him, and the depth of the emotion swirling around in your e/c eyes sends a spark of muffled electricity down his spine. 

“make a wish,” you whisper towards him through the approaching dark. the wanderer quirks a brow at this, trying to figure out what wishes have to do with fireflies. 

“a wish? why?”

“just do it.” you reiterate, gesturing to his hand holding the cool glass. the wanderer huffs and glances down at the jar in his hands where the two fireflies hover around each other and then looks back up to you, watching with eagerness written clear all over your face.

wishes are such arbitrary things, nothing more than useless sentiment that sets someone up for disappointment when it doesn’t come true, but it’s hard not to indulge you when you’re practically vibrating with anticipation in front of him.

“you first.” he demands, leaving no room for negotiation. 

“fine,” you relent and groan lightheartedly. a soft yellow glow illuminates your face as you lift the jar to rest against your forehead and close your eyes. when you open them again, you lower it and meet his gaze steadily.

“my wish is to spend many more birthdays with you.” you announce with a sincere smile. “happy birthday, wanderer.”

all he can do is stare in mild shock for a few moments, and when your words fully register the wanderer’s eyes widen almost comically. “wait- how did you-“

your own eyes squint shut with a delighted giggle. “a little birdie told me this very important day was coming up soon,” you explain slyly, clearly pleased that he hadn’t figured it out yet. “so i wanted to do something for you.”

though your words are vague, he catches on almost immediately and fights the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose at the realization. 

lesser lord kusanali, he sighs inwardly. i should’ve known.

“you shouldn’t have done all of this for me,” the wanderer mutters, trying his best to keep his voice even. he’s annoyingly touched by everything and swallows back a lump in his throat as tears threaten to prick his eyes. through the countless decades of birthdays that have passed by him without notice, nobody would have even considered doing stuff like this for him, not even if they knew.

you’re so kind to him, always including him and going out of your way to do things for him even though he’s the last person in teyvat to deserve such a thing. it stirs the part of him that wants to claw its way out and reject this, to roar with rage at how ridiculous it is to waste your time on somebody like him. but all he can do is stare at you in wonder, burning under the warmth of your attention. 

“well i wanted to, so i did.” you shrug unapologetically. “if you hadn’t been created today all that time ago we never would’ve met, so of course it should be celebrated.”

he’s beyond grateful for the low light right now because he knows you can’t see the deep flush on his cheeks at how boldly you’re able to say these things. the confirmation that everything today - and all of the staring and planning leading up to it - was indeed all for him, has him at a momentary loss for words.  

“you mean you really…”

“i want to stay by your side.” there’s so much honesty and confidence behind your statement that his jaw opens and closes like a fish a few times before he can decide on how to respond. 

“how foolish,” he says sharply but a bit shakily. “what if you regret it?”

“and what if i don’t?” you counter without missing a beat. “the future is whatever it will be, and right now i’m choosing this.”

you’re right, and he knows it. he knows firsthand that there is no changing the path of fate, that the wisest thing one can do is to live in the moment and go wherever life takes them. he swore he would never care for another being, would never again play the part of a human or allow himself to feel as one - but when you stare right through his eyes and into his soul like this, he can’t ignore the way he yearns to live a life that allows him to be with you every day. 

with that said, you turn on your heel and skip back out to the middle of the field again, emptying your jar with a gleeful laugh. the glittering bugs in the air look like moving constellations around you. you, the burning sun at the center of a universe that sustains the cold, lonely planet that once orbited alone in the dark for so long.

“c’mon!” you call out to him cheerfully. “if you can’t catch more than me you’ll have to make two wishes!”

gazing down meaningfully at the two lightning bugs flying together in his jar, the wanderer makes his first one into the night under his breath, so quietly that not even the moon would be able to overhear. it’s plain and not at all what he expects to say, but it escapes his lips in a soft admission of the truth.

“if your wish is to stay by my side, then my wish is only you.”

the wanderer opens the jar and watches them flutter away, with the little buzzing stars reflecting in his eyes and the sound of your laughter gracing his ears. 

maybe over time he would learn to enjoy his birthdays, as long as he gets to have them with you.

[bloodiedrogue]

DEPOLLUTE ME, GENTLE ANGEL

SUMMARY: Gale's been hiding behind his pride for far too long. Or at least, Astarion thinks so.

PAIRING: Astarion & Gale

WORD COUNT: 2,053

WARNINGS: Descriptions of decomposition and injuries. Brief mentions of dissociation.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Hi, this idea has been consuming my brain since I read @ssalballoon's comic about rotting gale. Obviously the concept isn't mine and is heavily inspired by their art, so please give them some love! <3

MASTERLIST

-

Something’s wrong with Gale. 

Often smelling more like a batch of tanned leather than a human wizard, Astarion can’t help but linger at its presence. Despite the way it violently rips through his senses —clouding his vision like a putrid fog of death— the smell is strangely intoxicating. A temptation of sorts, plaguing his thoughts with a powerful sweetness wrapped in rotting flesh. 

It calls to him in ways he doesn’t quite understand. As the days pass, he can feel it clinging to his nose, assaulting his senses each time the wizard draws near. Ripping through him like a bloodied knife reeking of day-old viscera. 

Most days, it’s presence is fickle. Ebbing and flowing like the tides, there are moments in between when he’s able to breathe a sigh of relief and forget the strange desires that sit at the back of his mind. Moments where the air is pure and unalloyed —no longer tainted by whatever shit Gale’s got collecting underneath that wretched bandage of his. Ones where Astarion can breathe without the threat of a fragrant assault each time the wizard passes. Allowing him time to think of himself rather than focusing on the increasing injury that Gale hides in plain sight. 

Because Astarion can tell it’s getting worse. As the days turn to nights and circle back, he can see the subtle changes in Gale’s behaviour. How the wizard’s charm has slowly dampened over time, leaving nothing more but this suppressant version of himself, aimlessly floating from one camp to the next. 

It drives him mad if he’s honest. Watching the way Gale refuses to cook with his hands. Instead choosing to waste his precious Weave to pilot those ridiculous apparitions. Or how he no longer waves his hands like a man gone mad each time he speaks. It’s depressing really, seeing him swiftly wither away. Witnessing the downfall of his autonomy each time he struggles to hold his staff during battle. 

Even conversations with him have changed. Once resembling an elegant show of vast grandeur, talking to him has become nothing more than some menial task. A boring back and forth lacking that past boisterous quality of wit. 

Astarion knows it’s because he’s exhausted. Slowly rotting from the inside out will do that to you, but that doesn’t make it any less annoying. Especially because he’s become embarrassingly reliant on the bastard. Not that he would never admit it out loud but the man’s become somewhat of a constant in his daily routine. A moment in time he stupidly looks forward to each time they both find themselves awake before everyone else. 

Considering neither of them sleep, over the weeks it’s become a constant to greet each other before breakfast. To simultaneously wander out of their respective tents when the sun comes up, stretching their aches and pains away before meeting by the snuffed-out fire. Usually, Gale will greet him like an old friend, his tone cheery or playful, while Astarion merely nods and grumbles his way back to consciousness, eventually giving in to whatever conversation the wizard’s decided to focus his energy on.

It sounds preposterous given the circumstances but he enjoys the company. More so than he probably should, he thinks. Which makes the decreasing energy of his friend’s soul all the more painful to watch.

And to smell. Especially now that they’ve returned from battle, caked in the blood of their enemies —coated in dirt and sweat. All of it mixing together to create a cocktail-induced headache Astarion has to pretend not to notice.

Clearing a lump in his throat, as soon as they’re back he rushes for the lake just South of their campsite. Paying no mind to the rest of the party who follow leisurely behind, he quickly takes a deep breath to try and calm himself down. Sucking the tainted air as he closes his eyes, he pauses to allow it to filter through his lungs, counting each second spent struggling to maintain any sort of composure before he inevitably lets out it. 

With just an inhalation or two he can tell Gale’s only a few feet back, moving slower than usual. Most likely sitting at the tail-end of the pack in order to push through the pain of his injury.

As they continue walking to their shared destination, Astarion can’t help but pity the poor fool, knowing how difficult it must be to move after all that excitement. Considering throughout their encounter he could see him struggling, it’s a miracle he’s still upright. Having spent the majority of the fight using his staff more like an anchor than a weapon, Astarion could feel the irritability of everything coursing through his veins —rushing through him alongside the adrenaline of battle.

It quickly became obvious he shouldn’t have been there in the first place. What with him whiffing every other shot and defiantly going against Tav’s orders. Having him around had become nothing short of a liability. And based on how hard he’d managed to push himself, he knew it too. 

Which is why he refuses to stop, even now as they make it to the water’s edge and begin stripping down to wash away past thoughts and actions. Instead of acknowledging his need for help he merely continues to ignore the issue, walking down to the furthest point of the lake so that he can hope to slip away unnoticed. 

Immediately going against such an idea, Astarion follows behind, keeping just enough distance so that he can remain undetected as he watches the wizard struggle to lower himself to the rocks below. Staring at the way his hands shake with the kind of violent energy Astarion’s far too familiar with.

Frowning at the memory of having to dig himself from his own grave centuries before, he can still feel the rupture of his knuckles against the dirt. How they cracked under the pressure of his desperation, threatening to break just like Gale’s now seem to do. 

Remembering the irritation of the filth beneath his nails, Astarion can’t help but flex his digits at the same time Gale swipes his good hand across his face. Watching how the frustrated features disappear behind his fingers before returning with exhaustion.

A sight that immediately makes Astarion frown. A sort of sadness filling up his chest at the image of his friend struggling to maintain whatever semblance of strength he has left. Sympathy latching onto his bones in the form of cautious steps that force him from his hiding spot. 

“You look like you could use a hand.” 

Before he can even think to stop his offer, Astarion moves to the wizard’s side, acting as if the smell doesn’t bother him. Pretending like the scent of the stained cloth that coats the lower half of his arm doesn’t remind him of a festering corpse splitting open to reveal spoiled organs.

“Care to lend an arm as well?”

Unfortunately, Gale's joke falls flat. Not necessarily because of the material but because of the tone. Its lack of joy hitting Astarion’s ears in a way that furthers the ache. Forcing him to kneel in front of his friend with a sigh. “You know you’re starting to worry the others.” 

“Am I?” 

Ignoring the question, Astarion’s fingers gently inch towards the top of Gale’s dressings, searching for an opening —twitching reluctantly against the sweaty fabric as they continue to sit in silence. Neither one of them able to speak out of fear of revealing too much. 

Which only increases the pain inside Astarion’s chest. Like a knife, it pushes through his lungs, creating deep craters for the rotten scent to penetrate —holes the size of Gale’s hands that now rest limply against his lap.

Peeling away the soiled cloth, Astarion holds his breath while Gale lets out his. Both of their minds struggling not to veer off course as the bandage is torn away, revealing sick skin. Showing them both the polluted flesh that wraps around broken-down muscle and bone. 

“You reek, you know. Of... whatever this is.”

All Gale does is hum as he reaches into the pocket of his robes, prompting Astarion to narrow his eyes until there’s a fresh set of bandages placed in front of him. Then he merely grabs them and begins to work, slowly unravelling them as he looks at Gale’s expression, noting the slight blush across his cheeks. How his eyes grow heavier with each passing moment they spend together. 

“You should really consider finding a cure,” he says. “For my sake, obviously.” 

Grinning then, Astarion expects some sort of quip, but again, all he’s met with is silence. The continued absence of Gale’s wit refusing to acknowledge the obvious. Most likely rejecting the idea that for once the vampire’s making sense. 

A fact that fills Astarion with annoyance, knowing the pride Gale feels is something he deeply relates to. How every day he’s met with the struggle of asking for help versus manipulating it out. Each moment he spends with any one of his companions he has to resist the urge to beg for their assistance. To ignore the desire to drop to his knees and cry for a forgiveness none of them are aware of in hopes of earning their aid. 

It’s the same reason why he’s currently helping Gale. Why, instead of granting the wizard time to brood by his lonesome he’s instead inserting himself into his space. Taking it upon himself to woo and distract —making it seem like it’s merely just kindness. 

It's what he always does, despite the reluctance that sits at the back of his mind. How he earns the trust of all the people he encounters. Similar to Gale, he uses his pride to his advantage, showing it off to anyone who will see it. Producing it as if it were a mask instead of the blade that constantly nicks his skin each time he weaponizes it. 

Always hiding behind its decorative design, Astarion allows his confidence to do the talking. To earn their trust as they continue towards their common goal despite knowing that it’s wrong. 

“Apologies for the burden I’ve become as of late.” 

Too engrossed in thought, Astarion nearly misses Gale’s apology. Focusing on their shared advantages, his voice is faint at first, barely hitting his ears as his fingers absentmindedly work around his arm. Echoing in the back of his mind over and over again until it’s clear as day, forcing him to look up. 

His eyes are distant in a way that breaks the vampire’s heart. Shattering on impact, he has to swallow down the shards that try to escape, feeling them slice across his esophagus as he tries his best to ignore the sting of Gale’s expression. How it grows in both distance and familiarity the longer the two of them stay.

“You wouldn’t be a burden if you set your pride aside for once.” 

Gale huffs and then blinks, returning all at once. His moment of absence becoming nothing more than a memory that both of them will eventually forget. “You’re one to talk, aren’t you?”

Astarion lets out a single ha —one filled with total falseness. “You and I are nothing alike, wizard,” he then lies, even though Gale’s right. 

Far too often he sees himself within him. Lurking in the strangest of places, it’s as if Gale’s behaviours often mirror his own. Always reminding him of his motivations —prompting him to question why he does what he does as he’s forced to stare at these distorted images. Ones that look familiar but somewhat changed to better suit the wizard’s needs.

“Perhaps… perhaps not. I suppose it depends on the finer details.” 

This time, Astarion’s the one to remain silent. Opting to ignore the tightness in his chest that presents itself to turn his attention to the bandage now fully wrapped around Gale’s arm, allowing his fingers to trail down his wrist to grab his hand. 

“Well, for the right amount of coin I’m sure there’s a decent healer in Baldur’s Gate who could help you,” he says, once again smelling that scent. Feeling it rush through his nose like a rapid river of disgust, forcing him to clear his throat and mind as he raises the wizard’s knuckles to his lips before leaving without another word.

-

@poohxlove @gaiasmight @sassy-stupid @novarex @v-gremlin @sapphiccloud @lipstickghoulie @kuroitsukyo@jjfchk@idiotsatan@bluestuesday@bloopthebat@art-by-greenie@heneralmoon@sukunababe@dreamingaboutyousworld@ranfithegood@haniscrying@liadamerondjarin@the-lake-is-calling@marina-and-the-memes@rookieoftheyear@zraloci-cpr@kaetmo@snickerdoodle-daydream@wowowwild@d1anna@raswiet@conniesbbymama@venus-wrts@demonicthorns@kihten@deadglamsheep@sanscas@spammypasta@leighsartworks216@rose-gold-blue@p1ssmagg0t@hellish-writes@ghostinvenus@otayz@sexysquatch@sleepyeclair@colorful-anxieties@alina-exe@ilana-the-lasagna@lillifer@girlwiththepapatattoo@y2cade@acelin-ginsberg@pinkuranium@catrad0rable@scarletrosesposts@qwnamidala@itsrosebabe@bunnyperi@queenofcarrotflowers-s@tatumadams20@spkyxszn@chlort@f3v3rs@awkwardwookie@joy-the-reader@warm-milk-with-honey-blog@vertigocrime@iyis@wildpiper@pebblethestone@tillywasneverhere@bex-03@kaetmo@revemiya@staticspouse@itzagothamcitysiren@djarinsmixtape@when-the-night-came@epicy0n@bababahannah@sleepyred1703@lotus-99@lofcompass@r4d10h34d5@vampninjaz@itsmekalou@offbrandhand@yikes-buddy@konenichi@rainonarden@oceanbluesixeyes@bodtyworship@maydayitsjay@greasyslimebucket@yeeteth-the-raven@fantasyfairysworld@allexthakatt@flowersaretheshit@morglyne@thespectacularspaceace@cephiss0@use-your-telescope@furblrwurblr@kloverfield@angelofthorr@writervaul-t@starved-kitten@minixluvr@crowley--aziraphale@sapphicwren@alionera-blog@jennithejester@dezedrol@thisisew@saladalpaca@applepiewithbacon@httpbiohazard@aurasyn@nerdoodles@kingpinthedevil@itzkawaiix@domainoflostsouls@silverskylan@uminootome@helpidkwhatimdoingwrong@deadlyinfernos@blackbirdswhispers@sarahskywalker-amadala@writingmysanity@f3v3rs@jayjones03@quietlyebbie@optimisticprime3@eyes-for-daze@sunnytalia3@megoshh@maddiedott@cappsikle@mostbeautifulnightmare@lynnlovesloki@simpytheshrimpy69@astarion-archive@smaranshakthi@autistic-deer@shadowfeart@freckled-petals@candied-lavender@hp-art-studio@ghouligan@satelliteapotheosis@waywardwitch-hel@pandimoostuff@mythoughtsofinsanity@ilovelovelylove@oneandonlyizabelle

TAGLIST NOW CLOSED!

[from-the-coffee-shop-in-edoras]

Wednesdays mean a new chapter of Wídfara and Guthláf!

Part 5 of 8, in which Wíd gets a glimpse of what it’s like to lose Guthláf, and it helps him make a big decision. Thank you to the small but mighty crew who support this story—I deeply appreciate all of you!

Catch up on previous parts here: One. Two. Three. Four.

Wídfara was back in the stables again early the next morning, having spent the hours since his confrontation with Guthláf in tortured sleeplessness. Maybe we just shouldn’t be together. His own words echoed in his ears, so foolish and so hasty. He wanted nothing more than to take them back, to undo everything about the night before. And yet, he wasn’t sure there was any better outcome.

If he did as Guthláf wanted, he was sentencing himself to a life lived in abject fear of a tragedy he felt certain was coming. But if he managed to impose his will on Guthláf instead, their relationship would be forever poisoned by the acrid taste of resentment. Even worse, he ran the risk that the Guthláf who remained would no longer be the same man Wídfara had fallen in love with, that some irreplaceable part of him might die along with his discarded dreams. No matter what he did, he seemed destined to lose Guthláf somehow, and his aching sorrow was mixed with a heavy dose of grievance toward a world that was giving him only impossible choices. He didn’t know what to do, but he knew that he needed to talk to Guthláf again. Things couldn’t end as they had last night.

As more men arrived to prepare for the day, Wídfara withdrew into himself, taking up menial tasks – changing out bedding, refilling feeders, polishing tack – to keep his hands busy while his mind struggled to work out his thoughts. Ordinarily, these simple barn chores would be his novice’s work, but Freogan seemed to intuit from just a glance at his face that this was not an ordinary day. He gave Wídfara a wide berth and posted himself a short distance down the aisle, where he could quietly discourage others from unnecessary disruptions.

Even Freogan’s dutiful attentions, though, could not stop the eventual inquiries that came when Guthláf’s continuing absence began to draw notice in the stable. Several of the senior men of the éored came to Cypren’s stall to ask Wídfara if he had yet seen his friend that morning, and he was forced to shrug off those inquiries, feigning ignorance as to Guthláf’s doings since leaving the tavern. But amidst his bitter sadness and confusion, a chord of worry now also sounded in the back of his mind. Guthláf was never late and rarely alone, and yet now he seemed to be both at once. Wídfara couldn’t help but worry about what this unusual behavior might mean.

It wasn’t until an hour after the start of training that Guthláf finally appeared, and his arrival did nothing to assuage Wídfara’s concerns. He had never seen Guthláf as he looked that morning — dark circles under his eyes, pale, listless and with none of his usual spark or good-natured easiness. He walked slowly and with an awkward remove from his surroundings, as though his body was present but his spirit was elsewhere. He ignored the teasing innuendo of friends about overindulgence in either drink or women, and he silently accepted a reprimand for tardiness from Déorwine before mounting his horse and taking his place in the ranks. But while others soon went back to business as usual, it remained painfully obvious to Wídfara that Guthláf was not alright. His riding was sloppy, he was frequently out of position, and his reactions to the movements of others were delayed.

Widfara watched him carefully from the periphery of his vision, one eye always on Guthláf even as he followed commands and executed his own drills. When they lined up to practice defensive tactics, with some riders occupying the roles of hypothetical enemies, Wídfara could see right away that Guthláf was out of position again, leaving himself dangerously exposed. Elfhelm saw it, too, and called out for an adjustment as the drill began, but it was too late – Herubrand, in one of the enemy positions, easily knocked Guthláf from his saddle, and his helmet, poorly secured, slid off as well. Far closer than he should have been to the adjoining paddock fence, his head struck a wooden rail with a sickening crack on his way to the ground.

All organized action came to an immediate halt as men rushed toward Guthláf from all directions, but no one got there faster than Wídfara, who was off his horse and across the open distance before much closer men had even been able to dismount. He skidded to his knees at Guthláf’s side and felt his own heart stop at the sight of a halo of bright red blood quickly pooling in the dirt behind Guthláf’s head.

“Guthláf? Can you hear me?” He patted Guthláf’s cheek a few times, but his eyes remained closed and he didn’t stir even as Syndrigan nosed heavily at his shoulder. With trembling fingers, Wídfara reached down to check his pulse and let out a shuddering sigh of relief when he found a faint but steady beat.

“Get on his horse, Wídfara. Now.” Elfhelm had elbowed his way into the tight circle that had formed around Guthláf’s crumpled body and taken in the circumstances in a quick glance.

“What?” Wídfara looked up, wild eyed at the thought of being sent away from Guthláf in this moment.

“Get in the saddle and we’ll hand him up to you. You’ll get over to the healers much faster by horse than trying to carry him yourself.”

Wídfara jumped up and pulled himself onto Syndrigan’s back. She stomped a foot and shook her head in agitation at bearing an unfamiliar rider but calmed as soon as Herubrand, Elfhelm and a few others lifted Guthláf up and set him in front of Wídfara, his limp body leaned back onto Wídfara’s chest and shoulder. He clasped an arm across Guthláf’s middle, gave Syndrigan a nudge and rode off to the healers as fast as she would carry them. A horn was sounded behind him, the notice to the healers of an incoming injury, and by the time he arrived at the right building, several men waited out front, ready to carry Guthláf inside.

The next hours were the longest and most desperate Wídfara had ever known. The healers whisked Guthláf away from him before he could protest, and they blocked him from entering the room where they worked to treat the injury. Once again, Wídfara found himself standing in a hallway, listening to the appalling sounds of distress drift out to him from behind a closed door. Groaning and vomiting as Guthláf regained consciousness. Raised, urgent voices speaking short, barked commands. Cries of pain. He paced a dogged path back and forth in front of the room, certain that he would wear a groove into the stone floor if he was kept outside much longer, and his entire body thrummed with frantic energy, the charged sting of panic. He clung to the very edge of his sanity and felt even that slipping from his grasp when, at last, the door opened and a woman in a bloodstained apron emerged. Wídfara nearly tackled her in his fervor to hear news.

“There is a break in his skull,” the woman said, “but it’s a relatively clean break. The external wound is now sewn closed and we are satisfied that there will be no critical swelling. He needs a lot of rest, but the bone should heal on its own over the next few weeks. You can go in, but he’s been heavily dosed for his pain and won’t wake up for several hours.”

The sudden easing of Wídfara’s fevered anxiety was so strong that he almost lost his balance, and he slumped back against the wall for support. “Thank you,” he managed to rasp out. “Will you please send an update to Marshal Elfhelm as soon as you can?”

“Of course. And someone will be back to check on him regularly.”

Wídfara let himself into the room as the remaining healers went out, and he looked down at Guthláf’s still, fragile form, sleeping curled on his side with drying, rust-colored blood matted through the back of his hair. Out of sight of others at last, he finally allowed himself to cry, the tears that had brimmed his lashes for hours now spilling at last down his cheeks. Through those tears, he took a clean cloth left by a water basin in the corner and tenderly washed away as much smeared blood as he could from Guthláf’s face, throat and hands. When he was finished, he sat quietly in a chair at the side of the bed and gratefully studied all the little signs of life he could discern – the slow rise and fall of Guthláf’s chest, the minute movements of his eyes behind his closed eyelids, the faint pulsing in a vein at his temple as his heart did its work.

Minutes slipped by, and then hours, and Wídfara sat silently, interrupted only by the woman in the apron, who came in every hour to briefly check on Guthláf’s condition.

When it began to grow dark outside, Wídfara rose to light a lamp, and just as he sat back down again, Guthláf stirred at last. His eyes slowly opened, unfocused and with the black of his pupils so large that the light blue surrounding them was almost entirely obscured. The eyes searched around, disoriented, but when they landed on Wídfara, they stayed there.

“What time is it?” The question came out as a hoarse whisper, the words slightly slurred.

“It’s getting late,” answered Wídfara. “But that doesn’t matter. There’s nowhere else you need to be.”

Guthláf’s eyes traveled from Wídfara’s face down to his chest and shoulders, where his shirt was soaked in blood from the ride to the healers. “Did someone hurt you? Whose blood is that?”

“It’s yours,” he said gently. “There’s been an accident. But don’t worry. You’re alright now. You’re going to be alright.” Tears flooded back to his eyes, and he choked down a sob.

One of Guthláf’s hands slid across the bed and grasped Wídfara’s, the grip weak but determined. Wídfara held onto it tightly, so desperately grateful for the gesture that in that moment he didn’t even care if the healer walked back in to discover them this way. He held Guthláf’s hand as his eyes drifted closed again and for long minutes after, but just as he decided that Guthláf had fallen back to sleep, his eyes fluttered open once more.

“Wíd?”

“Yes?”

“I love you, too. I should have said that yesterday, and I’m sorry I didn’t.”

“You don’t have to apologize for anything. I’m the one who is sorry.” Wídfara raised Guthláf’s hand and pressed it quickly to his lips. “We can talk about it all later, but now you need to rest. I’ll still be right here when you wake up.”

Wídfara was there when Guthláf next woke, but he wasn’t able to maintain his hold on the seat by the bed for long. As they always did when there was a major injury or illness, the éored posted a rotation of men to Guthláf’s sick room, each taking six hour shifts to either watch over him while he rested or, as his strength returned and his head cleared, to keep him company while still confined to bed. After the blur of that first evening, Wídfara had been forced to yield to procedure, allowing Brunloc to take his place early the next morning. What’s more, the presence now of others forced him to stifle any excess emotion or expression that might expose to others the true depth of his feelings. As a result, the most he could manage over the week that Guthláf was in the healers’ care was to drop by for short visits, always in the company of the many others who lined up for the chance to sit with a beloved friend.

The weight of their fight in the stable still sat between them, unresolved. Every hint of Wídfara’s anger and resentment had washed away cleanly in the flood of his panic and then relief after the accident, but his fears were as potent as ever, if not even further heightened now. His frustration at being unable to address them was tempered only by his relief at Guthláf’s continuing improvement, which allowed him to maintain a basic semblance of calm as he went about his daily routines – attending to duties, adding regularly to the pile of small offerings to Béma that sprang up outside of Guthláf’s room, and taking care of Slaga, Guthláf’s dog.

It wasn’t until Guthláf was finally released back to the barracks for another few weeks of general rest and recovery that the opportunity to be alone again returned. On the day of his release, Wídfara went to the central market, buying up all of Guthláf’s favorite things – plums and honey sweets and walnuts and spice cake and anything else he could find that would bring a smile to Guthláf’s face and show him how much he was loved, fight or no fight. It was far more than he could have afforded on his own, but the old women at the market stalls always doted on Guthláf when he came by each weekend and they loaded Wídfara with extras when they found out who he was shopping for.

He stopped off on his way back to pick up Slaga and headed eagerly to Guthláf’s room. He arrived at the door just as Guthláf himself came slowly down the hall from the communal baths, a towel around his waist and a steadying hand on the wall. The sight of him filled Wídfara’s heart with both warm relief and the sharp bite of concern.

“Should you be walking around by yourself?” Wídfara shifted the bag in his arms so that he could put a supporting hand under Guthláf’s elbow.

“Maybe not, but after a solid week trapped in that bed and not even able to take a piss without three people watching, it was nice to get washed on my own for a change.”

“Oh.” A sudden nervousness gripped Wídfara. Maybe it had been presumptuous of him to assume that Guthláf would be ready to talk to him now or would even want to. “I can just drop this off if you’d rather be alone for a while…”

Guthláf glanced quickly around the empty hallway before moving his hand from the wall to Wídfara’s arm. “No. I’ve missed you, and I want you to stay.” He eyed the bag in Wídfara’s other arm and smiled. “And I’m not just saying that because you’ve brought gifts.”

They went inside and Guthláf spent a few happy minutes fussing over Slaga, who was positively vibrating with joy to be back in the crook of his arm, and sorting through the bounty Wídfara had brought him. He tasted a little of everything as he pulled each item from the bag with a delighted exclamation, and he insisted that Wídfara share in his own gift, giving him generous portions of all the best treats. Wídfara was grateful to see that both Guthláf’s appetite and manner seemed normal, though his movements remained slow and hesitant.

After receiving many profuse thanks, Wídfara held Guthláf’s arm again as he stepped gingerly into his trousers, tossing the towel to a corner of the room. Before he picked up a shirt, though, he gestured to his hair and the brush that sat on a small table beside his bed.

“Could you help me with this, too, Wíd? I can’t see the back of my own head, and I don’t want to snag my stitches.”

“Of course.”

Guthláf carefully lowered himself to the ground, sitting between Wídfara’s knees, and leaned back with a sigh as Slaga curled up contentedly in his lap. Wídfara raised the brush to begin his work, but his hand faltered at the first sight of the many small loops of thread that cut across the back of Guthláf’s skull and the inky black bruising, easily visible through the light blonde of his hair, that still spread all across his head and down his neck, where it slowly faded first into dark purple, then blue and finally a greenish-yellow. The sense of calm that Wídfara had worked so hard to maintain over the past week dissolved in an instant, and every word he had planned to say vanished from his mind just as quickly, leaving behind only the bitter taste of fear in the back of his throat.

When he heard Wídfara’s breath hitch, Guthláf reached back to squeeze his leg. “It’s alright. It’s not as bad as I’m sure it looks, and it feels better every day. In a few weeks time, it’ll be fine, and everything will be back to normal again.”

Back to normal. His words were meant to be comforting, but they terrified Wídfara instead. Because he wasn’t sure that he saw a way back to normal. If Guthláf could really put all this behind him – wait for his physical wounds to heal and then just move on – what would happen if Wídfara simply couldn’t? How could they ever be together if Guthláf moved steadily forward and Wídfara languished where he was, an eternal prisoner of his own dread? He dropped the brush to his lap and covered his face with his hand. “But how?” The words came out with a pleading tone that embarrassed him, but he was helpless to control it. “Every time I close my eyes, I see your head hit that rail and my heart is in my throat all over again. I’m not sure that terror will ever leave me, and the idea of maybe living through that again each time you’re out there with the banner, where you’ll be defenseless and exposed and targeted…I can’t face it.”

Guthláf set Slaga aside and hoisted himself up to sit next to Wídfara on the bed. “I’m sorry you had to see that,” he said, pulling Wídfara’s hand from his face to look into his eyes. “I really am. And I understand how you feel. I worry about you, too, you know. That’s what happens when you love someone. Your own happiness gets tied up in their well being, and that’s always going to be risky. Because we don’t get any say in how much time we have with anyone else.”

His hand trailed absently across the scars on his chest, and after a moment’s silence, he looked back to Wídfara with a sad smile. “Trust me on this, Wíd. You can run yourself ragged trying to change the past or control the future. You can even force me out of achieving my dream if you really want to. But sometimes a candle is going to catch on a bedsheet in a neighbor’s house on a windy night, and no amount of fear or precaution will stop everything you’ve ever known and loved from going up in flames. So you’ve just got to make use of the time you’re given before anything like that happens. Enjoy what you have while you have it, and don’t let regrets or worries take it away from you any earlier than necessary.”

Wídfara heard the wisdom of those words, coming from one much better acquainted with tragedy, and he was humbled, as always, to contemplate the strength that Guthláf needed to live his life with optimism and spirit despite that tragedy. But Wídfara had never been tested that way and still doubted that a similar strength was in him. “I…I don’t know if I can.”

Guthláf squeezed his hand. “I’m asking you to try. And I know that’s no small thing, but I wouldn’t ask it of you if I thought you couldn’t do it. You’re much stronger than you give yourself credit for, and I promise that I’ll do what I can to help. And if it turns out that you never can bear it, then…I don’t know. I guess we’ll deal with that when it comes. But I need you to try first. Please. For me.” He leaned forward and pressed his lips softly to Wídfara’s, once, twice and then a third time before Wídfara caught hold of him and didn’t let go.

Whatever dark uncertainties plagued him, the one thing he knew to be true was that this was where he wanted to be. In Guthláf’s arms again, he felt his defenses and objections begin to relent, thinning like river ice in the first sun of spring and then giving way entirely under its spreading warmth. If he had to swallow his fears for his heart to get what it wanted — to get this — then he would try his hardest. He couldn’t just walk away from everything that was good in his life. If the last week had made anything clear to him, it was that the only thing worse than losing Guthláf later would be to lose him now.

“I will,” he said. “I’ll try for you. For us.”

Guthláf answered by kissing him again, and Wídfara fairly melted into the embrace, savoring every element – the pleasing roughness of his beard, the warmth of his breath, the scent of his skin. All the things he had missed so desperately since everything had first gone wrong.

He would have been content for that kiss to last forever, but he didn’t want to overtax his patient and so he lay back on the bed with Guthláf beside him. For a time they talked of other things, seeking respite from the high emotions of recent days by gingerly turning instead to the lightness of gossip Guthláf had picked up from those who sat at his sick bed or a recounting of how many pairs of Wídfara’s boot laces Slaga had chewed through while staying with him. Eventually Guthláf, still easily tired from even small exertions, began to show his fatigue, and Wídfara encouraged him to sleep. When he had drifted off, a cheek resting comfortably on Wídfara’s chest, Wídfara kissed his forehead and lay quietly, staring up at the ceiling in aimless thought.

From the hallway, he could hear the faint voices of men, friends being summoned or someone’s whereabouts sought. It reminded Wídfara of his youth in the plains, when his cousins would call to him and to each other from their places at far ends of the herd. Back when his life was basic and uncomplicated, and everything he feared was just the standard fare of childhood. The low rumble of thunder in the dark. The shadowy specter of a wolf prowling around in his dreams.

Back then, his mother would sit by him in the night, hold his hand and tell him to find one small thing to focus on very hard, something that brought him peace and calm. No matter how often his mind tried to veer back to the storm or the nightmare, he was to return it again and again to the small thing and think only of that. And he would listen carefully to his mother’s slow, even breathing, counting each inhalation, changing the pace of his own breaths until they matched hers, resting a hand on his chest so that he felt the movements in sync with the sound. And soon, inevitably, his fear would begin to recede and he would find himself able to return to rest.

He set a hand on his chest again now, just next to Guthláf, and he concentrated on their breathing. How it sounded. How it felt, both in the rise and fall of his own ribs and in the warmth of Guthláf’s exhalations on his hand. How it looked when the whiskers of Guthláf’s beard fluttered slightly as air left his nose. He counted breaths and brought his mind back to the count each and every time it slipped to darker matters. And many long minutes and many hundreds of breaths later, he eventually closed his eyes and drifted into uneasy, dreamless sleep.

Guthláf’s first months as banner bearer passed in relative quiet as he finished his healing and the éored was confined to exercises and training, there being no other need for them at the time. Even so, Guthláf was happy in a way that Wídfara had never seen before. Pride poured out of him when he returned to service, and he greeted each opportunity to practice and drill as one who had been given an unexpected but precious gift. It couldn’t cure Wídfara’s misgivings and dread, but it did help him to see the joy and fulfillment that his endurance allowed. And for his part, Guthláf did all that he could to show Wídfara his loving appreciation for the sacrifices he knew were being made on his behalf, for Wídfara to give up his peace of mind in support of Guthláf’s dreams and ideals that far surpassed any of the modest ambitions Wídfara had for himself.

They held onto a tenuous calm, and Wídfara slowly grew accustomed to the presence of his fears. They were never gone, but they receded into the background, as constant yet indistinct as the sound of the surf to those who live by the sea. But his ability to withstand the present was one thing. It remained uncertain what would happen when the first call for relief brought those fears racing back to the forefront and sent them off to battle with Guthláf in his new role.

That call eventually came from the West-mark, where the need for extra assistance was becoming increasingly common as forces of Isengard grew bolder and more aggressive toward the Rohirrim. Of the éoreds in the city, Elfhelm chose to send the king’s to keep their skills sharp after a period of inactivity, and the order went out around midday for a departure first thing in the morning. Guthláf’s eyes had gone right to Wídfara when the announcement was made, but the busy press of preparations kept them from a moment alone until long after the sun had gone down and the rest of the garrison was settled for sleep.

In those small hours of the night, Wídfara was stretched out on his side, a hand on his chest and counting his breaths, when Guthláf quietly slipped in. Without a word, he lay down alongside Wídfara and pulled him back into his arms. A tall man himself, with broad shoulders and a solid build, it wasn’t easy to make Wídfara feel small, nor was that a sensation he necessarily enjoyed. But held in Guthláf’s long, strong limbs and pressed tightly into the niche made by his body, he surrendered to the feeling and let himself be wholly enveloped.

“Are you alright?” Guthláf whispered the words, his lips so close to the soft, curving edge of Wídfara’s ear that he felt each one.

“I’m trying,” he answered. And Guthláf kissed his ear, pulled him even tighter, and held him that way all night, until the morning bells called the éored to its muster point and they left for battle.

In the next chapter, Wíd sees Guthláf carry the banner for the first time with surprising results. Click to part 6!

@emmanuellececchi @hobbitwrangler @dreambigdreamz @konartiste @sotwk

Dividers by the wonderful @quillofspirit

[ticklystuff]

Day 22: Role Reversal (Suddenly, the master is me)

a/n: ler!ronan, lee!harpe — from the augtickletober2024 list!

———

"Young master, please!"

"Huh? Who is this 'young master?'"

Harpe's tongue clicked out of sheer annoyance, watching as Ronan continued tidying the room, back turned as if unaware of the servant's disapproving stare. "Ronan," he finally gave in, drawing the other's attention at last, "you mustn't busy yourself with such menial tasks."

"Menial tasks?" Ronan put a hand to his hip, a smile to his lips that Harpe knew he wouldn't be able to win against. "Since when is serving the House of Erudon considered a menial task?"

"Th-That isn't what I meant," Harpe drew back a sharp sigh, too early in the morning for the young master to get on his nerves. "Please, just come back to bed. I'll prepare a nice breakfast for us to enjoy." He motioned with a hand, hoping to entice the other, but Ronan wouldn't budge.

"Or how about I prepare the nice breakfast?" Ronan countered, smug smirk and all. "Besides, I'm not going to pretend that I didn't see you dozing off the other day."

Damn his carelessness. "Young master, please-"

"Uh-uh," Ronan interrupted. "Now, young master-"

Harpe's eyes widened, visibly shaken.

"What would you like for breakfast?"

No, no, no! This whole thing felt inexplicably wrong!

"Or, I can just decide for you," Ronan nodded, hand on chin. "I know all the dishes you like."

All Harpe could do was sit in bed, mouth agape, unable to even protest with how his brain short-circuited at the current situation. Without even a thought, the young servant found himself leaping from the bed, grabbing at the other's arm. "Ronan, please," he beckoned, growing desperate, "I-I'll take care of everything!"

But Ronan remained unmoved, turning back to Harpe with the same smile, but different this time, different in a way that Harpe knew well and dreaded. He took a step back, shaking his head, opening his mouth to apologize, but Ronan had already gotten to work, hands at Harpe's waist.

"W-Wait, Rohonahan, wait!" Harpe cried out, giggles spilling from his mouth, despite no immediate action from Ronan, yet the all too familiar tingles already began shooting through his body.

"Harpe, Harpe," Ronan clicked his tongue playfully, fingers curling against the smaller waist, eliciting a squeal. "Haven't I already taught you that breaks are a necessary duty?"

Harpe didn't, or couldn't, respond to the question, nervous laughter filling the room as his body swayed helplessly in Ronan's hands. Despite the gentle touches, Harpe's body spasmed out of his control, an irritating weakness that Ronan loved to exploit whenever Harpe didn't yield to the young master's demands, as well as a common "teaching" technique for moments like these.

"Wahahaha! Rohahanahahan!" Harpe squealed uselessly, crying out when one hand applied stimulating pressure to his side. Why must the young master be so stubborn?!

"Harpe!" Ronan giggled, mimicking the high-pitched airy tone that took over Harpe's laughter. Meanwhile, both hands teased at the delicate sides through the thin material of Harpe's shirt, prompting the servant to withdraw his arms inward in some form of futile defense.

"Okahahay! I-I gihihihive!"

"You promise?" Ronan leaned in, his fingers digging indents through Harpe's shirt.

"ProhomiHIHIhise!" Harpe nodded his head profusely, saying anything at this point to appeal to Ronan.

And when Ronan finally released, Harpe fell backwards, the mattress catching his fall. He sat up to cross his arms, huffing in defiance, but knew that ultimately, Ronan called the shots.

"Strawberry pancakes for breakfast as an apology," Ronan breathed, leaning in to plant a kiss atop Harpe's ruffled hair. "But if I catch you working, I get to eat all your strawberries.

"Fine," Harpe closed his eyes briefly as he sighed, having lost this time. Strawberry pancakes were a nice consolation, at the very least.

And yet, when Ronan flashed him that pleased smile, he couldn't help but feel that perhaps the young master might know best.. sometimes.

[darling-heffron]

A/N: Hello and Welcome! Here is the second instalment of Momento Mori! The next chapter will come next week, so stay tuned!

This chapter introduces my oc; Mars (I hope you guys like her as much I do). Also included is one of the Band of Brothers guys, someone who deserves way more attention than he gets, I only hope I've done him justice!

Who are you readers waiting to see in future chapters?

Until next time, -Sol ☀️

Chapter two: Outbreak

Mars’ POV:

Pressing snooze had to be the most satisfying feeling, knowing the day is void of commitments with the ability to roll over and go back to sleep; that alone is worth more than all the money in the world. 

Marleen Finch smacked that snooze button with vigour; today was a rare gem. No morning classes and a day off from her under-paid part time job as a waitress.

The people she served were some of the rudest, uppity customers she had ever met, working in New York City meant she had to interact with real live New Yorkers. Mars was appalled by the audacity these city dwellers had, but had no choice to suck up to them in the hopes they would leave good tips.

Besides, Mars didn’t want to jeopardise her job, so if it meant smiling while customers berated her or running into the walk-in fridge to cry twice a shift, she did it.

She swallowed her pride daily by cleaning up after purposefully messy patrons and pretending she didn't mind. Mars picked up shifts that none of her coworkers wanted to do with no additional pay because at the end of the day; she didn't want to get fired or have someone mad at her, she’d rather just suck it up and get on with whatever menial hours she was assigned. 

Today, however, Mars was able to do what she pleased, at least until her afternoon class started. With that in mind, Marleen snuggled further into her cosy sheets and screwed her eyes shut. 

The next time her alarm went off the blonde easied out of bed, stretching her arms above her head as she made her way to the bathroom. Her apartment wasn't anything fancy; in fact, it was in a pretty shady area of The Bronx and that was saying something. 

The dull wallpaper peeled in certain places revealing a sickly yellow underneath, parts of the worn down carpet were stained by who knows what and the faucets either leaked or were coated in lime scale, in most cases; both. But it was hers and hers alone. Sure, her parents chipped in with rent and utilities so she wouldn't have to share with some skeevie stranger from the internet, but the rundown, compact apartment was her first place away from home and no matter how broken it was, Mars loved it.

Marleen showered quickly, skipping a hair wash but decided to take her time planning an outfit; she had errands to run and looking cute while still being comfy was essential for the day. Mars decided on a pair of grey shorts, a baggy sage green sweatshirt and simple white lace-up sneakers. The weather was warming up but there was still a slight chill in the air. She tried to flick on the T.V for background noise but the screen remained black. 

‘Must be another power cut.’ She thought to herself, it wasn't an uncommon occurrence but it was still just as inconvenient every time. 

Instead, she began making breakfast in silence, humming to herself to make up for the lack of ambient sounds. 

A high pitched scream broke the young woman from her current task. It wasn’t abnormal to hear distress from the street below, the area she lived in was a low income neighbourhood, filled with struggling students and wanting vagrants. 

However, this scream sounded different. Unearthly, haunting, it chilled her to her bones. 

Mars stood frozen in the kitchen, gazing at the dusty curtains that engulfed her window. Her feet took her towards said window without thinking. She got closer and closer to the curtain, arm reached out to draw the fabric back. 

~ KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK ~

Mars gasped, her outstretched hand curled back towards her body and rested on her chest as she huffed and puffed, getting her breath back after the jumpscare caused by obnoxiously loud banging on her apartment door. 

She almost wanted to laugh at herself, getting frightened because of an everyday occurrence. One measly scream and a few rough knocks shouldn’t have her so worried…. So why was she shaking? Why was she so nervous to step towards the door and answer it? 

Luckily, her place had a peephole. She utilised it, sneaking a look through to the other side of her door. 

A large figure she recognised immediately stood outside, his back facing the entryway as if he was checking behind him. Mars flicked the lock and swung open the door. 

“Denver?” Marleen called out to him tentatively, her voice paired with the opening squeak of her apartment door alerted him, “Are you okay? What are you doing here?” Her words fell of deaf ears, Denver Randleman, her upstairs neighbour was visibly shaken. 

A tough feat as Denver was a well built, muscular man with little to no fears. He and Mars had spoken quite a bit, living in the same building with similar schedules meant they bumped into each other frequently. She knew that he was a kindhearted gentleman who was often mistaken as a boorish brute.

He was sweaty and panting as he stepped past her and into her home. This only concerned her more, he had never behaved like this in the year she had known him. Mars stepped aside and allowed him to close the door behind him, he immediately locked the door and slid the chain on. 

“Marleen.” His serious tone made her eyebrows furrow, she knew him as a happy-go-lucky man who was always smiling ear to ear. 

“Denver?” She responded gingerly.  

“I need you to listen very closely.” The blonde haired man gently placed his hands on her shoulders and lowered himself so he could look directly into her eyes. 

“Denver, what’s going on? You’re freaking me out.” She knew she could trust him but this situation was a little peculiar to say the least. 

“Something is happening. I don’t know what but it’s serious and we need to leave.” It wasn’t much of an explanation but it was all she was going to get. Marleen knew this man, if he was so shaken by whatever was going on, it was probably best to listen to him and go along for the ride. 

“What, now?” Mars attempted to let the words sink in but her surprise at the situation was ever growing. He didn’t answer with words, instead rushing into her kitchen and opened the pantry. 

“We’ll need canned food, bottled water, you got anything like that?” Denver shuffled through some tinned items, checking labels. 

“Oh, I think I have some-“ The young woman began to explain, but cut herself off when she noticed the bulky man curl his arm the contents of an entire shelf and sweep it into the awaiting duffel bag she had only just noticed. 

“Help yourself, I guess.” Mars watched her neighbour scuttle around, opening every cupboard and checking inside before darting to another. She saw him reaching for food items she had bought long ago with the good intention of making home cooked meals but never got round to and tried to stop him, 

“I’m not sure if that’s in-date?” Her attempt to ease the tension was ignored and he tossed it in regardless, “I suppose we’re taking it anyway.” Her comment was quiet, more of a joke to herself as he didn’t seem to be in a listening mood right now. 

“Denver, you need to tell me what’s going on? Why do we have to leave?” That seemed to grab his attention. 

“Just trust me. We have to get out of the city. We’ll go North.” Denver was answering her question yet it seemed like he was talking to himself rather than her, he mumbled his words and continued searching her house for things to pack.

“Out of the city? Um okay? Should I pack clothes or something? How long will we be gone?” Marleen rubbed circles on her temples, she was making mental notes to call into work at some point as well as check in with her family.

If things were really that serious, she’d better get in touch with her folks, see how they were doing. And maybe her boss would understand? She supposed it depended on what kind of emergency this was, but Denver wasn't exactly explaining much to her.  

“Mars, I don’t think you understand…” His actions finally halted all together and he turned fully to take her appearance in; Mars was a short, petite blonde girl who wouldn't survive a day out there, Denver promised himself that he would keep the young lady safe. They were friends after all, which is why his next words felt like he was breaking her heart, a gut punch: 

“We won’t be coming back.” 

———————

Marleen packed practical clothes, a small journal she was yet to start writing in and her personal items: toothpaste and toothbrush, moisturisers, deodorant, hair clips, ties and brush along with a bandanna. 

Unfortunately, Mars never had a knack for camping, so there were things they needed she did not have in her apartment. However, Denver did. Swiss Army knives, ropes, maps of the area, sleeping bags and tents. He had told Mars that they would need to go up a few flights of stairs to his apartment to gather some more things. More useful things. 

Mars hated the idea of lugging her backpack around but she kept that thought to herself, Denver seemed tightly wound today and she was currently occupying herself by trying to get in touch with her family. 

Sounds easy on a typical day, but today, nothing was typical. 

She had been in Denver's apartment before, only once when she had agreed to get his mail and water his plants while he was out of town. It hadn’t changed much. Marleen hardly looked around as she became more engrossed in her phone. Her notifications had gone crazy that morning, almost two hundred…then nothing. She had tried texting, calling, hell she even messaged her sister-in-law on insta, but nothing was working. 

Scrolling through the endless messages got her more and more concerned. The first few were fairly normal, things like - “Have you seen the news this morning?” and “Did you go into work today?” 

After her family realise she's not going to reply, it switched to doom and gloom -  “We are praying for your safety.” and “We love you so much, don’t ever forget that.” 

The woman's eyes began filling with tears, whatever was going on must be pretty serious. Reading her family's texts had made the outlandish situation a reality. Yet somehow, Marleen was still unbelieving. What was even happening? 

Surely it had to be more serious than a flood or tornado but her mind couldn't think of what and Denver wasn't explaining.

No, he was darting around the room, collecting things and mumbling to himself. Not exactly a comforting sight for the distressed girl, so she went back to her phone, absorbing in the last messages she’d ever get to check.

“Marleen? I need you to do something for me, okay?” The country twang evident in his voice, gaining her attention, Mars put down her phone. 

Denver didn't stop his task, he merely directed her to a certain drawer, telling her whatever was inside was important. Marleen did as he asked, the tears dispersed and her mind focused on the new task instead of the possibility of her family's demise. 

It was a long wooden box. Curiosity got the best of her and Mars opened it, peeking inside. 

Cigars.

The all important item Denver desperately needed was a box of cigars? She deadpanned, giving her neighbour a questioning look. He only grinned at her and stepped towards her, taking the box from her hands, whispering a quick ‘thanks’. 

The distraction had been nice (and surely that’s what Denver had been trying to do) but Mars almost instantly went back to doom and gloom.

“Okay. We should head down now.” His voice broke her from her worst case scenario thoughts.

Marleen didn't want to fight it, she didn't want to put up a fuss or make a scene. She just wanted to know if her family was okay. Had whatever was happening here in New York, happened in Illinois? Were her family safe or were they also running around packing for the end of the world? The questions were endless in her head with no answers. 

Her sacred day off to relax and unwind had become so chaotic and overwhelming. She should have been sipping overpriced iced coffee and staring into shop windows, not trying to flee the city while wondering if her family was dead. 

“Marleen!” Her trance was once again broken by Denver, yelling this time like he had been trying to get her attention for awhile. She turned to face him where he stood at the door, bags in hand. 

“We have to go. Now!” His tone was urgent, pushing her to move her feet and follow him out into the hallway. Out of pure instinct, Mars walked to the shiny silver elevator doors and leaned down to press the button before freezing. Her mind was on autopilot, numb and senseless. 

“Powers out.” Denver watched his neighbour, as she stood there, dazed. He pitied her, she had no idea what was going on out there and he didn't have the heart to tell her.

The things he saw had freaked him out and he had seen some things in his years. Mars wasn't like him. She was sweet and innocent and yet to experience the bad parts of life.

At 20 years old she still saw the good in people, in everyone she came across. Her big doe eyes took in the world with naivety and only saw hope and love and everything positive. 

“I know.” She spoke in a small voice, her eyes still focused on the doors like she was waiting to hear the ding. 

Denver moved to take a step towards her, to reach out and tap her shoulder. They needed to get out of the heavily populated city and standing here was wasting time but he knew he would have to be gentle with her, she was still processing and she hadn't even seen the worst of it. 

“We need to go, Mars.”

“Yeah, I know.” 

Carrying backpacks and duffle bags down nine flights of stairs worn Marleen out. She huffed and puffed as Denver led her down the aisles of the parking garage. She didn't typically come down here, her work commute included the subway and the occasional bus. Not to mention, it creeped her out, the ceiling to floor concrete, no windows and flickering fluorescent lights did not give off a welcoming vibe.

“This one.” Denver told her, dropping the bags in his possession next to what Mars assumed was his vehicle.

A white delivery box-truck. 

He jingled the keys out of his pocket and unlocked it. Marleen took that as her cue to put her bags down next to his and watch as he loaded them into the now open trunk.  

With her neighbour occupied, Mars took a second to really look around the carpark. Not another soul in sight, completely empty except for her, Denver and about thirty beat up cars. 

A throaty noise broke her from her scan of the room and her attention was brought to a van a few spots ahead of her. The shadows of another person, now visible to her from the gap underneath. Mars took a tentative step closer, intrigued.

“Hello?” Her voice was so quiet she wasn't sure if the newcomer had heard her, so she took another step, slowly inching nearer. 

A woman stepped out and into Marleen’s view. She immediately noticed the blood running down her face like a stream of red tears, the spatter across the woman’s clothes concerned her deeply. Taking yet another stride towards the injured woman, Mars spoke out.

“Ma’am? Are you okay? Do you need help?” This time she spoke louder than she had previously. The lady in front of her hobbled in her direction, her neck bending at a ninety degree angle giving her an inhuman stance.

“Marleen?” Denver had heard her speaking and come to investigate, Mars turned to face him. He looked past the young blonde, directly at the bloodied lady. Her hands reached up and out, attempting to claw at Marleen while her back was turned. 

“Get in the truck. Now.” He didn’t want to panic Mars but he knew what this strange woman would do if she got to any living person, the tearing, biting, ripping into flesh. Denver’s body involuntarily shivered at the thought. 

“She’s hurt, she needs help.” Marleen looked at her neighbour with pity in her eyes, begging him to allow her to aid the stranger. If only she knew. 

“Marleen,” Denver started out gently, his thought cut short when the rabid woman growled. He watched as Mars tensed and slowly began to turn, curious to what was happening behind her. 

The pair watched in pure horror as the woman contorted her body, bones cracking as she twisted in every direction. 

“Inside. Now.” This time Marleen listened. Scrambling toward the vehicle, right behind Denver. 

The rabid let out a screech the second they started rushing back to the truck and raced after them. Hearing the urgent footsteps and eerie noises from the woman caused Marleen to panic and let out a yelp of her own. The pair split up at the rear of the truck, running down either side and flinging open the doors. 

Marleen slammed her door shut just in time as the sick woman kept running to her. 

It was like she didn’t know that the glass would prevent her from reaching her prey. She acted as if she was possessed, continually smashing her face and body up against the glass, smearing blood and other unidentifiable bodily fluids across the window, all the while letting out ear piercing screams, her voice creaking and crackling.  

Mars’ breath was uneven, her chest heaving, partially from the running and partially the shock of the encounter. 

What is wrong with her? 

The box truck rumbled to life, reversing out of the car park, tires screeching as Denver took off. The ill woman let out a furious roar and took off after them, to no avail as the truck is much faster than a human, if she even was human? 

Sunlight bleared into the vehicle, temporarily blinding Mars. She shaded her eyes, giving them a moment to adjust from the dark garage to the bright street. 

Once she could see again, she wished she couldn’t. 

Marleen’s mouth dropped open in shock. It was pure chaos, people ran through the streets; some human and some not. 

There was blood everywhere she looked, crashed cars strewn across the sidewalks, smashed glass littered the road. 

And the people - They were attacking each other, actually ripping fellow humans apart with their bare hands. 

Marleen couldn’t stop herself from watching and the closer she looked the more she saw. People biting into one another, tearing away at flesh and consuming what they could; as if starved. 

Each possessed person presented aggressive, filled with uncontrollable rage and hunger. Screaming, growling and strange gurgled sounds filled the city the pair of neighbours were now trying to flee. 

Denver knew the backroads of this city well, driving a delivery truck daily had its perks, so he led them through the maze of streets with ease. The closer they got to the outskirts, the quieter it got; less people, less screaming. 

“What is all this?” Marleen finally spoke after strained moments of stunned silence. Her voice was scratchy thanks to the muted crying she was unable to control. Denver sighed loudly, he couldn’t really give her a proper answer, all he knew was whatever this was; it was bad and they needed to get away as quickly as possible. 

“Not a clue, sweetheart.”

A/N: Thank you for reading, I appreciate it so much! (And i know Esra ✨ does too) Feel free to leave a comment to let me know what you thought

-Sol ☀️