#it’s like sitting in a pit of grief and looking over and knowing someone kind was once there

[yashley]

ashley wanting the power to heal people, to bring back the people that she lost :)

[mermaidgirl30]

✨Tear You Apart Prequel✨

Series Masterlist

A/N: The prequel is finally here! It came to me out of nowhere today while I was listening to “Wait” by Knuckle Puck on a loop. Now that, my friends, is the power of music. I love this little series so much, and it’s one of my favorite things I’ve ever written! I love getting into the pit of Joel’s grief and showing that underneath all the hardness is just a soft man that wants someone to understand him 🥹 He deserves all the love.

Pairing: Outbreak! Joel x fem! reader

Rating: Explicit (18+ Only MDNI)

Word Count: 2.3k

Chapter Summary: This is where it all began, the first time you ever met Joel. He’s mean, rough around the edges, but you see through him. You feel his grief as much as you feel your own.

Chapter Tags: Outbreak au, Joel captures reader, dark! Joel, tender moments, grief, angst, tension, Joel needs a big hug

Dividers by @saradika-graphics

 The sharp rope scratches at your skin as you try to free your bondaged wrists from behind your back. You rock against the wooden chair and grit your teeth together as you bite back the urge to scream. It’d be no use. You’re under his watch, under his control, under his eyes. Those dark black pits that are filled with nothing but regret that devours his eyes, feeds on his soul like a pit of ash and nightmares. A monster that devours anything he can control, anything he can get his calloused fingers on. 

   He wants control, he thinks he has it, but that’s not the case. Not exactly. Because control is a weakness. He’s just a man that’s ruined from a dark world who has nothing left but his own misery to spread to anyone he can claw his jagged nails into. He wants others to feel exactly how he feels. Grief can do that, can change a man into a blood sucking monster. And that’s exactly what he is, the worst kind of them. Vengeful, disconnected, full of regret, used. Just like you are. 

   You watch him stalk around you, circling you like a vulture as he glides his calloused fingers over your skin. You see the way he moves. Slow, concentrated, shoulders hunched as the green flannel clings to his broad chest. Dangerous, dark, unkind. That’s all he shows, all he knows. 

   “Let me go,” you demand as you scrape your skin against the rough bindings and hiss when you feel blood against your wrists. 

   He clicks his tongue and ends right in front of you as he picks up a piece of your hair. “I don’t think so,” he chuckles darkly as he continues circling slowly. “You gonna tell me what you were doin’ outside my house in the middle of the night? Tryin’ to steal somethin’ from me, hmm?” 

   “No, I wasn’t stealing anything…”

   “Liar!” His voice is blaring, echoing through the tiny basement that’s dark and filled with cold cement walls. Only a little light shines in the center of the room. Just enough to see the scowl that’s stretched across his angry face. 

   “I’m not lying, if you’d only just listen to me!” You fight back, your face burning fiery red as you try to pull free of your bindings again, but it’s no use. You’re stuck.  

   “I don’t listen to filthy little liars, sweetheart. Should’ve never come around these parts of the woods. It’ll only get you hurt,” he grins as dark eyes fill the dim room. 

   He slowly slides his fingers down your arm like a sly snake as you feel the bristles of callouses catch against your glistening skin. His skin is warm, burning into yours as you feel the fingerprints imprint into your forearm. He kneels down in between your legs as he rests one hand on your thigh, slowly opening the other as he settles between your legs. And then he looks up at you. That same unattached stare that belongs to the skin of a lone wolf. 

   “So, jus’ what am I gonna do with you, hmm?” he asks as he glides his fingers over your dark denim jeans. “Maybe paint the inside of your thighs white? Maybe sit you on my lap and have a little fun with you? Maybe…”

   You shut him up as you inhale and spit into his face as a glob of your saliva lands in one of his eyes. You see him flare his nostrils as he wipes the spit off with his flannel sleeve and starts chuckling under his breath. “Oh, I like a little fight in a girl. Kinda turns me on more.”

   Before you can react, he shoots up and grabs the back of your hair as he pulls hard and forces your eyes up. You grimace in pain as he pulls tighter. You look anywhere but at his eyes, so you just stare at his worn leather boots. 

   “Look at me,” he demands with gritted teeth as you feel his hot breath blow against the side of your neck. You turn your face and shake your head as you refuse to follow his strict orders. 

   He pulls tighter against your hair as you cringe and feel a cold teardrop lick at the corner of your eye. You can’t give in, can’t give in to him. You hear him growl loudly as he pulls and snarls a harsh order at you, “LOOK AT ME.”

   You feel the tear run down your cheek as you carefully move your eyes to look at him, your eyebrows knit together in frustration as you stare coldly at the man that holds you captive. His nostrils flare, dark eyes burning into yours as you take a real good look at him for the very first time. 

   He’s so run down looking, tired, just like the broken watch that sits clasped around his left wrist. The hard lines paint maps across his wrinkled forehead, an old scar sits burning across the top of his right eye, his salt-and-pepper scruff is rugged looking as some of his thick, tousled strands of hair fall down into his dark eyes. His green flannel is worn, just like his dust covered boots weighing him down to the ground. And his eyes. There’s sadness, remorse, regret lying in those chocolate eyes. Eyes that beg for someone to take him out of his misery. Eyes that plead for goodness but are weighed down by the hardness of the sick world. Eyes that beg someone to feel everything he does. Eyes that scream for help. 

   He keeps a tight hold of you, fingers still locked around your hair as he pins you in place, the weight of his body sinking against yours as you feel the roughness of his beard slide against the side of your cheek. Before you know what you’re doing, you speak. “It’s all about control with you, isn’t it? You want someone to control because you can’t control what’s going on around you in this apocalyptic world. You want someone to blame, someone to use to take your own misery out on. Is that right?” 

   His dark pupils expand as he snarls against your face, his fingers gripping harder as your head snaps up and pain radiates through your skull. “You don’t know what the hell you’re talkin’ ‘bout, sweetheart. Better watch your mouth,” he growls as pain shoots down your neck.

   You see the glisten of the broken glass on his watch, wonder why he wears a broken watch in the first place. It hits you like a hurricane crashing against a weak structure, spiraling your insides as if you feel his pain radiate down your body. He lost something dear to him, went through waves of pain you can only imagine. Just like you lost everything in your life. 

   He grabs another handful of hair until you shout into his weathered face. “I know what it’s like to lose something! You’ve lost someone, haven’t you?”

   His snarl lessens as his narrowed eyes relax, his grip on you growing lighter as he breathes in steady breathes. “Wouldn’t you like to know,” he bites back as you see pain as clear as day in his distant eyes. The dark flecks floating around like pieces of the past as loss is etched in shades of dark brown throughout his irises.

   “That’s why you do this, isn’t it? You need the control, need to feel something other than the loss you carry. Need someone to fasten yourself to as you let the pain slip from your fingers so you can pour it out to strangers so they can feel that bit of pain you carry every single day.”

   His eyes widen, his breath hitching as the weight of your words crashes over him. A realization taking form as his jaw ticks and his thick fingers run down to the edge of your hair. There’s no more pulling, just the mere brush of his fingertips against your thick hair. 

   “You want to do something to me? Fine, do your worst. But at the end of the day, it’s you that chooses to be a monster. You are the one in control.”

   His eyes grow large as his breathing goes shallow. He drops the grip on your hair and stands abruptly as he paces the floor while raking a large hand through his scruff. He looks conflicted, torn up, ruined as he paces and paces the cement floor. 

   His body stills as he turns and looks at you, his eyes full of regret and sadness as the glint of tears wash over his deep brown eyes. He flexes his hand into a tight fist and clenches his jaw as he huffs out frustrated and grabs a sharp knife from the corner of the room. You freeze up until you realize he’s cutting your bindings free as the tattered rope falls to the floor. 

   “Go on. Get out of here. Leave,” he growls as he nods his head toward the rusty stairs and gives your shoulder a slight push.

   “But I…”

   “LEAVE!”

   You stumble over to the staircase and start to move, but after the first rusty creak of the stair you can’t help but to look back at the man that burns with pain. You see him pacing back and forth slowly, his face is so tormented. You almost feel bad for him. Almost. 

   You cautiously step back off the stairs and slowly walk over to him as you shakily reach out a hand. You see his tense shoulders, his lowered head as he holds his hands over his face. That’s when you feel it. The sheer grief that plagues him night after night. You feel it burning deep in your soul as you stare at his weathered features. He’s so lost, scared. 

   You ever so slowly lift a hand and place it softly over the back of his shoulder, holding your breath as you’re sure he’ll knock you down to the floor. He turns sharply your way, and that’s when you see the glisten of tears in his eyes, a shade of dark blue that covers his entire being. Wrecked. He’s so wrecked. 

   “I see you. You’re not as alone as you think you are,” you whisper as you let your hand linger timidly on his broad shoulder for just a few more seconds. He stares at it, conflicted features running over his worn face and then slowly turns toward you, eyes the color of chestnut brown. He flinches when you finally drop your hand to your side and step back out of his reach. 

   His lip quivers, jaw clenching as tight as a fist as he stares at you with big chocolate eyes that glisten with held back tears. You know this pain, the unbearable agony of losing someone so close as they slip through your fingers and never return to the light of day. You know he’s hurting. You know.

   You think of running your fingers over his patchy scruff but quickly talk yourself out of it, afraid he might snap at you again. One more look at dark eyes and you’re backing up, turning back to the staircase as you start to tread up heavy steps. 

   You hear him take a step toward you, hear his leather boots scuff against the hard ground as you look down and see the man with burning eyes. He looks like he wants to say something, looks like he might ask you to stay, but he stays silent. So you go, flee up the stairs, back to a semblance of peace.

   Before you turn the old brass doorknob, you look back and find him looking in awe at you, his breathing ragged and his mouth parted open with bloodshot eyes. Eyes that beg you to stay. 

   “You know, you’re not really the monster you think you are.” His jaw goes slack, his arms heavy at his sides as he stares wide-eyed at you. He doesn’t move, doesn’t even flinch, he just stares. Weepy eyes that cry out for just one soul to listen. You hear him though. You hear him.

   You grip your raw, torn up wrists and feel the pain simmer down to your bones. This is the pain he must feel, too. The pain you might just understand. Maybe that’s why you almost stay, almost turn and reach for him again like you could take his pain away. But you don’t. At least not this time.

   Before you overstay your welcome, you turn the cold doorknob and push past the opening as you flee the house that holds pain and regret. You slip your way outside and disappear into the thick trees, leaving just enough traces of footsteps for him to find you again. 

   This wasn’t the end. No. This was the very beginning, a beautiful cycle that’d keep spinning, a whirlwind of you and Joel. The moment everything changed. He claimed you from the beginning, the very minute he let you out of those ropes. It wasn’t over. 

   He’d find you again, hunt you down till he got his hands on you again. A little lamb that would feed the hungry wolf. A lone wolf that needed to feel again. And you were it. The undoing to his starving form. For he was just a man who longed to rid himself of all the suffering and pain he experienced day after day. You were exactly what he needed. It was you. So he’d follow you through the trees, track you down till he could taste nothing but you. You were the little lamb he desired, craved. And god, did he need you. He needed you…

Tagging some of you that read part 1 🩷 @janaispunk @amyispxnk @mountainsandmayhem @littlevenicebitch69 @lotusbxtch @keylimebeag @untamedheart81 @bbyanarchist @bishtrouille @vividispunk @vivian-pascal @survivingandenduring @wannab-urs @pedrostories @docharleythegeekqueen @rav3n-pascal22 @my-favorite-reading @silk-spun @fanfictilltheend @tuquoquebrute @beardedjoel @msjarvis @syd-djarin

If you liked this, consider reblogging or sending me an ask 💕

[monstersinthecosmos]

Day 9 - Slow Burn

{depeche mode - halo}

“What is it, exactly, that you want?” Marius asks.

Daniel watches his face carefully, afraid to speak too soon, or move too fast. Like being caught in a lie, like Marius can see all the way through him. 

Arousal doesn’t feel the same as it had when he was alive, but danger does. Sometimes, the stillness in Marius’s face reminds him of how Armand’s simple presence could put a chill in the room.   

It used to give him a hardon back then, sick from the blurry line between sex and terror. His adrenaline stopped being able to tell the difference after a while. 

Now, though. The way the hair raises on his arms is pleasant. Erotic. Blood rushes to his skin in a warm tingle, all over his entire body, not just focused on his cock anymore. 

He shifts in the corner of the couch, afraid to look away. Marius is sitting in the wingback chair near the fireplace, his legs crossed, unmoving as he waits for an answer. 

Armand had always looked kind of strange, hadn’t he? Out of place, when he light caught him just right. Too pale. But it was easy to mistake him for human, wasn’t it? If you didn’t look too hard. If you let him hint otherwise.

Marius, though.

Like a cold spot in the room. His presence feels so large, like it can send ripples into the air around him, like it can squeeze around Daniel’s body. It’s always there, in some ways, even when he’s being kind. Warmth and gentleness never really hide it.

What does Daniel want, though? He shrinks beneath the challenge, unsure the answer. 

Want you, is sort of the answer. But Marius is so still, unblinking, he isn’t sure he’s brave enough to say it.

He’s been afraid of Marius since they night they met, really. 

The memory of those first nights is so hard to navigate, though. Not unlike nights he’d been blackout drunk. It was like someone else was driving. 

And then those months at Night Island. It had been fine. Marius had been polite, when he’d shown his face. But he’d hidden in his room so much, and his grief had been like a pit. Him and Lestat both, sticking to each other, because no one else would really get it. 

The baggage with Armand had been too messy, too. Both of their baggages with Armand, truthfully. 

“I used to ask him about you,” Daniel says. And that’s not the answer, but he says it anyway. Marius’s eyebrows come together for a moment, before his face smooths back out. “He wouldn’t tell me. He never told me anything.”

Marius opens his mouth, as if to speak, but clicks it shut. 

And it had been too awkward, hadn’t it? Back at Night Island with everyone else. He’d left it mortal and hungry and sick and come back something else, and it had never been the same there. Not a quiet little place to dry out in private, but… 

He’s not sure how long he stuck around, either. The manic first few weeks splintered into a blur of time and space. Fifteen years went by where he couldn’t have told you the date. 

But Marius there, in the beginning, siphoning all the warmth out of the room, and them in at the end, with a bleeding wrist, bringing Daniel back down to earth.

And here now, watching him, sending chills into Daniel’s spine. 

“I don’t know, Marius,” Daniel finally says. “I just think, sometimes, I regret how it was for me. Like I wish I never did that interview. I wish Armand hadn’t been the one to find me.”

“I made mistakes with him,” Marius says softly.

What had Armand said in his book? Daniel had read it, four hundred fucking times. 

I was no Marius to him afterwards.

Daniel had finally read about Marius out of Lestat’s book. He’d stolen a copy, the day he saw it in a bookstore window, because he’s panicked and couldn’t breathe and didn’t want to talk to the clerk. And he’d read it in one sitting, his eyes sore and stomach in knots in his hotel room, suddenly transported back to those early days, hiding out, terrified that Armand would find him. He remembers that night as if it was any motel from the years being hunted, like he can swap the memories in and out. 

And he’d gotten butterflies when he’d finally seen Marius, at Maharet’s place, even on his freshly-turned high, as if he was star-struck. 

“I should’ve talked to you, on Night Island,” Daniel says. “I think maybe things would have been different for me if I’d had you in those early years.”

“Why didn’t you?”

Daniel picks at lint on his pant leg. Draws his knees to his chest. “I was scared of you, I don’t know. And scared of Armand. There was too much baggage. I don’t know. I just didn’t want to get into it.”

Marius uncrosses his legs. He rests his elbows on his knees as he leans forward, and the firelight catches in his eyes. “Daniel. What is it, exactly, that you want?” 

Want a maker.

Want a partner. Want your blood, want your teeth. Want a teacher. Want your help. Your discipline, your charity. Want a brother and a lover. 

Want a father.

He’s too shy to admit that he doesn’t know how long they’ve been together. Like coming out of a blackout. But he knows that for years he’s drank Marius’s blood, at the end of the night, as if Marius is tucking him into bed like a child. It’s strong in him now, he feels the way it lingers. He feels it, whenever Marius gives him the creeps. The blood shimmers inside, as if it knows, like it remembers him. 

Armand’s blood used to make him crazy when he was alive. Ruined his life, really. But he liked being bitten, too, liked being touched. Liked the pain. Craved it. 

I’ve drank so much of your blood, Daniel thinks, and his eyes even follow the veins swelling at the side of Marius’s throat. But I want you to drink mine, too. 

[shmowder]

sorry for spamming u with asks but seriously i’ve been binge reading ur recent stuff and i’m sitting here feeling so fuzzy and warm at the cute stuff and it’s distracting me from everything going on atm so thank u so so very much for that! I love how u characterize artemy and daniil, especially how u take their history and experience into account. it’s like i’m listening to someone describe a person they’ve known their whole life, really. and I am a sucker for angst/fluff combos so u got me there haha

speaking of angst: how would the healers react to the reader catching sand pest? esp if it’s their significant other?

lots of love, -🥀

Please don't apologise, your asks have been a delight <3

I'm happy you noticed how I approach their characterization! I take their past into full consideration since the game takes event on the worst two weeks of their life, the side we see of them is a new side they're discovering with us for the first time. the closest the game shows us to their real selves is how they act on Day 1 before the plague hits.

Especially Stakh who is overcome with grief, we could never see what kind of life he led before with Isidor, what kind of person he used to be, what his laughter must have sounded like.

-

The healers find out you've contracted the sand plague

Platonic or romantic for Artemy & Daniil, Clara's part is platonic. Angst.

-

Daniil

His first action is to gather every speck of strength in his body and keep up face, do not fail him now courage.

Do Not Panic. All his focus is immediately put to use to appear as noneffected as possible. He can't show it, not in front of you.

He must seem to be in control in this dire situation. Otherwise, seeing him lose his cool will make you panic, too.

As he sat you down to examine you, wearing his protective gear this time around, akin to a wall separating you two, Denial tugging at the back of his mind.

The pit in his stomach grew bigger, terror gnawing at his guts, hollowing his lungs and closing his throat around itself. The facts were as clear as day, your symptoms matched perfectly, you are infected.

Any progress on the vaccine is immediately halted, all the extra effort he went through to bring you the best of the best when it came to preventive measures, all the precautions he took were for naught and the worst possible scenario actually occured.

His hands are shaking, he busy them with holding something so you won't notice, his lips are trembling, so he looks away when talking to you.

He feels like he failed you–No he knows that he did, he is sure of it as a fact. How can he meet your eyes? He is too ashamed of his shortcomings even when he went above and beyond, he couldn't keep this one promise.

it's fixable, everything is. He will defeat this monster. He will find you a cure no matter the cost. Daniil has to stop himself from thinking about what could happen if he doesn't win, otherwise he'll suffocate.

A panacea, a shmowder, anything god please he will beg on his knees. Take his life, trade his life for yours.

But death is nothing but cruel.

He administers antibiotics to you twice a day, personally attends to you, and disinfects your living space as best as he can. You're under complete quarantine in one of the stillwaters rooms; the hospital is too crowded and risky for your state.

Daniil does his best to embody and play the role of the capable assured doctor. He doesn't hide the truth of your severe state from you, but neither does he show you a hint of panic or fear, he buries his emotions deep down and puts on a brave face in front of you.

When he talks about bringing you the cure, he states it as a matter of fact. It's a matter of when, not if. He will make sure you have it even if it's the last thing he'll do in his sorry life.

-

Artemy

The man is completely distraught, his natural grimce somehow deepens even more, the hardned look in his eyes falters as he scans you over, taking in every detail, desperately hoping you're wrong and this isn't what you claim it to be.

Then... anger.

You tell him not to come closer; he could get infected, it's too dangerous, but he pulls you towards him faster than you can react.

fists clenching against your clothes, head hanged low and buried into your shoulder. The gaint man completely unravels in front of you, akin to a sandcastle crumbling down by the merciless tides.

A storm of emotions brewing inside him, unspeakable rage, unbearable sadness and the pins and needles of exhaustion stabbing deeper into his bruised beaten heart.

Artemy holds you close, as if he can hide you from the world in his embrace. He presses you tightly against his chest as if he can slip you through his rib cage and directly into his heart, where you may remain safe and protected for eternity.

His grip is borderline bruising, he's forgetting himself, almost suffocating as it pushes the air out of your lungs. He's murmuring something, voice deep and rough, a prayer or an apology, maybe both. The steppe words come much more fluently, a thicker accent and faster than you can catch up with.

How drastic it is in contrast to the way he softly spoke to you before, slowly pronuncing each word in an attempt to teach you a phrase or two.

The coughing fit that followed from your end is what woke him up to the bitter reality.

Anger never quite fizzling out but kept under control, the despair in his pale eyes however only grew tenfolds.

Tracing his fingers against your face, you feel like a corpse under his scorching touch. You wonder if he looked at those bodies on the autopsy table the same, if he stroked their cheeks the same as he's currently lovely caressing yours.

The man was already broken. He barely had time to process the loss of his father, and then death comes and attempts to whisk you away from under his gaze?

As much as he wants nothing but to sit down with you and make the most of what could possibly be your only remaining days, he forces himself to pull away and stand up.

He knows how to make the panacea, he has already made one in fact but it... if only had he waited before testing it on himself.

He'll make another, he will find more blood, he will.

In the meantime, tinctures will have to substitute. They work even better than the pharmaceutical antibiotics he promises. Yes, the taste is bitter, but please drink it all up.

It's a miracle how Artemy doesn't contact the plague from how little regard he pays to keeping a distance from you, he still takes off his protective outside gear before touching you like he always did in the past as if nothing has changed.

He still sleeps in the same bed as you, hold you close to him at night... more closely than before. Soothe your back through your caughing fits and bring you water.

Increase your own food portions by giving from his own. He can handle the hunger, it's okay. You need to eat more, you need to stay warm and stay in bed... please just do this one thing for him.

The first thing he does after coming back from that dreaded night in the abattoir, body pulsing with pain, bruises aching all over his body, clothes drenched in blood both his own and from various others–is to quietly set your panacea to brew before waking you up.

Much like a wounded bull still standing at the end of the match, not a single hint of pain in those sunken eyes as blood trickles down his temple.

He doesn't wash, he refuses to leave you out of his sight for even a second as if death will steal you away just when he is so close to the final step.

You two share a meal, he barely touches his food, glancing between you and the brewery machine nearby. Watching the timer going down, refusing to surrender to exhaustion as every joint in his body aches and screams.

Artemy intertwines his fingers with yours, holding your hand and staying by your side. Just a little while longer, endure and survive a little while longer for him.

-

Clara

She can heal you, don't worry, don't cry, please just have faith in her. Look she really can do miracles! please look, look at her hands see? She can do it, she can.

Please... She can...

Her hand grip yours, her eyes are closed.

She knows she can do it, she already healed countless of people. It shouldn't be too hard for her so... why.

Tightly shutting her eyes even more as if it will stop the tears trickling down her cheeks.

She can do it! You don't understand, don't give her that look. She's not a liar, you should believe in her.

Why isn't it working? Why now of all times? Why when you were supposed to have faith in her abilities?

She trusted you of all people, how could you betray her like this.

Clara's fingers dig into your skin as she reattempts to apply her magic over and over again.

Her hiccups grow louder, weeping down as she grips with all of her force.

Nothing happens.

It doesn't take any effort to gently slide her hands away, to take her into your embrace and whisper thats it's okay.

You believe in her. You really do. It's okay. You're still proud of her despite it all, proud of everything she is. Gently reassuring this kid cringing to you that everything will be okay, that you won't ever ask the impossible of her.

That you'll lover her regardless, miracles or not, Clara will always be in your heart, a part of one family.

You hold her with the same tenderness one would with their little sister, you wipe her tears away and smile through the pain because you must be strong for her.

She is torn between running away or clinging to you more.

You weren't part of her sacrifices, you were never an option she even considered. Clara fears that she might just forsake both the town and polyhedron just to save you, her only resemblance of a family.

She fears that she was the one who brought you the sand pest the day you took her in and showed her kindness, that she poisoned your blood and infected your body with this deadly disease by associating with her.

Kids hold narrow views on the world. It's hard for them to comprehend that things could occur with no relation to them. They feel responsible for every misdeed, for every argument and fight between their parents, for every loved one's unhappiness must have stemed from them not being good enough.

Clara is terrfied by that notion; in her eyes, she might have as well killed you by her own small hands.

Her speech is incomprehensible, her eyes are swollen and red. She begs for forgiveness, apologising for anything and everything, the pile in her stomach threatening to rise as acid tethers up her throat.

You attempt to console her, to soothe the lost soul who found a home under your wings. To see her as neither the saint nor the sinner, but a frightened little girl carrying the weight of the world on her brittle shoulders.

She refuses to meet your eyes out of shame in the next days, she almost runs away from home on several occasions but decides against it last moment because who else will help take care of you through your sickness? Who else will bring the cold wet towels to soothe your forehead during your sleep? who else will wait for the kettle to boil to warm up the milk before pouring you a cup?

Clara repays your kindness tenfolds, even sharing her stashed away pieces of candy with you–no she gives them all to you in fact.

She steps over her own dignity and goes to seek out the other two healers in town to ask for help... and maybe "borrow" a couple things they'll surely not miss.

Tinctures from the Haruspex that Sticky smuggles out to her after a heated argument, Protective gear from the Bachelor room that Eva let's her slip into while turning a blind eye.

That sad frown is taking shape on her face, as your sickness worsen, you find that the physical pain pales in comparison to how much you miss seeing her smile. That confident sly smile she wore, endearing even in its most sinister forms as she schemed and plotted.

How scarce that smile has become.

Without her powers to rely on, Clara is forced to act mortal. To bother Stakh and insist that he must check on your health daily, to try her best to comprehend the medical terms and follow the guidelines he left for her.

One thing, however, is that she never stops trying her magic.

Day and night, tiptoeing to your bed, carefully avoiding the creeking floorboards in order not to disturb your rest. She lifts her hand up, presses her palm against your scorching temple as she channels all of her power and energy into this one act, wishing, pleading with the fates to smile her way today.

Clara never gives up, even as her arms grow cramped after holding them up for so long. She keeps at it for hours at a time, whatever moment of her day she could spare is spent by your side as she reattempts the spell over and over.

You realise what a strong kid she is, to get up no matter how many times life trips her down, to walk when she can't run, to crawl when she can't walk, to claw at the dirt and move forward no matter what.

She stays determined, asking you to believe in her. Promising she will cure you, she will deliver, she will save everyone, including you.

Especially you.

Talking about all the places the two of you would visit after you get better, because you will get better, don't you dare say otherwise.

Please you can't doubt her, her magic won't work if you do, please just have faith in her.

You don't have the heart to tell her that you never did, not a single moment of your life have you ever doubted words, her truth is your truth.

Until one day.

It finally works.

You feel her blood seeping into your veins, the antibodies multiping throughout the stream, destroying the ever changing plague and adapting to whatever structure it takes.

-

[002yb]

AU where Dick dies for the greater good but then comes back to life as a deity, and Jason is immortal because of the lazarus pit

Jason sitting in a chair and while Dick makes coffee, he asks:

"Do you think you'll want to be with me after a long time? even when everyone we know has gray hair?"

Dick turns, goes to Jason, kneels down and takes his hands.

"I will love you, even when all the mortals have forgoten about us, and we are nothing but stardust, and if we are ever able to reincarnate, in the next life, and the life after that, no matter what, I will still love you"

Ngl anon, you almost lost me with the start of this with killing off Dick but brought me back with deity!Dick LOL. The emotional whiplash, phew. ε-(´・｀) ﾌ

But yes, just taking it from the top.  Where immediately after Jason loses Dick, he ends up losing himself, too.  Since there’s such a strong magical element to this prompt, let’s roll with Jason succumbing to a sort of pit madness, or just heightened emotions because of the pit’s magic lingering in him.  And all Jason’s grief just brings him to ruin.

Kind of torn on Jason wasting away or violently lashing out at the world (everything evil in it that dared to take someone like Dick from them), but regardless Jason just wouldn’t be himself for a time.

And maybe when Jason’s ready to step off some metaphorical ledge (with going down a dark path of carnage, or hurting himself), deity!Dick holds him back.  Just wraps himself around Jason, an arm around his waist, a hand over Jason’s eyes as Jason breaks and cries and screams because Dick died and Jason can’t follow - the Lazarus magic in his veins won’t let him.

Maybe Jason would be convinced that it’s the magic in him playing with his head, making him hallucinate.  It wouldn’t be the first time.  But then Dick would still be there when Jason comes back down.  When he wakes up the next day.  And it would break his heart again and again because this can’t be real.

And Dick would have to struggle to convince Jason that he’s actually there.  Still himself, but not.  Still Jason’s, but also - a little more, a little less.

This is kind of sounding more like a haunting story the more I write LOL.  Deities can be spooky?

Anyway, jumping to the actual content part of your ask here, anon.  Sorry for all the digressing LOL.  But YES.  What the heck ‘even when we’re nothing but stardust [I’ll still love you]’ ffffffffffffffffff.  So sweet.  So romantic.  This is perfection what could i even add to that??

Jason being insecure about the longevity of Dick’s feelings though is ;n;  A valid concern when you’re looking at eternity with someone, but still.  Jason would be confident in his own feelings, of course.  His crush/love has persisted two lifetimes, after all.  Which Dick would find endearing as all get out.  Then he’d be all sorts of pleased because guess what?  Dick can say the same (given he’s on lifetime 2/2). //U\\\

((Side note:  once they’re past their honeymoon phase, Jason would just be like... ‘wth are you even a deity of?  you’re always hanging around don’t you have a job to do?’ and Dick is just l: LOL))

Is this the red/blue anon from before?  Whether you are or aren’t, hello hello~  Thank you so much for sharing such a cute idea with me!!  It gave me a lot of aww feels. ;U;

[nataywrites]

Before you read this, know that this rambling is a serious one. You may feel uncomfortable. If you don't have the spoons to read it all, don't fear. I would never hold that against you, my dear friend. Sometimes we have the energy to carry our friends, and other times we can barely carry ourselves. One is not a bad friend for not being able to shoulder a burden one can't bear. Never forget that.

Hello there! I hope your day is well, and that you maybe got a little rain wherever you are. Right now I'm wishing for rain. It's so dry despite the humidity and the river is looking anemic in the water department. I'm worried about the fish and other water creatures. When I think of past rainfalls, I remember the ones that happened while I was in high school. The river was so swollen that it climbed over its banks and into our basements. I could walk on a sidewalk, one hundred feet from the river bank, and still be knee-deep in water, with fish nibbling at my sandalled feet.

Not only do I wish for physical rain, but I am also wishing for the emotional kind too. I'm the kind of person that doesn't know she's feeling something until it's too late. The anxiety, stress, and grief sit inside me until an entirely unrelated issue draws them out as irritability, anger, and words I wish I could take back. Everything seems to be accelerating faster than I can react to it. Sort of like the time I got two of my wisdom teeth removed, and the doctor plunged the needle full of anesthetic into the soft flesh of my mouth faster than I could react. All I could do was grip the armrests of my seat with white-knuckled fear.

I found out two months ago that I have a cancer predisposition, then two weeks ago I had a rectal exam, and the polyps...my God they were everywhere. I thank my lucky stars that I don't have any tumors in there. Now I found out I need a biopsy of a nodule on my thyroid. Before I even have my colonoscopy to detect one kind of cancer, I need to have another procedure, no matter how small, to see if I have another kind. Next week I will be going in for an endoscopy and colonoscopy. Another IV in my arm, but at least this time I will have the mercy of sedation. I won't be aware of the doctor and their nurses putting their long-necked eyeballs into the most intimate reaches of my person.

I know what some of you may be thinking. "At least you know," "You don't know yet if you have cancer." And yes, I know. Yes, I don't know if I have cancer. Yet. Isn't that a terrifying word? Yet. It doesn't matter what I know in my mind. There is a significant difference between knowing something and feeling something.

Right now, the smallest, most vulnerable part of me is terrified. She is crouched in the fetal position somewhere in the pit of my bowls, nestled next to the polyp-riddled large intestine that will end me one day if I don't do anything about it. I'm afraid, and I can't feel it except when I am close to an emotional extreme. Some days I don't know where my head is, or if I want to cry, or rage, or laugh in incredulity. I am lost. I need someone to hold my hand and not tell me to look at the bright side. The power of positive thinking is powerful until it isn't and then all I see is the giant hole that it tries to conceal. I can't fill that hole with anything. It simply must exist. Like the empty space that is left by a passed loved one, there is an empty place where the me I used to be was. The one that had only depression and anxiety as her biggest health woes. The one who never had to worry about severe illness and despair. I need to mourn her before I can move on.

This did get deep, but I needed to put this out there for you, my dearest, most treasured reader, to read. I need you to see me for how I feel and who I am. You don't need to assure me that all will be well, because whatever will be, will be. Just hold my hand and pray for rain. Pray for rain with me, to a God, Goddess, Goddex, personification of humanity, or Spaghetti monster that you may or may not believe in. It doesn't matter. Prayer may be directed at the divine, but secretly, we all know that it is truly directed at our deepest, innermost selves. I love you, friend.

[maschotch]

I also don't feel like Fisher King let her recognize that Hotch is just some guy. There is a shift in how she views him but its not quite there yet. She doesn't see him as the hero anymore "you got me shot" she's blaming him. There is a crisis but the paradigm hasn't shifted yet but it's starting to. She could have blamed Gideon but he had already messed up before the pilot, he's human. So its easier to see he is a person capable of mistakes. Elle saw Hotch's humanity but not his mistakes.

i looooove that she blames hotch akjsdhglsjd bc i dont think it even matters what hotch could’ve done?? elle just.. has all this unprocessed anger that needs a target. the fisher king was dead  by the time she woke up. that part of her grief, that kind of closure, is over and done with before she’s even really aware of what happened.

she’s stuck in a limbo in the months she’s away—disconnected from the team that’s supposed to be her family—and didn’t have the opportunity to heal before coming back. so she’s just.. sitting with it. and all this negativity festers in the pit of her stomach. it’s regret, it’s sorrow, it’s hate, it’s everything she hasn’t dealt with since the attack. elle’s not really one for self pity and if she can’t do anything healthy with it, all those negative emotions come out as anger. resentment. she externalizes it, and hotch just happens to be the one she chooses.

i think it’s interesting that it’s hotch and not gideon that she’s mad at. i think part of that has to do with her actual relationship with gideon: he may be a little odd, but in the end he always pulls through. he hasn’t failed her yet (which i think is why it’s so important she only meets him after the bombing pre-season one). hotch is capable, but he doesn’t have that almost mystical quality gideon seems to have as he makes intuitive leaps and connections that none of them can hope to achieve. gideon is the infallible one in her mind (spencer and derek, meanwhile, were there for the bombing—they know that, when it comes down to it, hotch is the reliable one). part of it also is the way that gideon neatly avoids responsibility for his mistakes. again, a lot of this has to do with his own unaddressed trauma, but it’s a stark contrast to the way hotch blames himself for everything—including elle’s attack. 

elle knows it’s not really hotch’s fault. she knows that he was just trying to look out for her by telling her to get some rest. but… if it wasn’t his fault, whose was it? the fisher king, but he’s dead and gone—not a suitable outlet. she needs someone real, she needs someone flesh and blood right in front of her to funnel her anger. hotch, intentionally or not, volunteers. and they go too long without addressing it that, before they realize it, this wedge has become an irreparable chasm between the two of them.

[alyssadeliv]

The Forgotten One

First       Previous

Chapter 4

Everything hurt. Her body felt as if it was on fire, her limbs were heavy and her head was pounding, she tried to open her eyes and understand her surroundings, but they refused to cooperate so she sought to use her other senses to identify where she was, even in a lot of pain she couldn’t forget her training, so she remained calm until she knew what she’s dealing with. It only takes her a couple of seconds to remember what happened. The attack on the League, the Temple crumbling to the ground and her being trapped under it. After that it was a void, so she must have passed out at some point.

She could tell she wasn't still trapped under the rubber because she could feel the softness of a mattress under her and not the hard temple training grounds, it was either nighttime or she was in a room without windows. She couldn’t hear a thing that indicated that there was another person with her, but she can identify cars in a far distance, so she must be close to a city. She feels cared for, so rules out being captured for now. 

She isn’t sure how long she laid there, but streams of lighting start to appear somewhere above her from what she can see with her closed lids. The sun is up when she finally can open her eyes.

She is in a bare room, that must be used as storage from all of the boxes around. She’s in an attic in an elevated part that contains just the bed, an iron stair makes way into the second part of the room, she can see from her position that the only way out is through the trap door on the floor, although she can assume that the lighting coming from above her must lead to a balcony. She feels better now, her pain is gone and her limbs ultimately start to obey her again. She had just sat up when the trap door started to open.

She prepares herself for what is to come, she does not have any weapons and she’s not sure she can beat another assassin in a fight in her current state, even with the pain now gone. To her surprise is her godmother that enters the room she’s resting in. She carries a plate with food and a glass of water. She has a warm smile that Marianne has only seen a couple of times, normally reserved for birthdays and celebrations, but still reassures her that she’s safe and cared for. 

“It's good to see you’re finally awake. Gave us quite a scare”

“Where am I?”

“Safe” With her tone she can tell that the conversation is over, so she simply accepts the plate that is offered and starts to eat what's been given, a tasty sandwich with a red tart at the side. If it was any other person that came into the room she wouldn’t have been so quick to accept the food, but she knew that her godmother would never hurt her, she was one of the only people she trusted with her life, like a second mother to her.  

“How do you feel?” Sabine asks only after the food is gone. 

“Surprisingly fine. The pain is gone and I feel normal again. How is this possible? Where are we? How long was I out? What happened with the League? What happened to Damian? Is he here? Is he safe?” The questions jump out of her mouth before she can control them. Rambling has always been a trait of hers, one that she thought to be long under control. But given the situation, she can’t blame herself to look after answers. 

But Sabine calmly answers every one of her questions. She doesn’t get into details about the attack but she understands that one of her grandfather’s star pupils betrayed them and orchestrated the attack to take the Demon Head power to himself and rule over the Order of Assassins. Sabine and Master Fu were together at the Temple when it all started and went to look for her, only to realize that she must have thought the same and went to look for them. They saw her being crushed by the falling debris, and they were the ones that dug her out. 

She died. 

That piece of information stays in a loop in her mind. She died. Master Fu brought her back. Being brought back to life wasn’t impossible, she knew that her grandfather had been doing that for centuries, but he needed the Lazarus Pits for that, and she knew the symptoms of someone that used them, she had seen them first hand from her grandfather or when she was in charge of training a recruit that her mother had taken pity on. She was only ten, and the boy 13 at the time. One of her most proud accomplishments. Her grandfather was so proud of her for training the next generation, even if the boy was technically older than her. She knew the symptoms and she definitely wasn’t brought back using these methods.

“Master Fu will arrive here shortly, he can explain it better”

“Where is here? Where are we? Where's Damian?” She’s desperate, she needs to know where her baby brother is. That he is safe. “Please tell me he’s here!”

Sabine has a heartbroken expression on her face, and that's all the confirmation she needs. The tears roll down her face before she can stop them. All her efforts had been in vain, Damian wasn’t here. 

“We are in Paris. He’s not here, but he’s safe” Her godmother tries to reassure her, she dries the tears in her face and strokes her hair trying to comfort the distraught girl. “He’s in a safe place as well, your mother made sure of that. But for now, you can’t go after him, Master Fu will explain why, you just have to trust me when I say I only want what’s best for you”

She then proceeds to tell her best-kept secret so far. She’s married, and they are at her husband’s house, above his bakery. She tells her of how in one of her missions she met the love of her life. But because of her, she knew she couldn’t leave the League just yet, she needed to be there for little Marianne and her bright smiles, to make sure the League didn’t kill the kindness in her. She always visited Paris after a mission. It became some kind of ritual, and no one ever questioned it. Her husband, Tom, knew about her lifestyle and knew that she couldn’t just leave her goddaughter behind, he respected that, even loved how caring his wife was. Sabine begs Marianne to not be guilty that she couldn’t have a better kind of life because of her.

“The best thing in my life is knowing that I helped raise the most selfless and kind woman, I’m so proud of what you become. Never forget that.”

By the time Master Fu finally arrives she’s just so tired. But her need for answers is bigger, so she allows her godmother to guide her to the living room. When they get there she’s surprised, to say the least. Her master is there, but he is not alone. He’s accompanied by two very anxious Kwamis.

“Marianne is so great to finally meet you! I’ve been waiting for this moment for so long!” Tikki, The Goddess of Creation addresses her. But she stays there stunned. She grew up learning about these entities, preparing for the moment she would get to meet them, but there she stays, unable to properly function. So much has been happening in the last 24 hours, and she feels like she’s in shock.

“Great job sugar cub, you broke the kid” Plagg, The God of Destruction comments.

“She’s probably just surprised to finally see us, don’t be rude”

It feels surreal to see these mystical creatures just bickering like children in her godmother’s husband’s living room. She almost feels like she’s dreaming. Feeling her discomfort, Master Fu decides it is better to address the situation.

“Come sit Marianne. It’s time I give you some answers.”

For the next hour, she learns a part of history she never knew about.

Her Master calmly explained to her that by the time they were able to release her from the ruins of the temple, it was too late. But something in him knew there was still hope. Because she was Tikkis chosen, her soul takes more time to disconnect itself from the physical world, so The Grand Guardian did something that wasn’t wrong but still considered taboo. He asked Tikki to use her energy in order to anchor her spirit back into her body. He didn’t use the wish from the Miraculous, so it wasn’t as dangerous. That had only been done once, somewhere when the pharaohs were still in power. One of the Guardians had fallen madly in love with a woman chosen by Tikki, but she got sick and died. Consumed with grief he ordered the Kwami into bringing her soul back.

Because it had happened so long ago they didn’t know the reaction it would cause in her already existing powers. So, for now, it would be better if she stayed in Paris, close to her Master’s, where she could finish her training and receive guidance if needed. They still didn’t know the situation within the League, so it was best to lay low for a while.

So there she stayed. For a whole month, she lived with her godmother and got to know the man she called her husband. It was funny, that the super badass and strict woman everyone knew would turn into the warmest person when around the baker. Marianne could tell they loved each other very much just by the way they looked at the other. In the League love was not something that happened very often. So it felt nice to be in contact with something so pure. 

She also kept going on with training, just like Master Fu said they would. It was as if her life was completely new but completely equal to what it was before. She would wake up early, eat something, normally delicious made by Tom, and go to where her master was living, a massage parlor that served as a disguise from his real job as her teacher. They would start by meditating and then move into physical training. It was different, Fu wasn’t so young anymore so now she tended to train alone. She missed her brother so much that it hurt. Knowing where he was but not if he was okay. She wished that there was a way for her to contact him, but knew it would be safer if she didn’t. Just knowing he was with Father makes her feel a little better, she remembers her Mother’s stories of the fearless Batman, so if the time comes she knew he would be safe.

Nothing out of ordinary happened so far, her powers kept the same, maybe a little more intense, but nothing she couldn’t handle. But they were confident that there would not be any other side effects so far. Everything was back to normal, or that’s what they thought.

Imagine their surprise when on one of their meditation sections the both were suddenly overwhelmed by the intense energy that they received. It was dark, nothing like she ever had felt. 

“Master, what was that? I have never felt something like it” Her teacher looked like he had seen a ghost, pale and with an anxious expression

“I’ve only felt this type of energy once. We must prepare, something bad is on our horizon. It’s time to activate your miraculous”

“What? Are you sure Master? Please tell me what is going on!” She pleaded.

“The Peacock and the Butterfly Miraculous, a long time ago, when I was just an apprentice, were thought to be lost. This was when The League and the Order were constantly at war. Some of my fellow disciples got greedy. They wanted the power the Miraculous had to offer, they thought themselves worthy of wielding their power and destroying the League of Assassins. There was a fight, and the first Temple of The Order was compromised. Some of us escaped, but we lost a lot. That day… I felt the same type of energy. I believe somewhere in this city, someone is preparing to cause chaos. We must be ready for when it happens.”

“How do we do that?”

“We need to find the Cat Miraculous wielder”

Next

There is a little easter egg in this chapter, let’s see if anyone can tell what it is! The taglist is still open so feel free to ask to be tagged! Please tell me what you thought of this chapter, I’m dying for some feedback

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[archangelsquill]

to hell and back || damien darkblood x reader 

pairing: damien darkblood x partner reader (gn, no y/n)

fandom: invincible

word count: 1448

summary: after omni-man flees earth and things begin to settle down, cecil feels he owes you -- the demon detective’s partner in solving crime -- a favor.

warnings: none

a/n: a sequel to this. darkblood deserves better, and by the gods, i’m giving it to him! enjoy, my fellow simps.

———

“If anything happens to them, on your head it will be, Cecil!”

Those were the final words of the demon as the pits of hell called him home, and as Cecil met his gaze, he knew it was no threat. It was a promise, and though he considered himself a bastard, Cecil saw no need to keep you in danger. He knew without Darkblood around, you were a target for Nolan. He’d already had security detail on you, but against Omni-Man, he knew it was useless. If he ever decided he wanted you dead, there’d be nothing stopping him.

Then, if Cecil was lucky (or maybe unlucky) to stay out of the warpath, he’d have Darkblood breathing down his neck, even with such distance between this world and his.

Sending him back to Hell wasn’t something Cecil wanted to do. It was a necessity. He owed him big time for that, and he’d start with keeping you off Nolan’s radar.

The official report was that you’d gone to stay with an imaginary Aunt Sue, somewhere in the Dakotas, but the reality was you were to be kept in the Global Defense Agency Headquarters -- well hidden, out of sight, and away from Nolan Grayson.

No one told you a thing. You’d been in your apartment, waiting for Damien to show up with those coffees he’d promised. Evidence, photos, and papers of theories and notes were scattered around the small space, occupying every inch of surface area, as you paced, a bad feeling in the pit of your stomach growing stronger and stronger the longer your demon detective was away. Something was wrong, and as Cecil Stedman appeared suddenly before you, making you jump out of your skin, you knew for sure. 

“You’re the demon’s partner, right?”

“Yeah, that’s me. I guess you’re Cecil.”

“You guess right. You need to come with us.”

“Why?”

“You’re not safe anymore.”

“What?”

“I can’t answer your questions now. Pack a bag. You won’t be coming back for a while.”

You didn’t argue. You didn’t have a choice.

The Global Defense Agency took care of your monthly expenses while you were gone, as if that made any of this less scary or confusing. All you’d been told was Damien was back in Hell, Cecil put him there, and you were in danger.

No one told you much else. Cecil had acted civil toward you -- kind, even -- but it didn’t help. Damien was gone, it was Cecil’s fault, and life may never be normal again.

All because you two asked questions.

Because you wanted the truth.

And you both had paid the price: freedom.

Meanwhile, Omni-Man roamed free, ready to kill again.

You lost count of how long you’d been at GDA HQ when Nolan finally struck.

Initially, you’d been barred from the control room, but Cecil let you choose to watch the chaos or stay blind to it.

You choose not to watch. No one needed you to be in the room when all of the ruin, disaster, and chaos you and Damien knew would happen happened. Based on what Cecil told you after, you were glad you decided to stay out of it.

All of those innocent people, now dead. All of that destruction. All of that carnage, and for what? Omni-Man had fled.

It was for nothing.

And Debbie…

You’d offered as much comfort as you could. You knew how it felt to lose a loved one (it took all you had not to look pointedly at Cecil when you told her that) and the woman needed someone to lean on. Someone not quite so cold as Cecil.

And he’d watched you. Despite everything, you comforted Debbie and Mark, putting on a brave face as if you haven’t lost everything, too. Cecil knows you’re still hurting -- why wouldn’t you be?

Cecil was many things, and a man who paid his debts was absolutely one of them.

He’d been searching since he put Darkblood back in Hell for it: the spell to undo what he did. To summon him back. His plan was always to bring him back, if such a thing existed. He’d had his people looking for months with no luck, and he’d already given you the all clear to go home, with the promise your rent and utilities were paid for until you could get back on your feet.

Yeah. Right. How the fuck do you do that? Your partner -- not only in profession but your partner -- was gone, your office had been trashed, and your apartment felt so empty it was somehow suffocating.

For weeks after you’d returned, you’d laid on the couch, staring at the ceiling, jumping at any change in the temperature, hoping one day you’d look up and see him, only to find it was the apartment complex’s shitty circulation.

The news talked about things going back to normal, yet normal sounded like a foreign language now. How was the world supposed to be any kind of normal again?

Cecil made a few visits to check on you, but you regarded him with coldness that could rival that of Damien’s. He couldn’t blame you.

You’d lost track of the days when the sigh that escaped your lips was accompanied by a small fog. You froze, sitting up from your temporary home on the couch before exhaling again. Just to be sure.

And there it was again: the small visage of your breath indicating the decrease in temperature you’d been ignoring out of lost hope.

“Damien…?”

“Yes, amare?” the gruff baritone was music to your ears as you turned toward your kitchen. There he was: red, large, and intimidating -- yet that soft look in his gaze remained, as if no time at all had passed.

“Damien!” you leapt over the couch, nearly tumbling to the ground before two strong arms grab you, pulling you into the warmest yet coldest bear hug you’ve ever gotten.

“Sorry for delay. Had to...speak with Cecil...” he rumbles, clawed hand carding through your hair, “Need to be ‘debriefed’ but...had to see you.”

“I can tell you what you missed.” you mumble, burying your face in his arms. He pulls you tighter still, resting his chin on the top of your head.

“Later,” he says.

And for a moment -- how long, you’re not sure -- you both just sit there on the living room floor, holding each other in a silent, loving embrace. Tears stream down your face, stinging from the cold emanating from Damien. His hand moves to brush them away, and the contact makes you cry more. You missed him. It had been so long.

After what felt like forever, you part -- just enough to look at each other. He, of course, looks no different. Demons didn’t age like humans did. You, however, probably look like shit. You hadn’t looked in a mirror in forever, but you knew your hair was much longer. You hadn’t bothered to get it cut in...how long had it been? It wasn’t like you could’ve gotten it cut, anyway. The city had been rebuilding, and getting anywhere was...well, hell.

“Beautiful as the day I lost you,” he says, and your tears well up again.

“I know I look like shit, Damien,” you say, trying to laugh off the sudden absence of your grief. He smiles slightly -- a rare sight.

“To me you look like heaven, amare,” he replies.

Amare. His nickname for you. You think its Latin, but you’ve never looked into what it means. You never asked, either, assuming he’d just tell you one day.

But you almost lost him.

You couldn’t bring yourself to look into it after he was gone, and now that he was here again….you decide to ask.

“You’ve called me that since we became partners. What does it mean?”

“Supposed to be a detective.” he replies. His own attempt at a joke, you muse. You’re in no mood for it.

“Damien, please.”

He looks at you fondly, placing a kiss to your forehead.

“Love. It means love.”

You should’ve figured, yet you find yourself crying again, and his arms wrap tighter around you in a protective, loving embrace.

There was more to be said between you two. You both know it. What happened to Damien in Hell? How did everything with Nolan go down here? Now that Cecil knew how to banish and summon Damien as he pleased, what would become of your demon detective?

All need answers. Resolutions.

But not now.

Now was the time for healing: for the world, for humanity, and for you and your demon in that tiny apartment.

You had him back, and though so much hangs in the air, that was enough.

[pettyelves]

thick black lines; Eilonwy

When something is done growing, are they now dying? A little leaf settles, shaking, into palm of Eilonwy’s hand; it’s color sun-kissed face down against the young woman’s skin. It was the pale underside, carved with lines that she fixated on.  This is the line where I first sprouted, I bloomed here a few months ago, tasting the air of Spring, and then I danced in the Summer as a leaf.  Each vein whispers to her, whilst the leaves still clinging to life on the tree above jingle with laughter. Eilonwy likes Spring, it is when the world wakes back up and colors overtake. It was when this little leaf lived, but now it has gotten colder.  “Would you like to live with me? I’ll put you somewhere warm, and keep you even after you a dry and wrinkled.” Even after you are dead, is what she means. Each exchange sees the leaf a little weaker, it’s soft high-pitch trembling in Eilonwy’s ear.  I would like to go with you, yes...the voice trembles.  But I don’t know if I will be living. That line, that short one, that’s the last I grew. When something is done growing, are they now dying? Eilonwy pulls her legs up into her chest, and holds the leaf close to her chest. “Don’t be scared if you won’t be, some of you is alive. In the veins and notches of that tree where you came from,” she bit down. Why be sad for a leaf? Was she speaking the the fey that lived in the leaves-- like those old stories her mother had told her? Maybe she would end up like her mother, taking to thin air and looking sad all the time. “I think so, little buddy,” she finally answers the leaf. “When you stop growing..stop changing and drifting. I think that’s when you die. Doesn’t matter if your body’s still breathing.” Are you still growing? It asks her. She has so many black lines tattooed into her branches and fingers, each a mark of someone that has stopped growing-- that cannot grow anymore. Eilonwy passes a finger over the bands on her forearm and swallows down the lump in her throat, “I have these because I am growing..... these lines are for people that helped me grow.”  I grew another line when I met my neighbor. I grew another when I sang in the rain. There was so much rain. Um... Could you make a line for me? I don't have the strength to anymore. But I want to grow one more time, because you've offered to help me. “Yeah, I'll get a line for you. One more line so that you can grow with me after you go, and I'll keep you with the other flowers." She would keep this leaf somewhere in a book beside an alabaster lily from a garden memorial, a wilted rose from a crown worn at a lantern festival-- beside the first sprig of a blue wisteria from the first blooms of Spring. “And I'll visit this tree so that if leaves get reborn too, maybe we'll meet again in the spring.” Thank you, friend. The leaf whispers softly, fading out into winter. But I hope, maybe, next time I am a tree. Then I can stay longer, and give you all the leaves you want. It isn’t shaking anymore, the last beats of life leaving it.   When Spring comes again...

“Hey, kid. Been a while,” No’vindere says from behind the counter she had leaned herself upon. The elven woman is covered in her own black lines, much more than Eilowny. “I need a line,” Eilonwy says, her cheery tone all twisted up with grief. Grief over a dead leaf.  No’Vindere knows no one ever comes to see her with good news. She is responsible for all those little lines all over her family’s bodies. “Who was it? I..didn’t hear.” Silently, she prays that this isn’t to do with Eilithe’s extended absence.  “Not.. that kind of line,” Eilonwy said, sliding into the chair and awaiting No’Vindere to ready her tools. The younger elf doesn’t allow the confusion to linger on No’Vi’s face long. “From up here,” she gestures to the pit of her left arm, “to here,” and slides her fingers all the way down to her wrist. “Both sides.” “Kid..” The woman protests, it’s irregular, it isn’t traditional. But something in Eilonwy’s face stops her from pressing further. “Sit still. Tell me when you need a break.”  For hours they’d be there, the artist working in silence save for the soft clicks of a wooden mallet tapping a long needle into flesh. Eilonwy’s head remained turned away from No’Vindere-- brows knit tightly with discomfort. Growing was painful, but this would be her Grow Line. It’d run through every new band she added to her branches and remind her to keep moving, keep changing, keep drifting.  Her flesh would not be as her mother’s, nor her grandparents, aunts, and uncles. Not a monument to the dead winter, but to the hope for spring to return again.  [leaf written by @bad-rper​ ]

[nataywrites]

Wishing for rain, the physical and the mental.

Hello there! I hope your day is well, and that you maybe got a little rain wherever you are. Right now I'm wishing for rain. It's so dry despite the humidity and the river is looking anemic in the water department. I'm worried about the fish and other water creatures. When I think of past rainfalls, I remember the ones that happened while I was in high school. The river was so swollen that it climbed over its banks and into our basements. I could walk on a sidewalk, one hundred feet from the river bank, and still be knee-deep in water, with fish nibbling at my sandalled feet.

Not only do I wish for physical rain, but I am also wishing for the emotional kind too. I'm the kind of person that doesn't know she's feeling something until it's too late. The anxiety, stress, and grief sit inside me until an entirely unrelated issue draws them out as irritability, anger, and words I wish I could take back. Everything seems to be accelerating faster than I can react to it. Sort of like the time I got two of my wisdom teeth removed, and the doctor plunged the needle full of anesthetic into the soft flesh of my mouth faster than I could react. All I could do was grip the armrests of my seat with white-knuckled fear.

I found out two months ago that I have a cancer predisposition, then two weeks ago I had a rectal exam, and the polyps...my God they were everywhere. I thank my lucky stars that I don't have any tumors in there. Now I found out I need a biopsy of a nodule on my thyroid. Before I even have my colonoscopy to detect one kind of cancer, I need to have another procedure, no matter how small, to see if I have another kind. Next week I will be going in for an endoscopy and colonoscopy. Another IV in my arm, but at least this time I will have the mercy of sedation. I won't be aware of the doctor and their nurses putting their long-necked eyeballs into the most intimate reaches of my person.

I know what some of you may be thinking. "At least you know," "You don't know yet if you have cancer." And yes, I know. Yes, I don't know if I have cancer. Yet. Isn't that a terrifying word? Yet. It doesn't matter what I know in my mind. There is a significant difference between knowing something and feeling something.

Right now, the smallest, most vulnerable part of me is terrified. She is crouched in the fetal position somewhere in the pit of my bowls, nestled next to the polyp-riddled large intestine that will end me one day if I don't do anything about it. I'm afraid, and I can't feel it except when I am close to an emotional extreme. Some days I don't know where my head is, or if I want to cry, or rage, or laugh in incredulity. I am lost. I need someone to hold my hand and not tell me to look at the bright side. The power of positive thinking is powerful until it isn't and then all I see is the giant hole that it tries to conceal. I can't fill that hole with anything. It simply must exist. Like the empty space that is left by a passed loved one, there is an empty place where the me I used to be was. The one that had only depression and anxiety as her biggest health woes. The one who never had to worry about severe illness and despair. I need to mourn her before I can move on.

This did get deep, but I needed to put this out there for you, my dearest, most treasured reader, to read. I need you to see me for how I feel and who I am. You don't need to assure me that all will be well, because whatever will be, will be. Just hold my hand and pray for rain. Pray for rain with me, to a God, Goddess, Goddex, personification of humanity, or Spaghetti monster that you may or may not believe in. It doesn't matter. Prayer may be directed at the divine, but secretly, we all know that it is truly directed at our deepest, innermost selves. I love you, friend.

Natay

[love-and-monsters]

Necklace for a Dragon

M dragon X GN reader, 5,975 words

A dragon commissions a necklace for his deceased mother, but he is reluctant to open up about her death. Can you help him work through his grief?

The thin, delicate chain in your fingers clinked quietly as you worked on it. The magnifying glasses perched on your nose enabled you to carefully manipulate the tiny gemstones into place. It was a nice piece, you thought. The white and pale yellow gems set against the deep platinum gave the impression of tiny stars in a night sky.

Your gaze flicked up as you worked. It was a habit from before you’d gotten the bell installed on your door to let you know if a customer had entered, so your gaze moved back to your work before you’d really processed anything you’d seen.

Then your brain caught up with your eyes and your head snapped back up.

There was a man standing in the middle of your store. He looked like he’d just stepped out of a fairy tale. His look was oddly monochrome- he had pale skin, white-blonde hair that curled around his ear and under his chin. Silvery antlers pulled back from his head and a shimmering scaled tail tufted with fur coiled and twitched behind him. His clothes were unreasonably fancy and not at all modern- his shirt was ruffled and he wore a heavy, furred cloak around his shoulders. Gems fairly dripped from his horns and the upper curve of his ears.

The little bell hadn’t even rung to announce his entrance. It was as if he had simply appeared in the room.

“Hello,” you said, whipping your glasses off and staring at him. “Can I help you with something?”

He regarded you with ice-blue eyes. His expression was utterly neutral. “I am looking for jewelry.”

Okay. Good start. Your eyes swept over his frame, assessing him as a customer. He was unfamiliar, but given his mannerisms and the general look of his clothes, he was wealthy. That was good- most of the pieces in your store weren’t made by you. There wasn’t enough of a market to buy your handmade pieces in most cases, which were priced high enough to drive away most typical buyers, and those who were rich enough to afford the splurge were few and far between. Most of the jewelry on the shelves was cheaper, more mass-produced pieces. It wasn’t exactly something you were proud of, but it kept the roof over your head.

He wasn’t looking at any of those pieces, though. He had beelined right for the well-lit display case that showed all your custom jewelry. You slipped out from behind the counter and hurried over to him. “See anything you like?”

His gaze swept over the case. “I am not sure.”

“Well, I also take commissions, so if you want a specific design, I can do that for you,” you said eagerly. Commissions were uncommon, but very much appreciated. You could charge a little more for them and you didn’t have to account for the shelf time.

The man turned toward you. His gaze locked with yours and a chill slipped down your spine. Holy shit. With a sudden clenching in the pit of your stomach, you knew that this wasn’t an ordinary monster of Fortune Falls. This was one of the Old Ones.

The Old Ones were not necessarily old individuals, though, even though the one in front of you appeared to be in his twenties, he could be ancient. It was their species that were old, though, ones that had existed before civilization and kept to those old ways. They radiated powerful magic and rarely interacted with humans at all. Even other monsters were uncomfortable around them.

You had only seen one once before, an ancient golden dragon. You steeled your will. A customer was a customer. Even if Old Ones had an irritating habit of paying in extremely outdated currency- you would be lucky if he paid with something from the modern millennium.

“A specific design,” the man repeated, drawing you out of your daze. You nodded attentively.

“Is there anything in particular you’re looking for?” you said. The man exhaled slowly. He had the expression of someone unused to interacting with others- he didn’t seem to be holding a stern expression because he actually felt stern, but more because he had completely forgotten you were supposed to change your expression to let others know what you were feeling. “Maybe you could tell me what the jewelry is for and I can give you some suggestions.”

The man turned back to the display case. “It is for a funeral.”

“Oh,” you said. “For, ah. For you or for the, erm. Deceased?” It was not the first time someone had come to your shop looking for jewelry to bury someone in.

“Deceased.” There was no emotion in the man’s voice, but it was not the lack of emotion of the passionless. It was the sound of someone who had been exercising their emotions so much they didn’t have anything left to give. Pity stirred in your chest.

“Well, I’m sure we can find you something nice,” you said. “There are a lot of nice pieces here.” You gestured broadly at the wall of jewelry. The man peered at the necklaces lining the bottom row. His tail weaved back and forth, flowing like a river.

After a moment, he shook his head. His curls swayed, brushing against his chin and over the tips of his ears. “No,” he said. “Something else.”

You froze, waiting for his next move. Instead of turning toward the door, he turned toward you. You let out a sigh of relief. “Would you like something made specifically for you, sir?”

He lowered his chin in the slightest of nods. A faint flicker of bitterness invaded your mind before you shoved it away; the idea that you were going to make something that was going to have exactly one showing before it was being shoved underground wasn’t something you were overly pleased about. Then again, plenty of the extremely rich had pieces of jewelry made for them only to cram it into a closet after one night out. This was a little more important than that, wasn’t it?

“It would need to be elaborate,” he said. “Something worthy of my mother.”

You sucked in a breath through your teeth. “I’m sorry for your loss,” you said. “I can sketch up a few designs overnight and you can come back tomorrow to look at them. We can work from there.”

The man’s head dipped in a slow nod. “I will see you then.” Not waiting for any response, he whirled, cape swirling around him, and headed out the door.

The bell still didn’t ring. You glared at it until the man left, then pulled out your stepladder and went to check on it. When you tapped it, it jingled merrily. Hm. Weird. You moved the ladder away and experimentally swung the door open and closed. The bell rang every time. Okay. Really weird. But you had more important things to do.

You placed the stepladder away again and sat behind the front counter. There was a sketchpad situated under the desk for situations such as this. Usually, you had a little more idea what the customer wanted. You kicked yourself for not asking any more questions. He had left before you could get some clarification. You sketched out a few designs, most of them similar to ones you already had on the shelf. They were pretty, of course- all your jewelry was nice, and it tended to be difficult to make shiny things look that bad. But they almost certainly weren’t what your client wanted.

Night fell. You closed up your shop, but stayed in the back, eating takeout. You had an apartment, but it was barely bigger than your shop and you spent so much time here that you’d just moved a couch and some blankets into the back room, just in case you wanted to crash for the night. Really, the only practical use your apartment had was that it had a shower you could be sure no one else was using. Given your cooking skills, it was probably safer if you didn’t have access to a kitchen.

You sketched on the pad late into the night, growing more and more frustrated the longer you tried. Nothing seemed to be coming out right, and the things that looked kind of good were too reminiscent of stuff you’d already made.

Grimacing, you rolled your stiff neck and shifted your position. One of your legs was starting to fall asleep. Maybe you should just go to bed. Your mind wasn’t getting any clearer the later you stayed up, and maybe you would get an idea in your dreams. It wasn’t common, but it was better than just sitting around and waiting for inspiration to strike.

You leaned your head back, eyes closing for a moment. The image of the man swam back to your mind. He had been rather beautiful. The silvery sheen of his tail had been almost mesmerizing. It reminded you of sunlight gleaming off flowing water, or maybe oozing mercury. And his multi-pointed horns, glittering with gems had been striking as well.

Inspiration slammed into your mind like a lightning bolt. A sizzling, frenetic energy jumped through your veins. The idea seized you with a frightening ferocity. You had felt this before, the few times when an idea had seized you with a creative fervor. There was no way you were going to be sleeping now. Instead, you scrambled for another piece of paper. You needed to get this down before the idea faded.

It took you well over an hour of sketching, erasing, and fine-tuning before you’d worked the design into something you were happy with. Once it was done, you collapsed into bed, not even bothering to change your clothes. Sleep swept over you in an immediate wave.

You woke late enough that you barely had time to throw on another set of clothes and snag a granola bar before you had to open the shop. Fortunately, the design you’d made the night before still looked good in the morning light. The amount of times you’d written something in a sleep-hazed frenzy only to wake up and discover that it was absolute garbage was uncomfortable to even think about.

Despite your somewhat unkempt appearance and your tiredness, you still managed to make a couple sales. One of them was an engagement ring, one of your own designs, which had you feeling quite proud for the rest of the day. You added a few finishing touches to your sketches with a flush of enthusiasm. The day was nearly over, but the man hadn’t showed up again.

Someone cleared their throat right in front of you. You startled, knocking over a stack of coins and watched as they rolled under your counter. “Dammit.” Grimacing, you looked up.

The man was standing over you. He watched as one of the coins rolled in a neat circle next to his foot and fell over. “You should pay more attention,” he said. He stooped and picked the coin up, placing it delicately on the counter. “It is bad customer service to leave a customer waiting.”

“There’s supposed to be a bell,” you muttered under your breath. If he heard you, the comment didn’t bother him. He watched as you scrambled to pick up the few coins you could see. You could get the ones under the desk later; it wouldn’t do to go crawling around on your hands and knees in front of an important customer.

“I have the sketches,” you said. “There’s a little area we can sit in over here.” You led him over to the small alcove, separated from the rest of the shop by curtains. It was basically just a table in an area that would give the two of you a little privacy. Not that it was terribly necessary- there wasn’t anyone in the shop. But it was nice.

The man swept over to the table and paused. You looked where he was looking and paused. There were two chairs at the table and both of them had tall backs that left no space for a tail. “I might have a stool somewhere,” you said. “Hold on.”

The man lifted his hand, revealing long, elegantly manicured fingernails. “No need. I will be fine.” He sat a little awkwardly, tail curling across his lap. You hesitated for a moment, then sat across from him.

“So, I have a few sketches that I wanted to show you,” you said, spreading them across the table. The man reached out and picked up a few of them, looking over them with a critical eye. His expression was utterly emotionless. You swallowed uncomfortably. It was always weird to have someone looking at your art right in front of you.

Each drawing was examined and he placed it on the table in front of you. The stack of rejected drawing kept getting higher. The back of your neck tickled with sweat. Was he going to like any of them?

He reached the bottom of the pile and paused. Right. Your final drawing. You sucked on your lower lip. His expression was still unreadable. Finally, he placed the drawing on the table in front of you. “This one,” he said in a soft voice, tapping a finger in the center of the drawing.

It was the design you’d based off his antlers. You nodded, sweeping it back off the table. “Great. So, next we’ll need to pick the base metal color. I’ve got a few of them. There’s silver, gold, platinum…” You spread the sample metals across the table in front of them. His gaze swept over them for a moment, then he tapped the platinum band. “Okay. Good. Are there any specific colors you want in it? I’ll try to match the colors as well as I can, and you’ll get approval at all stages.”

The man sat back in his seat. For the first time, you saw a flicker of discomfort cross his face. “Blue,” he said after a moment.

You noted the color down on your pad and gathered your drawings back together. “Great. That should look nice.” You glanced into his face. His expression was still fairly emotionless, but you thought you were getting better at seeing the subtle tension on his face that indicated changes in expression. There was a tension around his eyes and a tightness around his lips that made him look tired. The sort of blank, weary tiredness of someone who was struggling to keep going. “Um. When do you need this by?”

“Four days from now,” he said. “Is that acceptable?”

“It’ll be a rush job,” you said automatically, then cringed. That felt insensitive. The weariness in his face grew a little more present as he bowed his head in a small nod.

“That will be extra?” he said. He started to reach for his pocket, but you waved your hands hurriedly.

“Uh, no, no. It’ll be fine. No extra charge.” It was probably a bad decision. There was a reason you charged extra for rush orders. But he looked exhausted and if it was for a funeral, he was likely going through a lot. It felt wrong to add onto that.

The man stared at you for a moment. He said nothing, but there was gratitude in his expression. “How much do I owe you?”

You told him the price. He reached into his pocket for a moment, then extracted several bills. You held your breath as he handed them over. Bills was a good sign. You’d once been paid exclusively in heavy gold coins and it had been impossible to find a bank that would exchange them for actual currency.

After a moment, in which you were able to reassure yourself that yes, the bills were all modern, you tucked the money into your pocket. “The rest I’ll want upon delivery,” you said. “This is just an advance.” The man nodded. “Also, I’ll need your name.”

“Solomon,” he said. He gave no last name. You didn’t bother to ask for one.

“Then I’ll see you in a few days for pickup.” You smiled at him. He gave a small bow and swept back out the door.

As it turned out, you saw him much sooner than that. You closed the shop slightly early and started heading back home. It wasn’t the best idea, to take a full night off when you had a rush order you needed to complete, but you were starting to feel a little gross. It was time to get some food that was slightly better than takeout.

The air was chilly and it was drizzling as you walked across the street and headed toward your apartment building. Then you came to a stop, squinting at the man standing in a tiny alcove of trees. His clothes were ostentatious and he looked more than a little out of place, like a prince crouching in a stable. His head was tilted back, staring up at the rain dribbling from the sky. It trailed in little rivulets down his sharp features.

“Solomon?” you said before you could think better of it. He lowered his head and turned to face you. His expression was solemn, but there was a new level of exhaustion in it. It looked more like he was too tired to make any expressions other than weariness.

He nodded to you. “Hello.”

You paused, a little awkward. He didn’t seem overly keen to talk, but he wasn’t exactly moving away from you either. “What are you still doing here?”

Solomon closed his eyes and swayed unsteadily. Automatically, you darted forward to try to catch him. At the same moment, he stuck a hand out to prop himself up on a nearby tree. You collided, his hand fumbling awkwardly through the air until it came to a rest on your shoulder. There was a moment of stumbling as you adjusted to his weight. He was heavier than he looked. His tail wrapped around one of your legs as he struggled to catch himself again.

After a few moments of fumbling, the pair of you managed to find a balance. His weight pressed down on you, leaving you panting with the effort of holding him upright. “Are you okay?” you managed.

Solomon’s chest expanded against you as he took in a deep breath. One of his hands pressed against a tree trunk and he slowly lifted himself back up. “I’m all right,” he said. His eyes closed, but this time, he didn’t sway dangerously. He just let out a deep sigh.

You slid away from him, relieved to have his weight off your back. “Are you sure?” You hesitated for a moment, debating the pros and cons, then kept talking. “Do you… do you need some help?” The words came out of you slowly. You didn’t have a lot of experience trying to give other people your assistance; you were solitary by nature and rarely gave or asked for help.

Solomon closed his eyes for a moment. His long, snow-white lashes nearly touched his cheekbones. “I am just tired. I have not been home in some time.” There was a terrible weariness in his voice, like each word was a struggle to get out of his mouth.

“Do you need help getting there?” you said. Honestly, you weren’t sure how you could actually help him get home. Didn’t most of the Old Ones live in the mountains? You didn’t even have a car.

“No,” he said. “I…” He hesitated, then ducked his head a little, looking intently at the ground at his feet. “I have not been home because I do not want to go back.”

The awkward silence grew thicker. You cleared your throat. “Er. Is it because of your mom, or…?”

His lips curled up to show the slightest flicker of fang. “Yes.”

“I’m sorry,” you said again. “Er.” A suggestion floated across your mind. “You could come to my apartment for a bit. You look tired.” The instant the idea left your lips, you felt stupid. You were tired too, and you didn’t really feel up to entertaining a stranger, much less an Old One who likely had never been in an apartment building. On the other hand, leaving him alone on the street felt gross too. Well, he probably wouldn’t take you up on the offer anyway-

“I would appreciate that,” he said. “After you.” He gestured to the sidewalk in front of you.

Well. Okay. This was happening. You walked ahead of him, trying frantically to remember the last time you’d vacuumed. Had it been last weekend? Hard to say. It honestly kept slipping your mind. Oh, god, when had you last dusted? Did Old Ones care about stuff like that?

In no time at all, you were at the front door to your building. You fumbled with your keys for a moment before your door clicked open. Solomon stepped into your building with an expression of mild curiosity.

There was nothing fancy about the lobby to your building. There was a threadbare rug and a slightly shoddy desk in a corner. The doorman, a medusa with massive snakes coiling around his head, looked up. His eyes fell on Solomon sweeping in behind you and he raised is scaled brows. You mouthed ‘tell you later’ and headed for the elevator.

Solomon looked momentarily confused when you gestured for him to follow you inside, but he stepped in regardless. You tapped your floor button and the elevator doors slid shut.

You were already braced for the weird jolt that happened every time the elevator started, but you’d completely forgotten that Solomon wasn’t. He seized your elbow as the floor juddered under your feet. His expression was smooth, but his grip on your arm was tight.

“It’s okay,” you said. “It’s just an elevator.” You couldn’t tell if he understood what an elevator was, but your lack of concern seemed to appease him. His grip on your elbow loosened, though he didn’t remove his hand.

Solomon brushed past you to get off the elevator once it stopped, giving it a suspicious look over his shoulder. You bit your tongue. Do not laugh at the powerful monster. Even if he is looking at the elevator like it might jump at him.

You jostled the lock a few times before your door swung open. Solomon was tall enough to just look over your shoulder into your fairly tiny apartment. It only had a couple of rooms, and both of them could be charitably described as cozy. You scrambled to grab a few of the carelessly-tossed bits of packaging that hadn’t yet made their way to the garbage can and pushed them out of sight. You had definitely forgotten to dust for a while; Solomon picked up one of your books, then hurriedly ducked his head into his elbow to sneeze.

“Sorry. I don’t come here all that often,” you said. Solomon sniffed and put the book back down.

“I have never been inside a human dwelling before. Are they all so…” He trailed off, looking around the room. “So compact?”

“They’re not if you have more money,” you said. “Um. I can get you something to eat or drink? Or get you something to make you more comfortable? You can sit, if you want.”

Solomon scanned the room and his eyes fell on the small, but fairly cushy, couch. He approached it slowly, then, after testing the cushions with a hand, sat down.

It was strange to see him seated on your overly-plush couch. The heavy fur ruff of his cloak and the fine regality of his face were at odds with the barely maintained shabbiness of your apartment. It was like looking at a historical reenactor on break. It just looked off.

“So, uh,” you said, fumbling for something to do with your hands. “How are you doing?”

It was a dumb question, but you were having trouble coming up with things to say. Solomon looked at you. There was something glassy in his expression. You paused in your aimless fidgeting.

“I am…” The words seemed to take considerable effort. He closed his eyes and swayed. You placed the mug you’d grabbed on the counter, fully prepared to lunge for him if he showed signs of fainting.

Fortunately, he only swayed for a moment before his eyes opened again and he slumped back into your cushions. “I have had a long few days,” he said.

“Yeah?” You picked the mug back up and slid it into your coffee maker. You had no idea if he would like it, but you felt like you needed some. “Do you, uh, want to talk about it?”

He gave you a stony look. “Do you know who I am?”

It was such an unbelievably douchey question spoken with such earnestness that you snorted. “No. Not really. You haven’t told me much.”

“I am the Lord Solomon, ruler of the lands from the town to the eastward river,” he said. The words were grand, but his tone was bored. “My mother’s death places me at the top of the line of succession. There had been an enormous amount of political posturing.”

You nodded slowly, trying to process what he was saying. “I wasn’t aware this area had a lord.”

“It may be a bit above mortal understanding,” Solomon said. “We operate outside mortal laws, and our ownership of the land does not fall in line with your understanding.” He flexed his fingers and clenched them into fists repeatedly. His tail twitched back and forth. “Indeed, these past couple of weeks have been stressful.”

“I’m sorry about that,” you said honestly. You picked up your mug, now filled with steaming coffee, and walked over to the couch. He looked up at you as you sat next to him. His eyes flicked toward the mug and you saw him sniff the air curiously. “It’s coffee,” you said. “Do you want some?”

“Yes,” he said. “I know what coffee is.” Your hand was already sort of extended toward him, so he easily reached out and took it from you. Before you could do anything other than stare in surprise, he had tilted it up to his mouth and drained it in a few quick gulps. “Thank you.”

There was one of the Old Ones sitting on your couch and he had just stolen your coffee. Presumably, it would be a very bad idea to yell at him, but you still kind of wanted to. “Okay,” you said in a barely-restrained voice, “Cool. I guess I did offer.”

Solomon caught the irritation in your tone. “I am truly grateful for your assistance. I will admit that I was unwilling to return home.”

“It probably feels weird that she’d not there anymore, right?” you said. Solomon looked at you for a moment, then gave a tiny, hesitant nod. “I know how that feels.” You paused, swallowing hard. “I lost my dad five years ago now. It was rough. I can’t imagine having to deal with lordship on top of all that.”

Solomon kept looking at you with wide eyes. He didn’t seem to believe that you, a lowly mortal human, could comprehend his feelings. You decided to wait until he was feeling better to be insulted by that. “I am sorry for your loss,” he finally said, sounding a little more robotic than sincere. You decided he probably didn’t get out much.

“It’s okay. It was a while ago.” You leaned back on the couch. “You want to talk about it?”

Solomon kept staring at you. “Talk about it?”

“You know. Say all the stuff you’re feeling. It might help,” you said. He kept looking at you. The concept seemed entirely foreign to him. “Um. Like. How are you feeling right now?”

He looked at you for a long, uncertain moment. “Tired,” he finally said. “I am tired. Of trying to manage land squabbles. Of trying to plan my mother’s funeral. From dealing with all the new responsibilities my position entails.” He rubbed his forehead. “And I miss her. I miss being able to see her. I miss being able to speak with her about her responsibilities. I miss hunting with her.” His voice choked and he made a gulping noise that seemed to surprise him. you reached out and tentatively patted his shoulder.

“I know. It’ll get better. But it’s gonna hurt for a long while,” I said. “It’s gonna be hard.” Solomon gave an absent nod, looking down at his cup. “You know, there’s a grief counseling support group in town. If you want to go to it sometimes, I can take you there. I go there still, when it’s bad.”

Solomon looked blank. “A support group?”

“It’s a group of people who all lost someone important to them who get together and talk about their feelings. And they all help each other. You can learn a lot about dealing with grief from going. And sometimes hearing about other people’s problems can make it easier to deal with your own.” Solomon blinked a few times. His eyes were abruptly watery and you realized you weren’t entirely sure how to deal with him suddenly breaking into tears in your living room. You patted his shoulder awkwardly. “It might help? I think? I know you’re not like most of us, but it could still be good. I don’t think grief is all that different across species.”

He inhaled slowly. There was a little tremble in it, like he was still dangerously close to crying. “I think I would like that,” he said. His voice was quiet, but firm.

“Okay,” you said. “It meets Wednesdays.” You paused. “Do you know what Wednesdays are?”

He snorted. “I have a concept of human time.”

“Oh,” you said. “Okay. Good.” You sat in silence for a few more moments. There was still tiredness in the set of Solomon’s shoulders, but he looked more at peace than he had a few moments ago.

Eventually, he got to his feet. “I should return home,” he said. “I will see you again.” He paused. “And thank you.”

“No problem.” You stood up and started to lead him toward the door. “We support each other, you know?” He nodded.

You stayed up for a while after he left your apartment. It felt strange, that such a conversation had taken place between you and an Old One. They seemed so ancient and remote, and yet you had just had a conversation with one on the loss of a parent. And he had seemed utterly normal.

Odd. Not unpleasant, just… odd.

Your shop was quiet the next day, so you spent much of it working on the commission. Your thoughts were occupied with Solomon. How something so powerful had managed to look so vulnerable- it stuck with you.

Solomon didn’t show up for the next few days, which gave you some time to finish the necklace. It was good work, in your opinion, sturdy and beautiful. The long, antler-like branches were designed to rest on the clavicles and twist up the throat.

The necklace was done in time for the meeting on Wednesday, so you packed it into a box and took it with you to your apartment. You usually brought some sort of food with you to the meetings. It seemed polite, and people usually enjoyed it.

When you emerged from your apartment, Solomon was standing there. He was still wearing his heavy robes, with the thick fur ruff, and it was attracting a lot of stares. He didn’t seem to notice it. His eyes locked onto you as soon as you emerged from the building.

“Hello,” he said. “We are still going together, yes?” Despite his serious expression, there was a note of hesitancy in his voice.

“Yeah, we are,” you said. “Come on. I’ll show you the way there.”

It was a cozy little building that the meetings took place in. There were only four other people in the group, and they all stared at Solomon when he walked in. You gave an awkward wave. “Hey. Uh, this is Solomon. We met, uh, recently, and he wanted to come to the meeting.”

The man who led the group, a bulky and intimidating werewolf, locked eyes with you. His confusion and shock were blatantly written across his face. You tried to communicate your own surprise and bewilderment at the situation, but it was difficult when his eyes kept going back to Solomon. Thankfully, the Old One didn’t seem to have noticed. He just crossed the room and took one of the seats.

The meeting went as usual, except for everyone’s glances at Solomon. If he was bothered by their constant staring, he didn’t show it. You occasionally reached out to pat his hand or his leg. Everyone stared when you did that, like you were casually touching the sun itself. He didn’t speak much, except to give the bare basics of his story. But he paid intent attention to the stories of others, apparently interested in what they were saying.

“So,” you said as you stepped outside after the meeting, “how was that?”

“Interesting,” Solomon said. “Everyone just talked about their loved ones and their feelings.”

“Yeah. It helps to talk about the people you love and how you’re dealing with everything. It helps to know there are other people who care,” you said. “Oh, and, uh, by the way, I brought this with me.” You reached into your pocket and removed the small box.

Solomon delicately opened it and looked down at the necklace. He traced its lines with a finger. His lashes fluttered as he blinked rapidly. “She- My mother would have liked it.”

His voice broke. You leaned into his side, letting him rest some of his weight against you. His tail twined around your leg, as if seeking comfort. “You can cry. Remember? We said it was good to cry.”

Solomon shuddered and tears started to drip down his cheeks. He cried in silence, leaning on you heavily. You allowed him to, only speaking to soothe him.

Eventually, he petered out. You offered him a pack of tissues. He mopped at his face. “Thank you,” he said, voice rusty.

“Of course. Like I said, it’s good to have other people you can count on.” You patted his arm gently.

He closed his eyes for a moment, taking in a deep breath. “I was wondering. The funeral is… soon. Perhaps, if you were willing, you would come with me?” You stared. “You do not need to feel obligated. It is just- you have helped me, recently. I feel that it would be nice to have someone there who understands.”

“Sure,” you said. “I’d be okay with that.” Solomon nodded, then reached into his pocket. He retrieved a wad of cash from his pocket and handed it to you. Your mouth dropped open. It was mostly fifties, with several hundred bills wadded up in the middle. “This… I think this is more than we agreed on.”

“You have given me a greater gift than just the necklace, so I feel that I should pay you back in kind.” Solomon squeezed your shoulder. “Thank you. I will see you again soon.”

His form rippled and extended into a massive, serpentine dragon. Its scales reflected opalescently in the sunlight and his antlers gleamed like metal. There were gasps around you, but your eyes were fixed only on him. He looked back at you with a surprising amount of affection for a draconic face, then he swooped upward and vanished. You stared as he vanished into the sky, awe swelling in your chest. “See you again soon,” you said, half to yourself. “And thank you, too.”

[mianavs]

Queen of Peace

Oh, the king / Gone mad within his suffering / Called out for relief / Someone cure him of his grief

His only son / Cut down, but the battle won / Oh, what is it worth / When all that's left is hurt

“Queen of Peace” by: Florence + The Machine

knight!Osamu x queen!reader, royalty/historical au, forbidden love

tw: smut, oral (f!receiving), breeding, angst (of course)

a/n: a super self-indulgent fic inspired by the aforementioned song, a fanart of knight!osamu i reblogged a while back, and my undying love for historical fiction; tagging: @hqintheclub​

ty: all my love to @rosesandtoshi @oneblonded​ and @liaslight​ for taking the time to beta read this!

wc: 6.3k+

bg: Kingdoms are named after regions in Japan (ones mentioned to are Chubu, Tohoku, Kanto, and Kansai). These kingdoms are then divided into provinces which are named after Japanese prefectures (Hyogo). Haikyuu schools are used as titles of nobility (Duke of Fukurodani, Marquess of Itachiyama)

The roar of the blowing horn broke you out of your trance; it’s thunderous cry signaled the arrival of the King and his soldiers. Your heart swelled with relief, and you swiftly set aside your needlework before leaving your rooms to greet them. Your ladies, who sat around you in a semicircle with their own needlework, mimicked your movements and fell in line behind you as you exited door after door before finally reaching the main corridor.

“Don’t you wish to change into a different gown, Your Majesty?”

You paused at the sudden inquiry from one of your ladies and glanced down at your simple black gown. “We are still in mourning. This gown is more than appropriate.”

You resumed your trek to greet the King leaving the other ladies who took it upon themselves to reprimand the one that had interrupted you. While you would never show it, you were relieved that you still had some semblance of control over your ladies despite your unpopularity amongst the courtiers. An unpopularity that had plagued you ever since you left Hyogo five years ago by order of the Kansai King to marry the widowed King of Kanto.

With each step you took, unease swirled in your navel and your throat tightened. It’d been a long war against the neighboring Chubu kingdom. One that had taken their king and your kingdom’s heir.

Prince Shoyo had been the King’s only child by his beloved first wife, a Tohoku princess, and his pride and joy. Nicknamed the ‘Kingdom’s Sun’, he had been admired by his peers, respected by the Council, and loved by the people. Even you, his stepmother despite being of age, had found comfort in the amiable prince who had never treated you unkindly. The news of his death had sent the kingdom into a panic and the courtier’s scrutinizing eyes once again fell on your stomach that had yet to swell with child.

“My Queen, are ya unwell?”

The turbulent thoughts that had clouded your mind the entire way to the palace’s front entrance cleared the moment that rich accented voice resonated in the foyer. There in the middle stood your childhood friend and sworn sword that had made the journey to a foreign kingdom without you asking, Osamu Miya.

You instinctively gravitated toward him as if tethered to his armor by an invisible string that pulled you closer, until he was just an arm’s length away. His thick brows knitted together and a frown was etched on his face as he studied yours. You offered him a small smile that might’ve fooled anyone else but not Osamu who knew you better than anyone. He pursed his lips but, nonetheless, went down on one knee, took your hand, and pressed a chaste kiss on the back of it. The warmth that radiated off of his touch and kiss spread like honey over your heart and soothed your nerves.

“I am fine,” you replied when Osamu rose to his feet and took his place on your left. “We should go. The King must not be kept waiting.”

Beneath your grief over the loss of Shoyo, there had been a flicker of hope for a renaissance in your marriage; your already precarious position depended on it. If you could only give the King an heir, then you wouldn’t be seen as the useless foreign queen anymore.

So when you steeled yourself against the autumn chill and saw the King’s banners billowing in the wind, you were determined to lie with your husband for the first time since your wedding night. Even when the old King struggled to dismount his horse, cursed his bad leg, hobbled over to you, and patted your head with the affection usually reserved for a daughter instead of a wife, you plastered a warm smile on your face while your hands fisted the skirts of your dress in frustration.

“Welcome home, My King,” you greeted with your deepest curtsy. “A humble feast is being prepared to celebrate your return. The official mourning processions will begin tomorrow.”

At the mention of mourning, the King’s mouth set into a hard line while his eyes glazed over. “You have worked hard, Y/N. Thank you.”

“Your Majesty is too kind. I am merely doing my duty.”

The King’s greying brow furrowed at your mention of duty before nodding once. “Of course. I am afraid my leg will not let me attend the feast, but I trust you will be there in my stead.”

“You can rest assured that I will be the most gracious host, My King.” You replied, hiding your disappointment over the news of his absence. Like all things involving you, the King was oblivious and continued his labored tread to the palace.

It was only when the King was outside of your field of view that Osamu, steadfast and true, asked after your well-being.

“Are ya alright, My Queen?”

You could feel his steel grey eyes burning the side of your face but kept your gaze fixed on the King’s ghostly trail.

“Of course,” you replied but neither of you believed it.

The welcome feast went by as you’d expected. The war-weary soldiers ate and drank their fill but there was none of the merriment and banter that usually filled the dining hall. The King and Prince’s absence weighed heavily on everyone’s mind including yours, so any conversations that took place were done in hushed voices that didn’t travel beyond its participants.

Yet it seemed that even the soldiers fresh from battle and with a plethora of personal issues already plaguing them had enough time to worry over the lack of an heir. Their eyes occasionally flickered over to your empty womb with varying degrees of concern and disappointment. When they became too into their cups and their stares more shameless, you wiped your mouth and excused yourself from the feast to a chorus of half-hearted ‘goodnights’.

Even in your rooms with your ladies readying you for bed, you couldn’t stop thinking about the burdening stares of the feast. So after your ladies finished and excused themselves for the night, you wrapped yourself in a thick robe and made your way to the King’s chambers on the other side of the palace.

Heavy footsteps echoed against the stone floors and you didn’t need to look back to know who it was.

“I do not need an escort, Sir Osamu.”

“It’s late, My Queen. Ya shouldn’t go off wandering by yourself even if it’s to see the King.” Osamu retorted, disapproval lacing his words.

You turned around to face him. “I am trying to do my duty.” You informed him and fixed him with a hard stare.

“So am I,” he declared and moved closer until you saw the determination and something else reflecting off his grey orbs. You knew better than to argue with Osamu when he was being stubborn, so you let out a defeated sigh and resumed your walk to the King’s chambers with your knight in tow.

The two guards outside the King’s door announced you before the King gave his approval. The large mahogany door opened and you walked in, ignoring the knowing stares of Osamu and the other two. You knew your bold actions were improper, but you were done waiting for the King to make the first move. Strengthening your resolve as you walked through the antechamber, you straightened your back and took a deep breath before entering the King’s bedchamber.

The room was dimly lit while the stench of liquor and medicinal herbs permeated the air. You spotted the king sitting at his breakfast table; one hand around an empty glass and the other buried in his thinning locks of hair. As you made your way to him, the moonlight shone on his aged face and reflected the tears that stained his cheeks. It was only when you sunk into a low curtsy that he noticed your presence.

“My King,” you greeted demurely. “I came to…see how you were doing.”

It was a lie, but seeing the King devastated with grief cracked your determination. The King glanced up at you and your heart clenched painfully at the sight. He looked lost with bloodshot eyes, trembling lips, and a furrowed brow.

“M-my son,” he croaked, voice dripping with sorrow. “My Shoyo…is gone.”

Tears blurred your vision and you rushed forward to embrace the desolate king. You wrapped your arms around his neck and pressed his head against your chest and mourned the loss of his son together.

In the end, your plans were for naught. You helped the drunken King to his bed and stroked his hair until he fell into a deep slumber. It was then that you should’ve left his bedchamber to return to yours, but you couldn’t find the will to do it. Gossip would run rampant in the palace the next morning, and your reputation would only get dragged through the mud for being a useless queen that couldn’t even seduce her own husband.

So, on a whim, you removed your robe and tossed it on an empty chair before lying next to the King.

You woke up at the crack of dawn and left before the sun’s rays spilled into the bedchamber. Throwing one last glance at the sleeping king, you offered him a silent apology before retrieving your robe and exiting his chambers.

The same guards from the night before greeted you with a bow, but Osamu was nowhere to be seen. Ignoring the strange pit in your stomach, you wished the guards ‘good morning’ and set off to your chambers. On the way, you passed by scores of maids, manservants, and guards who looked at your attire and exchanged looks. It was all proof that your ploy had been successful, and you made the long walk back with your head held higher and your back straighter than ever before.

But the satisfaction from your triumph was cut short when you found Osamu in your antechamber. He appeared agitated as his eyes swept over your appearance, lingering on your mussed hair and thin shift. Under his heavy gaze, you became conscious just how scantily-clad you were dressed and wrapped the robe tighter around your form.

Osamu approached you until he stood next to you, facing the door. Heat radiated from his body and enveloped you in it until it seeped into your bones, sparking something in the pit of your stomach. You could have stayed there for hours just basking in the warmth of his presence, but he spoke and broke your trance.

“Did ya get what ya wanted?” His cold tone was ladened with judgement and it bothered you beyond reason.

“Yes,” you admitted. “For the most part.”

His head whipped in your direction but you kept your gaze fixed on the door leading to your bedchamber. You could almost hear the opening and closing of his jaw, but instead of asking his question, Osamu walked out of your chambers, leaving you alone with your bittersweet triumph.

Just when you dared hope for a brighter future, your world fell apart with the death of the King just two days after Shoyo’s funeral. He’d been dealt a deadly blow by a wild boar during a hunting trip and passed away before a physician could arrive. It was the explanation the mob of courtiers offered you, and before you could wrap your head around the situation, a voice piped up amidst the courtiers.

“The King is dead! Long live the Queen!”

A couple of moments passed before a weak chorus echoed that call, falling to one knee in the process. Their declaration should have filled you with joy, but the conflict on their faces as they exchanged looks only added to your already perilous situation.

The late King hadn’t even been in the ground for a day when the Council called for a meeting with you, the acting ruler of the kingdom. Exhausted as you were by the funeral processions as well as your new duties as regent, you mustered all your strength and courage before the impressive double doors of the throne room opened, and you were announced.

“Her Majesty, the Queen!”

The smell of cologne and musk filled your nostrils as you walked into that room full of critical men ready to tear you down like a pack of wolves. Your crown felt heavier than usual and your neck ached, but you continued until you reached the dais and lowered yourself unto the cold throne.

Rearranging your skirts, you looked up to find the leader of the faction that opposed you opening his mouth to speak. Unwilling to be shamed so early into the meeting, you spoke first.

“Let us begin.” You turned to one of the dukes of the neutral faction, “What is the topic of this meeting, Your Grace?”

“The matter of succession, Your Majesty.”

You bit back a sneer. You knew this discussion would take place sooner rather than later, but you couldn’t help feeling amused by their impatience in limiting your time in power.

“As a foreigner, you must not be aware of the importance of an heir with royal blood flowing through their veins.” A member of the opposing faction spoke out and the insult was not missed by anyone in the room, including you. Fueled by indignation, you placed a hand over your stomach and watched surprise flash across each of the faces in that room.

“After five years of living in this kingdom as your queen, I am perfectly aware of the importance of a Kanto heir. The late Prince Shoyo might be gone, but a direct heir could very well be growing inside me as we speak!”

The room broke out in an uproar between the factions. The men exchanged glares, insults, and accusations that went beyond you and into the deep-rooted political ideologies that separated them. Agitated by their emotional outburst, you were about to call for order when a voice from the opposition beat you to it.

“Gentleman!” Kotarou Bokuto, the Duke of Fukurodani, spoke up and stepped out of the crowd. “Let us convene on the matter at hand.”

His golden eyes brazenly met yours the way they always had during your prior reunions. His display only showed that he had no more respect for you than when you were just queen consort and you did your best to hide your embarrassment.

“A course of action regarding the future of our kingdom must be adopted.” The leader of the opposition declared, his lips twitching with the beginnings of a smirk. “A time limit must be placed for the Queen to see if she is indeed with child. If the Queen does not show the signs of pregnancy after the allotted time period, I believe we should decide on an heir here and now!”

“And who, pray tell, do you deem worthy of being declared the Kanto heir if the blood of the late King is not growing in my womb?” You inquired despite already knowing who they would name.

“The Duke of Fukurodani, as nephew to the late King, would be the most suited for that title.”

“That is only if the Queen is not carrying the late King’s child.” From the crowd of the neutral faction, the Marquess of Itachiyama, Kiyoomi Sakusa, stepped out and bowed to you before re-addressing the opposition. “A trial period of six months should be an adequate amount of time to see if the Queen is with child.”

Muttering filled the room as the factions debated Sakusa’s proposition amongst themselves and with each other before the room settled and the leader of the opposition spoke once again.

“The factions accept the time period suggested by Itachiyama and the declaration of Fukurodani as heir if, and only if, Your Majesty is not with child.”

They presented this to you as if you had a choice in the matter when in reality, all you could do was agree to their conditions with a smile like the powerless ruler you were.

“Very well. The matter of succession has been settled and this meeting is now adjourned!” You declared, gazing across the room to find a pair of gleaming golden eyes already on you.

Your resolve was crumbling like your future as queen and your relationship with Osamu. It’d been less than a week since that heated encounter in your chambers and the two of you had yet to discuss the emotions that had fueled it.

As your sworn sword, Osamu still carried out his duties in accompanying you everywhere you went, but there was now a divide between the two of you. It was that divide that stopped you from actively seeking him out to confide in him the way you had over the last ten years of your friendship.

The meeting with the Council had been the last straw regarding your newfound loneliness and as soon as the two of you left the throne room, you turned to Osamu.

“We need to tal—”

“Your Majesty!”

Kotarou Bokuto’s booming voice called out and you turned around to find him followed by his advisor and close confidante, Keiji Akaashi, approaching you from the throne room. He was resplendent in the navy-blue and gold colors of his duchy and walked with a confidence that was befitting of his station—perhaps even more.

“Would you be able to set aside some time for myself and Akaashi? We’d like to discuss some things with you.” His friendly manner of speaking had fooled you long ago, but you knew better now and regarded him with skepticism.

“Pray tell, what exactly do we need to discuss?” You asked, unable to hide your annoyance at being interrupted.

“I’m sure you already know what it is.” Akaashi interjected and you thought it was about time the real mastermind behind Bokuto spoke up.

“Watch your tongue!” Osamu growled, taking a protective stance in front of you. Akaashi held his ground for a moment before backing down and you placed a hand on Osamu’s shoulder. He peered down at you with brows knit and his mouth twisted into a confused frown. You offered him a reassuring look and nodded once before he stepped aside. Turning to Bokuto and Akaashi, who regarded you with mild amusement, you offered them a forced smile.

“Follow me to my office, gentlemen. We will be able to talk at ease there.” You said and led them through the palace to the late King’s office that had been taken over by you.

Once inside and settled at the sitting area in the middle of the room, tea was brought up and served for you and the two men seated across from you. After taking a sip and wetting your tongue with the mild brew, you set down your cup and gave the gentlemen your undivided attention.

“Well then, I suppose you wish to discuss the succession?” You stated, cutting straight to the chase.

“We have a proposition for you, Your Majesty.” Bokuto replied, crossing his arms across his chest. “One that could very well save you from ruin.”

“Oh, how so?” You asked, feigning indifference while clasping your hands together to stop them from trembling.

“When your trial period is over and it is proven that you are in fact not with child, I would be willing to make you an offer of matrimony. Think about it, you could avoid returning to your kingdom a disgraced bride and continue being the queen—my queen.”

His proposition was beyond anything you’d imagined and a heavy weight set onto the pit of your stomach. You should’ve been outraged. You should’ve thrown them out of your office for even suggesting such an outrageous thing. You should have said anything except what you ended up asking.

“And this…arrangement would benefit you, how?”

“Despite what you may think, I believe you have done a wonderful job as the late King’s consort. I have no desire to take a risk with another woman when you are already the dutiful and reserved woman I am looking for.”

His words came out as compliments but all you heard were disparaging remarks about your person that left a bitter taste in your mouth. You turned to Akaashi to see if he was actually in agreement with the outlandish things Bokuto was spouting only to find a pleased smile gracing his lips. You sat there aghast as you realized Akaashi had no doubt been the one to plant the idea into Bokuto’s head. A shiver ran down your spine as the magnitude of Akaashi’s ambition manifested itself in the shape of the Kanto Kingdom’s throne. While it was true you weren’t the perfect queen, you refused to let yourself be used by anyone else and decided to take matters into your own hands with the help of your closest ally.

“I am afraid you will have to find someone else to be your duchess, Your Grace.” You unclasped your hands and laid them daintily over your lap. “Now, if you will excuse me, I have much work to do.”

For your plan to work, time was of the essence. The first chance you got to escape the endless paperwork you were stuck with as ruler, you dismissed your ladies and walked into the forest on the outskirts of the palace grounds with a silent Osamu following you. Deep within the forest was a grassy clearing with a flattened boulder in the middle that resembled a bench. It had become your sanctuary since your arrival five years ago that only you and Osamu knew about. While you had been too busy since Shoyo’s death to pay it a visit, you couldn’t think of a more adequate place to deliver your treasonous request to Osamu and see it through.

The vibrantly colored autumn leaves that adorned the trees had started to fall and created a blanket of deep red, burnt orange, and golden yellow on the ground that crackled with each step you took. Like the trees, you were determined to shed your old reservations to make way for the new risks you would take to be the master of your own fate. Taking in a ragged breath and drawing your woolen cloak closer to your form, you turned around and faced your devoted knight.

“Before anything else, I have something to confess to you. The King did not touch me that night. He fell asleep and I-I stayed the night.” Your voice thickened with emotion as you watched Osamu’s steel grey eyes widen with each word that fell from your lips.

“I thought that by making everyone else believe he did my reputation at court would improve. But now the King is gone and my womb is empty despite what I have told everyone including Bokuto.”

“I-I don’t understand wh—”

You rushed to him and took his gloved hands into yours. “You know as well as I do that returning home as a disgraced bride is not an option for me. In the best-case scenario, I will be stripped of my status and sent into exile with only the clothes on my back.”

“W-what are ya trying to say?” Osamu asked and tears welled up in your eyes from the worry that laced his voice and showed on his face.

“What I am asking of you is a dangerous, treasonous, and immoral thing. It is selfish of me but I am unable to come up with another solution. I will not demand anything of you. If you are not willing then we can forget that any of this happened for my punishment will be delivered in six months’ time.”

“Y/N, please, what do ya want from me?”

“A child. I-I ask that you give me a child to save me from ruin.” Tears fell from your eyes as you closed them, unable to look at Osamu after voicing your treacherous request.

Osamu said nothing. For a long stretch of time the only sounds you could hear were the whistling of the wind, the rustling of leaves, and your thundering heart. Dread washed over you the longer your childhood friend remained silent. Your breathing became strained as a lump lodged itself into your throat. You kept your eyes closed to avoid seeing the scorn that no doubt showed on his face.

“I’ll do it.”

Your eyes snapped open at the sound of his voice, and you saw no contempt from the man before you. He looked at you as if you were the most precious being in the world. All your fears were dispelled when he raised your hands and pressed your knuckles to his lips. Instead of the comforting warmth his chaste kisses usually brought you, this kiss set your skin ablaze and a flush traveled all the way up to your face.

“Th-thank you, Samu.” You whispered, noticing the small smile that graced his lips at your use of his nickname. “I promise you that no harm shall ever come to you from this. This is my sin and mine alone.”

“Y/N, I have to t—”

“We have to be quick about this.” You interrupted and retracted your hands from his grasp to start working on the ties of your robe. Then just before the garment could fall to the ground, Osamu caught it with his hands. You looked up to find disapproval etched on his face while something darker lurked in his stormy eyes that sent a dull ache to your core.

“Not here. I’ll do it but not here.” He said resolutely as he pulled your robe over your shoulders and went to work fastening the ties. “You deserve better.”

You wanted to challenge him on that. You wanted to remind him that what you wanted to do was treason. You wanted to brand yourself as a harlot because that was what everyone else would’ve called you. But Osamu’s fingers were as gentle as his gaze while he worked and all you could manage was a whispered ‘thank you’ as you blinked away a fresh set of tears.

The two of you agreed on that night. You would dismiss your ladies and Osamu would guard your door alone that night. Then when the palace was asleep, he would join you in your bedchamber to carry out the task and return to his post before anyone took notice. It was hardly a fool-proof plan, but it was a risk you were willing to take as you had nothing to lose and everything to gain.

Despite that belief, panic creeped under your skin as you sat in your antechamber on the cushioned bench beside your window. You tried working but you were unable to focus and left the pile of paperwork at the table. You even tried picking up your needlework only to prick your finger enough times to draw blood while completing a couple sloppy stitches. In the end, all you could do was wait for him while pressing on your bleeding finger—a miniscule punishment for the enormous transgression you were about to commit.

 A singular knock broke your reverie. You rushed to open the door and pulled Osamu into the room before closing the door behind him.

“Was there anyone lurking nearby?” You asked, still holding onto his hand.

“No one, My Queen.” He replied, his voice a low rasp that sent shivers down your spine.

“Call me by my name,” you insisted before pulling him along to your bedchamber.

Except for the dim light from a couple of candles, your room was dark and you found that you preferred it that way. It was easier to forget your shame under the cover of darkness. You led him to your bed before you sat on the edge and waited for him to make the first move—except he didn’t.

“We do not have much time, Samu.” You breathed and glanced up at him only to find a pained expression on his face that made your blood run cold. “I-Is something the matter?”

“Before we start, I’ve something to confess.” He admitted and the creases on his brow deepened. “The reason I followed ya here five years ago and agreed to do this is because I-I love ya.”

His confession reverberated off the stone walls and echoed in your ears. You sat motionless on the bed while your mind revisited all of your interactions to try to make sense of his words. It didn’t take long for you to come to the same conclusion after thinking back to the gentleness of his words that never waned, the adoration in his eyes every time they fell on your form. You also recalled the worry he’d shown for you after Shoyo’s death and the dark emotion you could now recognize as jealousy that had swirled in his orbs after returning from the King’s bedchamber. It was then that you unlocked a hidden box of emotions toward Osamu. The immense comfort you felt in just seeing him. The warmth that spread whenever he pressed kisses to your hands. The ache in your belly when his eyes would darken with what you now knew was desire. They were all emotions you had never felt towards anyone except Osamu and you finally knew why.

“I love you too,” you revealed, not just to him but to yourself as well. “I-I think I always have.”

He released a shaky breath before gently cradling your face in his rough hands. Even in the flickering candlelight, you could still make out the unadulterated love behind his gaze. It was a love that had always been there, lurking beneath loyalty and honor, but at the same time, it was also new and filled you with excitement at the prospect of experiencing an emotion you’d renounced on your wedding night.

Osamu leaned forward until his forehead rested against yours and his nose was just a hair's-width away. He released a ragged breath that fanned over your face and caused goosebumps to rise over the expanse of your skin. You breathed him in, his scent a mixture of earthy musk and leather that you wanted more of.

“C-can I kiss ya?”

His question came out in a strained husky voice that ignited a flame in the pit of your stomach, and you answered by pressing your lips against his tentatively. A moment passed before Osamu took the lead and parted your mouth with a swipe of his tongue on your lower lip. You had never known what a kiss felt like and Osamu was more than willing to teach you. He explored your mouth and groaned in approval when you reciprocated. His kiss stoked up the flames burning within your core. An overwhelming need to close the distance between you rose and your hands found purchase on the hem of his tunic before they delved underneath the coarse material and made contact with his skin.

He broke away from your mouth with a hiss. “Wait,” he panted. “N-not yet.”

Before you could ask Osamu what he meant, he knelt down and pressed a loving kiss to your ankle. A furious flush spread across your face, down your neck, and underneath your thin shift. His eyes drank in your reaction and you felt him smile against your sensitive skin before traveling up your leg, leaving a trail of kisses in his wake.

When he reached your inner thigh, he sucked on the flesh and you clasped a hand over your mouth to stifle a moan. He pressed a soft kiss on the spot before repeating the same process on the other leg. By the time he marked your other thigh, both of your legs were trembling and desire pooled between your legs. 

You felt him move again and panic tore through you as you bunched up your shift to see if he was doing what you thought he was—and sure enough, he was.

The protest on your lips was replaced with a heady moan when his tongue flattened over your slit and moved up until it reached a spot you were well-acquainted with. It was the spot your fingers would travel to late at night after having a little too much wine before bed. You quickly discovered that your clumsy fingers were nothing compared to Osamu’s mouth that alternated between sucking and flicking at the engorged flesh with his hot tongue.

His calloused hands trailed up your thighs and spread them apart while your hands pressed against the mattress to steady you. Just when you felt your release building, he surprised you by slowly pushing one of his digits inside of you. What had once been uncomfortable on your wedding night was now a tantalizing sensation that only increased with each finger Osamu added and dragged against your fleshy walls.

You quickly came apart on his fingers and mouth, your entire body shuddering as the waves of pleasure washed over you. Panting and flushed, you peered down to find Osamu’s mouth twisted into a grin and covered in your release. The sight was as immoral as it was entrancing. It was a sight you never wanted to forget; one you wanted to keep for yourself. At that moment, you knew exactly what you wanted and decided to take it.

You took off your shift in one swift movement and tossed it to the ground, your eyes never leaving his. As he worked on removing his own clothing, you crawled back onto your bed and watched him with hungry eyes. When he was as bare as you were, he joined you and settled between your already parted legs.

He looked big, but then again, you weren’t really sure what could be considered big, having long forgotten the only other one you knew. Tearing your gaze from it, you looked up at Osamu to find a silent question on his face. You broke into a smile at his concern and nodded your consent. Leaning one arm next to your head, he drew your lips into a passionate kiss before lining himself up and slowly pushing inside of you.

There was a mild sting but nothing compared to the pain of your wedding night. When sheathed himself completely, you wrapped your legs around him and whispered into his ear.

“I love you.”

Your words seemed to spur him on and he groaned into your ear, pulling out only to fill you up again. He made love to you in deep languid strokes that opened you up to a whole new world of sensations. Each stroke, each press, each kiss, built up another release and all you could do was drag your nails down his back and meet his thrusts with your own.

Your second release was even more potent than the first. You cried out and threw your head back onto the pillows while Osamu quickly reached his. He buried his face into the crook of your neck to muffle his groans as he filled you with his seed—a sensation you’d never experienced before—and held you even after he’d given you everything he had.

For the longest time, all you heard was the evening of your breaths and the synchronized beating of your hearts. You ran soothing circles over the scratches you’d given him while he pressed sweet kisses to your cheek, neck, and shoulder. In the aftermath of your lovemaking, it was so easy to forget titles and circumstances. You were just two lovers on that bed and there was nothing you wouldn’t give to make it a reality.

Unfortunately, your life was anything but a fairytale, and you shifted beneath Osamu who seemed to get the message.

“I should go,” he murmured but not before pressing another kiss to your lips. One that you were more than willing to reciprocate. It was not nearly as long as you wished, but you held back a whine when he ended it and climbed off your bed. You drank in the sight of him underneath the pale moonlight as he slipped on his tunic and breeches, remembering how the planes of his body had felt against your hands, legs, and torso. As he laced his boots, you looked around the room for your shift only to find it on the floor at the foot of your bed. You shifted only to feel the sticky and wet residue between your legs and froze on the spot.

“C-could you hand me my shift?” You asked, just as Osamu rose to his feet fully clothed. “I do not want to risk—”

“Of course,” he replied before you could finish. He picked up the thin garment and brought it to you while pressing a kiss on your temple. “Sleep well, Y/N.”

It was just a glance, but you saw his grey eyes flicker to your bare stomach before swallowing and leaving through the door you’d pulled him through earlier that night. Your fingers ghosted over your navel and you wondered if he wanted it just as much as you did. After slipping on your shift, you pressed your legs together and lied back down while thoughts of a child with your looks and his character filled your head until sleep overtook you.

The six months of your trial period came to an end with little to no backlash from the Council. The neutral faction led by Sakusa watched you with satisfied expressions as you made your way up to the dais while the opposing faction grumbled amongst themselves but didn’t challenge you outright. You saw Bokuto and Akaashi with smiles that didn’t meet their eyes and responded by placing a protective hand over your protruding stomach that was still quite noticeable despite your loose-fitting gown.

Your attention was drawn back to the throne before you thanks to the gentle squeeze on your left hand. Turning slightly, you saw the hint of a smile on your knight and lover’s face and let his presence soothe you in the way it always had. So with Osamu by your side and his child growing inside your womb, you sat on the throne and watched over your subjects with your hand resting on your stomach as they shouted:

“Long live the Queen!”

[amethystpath-writes]

P2 A Nice Catch

Part 1 here

(NOT A PROMPT)

Oooh, A Nice Catch was *chef's kiss*. Could you continue it? Maybe completely, not thinking straight, grief-stricken villain goes after Supervillain and the supervillain hurts him because the villain is very dangerous/angry and then maybe the Supervillain has to caretaker because they have a bleeding, sobbing villain at his feet.

Sorry if that seems bossy or specific, but i really loved the piece and my brain went haywire with all the possible endings. But do whatever you want to.

Not bossy at all <3

******

Flashing red lights on a Saturday. Supervillain sighed. The sound was probably the most obnoxious part of it all. No matter. Needs to be dealt with. Even his thoughts were gruff and tired. He would never admit it to anyone else but tracking down that little rat and weakening her was difficult. No wonder Villain struggled with her so much. Doesn’t explain how he developed feelings for someone so righteous though.

‘I don’t know what your life has entailed but there are other ways of healing. I can help you.’ Hero had said to him upon being captured.

Healing. Supervillain scoffed as he urged himself off the couch, turning the television off, and flipping off the lights, trying to make the quarters look vacant. There were various other electronics still on, but they were necessary for security- which was currently blaring.

I don’t need healing. I need power. Power to take down all those shitty, rich neighbourhoods. What good were they when so many people were left on the streets, starving, and begging for pocket change? The rich didn’t care, and for it they would perish. Villain used to agree.

Now, Villain was bent on a ‘The rich are a necessary part of the economy. Without them, there would be a middle class and the rest of the economy profits off the middle class,’ idea.

With a grumble, Supervillain left his lounging area, walking instead to the monitor room.

“Camera one, good. Camera two, fine. Cam three. Four. Five. Six. Then why the hell are the alarms going off?”

Not a single room revealed even a twitch of movement or a breeze to rattle lobby plants.

Ker-pshhh. The radio. The only other people working right now were part of the security faction. Meaning, Supervillain needed to respond, especially since the radio was going off. He grabbed the speaker off the side of the metal box and brought it to his mouth while holding the button. “What is it?” It no doubt had to do with the alarms.

“Sir? There’s been a breach in Building 2, third hall monitoring room. One body confirmed to be dead.”

“Any others?”

“No response from Radios 8 through 13. I’m in room Fourteen now…Sir? I think I’m next.”

Supervillain pinched his brow. “Have you gotten into contact with Buildings 3 and 4 yet?”

“No response from them. I’d gotten the alert from Radio 21 and sent it to Building 1 as soon as I got it. I don’t know who it is, Sir, but if they’ve made it as far as they have then I’m afraid-”

There was a crash on the other end of the radio before it cut out. Supervillain cursed under his breath before slamming a hand on the counter before him. He squeezed the button on the radio. “Whoever you are,” Supervillain growled into the speaker, “you’re dead.”

Silence.

Silence.

Silence.

Ker-pshhh.

“Oh, I’m very much alive,” a voice said. A voice which made Supervillain groan and slap his forehead with the blunt of his hand.

“Villain, what the hell are you doing?” His voice was more disappointed than anything and he released yet another groan. “Don’t tell me this is because of the rat.”

It didn’t take a second for Villain to respond. “She isn’t a rat.”

Isn’t. Oh boy, this was a case of grief, wasn’t it? “You didn’t dress her up and put her in your kitchen to eat breakfast with, did you?” Supervillain joked. “Probably had to spritz her with some of your cologne a few times, huh? Would smell like rotten meat otherwise.”

“You must want me to kill you. It’s why you tried to kill her, isn’t it? Isn’t it? You’re sick of living this sad and vengeful life, so you did the one thing that would piss me off enough to do this- to sabotage your own business.”

“Villain, old buddy, you’re in over your head.” A sigh. “I killed her, alright? She’s dead.” Supervillain refrained from calling Hero a rat for another time, seeing as it sent Villain over the edge. “And it was for your own good. You were becoming weak, and your business was falling because of it. Do you even realize how much fell apart all because you let her slither into your heart?”

“The old boxing pit on Third Street,” Supervillain explained, “underwent construction shortly before you were about to buy it. You know what was left at the scene- what the media didn’t cover? A mallet with Hero’s DNA on the handle. She smacked at the foundation, Villain, until it was bad enough to need repaired. What’d you go and do then? You bought a greenhouse instead- reported to your employees that it would benefit them because they wouldn’t need to go buy a lunch for themselves. She manipulated you, Villain, into someone you’re not.”

“She helped me become the best person I could be,” Villain gritted out, but his voice sounded with an echo. Supervillain paid it little mind.

“The rat changed your priorities.”

“They needed to be changed.” Supervillain squeezed his eyes shut, grimacing at the door slamming against a wall as Villain came crashing in. Well, that’s why I heard his voice twice. Once through a radio, and second through the door.

“That’s gonna cost you, but I tell you what.” Supervillain spun on a heel and told Villain, “You go in halfsies and I’ll let this whole thing slide.”

Nothing could have stopped the fist which Villain sent towards Supervillain, one nearly bone-crushing. One which sent Supervillain staggering back into his radio, pushing it up against the wall with a bang.

“I’m the one in the position to grant mercy, not you.” Villain began walking towards Supervillain as he regained himself but as Villain raised a fist, his old friend launched a hand of his own forward, grasping it tightly. In Villain’s shock, he lacked the response to pull away, and was instead pulled towards Supervillain while being turned, his back flush against Supervillain’s chest, his arm skewered behind his own back.

Of course, Villain fought against his old friend, wanting nothing other than to send another fast-flying fist in Supervillain’s face…or his groin.

“Villain. Villain, hey!” This made the more vengeful of the two cease his struggle. “Look, I know you’re mad, alright? You loved the ra- Hero, and you were blinded by that love, so much so that it clouded your judgement. It happens to the best of us, Villain.”

“You killed her.” Villain gave another jerk, this time with a tear in his eye. Realizing such raw emotion was leaking out, he corrected himself with a shout, “She was everything I had!”

Supervillain sighed, tightening his grip as Villain continued fighting him. “Yeah…you said that one before.” Supervillain let go, not waiting a moment before pushing Villain’s back, causing him to stumble forward, nearly passing through the door which he left open when he so rudely barged in. “Villain, listen to me, bud. You are better off without her. That love you felt was going to cause you to lose everything you worked so hard to build, and even if that weren’t the result, you would always have this internal conflict- to do-”

“To do the right or wrong thing?” Villain seethed, righting himself against the doorframe which Supervillain pushed him towards. “Supervillain, we’ve been doing wrong this whole time! Nothing we have done has been good by any moralistic means. We kill people.”

We kill people. Supervillain could almost laugh at the irony. “You killed at least one of my men today. One, which was confirmed out of twenty-eight. You’re just as bad as me.”

“Because you killed the one person in this world I could ever find myself loving.”

“You depended on her dammit! Don’t you see what I’m seeing? You don’t even know who you are without her coaxing her own ideas into your ear. You needed this. You needed her gone.”

“I needed her.” Villain’s voice finally broke like the day Hero was killed, when she was shoved through without remorse, discarded like a candy wrapper, and called a ‘rat’ without pause. “I needed her, and you stole her from me.”

Can’t bring her back, now, can I? But Supervillain didn’t say this, for he knew it was entirely pointless. Villain would just keep repeating those same few phrases, which Supervillain heard as, ‘I’m sad. You’re a monster and I can’t acknowledge myself as one. I miss my crutch and my ankle is always broken. Blah. Blah, blah. Blah, blah.’

“You need someone who you can rely on, who can rely on you just as easily, Villain.” Now onto the more sensitive topic once again. “I don’t remember you stepping forward to help Hero when she was shaking beneath my arm. You loved her, but not enough to sacrifice what we have here. We’re friends, Villain. We’ll always be friends. No one knows you as well as I and no one knows me as well as you.”

“Come sit down with me,” Supervillain finished. “In the lobby. I’ve got a few fridges, one with your name on it- literally. You stopped coming around, but I keep a stock of that weird soda you like.”

Supervillain was so casual, so friendly. It was as if he actually cared, had wanted to continue being friends, and had done everything he could to be friends. As much as him killing Hero hurt, as much as Villain wanted to hate him for it…it seemed as though Supervillain did it to help. Because Villain did rely on Hero, didn’t he? He looked to her for everything- even what food to buy. And the timing of the boxing pit was odd; what if Hero really did destroy it so that Villain would buy something else? Something that catered more to her own thoughts and reasoning than his own?

“I’ll sit down for one soda,” Villain said. “One.”

******

@digitalart-tw I considered being kind and bringing the Hero back. I really did. But the evil runs rampantly through my veins and knows no end.​

[ruby-whistler]

@dreamsclock 's winner takes it all au!! couldn't get the thought of the power dynamic that'd be between these three and just how messed up that would be out of my head. dream team my beloved.

no real tws; c!dream's just basically "won" during the disc war finale and is now a dictator and he's v screwed and it sucks. 1,333 words :]

The door creaked open, handle released by rigid gloved fingertips. Dream took a shaky breath upon seeing the living room abandoned, eerily quiet and empty. His steps echoed on the wooden floor, hand suspended above the handle of his sword - plagued by paranoia at the sight of calm, always expecting someone to jump out at him.

It was irrational. It was over. The world was his, and he wanted peace - and yet he was the one with armor, never putting it down, always glinting a sickly purple as a reminder of the power he holds.

It was the only way to be safe. There was hatred in the air as much as terror at his presence - he pretends not to hear the whispers in shadowy alleyways of the home he’s built conspiring to destroy itself from the inside out.

It was fine. He made sure it would be. They would stay fine as long as he was there to make them.

“Who’s there?” a half-hearted question sounded from overhead.

Steps landed on the stairs, the brunette stopping halfway down when his eyes landed on Dream - it was a stark contrast, George unarmed, Dream with a sword hanging sharp from his belt and not an inch of his body unprotected. His posture stiffened, although the other seemed unbothered.

“What do you want?”

It wasn’t accusatory - it was empty, tired. Maybe Dream understood, the procedure of getting the SMP back to its original form was exhausting for everyone, especially when it came to the sieging of items and relocation - but he was still frustrated with the response, and his fists felt twitchy.

The door opened and Dream spun around, alarmed. Sapnap put his hands up, brows furrowing - “I heard the commotion. Should I not have done that?” Dream shook his head, only now realizing he had half taken his sword out of the sheath. “No, no it’s fine.”

Silence bore into their ears, tension thick in the air.

It took Dream a moment to recollect why he had come here, and a while longer to find a way to say it that wouldn’t sound forceful - though that’s difficult when your subjects are standing defenseless, looking at you like a well-eqipped mob. Like the dictator you are.

I’m here to protect you, not hurt you, he wants to say. The universe doesn’t believe him, as it never has. And really, he hadn’t done much to gain their trust.

Pictures remained plastered on the walls of a small room, hidden in the back of the vault - he could return to that, now, knowing that he had it all back. He scanned over his friend’s face, a small smile peeking from under the mask - a gesture, one could say. It wasn’t real, merely a faded hope of a return of the authenticity that had once been present.

They looked different, on the pictures. Perhaps trying to replicate the past is why the present felt more like a shadow than anything.

Dream shuddered, attempting to shake off the heavy thoughts. He can’t despair, because that is when he loses. No second thoughts.

“It’s fine. Do you… would you guys want to go fishing? We can try find some goldfish and - put them in the community house pond.”

There was something short of unsettling that he couldn’t quite comprehend about people you hang onto the memories of being right in front of you, yet completely different. It felt like he had mourned the past a thousand times, but when it stood in front of him, it looked lifeless and faded.

Sapnap took a deep breath, leaning against the side of the doorway. Dream heard George take another step down the staircase - Sapnap nodded to him and approached Dream slowly, like one would a wounded animal, with sour grief in his expression.

“No. I don’t think we do - but since when has that mattered?”

“What do you mean by that?” Dream hissed back defensively, stepping back to glance between the two.

“Don’t play dumb, Dream,” George interrupts from behind, and Dream meets his glare with contempt. “Can’t you at least leave us alone? What more do you want from us?”

Sapnap made a horizontal cutting gesture in front of his neck in Dream’s peripheral vision. George didn’t falter.

Dream didn’t know the answer to that question.

He wanted unity… he wanted a family… he wanted everyone to be happy. He wanted his friends back. What… what did he want from them?

It felt like he’d forgotten, and he pushed the thoughts back with a new wave of anger - it’s what kept him going, it’s what left him at the forefront of people’s minds long after he’d leave, the air of quiet rage that followed after him.

“Fine.” He roughly pushed past Sapnap, who stumbled back and clutched his shoulder, hard metal and enchantments seemingly bruising him as he scowled. “I’m not gonna - I’m not gonna force you to do anything.” After everything that had happened, the words come out empty, but Dream didn’t care - he felt blinded with a strange shade of disgust.

I gave up everything for you, how dare they, a voice inside his head yelled, or did I give them up for everything?

He paused, hand pressing onto the doorframe as his chest lifted slowly - the armor is heavy, so heavy - as if waiting for a goodbye.

Instead he got a last glance at Sapnap sitting on the couch, rubbing his shoulder, hatred emanating from his fiery eyes; “Let me ask you a question,” he pushed out past clenched teeth, “is this what you wanted, Dream?”

He wanted to spit back, YES, he wanted to shout a thousand times over, lying to himself that his certainty comes from belief and not gnawing despair, imagining he achieved restoration while pushing the world around him deeper into the pit he had been falling into;

He shut the door closed behind him so hard splinters flew off the unpolished oak.

“Ungrateful idiots,” he muttered under his breath, and almost ended up pinning someone to the wall with a sword through the chest before he realized the man leaning onto polished stone of the fence had purple particles gently flying around his head and violet eyes watching him with unnerving calm.

He cursed under his breath as he drew back, reflexes faster than his senses and instincts stronger than reasoning.

He was safe. He wasn’t safe. It was like he was supposed to know and believe both at the same time, and it was confusing.

“Just me,” Ranboo said, looking unfazed, though with a closer look at him Dream saw his fingers clenched tightly an pupils widened. Not showing fear was a vital part of his battle training; Dream gave a self-satisfied hum and nodded.

“You look distracted, do you need to talk?” he asked with a smidge of concern. There was something strange about the way he looked at him, Dream just couldn’t place it - he shook his head, looking for a way out, away from people, away from everyone.

He just needed to make sure they were all taken care of. He just needed to make sure to stay on top.

“Can you check them for items today? Punz is in the nether looking for potion ingredients.”

Ranboo stepped away from the wall, stretching his hands up and then letting them fall to his side. “Sure, what about you, though?”

“I…” Dream reached into his pocket, hand grasping around a red, carefully packaged tube, “I need to go check on Tommy. He’s probably been getting lonely.” And what kind of friend does that make me?

“Alright then. Take care,” Ranboo’s voice lowered as he brushed past him towards George and Sapnap’s house, and Dream pulled out the dynamite, rolling it around in his hand as he began making his way towards Pandora’s Vault.

He had to lose everything to gain everything, but only when it was way too late did he realize, that somewhere along the way, everything changed.

[thisisarcanereverie]

Should’ve Known Chapter 7

DISCLAIMER: I don’t own Wanda or Steve they are owned by Marvel, I don’t own the gif either I just got it from Pinterest,

WARNINGS:Angst, Swearing, the stages of grief, loss, dark themes, 18 + from here on out. Also mentions of potential abortions.

WORDS : 2,329

SUMMARY: You are detained and questioned by S.W.O.R.D. Wanda reality is breaking and Vision is acting differently than she remembers.  

In case you missed last chapter

series masterlist 

ULTIMATE MASTERLIST 

You stared at the plain and depressing wall in front of you. If anyone saw you they would say you were staring into dead space but that wasn’t true. 

Your thoughts were consumed of Wanda and the baby. 

You didn’t plan on giving up on Wanda, she had woken up, it wasn’t long until her reality came crashing down on her and you needed to be there for her. You needed to help her with the pieces that were going to be left behind. 

Your hand rested on top of your stomach, gently brushing a thumb over the shirt. You didn’t know what the doctors did to you while you were unconscious, but you were certain that eventually they would find out if they hadn’t already. You still had mixed feelings about this pregnancy. You knew deep down it was likely the only time you will be pregnant and you can’t lie, already you felt a connection with the child even though at this point they were only a little clump of cells. 

This kid would be special, you felt it oddly enough. You immediately wanted to apologize even though it couldn’t hear you. You wanted to apologize for the life that they might have to live if that were the case. 

You remembered all the somber nights at the Avengers Tower and Compound. All the nights Steve told you he sort of missed being that boy from Brooklyn who always picked a fight he couldn’t win. He told you if he had known what would happen when he accepted the role of Captain America. He probably still would have done it, but still live on to regret it. 

Wanda had told you that she could never truly let go, she can never fully release all the emotions she kept bottled up. That people got hurt. That if she could go back and never sign up for HYDRA’s experiments, she would.

None of them wanted the life that they were forced into. Yeah some of them had volunteered like Wanda and Steve, but they didn’t fully realize the consequences of such actions then. 

Nat and Bucky never wanted this life, never signed on for it. 

Your child would be forced to the same fate if you allowed the pregnancy. 

You considered aborting the fetus, maybe it was better for it to never live than be born into this world. 

Were you even ready to be a mom? You had money saved up but that was for rent and the last of Steve’s avenging money that he had left behind. 

Steve. 

The kid would never know their father. Steve would always be that blank figure to them. That blank figure would be filled with so many questions and doubts. Everything but him. 

You didn’t want your kid to look at that blank spot and only think of what might have been or hate. You didn’t want them to think their dad left them because they didn’t love them. 

You thought back to the chair splintering under your hand when you remembered the pregnancy. 

You could easily hurt them and the thought alone terrified you. 

There were so many reasons on why you shouldn’t keep it, how maybe it was better this way. 

On the other hand you wanted to keep it. 

You wanted to be a mom. Or at least give it a shot, at least for this kid. Maybe you would break the cycle of abuse that either your parents or grandparents started. 

There was no maybe about it. 

You would. 

You had to. 

Rationally you knew you wouldn’t be a perfect mom and the kid wouldn’t have that perfect life you always wanted, but that didn’t matter. This kid would have their own life to live, their own adventures, their own highs and falls. This kid would have something that you didn’t receive and that alone would make all the difference. 

They’ll have their mother.

-

-

-

Wanda didn’t know when all of this started. The endless pit of nothingness consumed her and that was it. She remembers everything thus far, the black and white changing into colors. You support her through it all just as you did before. 

She wished she didn’t have to send you away but she had no other choice. You brought her back, made her remember that none of this was real. 

Wanda made a different version of you, it was simple enough, it was a simple illusion. You were there, but not there. 

This version of you was happy all the time, was her closest confidant, all the things she wanted you to be. Like how you used to be before Steve had left. 

Steve did a number on you just like Vision did with her. Steve left you in a different manner than Vision left her but the emotional toll it took was very much the same. 

Steve left you on his own terms, he was selfish and left everyone who was counting on him to return. For that Wanda would never trust Steve, real or not real, again. 

Vision didn’t have a choice, Thanos had taken that choice away from him. 

Wanda could feel her blood begin to boil at the thought of Thanos, wishing that she could have finished what she had started on that battlefield then. 

Avenging Vision. 

Wanda recalls the nightmares she had when she came back, the image of Vision's eyes turning milky white and the stone being ripped from his head and the way his head caved in. You would always hold her, you would always assure her that you were fine and that she hadn’t hurt you during the nightmares. She knew you lied but the thought that you cared enough that you didn’t mind her or getting hurt in the process helped a lot more than you would ever know. 

After the funeral Wanda didn’t know she was going to bring you back to her apartment. She didn’t know how more precious you would become to her after living with her. Wanda came to depend on you a lot more than she intended. At first she wanted to be kind, she knew the pain you were going through and didn’t want you to be alone. You didn’t deserve to be alone. 

Then you began to heal together, you sat with her while she was on the other end of the phone lines waiting for answers and filling out paperwork she needed to sign to legally locate Vision. You hugged her during her nightmares, even though her powers had more than once flown something dangerously close to your head. 

Wanda had held your hand when she helped you move out of the apartment you and Steve shared. She was simply there when you needed her to be. 

Wanda grew curious easily, after the first few nights she was tempted to look into your mind. She had mastered the art of doing it without anyone knowing. However, she wanted you to tell her, she promised herself to never use her powers on your mind. 

Now she had broken that promise and made you play your part in this reality, the best friend. Wanda didn’t read your mind but she had played with it. She had played with something so fragile and even when you woke up from her illusions you didn’t care about that. You had only cared about comforting her, about bringing her back from the waves. 

Wanda had no idea what she could possibly have done to deserve someone as loyal as you were in her life. 

But now she’s sent you away, like she did with Garladine. 

She walked into her home that she shared with Vision, her heart filled with something so bitter and so sweet when she looked at him. Like she was seeing the sun after a whole week of only rain and snow but knowing tomorrow there would only be more rain and snow. 

Vision turned around upon hearing the door close, Wanda was expecting to see him with that light and lovely look in his eyes just as he’s always done. She nearly stopped in her tracks when she saw instead nervousness and caution. He didn’t look at her the way Vision had always looked at her, or hell even how you looked at her. 

He looked at her the way that everyone else has looked at her before. 

Like she was going to hurt him. 

“Vision,” she called her voice as sweet as honey, “is everything alright.” Her husband flinched back when she tried to reach for him as though her touch had become poisonous. 

“I spoke to Norm,” He said his arms were crossed over his chest. His face contorted into a neutral state. Wanda felt unsettled, she felt him become reserved. 

“Oh?” she said not knowing what about talking to Norm would make him act this way. 

“I unearthed the man’s suppressed personality and I spoke to him free of your oversight.” 

-

-

-

“Hello Miss. (L/n),” You didn’t bother looking away from the wall, already whoever came in here was on your nerves. 

‘Miss. (L/n) we need you to answer some questions about the Hex.” You looked over and saw a man with the most punchable face you’ve ever laid eyes on. His tone may be nice but you met enough men like him to know how to spot them a mile away. 

“Only if you answer a few of my own.” You retort, you saw how the man stiffened. 

“I don’t think you're in a position to be demanding anything Miss. (L/n)” 

“You wouldn’t have come to ask me anything personally if you didn’t need to. Unless there was something that I may or may not know that could benefit you and even then you wouldn’t have come yourself, men like you have people get the answers for you, no you would only come yourself if it was something vital. Something that no one else on this base knows about.” You cock your head to the side and smile, feeling empowered as you see his hands tighten into a fit at his side. You apparently hit the nail right on the head. 

“So I feel like an exchange is in order,” You say standing up from your sitting position. The guards on either side of the man raised their guns at you. The man told them to stand down. 

“I answer 5 of your questions and you answer 6 of mine.” You held out your hand. 

“Miss. (L/n) why do you get to have more answers than I do?”

“Simple, you want something from me and me alone. I can ask any other agents around here my questions and not make a deal with you at all.” 

His hands flex and ball themselves back into fists and his jaw clenched in anger. You really were getting on his nerves. 

“I agree,” he reaches for your hand and shakes briefly. 

“I’ll go first,” he says. 

“How long were you in the Hex?”

“I’m not too sure of that but it’s safe to assume that I was there since it happened.” you responded, memories of the Hex were confusing and the memories of that day were blacked out almost completely. 

“My turn,” you say. 

“Who are you?” 

“I’m Director Tyler Hayward of S.W.O.R.D.” 

“My turn,” he says in a slight mocking tone.

“How did Wanda create the Hex?”

“Wanda’s powers are tied to her emotions; it's probably connected to that” You state. “What is S.W.O.R.D.” 

“Sentient Worlds Observation and Response Department.” He responds. 

“Someone really wanted your divisions to be named Sword and Shield really badly didn’t they.” 

“Yes,” he said, “How long were you aware of the Hex while in it?”

“I was subconsciously aware the entire time, although I wasn’t completely aware until the Hex was in color and a hag gave me a notebook.”

His expression was puzzled but he dismissed it. 

“What did my lab results come back with?” 

“Why do you think we took blood from you while you were unconscious?”

“You're a powerful man who set up a meeting with me in secret to ask me a question you don’t want anyone else hearing. It’s not beyond you to secretly steal some blood to run secret tests on it.” 

“Touche,” he admitted, “however badly I would want that Agent Rambeau interrupted me before I could give the order.” 

Finally he reached the last question, the question he wanted to ask all along. 

“How did Wanda reboot the Vision?” 

Vision, he was after Vision. Somehow this made you uneasy, why would he care how Vision for rebooted unless...

“You have Visions body don’t you.” It wasn’t a question, his body gave him away. For a man who was running a semi secret organization he wasn’t that good at hiding his body language. 

“I believe you didn’t answer my question Miss. (L/n), “ he pointed out, “I guess that means one less answer for you.”

You rolled your eyes, you would let him have that. 

“I don’t know how she rebooted Vision, much less without a body, I don’t remember much of the day it happened.” His eyes hardened, upset that he had hit another dead end he went to leave. 

“I still have one more question Haybitch!” You called out, his feet stilled and he turned to you, eyes wide and offended at the nickname. 

“What are you planning on doing to Wanda?” That was the question you wanted to ask. His eyes crinkled as he gave you a sarcastic smile. 

“I don’t know,” he said, “I don’t remember much of that meeting when it happened.”

He then left you to wallow in your own thoughts. 

You knew he had a secret he didn’t want anyone else finding out. 

You knew Wanda knew it. 

You knew he wasn’t going to let her talk. 

You knew whatever his plan was involved her not being able to speak again.