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peachesofteal · 1 year ago

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Which Witch

Painting by Joseph Tomanek Thank you to the lovely anons who's beautiful brains helped create this story. Part 1 - Part 2 here John "Soap" MacTavish/witch!reader 13k words - AO3 You do not need to read Mermaids to enjoy this fic, but it exists in the same world and for the full experience, I do recommend it. Warnings-tags: 18+ Minors DNI. Mature and dark themes. Fae!AU. Brief blink of smut. Blood Magic. Fae Magic. Violence. Killing. Human Sacrifice. Angst. Tenderness. Protective Johnny. "I'm not beat up by this yet, you can't tell me to regret, Been in the dark since the day we met, Fire, help me to forget." - F + TM

Johnny presses the heel of his boot into the cheek of the being on the ground, his eyes glazed with a vacancy he has seen more times than he cares to count, or remember, the bleakness of his irises meaning only one thing: the end of their life.

“Was it worth it to ye?” he spits, and the male shudders beneath his sole, twisting pathetically, a half attempt at getting away. Blood sputters and pools, lamely leaking from his body, drenching the air in an earth rich scent.

It does not matter, there is not where for him to go, nowhere for him to flee. He will be lost to the 141, just as almost every other being is this castle has.

The echo of his brother’s power, Gaz’s light magic, rips through the room and shudders down Johnny’s spine as he appears in the hall, his boots leaving red marks on the marble floor, remnants of lives spent squelching with each step.

“Where’s Ghost?” Kyle’s voice booms across the distance, and Johnny jerks his head northward, to where Simon is ransacking the library like a madman.

He is a madman, Johnny thinks, shaking his head, didn’t even stay to see the job through before he went tearing through those books.

He cannot fault him, his brother is a being possessed, tortured by his own heart, a heart that beats for a creature that does not even know he exists. He is miserable, and brutish, and half the time almost unbearable to be around, and Johnny really, really hopes it all comes to an end soon.

The being beneath Johnny’s heel gurgles, rubied ichor slipping down his face towards the floor before he spits and glares upwards at Gaz and himself.

“Mercenaries.” He snarls, and Johnny can feel him trying to pull a sliver of power, a desperate and feeble attempt that fails before he chokes again. “That’s all ya are. Mercenaries with no code, no honor.” Gaz rolls his eyes in a dramatic motion, rotating his neck before a dagger born from the shimmer of suns materializes in his hand, and the male on the floor whines in fear.

“Yes, yes.” Gaz sighs impatiently, and then in a blink has the point pressed to the being’s neck, right below where his pulse hammers. It sears his skin, burning away at the flesh slowly, filling the air between them with putrid smoke, the smell of incinerating sinew stinging in Johnny’s nostrils. “But how are we so different from you, then?”

“I don’t kill for money.”

“Just for sport.” Johnny follows up drily, and the male has no argument. His fighting rings are known throughout the realm. In the closest town over, one can make a fair amount of profit, or lose their freedom, if you knew where to look.

“As if you’re so appalled by it, MacTavish.” The being hisses, and Johnny stills. His power thrums in his blood, reacting to tense state of his body, churning in his mind, ready to strike. Chaos readies itself, pulsing deep, ready to blow this entire castle to the Netherworlds. “I know where ya’re from. I’ve heard rumor of what happens on the Isle, with it’s-“ Johnny’s magic bursts forward, twisting around Gaz to seek its target, tearing into the very essence of the male on the ground, ripping into the being’s own celestial connections and shredding them to pieces. The magic and rage combined electrifies Johnny, filling him with a heady power that pulses in every pore, every neuron existing in his body, and it’s a well fought effort to shove it down, to not give into the intoxicating feeling of the craze, the lust for battle and blood. He pulls and pulls the threads from the being’s crumpled form, draining him dry with each breath until there is no fight left, until he’s nothing but a carcass, an empty shell, eyes stuck wide in horror.

“Shite.” Johnny murmurs, finally releasing his heel. There’s not much left beneath it, just ropes of blood and bone, the body obliterated by the concentration of Johnny’s magic, dark red rivers seeping across the polished stone floor. Gaz chuckles darkly.

A ripple of power echoes towards them, and at the end of it, Price looms, arms crossed, mouth turned down in a huff of irritation.

“Job’s done then?” He motions to the pile of remains between them, Johnny nodding the obvious answer. Gaz’s dagger disappears, light seeping through his skin before it’s swallowed whole, tucked away for safekeeping.

“Simon’s finishing up the last bit.”

The three of them venture towards the library, a massive room with ceilings that stretch towards the moons, and shelves built from top to bottom. There are books of every kind here, books from every realm, even. Grimoires, from the witches in the mortal realm, and lost texts from its human inhabitants. Heavy volumes of history from the Netherworlds, sacred texts from a faraway realm that only Simon has been to. Books bound in human skin, books bound with being skin, books that only appear to those they choose. Books that possess their own spells, even if they’re not inherently magic. Books that contain the ability to give any being a gift, so long as they are willing to receive it. Johnny breathes deeply, filling his lungs with the scent of leather and paper, papyrus, and cloth, holding onto it for as long as possible before his lungs deflate with a whoosh. The taste settles on his tongue, and he tamps down the urge to start pulling volumes towards himself, eager to flick through them and devour what lies between their pages. He craves it, the knowledge, the magic that sits sleeping in this room. The bedlam that swirls in his bloodstream melds with his desire for new puzzles, new knowledge, and it creates a double-edged sword that only his brothers seem to understand. Maybe it’s because of his mum, and the deep, ravenous love of books that she had and instilled in him, the balance of his love for chaos and his love for puzzles lending well to learning, or maybe it’s because he’s lived too bloody long, walking the worlds with his brothers, seeking new truths like they were meals to feast on.

This is where they find Simon. He’s got a female sorceress of some kind, the one they were looking for in the first place, kneeling, in the middle of the room, arms pressed down to her sides, her eyes wild with fear. Johnny can smell it from here, the rank stench of her terror, the scent of her dread as the being in front of her walks in a tight circle, his eyes fixed on her quivering form.

“I cannot perform it.” She protests, and Simon makes a great show of sighing, like he’s tired, or exasperated. “That magic, it’s not of Faerie. We do not practice it here. Please-“ she sobs, and her desperation tugs at Johnny, just a bit, even though his sympathy is slim for this creature who cries pitifully in front of her soon to be executor.

“Simon.” Price intones from where he stands, a distance away, and her eyes flash to him, relief scrawling across her features as she mistakes John for one who may be kind to her, for a being who may help her.

She doesn’t know, that they know. That they’re fully aware, of the terrible things she’s done for the once ruler of this land, that they know the extent of her cruelty, her thirst for blood and pain.

Price crouches in front of where she sits on her knees, and cups her face between his palms, rubbing a placating thumb across her cheekbone.

“Tell us, love.” He encourages. “Tell us about the song. And perhaps, we’ll let you go.” It’s a lie, but she doesn’t know that, and it’s painfully obvious when she swallows, eyes darting between the four of them before settling back on Price.

“It’s blood magic.” She croaks. “The only way to capture the song is with the magic of blood and bone. I told him.” Price turns to Simon, who nods his affirmative. “There are few who still practice it.”

“Where?” Price urges, still soothing her with his touch, his words soft and reassuring.

“In the mortal realm.” Gaz rubs an exasperated palm over his face with a sigh, and Simon’s power pulses around the sorceress, tightening like a vice. She yelps in a panic, words rushing free like floodwaters. “There is a coven! There is a coven left, that still practices in the mortal realm, and they have a spinner, a blood spinner. She’s a witch, that-” She continues to babble, giving them everything, anything she had, where she believed they were located, what kind of witches they were, how long they’d been practicing. She gave and gave, until there was nothing left to say, and then she stared up at Price, with wistful hope on her face.

Hope, that dies, as she feels the slipknot of Simon’s power, twisting with torsion around her neck.

“No, no. You said… you said you’d let me go!” She cries, and Johnny feels his rage lash out inside him, distaste curdling his stomach. He can’t help but correct her.

“Is that what you told the mothers of the children ye slaughtered all those years? That you’d let them go? After ye sold them to fighting pits? After ye watched them die, and did nothing?”

“I wa-was only doing what I was told.” She sobs, flinging herself onto the floor in front of them. “Please!” Her fingers dig at her neck, clawing and scraping, but it’s pointless. The 141 has long had her in their sights. “Please… plea- please.” She moans, fragments of her life slipping through their fingers as it drains away, her body growing limp and her existence becoming futile by the moment. “I- ‘m sorry.” She tries, but it’s far too late now.

It's far too late.

The tavern is packed. Every one and thing inside gives them a wide berth, their eyes jumping from Simon, who walks in front, dark gaze glaring from behind the skull mask and hood he dons in public, to Price, who casually strolls behind him, hand in one pocket, the other swinging by his side, free and available, should quick intervention be needed. Gaz stands at the bar, flirting with a striking female who is leaning towards him, her lips parting to reveal shiny, sharp golden teeth.

That’s odd. What’s a Harpy doing all the way out ‘ere? If Gaz is taken aback, he hides it well, instead slipping her a note that more than covers the cost of a round, and then points at the table where they’ve settled.

“Bit out o’ place.” Price comments, and Simon grunts.

“It’s curious.” He agrees, and they all track Gaz on his way back, watching him until he plants himself on the bench, casual grimace lining his lips.

Simon shifts restlessly, and they all can feel the hot singe of his power, the frustration lurking in the air. Waiting as he hedges.

“If it’s true-“

“At what cost?” Price cuts him off. They hold a silent conversation with their eyes, arguments and counters flowing back and forth between them. Price is the natural voice of reason; he’ll convince him it’s a bad idea. The thought sticks in Johnny’s mind uneasily, souring as he turns it over. What if this is real? What if there is a chance? To end this madness?

Johnny was no fool, he’s seen the change in Simon, year after year. His fear and confusion, anger and dread starting to seep from his skin, coloring everything around them, affecting them all in different ways. His Nereid was at the end of her rope, and so was Simon.

“All I want, is a chance, Johnny. A chance to know her, without standing in the shadow, for her to know me. To hold her, to tell her she’s not alone.” He confessed, years ago, in the dark of an empty wing in his too big house. “I love her. I cannot give her up, I won’t allow her to die.”

He had returned to their realm frantic, distress wracking his body, seizing his power and twisting it until it nearly suffocated all of them where they stood. It took hours for Johnny to calm him, to get him to explain what had happened, for him to realize why Simon had been so distraught. His Nereid had nearly failed her task, botched her own hunt, and Simon almost stole her away in a moment of blind panic, without even stopping to consider that she might die as soon as steps foot in Faerie.

“What you’re asking, Simon, is a massive undertaking, it’s-“

“I’m not asking. I’d never ask this of you.” He snapped, magic fizzling through the air above Johnny’s head, explosions of grey and black lighting with power.

“Do ye truly believe we’d leave ye alone to face this? To spend a year in the mortal realm, as a merc, without us? Your brothers?”

“It is not merely a year, Johnny. It could be two, or three, or one hundred. I cannot take her until I know how to sustain her, and we’re still not closer to the answer.”

“I’m with ye Simon. Just as you’ve been with me through difficult times. I won’t turn my back now.”

“And neither will I.” Price booms from the doorway, the two of them whirling to where he stands with Gaz at his side.

“Sign me up. You know how I feel about mortal females. And their food.” Gaz gives them an impish grin, flourishing a set of light daggers and then lowering himself in a mock bow, an ode to his bloodline and ridiculous family. Johnny doesn’t say anything, but he watches how Simon’s shoulders ease, how he releases the breath he’s been holding, before giving them all a nod.

“I will go.” Johnny declares, and Simon’s eyes crinkle with relief. The sooner we get this all done, the sooner we can return home for good. Johnny was tired. They had been in the mortal realm for nearly a decade, coming back to Faerie now and then when something needed attending or when Simon had a lead. And now, with Simon desperately searching for the final piece of the puzzle, the end of all this finally felt close enough to taste. The only thing left outstanding was, how to get his blood to sing the Nereid’s song.

“I fancy a field trip myself.” Price relents, sigh expelling from his lungs with vexation. “Could use a change of scenery. Better than bloody Verdansk.”

“Or Las Almas.” Gaz mutters and Johnny protests.

“I liked Las Almas.”

“You just like Ale and Rudy.” Gaz ribs him, and Johnny laughs full throated. He did a soft spot for the two Vaqueros. They were smart, cunning humans who excelled in battle and cared for their community. Rare traits to find amongst the greedy, swamp like mortals that mostly roam their world. He respected them.

“Aye.” He agrees. The table goes quiet for a moment, words on the knifes edge, waiting, watching, until Simon clears his throat.

“Very well. We will go together then.” Price echoes him, while Gaz nods readily.

“Together.”

“It’s not optional anymore.” Your aunt’s voice vibrates through the speaker of the phone. “Your coven is your family.” She prattles on, unaware you’ve put the phone down and walked away from it to stack a few books together on the table.

“She’s nuts.” You mouth to Jet, who weaves between your legs before hopping up in front of you, rubbing her face against your fingers, seeking a scratch behind her ear.

“Are you listening to me?”

“Yes.” You sigh, and you swear you see Jet roll her eyes, right after you roll your own.

“You need to spend time with your coven. You can’t spend your entire life holed up in that shop with your familiar and your books.” Why not? You don’t say that, of course, lest she hex you through the phone, or worse. She doesn’t understand. You have a deep affection, a pure love for your connection to your power, for your magic, but that love did not extend to your coven, who were mostly still stuck in the darkest ages of time, who’s desire for power had pushed them to extremes. When you don’t respond, she bites out her directive before hanging up. “You must perform your duties. You’ll be expected on Samhain.”

And then the line goes dead.

You sigh, and Jet meows, like she sympathizes. Like she feels your pain. Maybe she does. You’re not sure. She is your familiar, but you don’t speak her language. You don’t know how she actually feels.

But you do know she dislikes your aunt, nearly as much as you do.

“I know, I know.” You give her another rub of your fingertips under her chin before pulling the stack of books towards you and carrying them through the back to the front of the shop.

Your day passes quietly. Mortals come and go, browsing the books in the front room, some choosing to stay and settle in the armchairs or the nooks with plush cushions, curled up with their selections for hours. There are places to tuck away here, corners between shelves where you could allow yourself to get lost in another world if you wanted, with no one to disturb or bother you, except maybe Jet. The black cat patrols the front room with high scrutiny, jumping to and from different heights while she ensures nothing is amiss in her domain.

You keep yourself busy with your daily tasks, organizing, counting, compiling, all while trying not think too much about the demand of your presence at Samhain.

You don’t want to go.

But you also don’t think you’ll be able to get out of it. You had already managed to dodge Lughnasa, and a fully body shudder rips through you when you recall the efforts of matchmaking that were done on your behalf before the festival had even started.

Not like anyone wanted to be matched with you to begin with. Not when there were effortless beauties by the dozen, witches and warlocks waiting with bated breath to be paired together.

Crazy, evil old hags. Crazier than the full moon herself.

By the end of your regular business hours, the store is empty, and you’ve settled yourself in the back room, the one that stays locked, the one where you keep all the things you don’t want the general public to see, ancient books bound with skin, grimoires with spells to summon demons, to kill lovers, to resurrect children. Books with magic of blood and bone, written by ancient witches from your own coven. Stories that come and go as they please. Stories of gods and monsters. Books that could open doors. Books that could trap you beyond those doors, forever. Banned books, by some’s standards.

Books you’re really not supposed to have but can’t help but collect. Your desire to absorb it all, learn it all unyielding, no matter how much information you consume, and it's become more than your livelihood now. The bookstore has become a place where others can come if they need something that their coven cannot provide, a place a witch can find a spell that’s long been forgotten, a place where answers can be found, if you knew where to look.

A safe place, for yourself, and for others.

A dangerous place, to some, and a dangerous place to you, at times. A place that made you known in magical communities, a place where you could be found.

And to your coven, nothing was worse.

Secret practitioners of blood magic, they were extremely closed off to outsiders. They stone walled others, refused friendships in magical society, kept to themselves as much as possible. It was their tradition, the only way they could survive and continue their practice, their devotion to blood, water and bone keeping them alive longer than others, keeping them young and fair when their counterparts aged and withered, kept them practicing for the entirety of their long lives.

And who would want to give that up?

You hadn’t been asked to be born into this complicated web of magic, hadn’t asked to become an orphan either, the loss of your parents forcing you into your aunt’s hands at a young age, where you learned all too quickly that your magic was different from other young witches, that you had been blessed with your coven’s ultimate gift.

Blood spinning.

Jet meows, leaping from the floor to the table to sit in front of you on her haunches, jet black fur shining under the dancing light of the candles. There are no lamps in this room, the bulbs too bright or too offensive for the books, some who’s pages don’t even show themselves unless they’re lit by magic.

You keep the flames in here lit by your power, day in and day out. Wax drips onto the mantle that sits over the fireplace, forming sand like castles on the wooden beam as the candles burn, staying in perfect stasis while the flames never go out.

You cast your magic out, just slightly, enough to straighten a shelf that was haphazardly arranged earlier, and then you wave a finger over a flame, just enough that it lightly heats your skin.

Fucking Samhain.

You can already feel the insistent pressure that will certainly be coming after today’s conversation, the demands of your participation in the Divination ritual and gods know what else.

Don’t these bats know you should stay home on Samhain? That’s when the Others get through.

You shiver.

You’re just about to ask Jet what she wants for dinner before you lock up when you hear a clattering smack, the sound of the broom that always stands so astute by the front door falling to floor, and your blood freezes in your veins.

Jet hisses.

Company’s coming.

“Hello?” A male voice calls, accent unusual to your ears, ricocheting past the shelves to where you sit in the back, hunched over a dusty tome. “Is anyone here?”

“I am!” You yell, standing up too fast, knocking into the heavy wooden table with your hip and letting out a hiss of air through your lips. Ow. Shit. That’s going to bruise. “I’m here, sorry.” You push away some hair from your face as you appear from the back room.

Oh.

Fuck.

There is a beautiful man standing in the front of the bookstore. A stunningly gorgeous, perfectly formed human being with crystalline blue eyes and a smile that practically beams. His hair is cut into a mohawk, a unique style that you don’t see too often, and his eyes glimmer with something mischievous, something wild. His bone structure reminiscent of the gods you grew up learning about, his face open, and handsome, watching you from where he stands, bolts of setting sunlight streaming in from the glass door behind him, framing him in the orange and pink goodness of dusk.

Just looking at him sets your body alight.

“H-hello.” Gods.. Get it together. It's just a guy. You've see plenty of mortal men before. His lips quirk, and you try not to look too closely at them, their sweet shape, perfectly pressed together while he cocks his head.

“Hello.” Jet meows by your feet, sharply, and you frown at her before looking back at the man.

“Hi, can I help you?”

“I’m looking for a book.” He starts, stepping closer, eyes roving over the floor to ceiling shelves that line the front room.

“Well, this is a good place to do that.” Wow. You wish you could pull the words back into your mouth as soon as they slip out, but you can’t. All you can do is cringe and try not to melt into floor. Smooth. So smooth. He doesn’t seem bothered by your obvious statement, and he smiles at you, again, nodding his agreement.

“It’s well… it’s a rare book.”

“Oh?”

“And I’ve been told, you’re a purveyor of such rare and curious books.” Your skin feels warm under your sweater, and you try to beat back the feeling of the heat by taking a deep breath.

“I… have some books. That are considered rare. Or unusual, yes. It depends on what you’re looking for?”

“It’s a grimoire. Of the Ulster Cycle.” You cover your suspicion with a cheeky smile, before shaking your head. What could a man possibly want with that?

“I don’t have anything that old here.” The lie slips through your teeth with ease.

“Oh, my apologies. I was told ye were a collector of sorts. The bloke I spoke with said there was a rare books room an’ everything.” Something prickles along the back of your neck, and your magic flares to life, zinging through your veins like fire.

Magic. There’s magic in here with you, magic that is unlike yours. Magic that hovers above the surface, like it’s waiting for something, waiting to strike.

Is it his?

Like he can sense it, he tenses for a split second before relaxing, and offering you his hand.

“I’m Johnny.” You stare at his waiting gesture, poised on the edge of a decision, uncertainty hanging in the balance.

Something is different here.

Something is strange.

But the way he looks at you, like he’s really looking at you, seeing you, noticing you, soothes the wariness in your mind, the strong beating of your heart drowning out your more cautious nature.

Still, you’re not one to give your birth given name to anyone outside the coven, whether they be friend or foe.

You've seen someone learn that lesson first hand.

“My friends call me Fern.” It’s not a lie, your friends, what little you still had, do call you Fern. Have called you Fern ever since you were all children, when you were more interested in laying on your back in the woods and staring at the clouds through the trees, then you were learning basic spells at anyone’s house. Strange, they used to call you. Odd. Weird. Their parents, bless them, had instructed their children not to be cruel to you, but the nickname had persisted, and then stuck, until it was what you were calling yourself all through Uni and afterwards.

“Fern.” He echoes, a ripple of something you cannot name crossing his face before it smooths, and he releases your hand while giving it a gentle squeeze. “It’s lovely to meet you.” The heat on your skin comes surging back, and your magic simmers inside your veins. You’re staring, up into his eyes, two perfect blue swirls of sea and sky, like you’re in a trance, unable to look way for a long moment before he’s clearing his throat and you’re blinking yourself free.

Odd. Your brain warns.

Enchanting. Your heart sings.

“Sorry, I uh. Don’t have your book.”

“It’s alright. Mind if I had a look around?”

“Sure!” you gush, over enthused, and then run your palms down the front of your skirt.

Calm down. He’s not here for you. He’s here for a book.

You try not to track his every move as he browses, instead staring at the blank computer screen at the front check out desk, clicking the mouse intermittently and shuffling some papers back and forth mindlessly while you sneak a look every now and then.

He’s fit, wide back snug in a t shirt and jacket that hangs loose over his hips, denim notched just right below his waist. You can’t help but stare when he reaches for a higher shelf, and his shirt rides up to expose a flash of his midriff, honey cream skin on full display that makes your mouth water, just a bit.

Jet meows loudly, and then makes an exaggerated point of licking her paw, pointing it in the direction of the clock that hangs over the door.

Welp.

“I’m actually closing up here, in a minute, is there anything-“

“Sorry to keep ye.” He turns, and you force your eyes away, the intensity of the eye contact too much, the pull of him practically overloading your senses.

“Oh, you’re not. I have other work to do, I just like to lock up.” You don’t know why exactly, but it feels like you’re stalling him. Like you don’t want him to leave. Jet jumps from the floor to the shelf behind you, and she growls as the man, Johnny, who takes a step away from the book he’s studying towards you. “Jet!” you admonish her. Johnny breathes a soft laugh.

“Smart, locking up, cannae be too sure about what’s lurking out there.” He jerks his head towards the door, and then flashes you another smile. It makes you dizzy.

“Uh, I do have some rarities, if that… if that’s something you’d like to come back and see.” What? What did you just say? Did you really just-

Johnny visibly brightens, like you’ve made his day. Like you’ve made him happy or given him a gift. The feeling warms you from the inside, trilling in your heart until it’s beating double time, and your magic is practically singing in your soul.

He tells you he’ll come back then, that he’d like to come back, and you nod numbly as you wave goodbye.

What the fuck was that?

Two days later, the bells that hang from the front door jangle and chime to announce his arrival, and the butterflies swirl in your stomach as you walk up front.

“Good evening.” He greets you, and you have to snap yourself to attention after nearly getting lost in the whirled sea glass of his eyes. “It’s Foxglove? Or… Sage?” Your eyes widen and then close to slits before glaring at him. “You’re named after a plant, right?”

“It’s Fern.” You deadpan, and he chuckles, lips splitting to reveal unnaturally white teeth.

“My apologies, Fern.” He does not hide the way his eyes trace you up and down, from your black boots to where your two times two big, button-down shirt is parted to reveal your clavicle. “Are ye well?” He asks, and you try to stutter out a response.

“Y-yes. Thanks. Yourself?”

“Aye, thanks. Excited to see what secrets you’re keeping.” He raises an eyebrow, and you gulp. Where has the air gone? Why does it feel so warm in here?

“I uh. Yeah, well. Let’s… it’s this way.” You punctuate the rambling sentence with deflated inflection, and his lips press together like you’ve amused him.

You pull your magic under the current of the atmosphere in the hallway to wrap around the lock and spring it free, allowing the door to open before the two of you and step inside. The room itself is a marvel, deep burgundy walls with more floor to ceiling bookshelves, and a giant table in the middle, it’s top carved from an ash tree far older than you. The candles dance in your presence, and you feed the wicks just a small sampling of magic, allowing them to gradually brighten so Johnny can see better. Mortal’s eyes were not known for being so sharp.

“And these are all…?”

“Varying. Some very old, storybooks about monsters and fairies and mermaids and such. You know, fairytales.” You laugh, but he doesn’t, only nods thoughtfully as he reads along the spines. “I’ve got some… old magic books. From when people thought witches were real. And some old religious texts. Nothing crazy, not museum worthy or anything.”

Definitely a lie, but he doesn’t need to know that.

“When people thought witches were real?” He turns, voice laden with skepticism, and something heavy sinks in your belly.

“Yeah, you know. Old pagan beliefs, that kind of stuff.” You try to play it off but can’t escape his gaze, can’t escape the way it feels to have him staring at you, reading you like an open book.

“And you’re usually in the habit of lying to customers?” You stare him, bewildered, your mind racing to come up with something clever, something snappy to throw him. Nothing comes. “I can feel you.” He explains, like it’s normal, or natural. Like you’re both speaking the same language. “Can feel ye from across the street, actually. Didn’t know little plants could hold so much magic.” He teases, lighthearted and sweet, but your fingers tighten into fists.

“I-“ you start, but abruptly stop when words fail you, and your chest tightens with panic. You internally scream at yourself, the strange feelings from when he first stepped foot in the shop coming back to haunt you, to teach you a lesson.

“Hey, hey.” He croons, and you stare at him vacantly, mind scrambling a mile a minute. “It’s alright. I mean ye no harm, Fern.” The way he says your nickname feels like a bite, like a mark against your skin, the word singed with some sort of magic, something flavorless that you cannot taste, yet you know it’s there all the same. You realize he’s staring at your hands, which are open now, pushed out in front of you like a barrier.

“What are you?” you challenge, and his lips twist.

“I’m no threat to ye.”

“Sounds like what someone who is a threat would say.”

“I promise, 'm just a low-level Wielder. You have more power in your pinky finger than I have in my entire body.” A Wielder. That explains the weird feelings. It’s an old term, one used to describe those born into magical families without marginal power. Wielding witches or warlocks usually have enough magic in them to cast minimal impact spells, some charms and enchantments, things of little consequence. “I ah, work in the military. I don’t practice.” He admits, and that takes you by surprise.

“The military?”

“Aye.” An impish grin splits across his face. “I like blowing things up. Work with a special ops team, around the world. We’re on leave right now, but. That’s usually what I’m doing.” That’s different. Magical beings usually stay far away from things like government, or military. Easier to remain undetected that way, and it was fairly known that mortals were left to their own affairs, without magical interference. You find yourself asking the question before you can smack your lips shut.

“But, your family must-“ not like that? Shun you? Worry about you? must hate you for that? You’re not sure why you blurted it out, or even where you were going with it.

“My mum’s gone. Da too. Got a few siblings left but, we mostly keep to ourselves.” Oh.

“I’m sorry.” Shame curdles in your stomach, and you grimace. “I wasn’t trying to pry, I’m sorry.”

“That’s alright, happened a long time ago.”

“I shouldn’t have-“

“Fern.” He says quickly, your name laden with the same feeling from before, the richness of some unintelligible power, and you draw a sharp breath. “It’s alright, I promise.” You duck your head in silent apology, and the room stays quiet for a moment before he’s speaking again. “What is this?” He’s pointing to a black book, its spine cracked and writing illegible, to most.

“That’s a grimoire.”

“It looks… old. Like it’s seen better days.”

“It is, and it has.” You don’t elaborate, because you don’t know if you should, or even if you want to.

“Where’s it from?” He pushes.

“Here. It’s uh… from my coven. From a very long time ago.”

“You lot been around a long time?”

“You could say that.” You could say that’s an understatement. There were only a handful of old covens left in the world, ancient powers that slept beneath the skin of their witches, only growing stronger and stronger through their lengthy history and connection to the earth. Dangerous.

He continues on with his inquiries, and you give him as much information as you can, pulling books from their resting places and cracking them wide for his eyes, pointing out little things of interest here and there while he stands in awe, time ticking away until the clock in the hall is chiming for ten pm, and he’s apologizing for keeping you so late as you click the door shut.

“You’re not keeping me.” You assure him. “I live in the flat upstairs. Short commute.” You laugh.

“Well, thank ye. That was a delight. Old books like that, the ones that most do not get to see are… special. I’m grateful to ye, for sharing the collection with me.” He makes your head spin, with how earnest he is, how easy and honest he confesses such things to you. It makes your knees feel weak, makes your throat feel dry.

“Of course. Um, anytime you wanna, you know. Come by and look, I’m here.” You stand by awkwardly, while Jet scowls at you from her perch in the window. Your heart sinks when you realize he’s going to leave now, the knowledge that he’ll step out on the street and possibly never been seen by you again twisting in your soul like a sour edged blade.

“I ah… was going to go for a late dinner, would ye like to join me?” You don’t even process it right away, just nod, numbly, like a robot in front of him. Dinner? With him? You, and him?

“Yeah!” you blurt and then try not to cringe at your over eagerness. “Yes. Yes, I’m hungry so… dinner would be great.”

“Know any good spots around?”

“Uh, yeah there’s a place down the street a few blocks that has a great curry. We could walk?”

“Sure.” He agrees, and then steps outside to wait for you while you lock everything up.

Jet complains the entire time, loudly, and you try to shush her multiple times.

“Oh, stop!” you scold over her meows. “It’s just dinner. He’s nice.” She watches you with keen eyes, green spheres that probably know far more than you, before slinking off to the stairs in the back, taking herself up to the flat. “Goodnight then!” You yell after her, to which she responds with a frustrated growl.

Familiars. You sigh and roll your eyes. So dramatic.

“I lost my parents too.” You tell him one night, a week later. He’s met you after closing, in a park where you like to walk sometimes, and the two of you slowly stroll along the walking path as you trade questions and answers about one another’s lives. It’s somewhat dark, sun already set, but the orange light of a giant jack o lantern that sits in the green space’s center glows robustly and bathes the twilight in autumn hues. “I uh, didn’t want to say anything, because it felt like, not the right time but, yeah.”

“I’m sorry.” He says earnestly and you give him a tiny smile.

“Thanks, I was young. There’s not much I remember about it.” Mostly true. You really didn’t know much, even though you were there. You had the memories in pieces, the woods, the moon, the Fae that took your mother’s life. The spell that ended your father’s. All buried deep in your heart, untouched. Unvisited. You both lapse into silence, and you fight the awkwardness by posing a question, hoping to change the subject without being too obvious.

“How many siblings do you have?”

“I’ve got one sister, who I don’t get to see as often as I’d like. And then, my brothers, who aren’t mine by blood but by we’ve all been best friends for far too long now, living together, working together, traveling together. We’re… very bonded.”

“That’s sweet.” His head tips back with a laugh, before looking back to you.

“Sweet isn’t what I’d call them, but it’s something.”

“They’re like your family then?”

“Aye. Closest some of us ‘ll ever get.” There’s a pang of something in your heart at that, the idea that Johnny has both blood and love, people who have chosen him, who love him. You’ve never really had that, and the concept is practically foreign to you. “Look, there. It's you.” He points to a bush off to the left and you turn to him confused. “Little plant.” He explains, bemused, clearly pleased with himself and his terrible joke.

“Piss off.” You elbow him playfully, trying to push away, and he grabs you, pulling you into his side with a firm grip, half holding you to him in an embrace as he chuckles and rubs your shoulder affectionately.

“Sorry, little shrub.”

“What are ye doing for Samhain?” He asks the following day during his visit to the shop, a week before the dreaded night, and you gnaw on your lip.

“There’s a festival. We burn large pyres and dance in the moonlight.” You tease.

“Nude?” he smirks, and you laugh, nearly dropping the volume you’re shelving.

“No, gods no. Fully clothed, thank you.” You don’t mention the Divination, the ritual that is your own personal hell. “We drink, and dance, and those who have lost loved ones try to find their spirits. There’s also matchmaking, done by the elders. Which I painstakingly avoid.” He hands you another book, and you pop it into place. “Would you… would you like to come?” Why not? It’s not like anyone is going to tell you not to bring someone. Especially not when they need you so badly. He’s quiet, holding another book in his hand, staring down at the cover like he’s reading it. He’s silent for so long you start to worry, start to second guess yourself, start to think maybe, you read this wrong. Maybe, this isn’t what you thought it might be. Maybe he’s-

“I would be happy to.”

“Be watchful of the féth fíada.” The witch who stands beside a roiling cauldron warns, before pressing a mug into your waiting hands. “Something else is in these woods tonight.” You give your beverage to Johnny and then take the second mug from her, before leading him away, down the hill and closer to the fires.

“What’s the féth fíada?”

“It’s the mist. On Samhain, the veil is particularly thin between worlds, you know? Spirits are usually here with us, until the sun rises but…” You sip the cider, spice and warmth coating your tongue. “We, the coven, believe the Others come through at the same time, and use the mist to cloak themselves.” You gesture to the wispy white fog that rolls through the forest like smoke.

“The Others?” He asks, and you nod.

“Yes. That’s what we call them. The Fae.” He raises an eyebrow.

“Thought the Fae were a myth.” You laugh and turn to face him.

“I assure you, they’re very real.”

“Oh? Have ye encountered one then?” You shudder, like you’re cold, frightening memories pooling at the forefront of your mind until you shove them away.

“Once. When I was a child.” He frowns then, head cocked in consideration, faraway look in his eye as he casts his gaze over your shoulder. Like he’s looking for something. Like he’s seeing.

“Were ye hurt, Fern?” Hurt? No. Traumatized? The echo of your mother’s screams ring in between your ears.

“No.” Someone lights a new pyre a second after your denial, orange embers leaping into the night sky with grace, and it draws your attention enough to distract the both of you. “Come on.” You tug him towards where a group has gathered, bodies moving together in tandem with a chorus of strings that sing through the air. “Dance with me?” You ask him breathlessly, emboldened by the sniff of fire whiskey that sits in your cup and he smiles before draping an around your waist and pulling you close to his body.

“I’d like nothing more.”

Your feet are light, moving around one another with an elegance you didn’t know you possessed, effortlessly shifting with the rhythm and time of the music, fingers grazing along each other in tentative, desperately seeking touches.

“You’re beautiful, little witch.” He whispers against your ear, words soft and saccharine, floating on the warm air around you as you sway together in time to the music. His hand cups your jaw gently, tilting your chin upwards until you’re both looking at one another, his blue eyes alight with the reflection of the bonfire behind you, lovely and bright, burning down into your soul like a love spell. “I’d like to kiss ye, Fern.” He murmurs, voice strained and tinged with an accent you cannot place, and you blink while your heart rockets off at superspeed, sending blood buzzing with excited magic through your veins.

“Okay.” You murmur, and he smiles at you like you’re the most stunning creature he’s ever seen, before slowly lowering his lips to yours.

It’s everything you’ve ever dreamed it would be. You’ve kissed some men in your life, some women, but nothing compares to this. There’s an explosion inside of you when his mouth meets yours, the gentle coaxing of the way he holds you melting you into a boneless heap while you breathe him in, his scent practically transporting you to another world, a mossy, emerald-green wood with lush plant life and giant ferns that blanket the forest floor. The feel of him, of whatever this is, mixed with your magic and the magic in the air is a powerful elixir, one that seems to make the world tilt where you stand, gravity disappearing and your body pressing into his as a result. The closer you get, the more you can feel something in him, something strong, something powerful, lurking in the shadow of this moment, waiting. Watching. He tastes like oak and dew dropped grass, earthy and rich and magical, everything wrapping up into one as you practically go limp in his arms when he parts your lips with his tongue and sweeps inside.

When he pulls away he’s still holding you steady, while you stare at him wordlessly, smile tugging at your lips. The world feels quiet, like everything has all but died down, like mostly everyone has left except for you, and him. A second stretches on for a minute, for an hour, and you can’t bring yourself to tear your eyes away from his, your magic arcing wildly through the night sky, snapping and hissing with the overflow of your emotions. You never want this to end. You want this to last forever... you want him in more ways than you've ever known. You want-

"Fern! Fern!" Someone's calling you, over the noise of the night, and you reluctantly step back, realizing it’s your aunt’s voice carrying over the music and revelry.

“I… I have to…” You nod in her direction, where she stands beyond the pyre, at the seam of the forest, sealed mason jar of something in her hands.

“Of course.” He answers immediately, and takes your hand in his, folding his fingers between yours and petting his thumb over your knuckles. He brings them to his mouth, carding his lips over your skin with a gentle kiss, before giving your hand a squeeze and relaxing his grip. “I’ll see ye soon?”

“Y-yeah. Still want to do dinner, on Thursday?” Thursday should be fine, enough time to recover.

“I wouldn’t miss it.” He vows, strong and certain. You hear your name again, but don’t release him, and it’s not until he’s asking you if you’re alright that you realize you’re clutching to him too tightly. Like he’s a lifeline. Like he could save you from this. His free hand moves into your line of sight, and then he strokes a finger across your cheek, eyes worried, face creased with concern. “Fern? What is it?”

“Nothing. I… I have to go. I’ll see you Thursday.” He opens his mouth to speak but you’re already pulling away, releasing him and bringing the cowl of your hood up over your hair, slipping into the crowd without another word.

You stumble around the dancing and celebrating until you break through and reach the tree line, your aunt and another standing in their ceremonial black robes. You swallow a gasp when you see the jar, it’s clear liquid a tell-tale sign of what’s to come.

Divination.

Your aunt’s lips purse when she sees you.

“Are you ready?” No. No, no. Please don’t make me. You take a deep breath to try to steady yourself, clear your mind and settle your magic. No. No, you’re not ready. The forest cracks and chants around you, cacophony of voices screaming and singing at the same time. No, you don’t want this. You don’t want to do this. This is not what you were meant for, you know it in your heart. You do not want to hurt; you were not meant for harm. “Fern.” Her tone snaps like a whip against your skin.

“Yes.”

You lay still for days, after. Unable to sleep, your eyes never close, your mind never settles, the adrenaline crystalizing in your bones as you drag yourself back and forth from your bathroom to bed, over and over.

You wash hands hundreds of times, but you still see the blood stains on your palms, under your nails, splattered up to your elbows.

Your power burns throughout you, magic heating the air with fervor and thrall, chanting voices culminating around you as you seek the vessels in his body and pull, drawing each drop through him and into yourself, ruby ichor spouting from his mouth like a furious volcano, blood dripping from his lips like the hallowed tears of the old gods. It’s everywhere, on your hands, your arms, your face, your neck, the earth. You imbue it with power, pushing your connections with the roots beneath the soil upwards, into the blood while the breeze sizzles and shatters, mist gathering around your ankles like shackles meant to drag you below.

You close your eyes thousands of times, but you still see the face of the man, still see his fear, still hear his pleas, his screams, his cries for mercy as you bleed him dry, scrying for the future with the litres of his blood.

The visions come quickly, splintering through your head with a sharpness that hurts, and you cry out amidst the pain, your mind being ripped into pieces as you scream. There are hands on you, arms cloaked in dark robes, holding you up, holding you steady while your magic vibrates through the ground and into your bones, filling your sight with the future. Clips of death, birth, tragedy echo behind your closed lids, the mineral scent of blood filling your nostrils until you think it will be burned there permanently.

Tears stream down your cheeks, cutting a path through the spray of red that paints your face.

Your cries join the reprise of the man who sits dying at your feet, the force of his life draining through your magic, bending and weaving with the power from the earth and your own blood until he’s nothing but a husk, a desecrated corpse that lays silently as you collapse in front of it.

The visions do not stop. They will not stop for days.

The elders extract the ones that pertain to them from your mind through their own spell, the process nearly as painful as the Divining itself. They hold you down to the ground to get what they want, pinning your shoulders with a bruising grip, cutting your skin to smear their fingers in your blood, holding your head still as you thrash. Their hands hurt. You will wear their marks for weeks.

Your aunt deposits you on your back doorstep in a heap as the sun rises.

No one calls. No one comes.

You lay alone in your bed, eyes peeled wide, seeing into endless futures, broken stories of other worlds, other beings, other places that you’ll never know. Places you’ll only ever read about in books Places that you’ll only see through this horrid act, or your restless dreams.

Your brain fractures into tiny little pieces. Your own understanding becomes non sensical.

You become lost between planes. Lost in your own mind. Lost to the Divination.

Jet never leaves your side. The shop stays shuttered, as it does every year after Samhain, no one coming or going, your lone employee enjoying her annual week after Halloween vacation.

Eventually your eyes close. You sleep fitfully. You dream of the visions, the screams, the sacrifice.

Finally, you regain enough strength to weave a weak spell that helps quiet your mind, and then you truly rest, for the first time in days. You rest, and you sleep until Thursday afternoon, when there’s a rapping against your door.

Johnny.

“Hey little sprout, what’s-“ the words die on his lips when you peek around the door, and the color drains from his face. “Fern.” He whispers.

“Hi.” You know how you appear. Strung out, most likely. Battered. Exhausted. Bruised. You try to fix the top of the knit shawl that you have draped over your shoulders, but it’s far too late. He’s already seen.

“What… what’s happened?”

“It’s nothing, I’m fine.” You try to play it off but it’s pointless now.

“Who did this?” The demand is harsh, and rage simmers in his eyes, fury crackling along his skin and into the air between you. He looks… different, something primordial reflecting in his gaze, something ominous etched in the lines of his face. The question holds a promise of violence, of punishment, and being so close to him in this moment makes your head spin. It makes you feel like the very fabric of this world is tearing apart, ripping to pieces around you as he stands there, an otherworldly feeling swirling in the air between your two bodies. It suffocates you, pushes you into the dark depths of waters that feel all too familiar, like the leftover scars on your mind from the Divination are being ripped wide open and plunging you back between celestial planes.

“Johnny," You manage to choke out, voice rough and trembling. "it’s fine, I- I’m okay. It’s just… the aftermath. Of Samhain.” Your voice breaks, the tenor of your sadness something that’s out of your control, tears caught in your throat. He stares at you, bewildered, a hand raised midair before it falls to his side in a fist, and he turns away. “Johnny?” He doesn’t respond, and you watch the smooth skin of his jaw flex and harden. He stares into the distance, across the street, into the sky.

Looking anywhere but you.

It’s because he can’t stand to see you.

You look awful.

You look monstrous.

You are monstrous.

“No one should ever touch ye like this.” He bites out, his knuckles tensing against the door frame. His eyes are angry, and wild, burning a hole into your clavicle, where your skin sits exposed, healing from a gash. You shift, a little uncomfortable under the scrutiny, and then he snaps his gaze up to yours, face immediately softening, lips parting, expression rife with unease. With worry. “Are ye… are ye okay?”

“Yes. Just a bit tired.”

“If it’s too much, to have dinner-“

“No! N-no, no. I want… to see you. I want to. Just not sure if I feel up to going out?” He understands, nodding sympathetically, brow furrowed with thought.

“I could go get a takeaway?” Your stomach chooses to rumble at that exact moment, and a small smile plays on his lips.

“That would be wonderful.”

“Alright.” He steps just a little closer, close enough for you to get a deep inhale of him, that woodsy, mossy, magical scent, and swoops down to land a gentle kiss to your cheek before pulling your hand into his and bringing it to his lips, eyes slipping closed with a shuddering breath when he presses a kiss to your palm. “I’ll be right back. You'll be alright?”

“Yeah, 'm fine.”

He feeds you until you cannot eat anymore. He plies you with noodles of too many kinds, different cartons that overflow spread out on the coffee table, in front of where you sit curled up on the couch. You’re still exhausted, eyes straining to stay open, and eventually, you’re sinking lower and lower into the cushions, legs sprawled across his lap, his hand smoothing up and down your calf. It’s warm, and comforting, and you swear you can feel little zings of magic moving inside you, lulling you into a peaceful rest, cocooning you in hazy feelings of softness and safety.

Hours later, in the dark, lips press to your forehead. Your body curls against something warm, face flush against the steady thump of a heartbeat. Someone whispers in your ear.

“Sleep well, little witch.”

“Tell me about your magic.” He asks one night, a few days after you fell asleep on the couch, when you’re finally back to your normal self, spending most of your time getting caught up on everything you let slip during your post Samhain recovery period.

Having Johnny around has seemed to help, somehow. He’s been here, every day since, like he’s unwilling to let you out of his sight, showing up in the mornings before you open the shop with a coffee and sweet, a baked treat that two of you usually split as you go about tidying things around the front room. He hovers, his fingers lightly tracing over your skin often, grasping your hand in his, pressing his lips to your palm reverently throughout the day. You’re not sure how, or why, but it seems your magic and mind have taken to having him around, and you feel better, more well than you normally would during the Divination healing process, your head clear and wounds mostly mended.

“What about it?”

“There were many witches, warlocks, magical beings at the festival, but I didn’t feel anyone quite like ye.” A keen observation. You hem and haw, debating how much to truly tell him, debating how to make it sound… less insane.

“There aren’t any witches like me anymore, really.” You say quietly, casting a mournful look to where he sits on the wicker sofa, legs spread wide. You’re both sitting on your flat’s back porch, enjoying the crisp weather that has a chill to it, the coolness of air refreshing against your skin. “I’m a blood spinner.” He gives you a confused look.

“What’s that?”

“It’s like… a special kind of witch, in my coven. We aren’t exactly… the most orthodox of our kind.”

“What do ye mean?” Ah, fuck. You chew on the inside of your cheek, hesitant to break your oath, to betray the promises you made to protect the secrets that rule your existence.

But it’s Johnny.

And you trust him.

“My coven… we’re blood witches. We deal in blood, water, bone. Living things and… such. We can craft spells that affect other forms of life. It’s generally taboo, now. There aren’t any covens left alive that practice blood magic, except us.”

“And what is a blood spinner?” At the same time as he poses his question, he taps his thigh meaningfully, and you rise from the chair that you were sitting in to lower yourself into his lap, edge of your dress sliding down your thigh when he tucks his arm under your knees. His palm skates up and down the back of your leg, and goosebumps raise the hair on the back of your neck.

“Every few decades, a witch like me is born. They call us blood spinners, which is really just a made-up name for someone who’s… connected.”

“Connected?”

“We rely heavily on our connection to the earth, and most of my coven cannot pull on those connections without casting some sort of spell. I can do it… naturally.” You take a deep breath, and then let it out slowly. “I feel connections to the earth, the elements, especially water, so intensely sometimes it feels like they’re a part of me. During our walk the other week? I could feel the trees, breathing. Could feel the grass growing. Could hear the rapid heartbeats of the ducks in the pond. All without using a single spell. Using my magic is not something I have to cast for, like most others. I can just… do it.”

“I’m still not following.” Of course he’s not. Because you sound insane.

“Right, sorry. Most witches perform magic by casting spells. It’s how they organize and harness their power, pushing the chaotic force of it into something that can contain it, regulate it, give it a purpose.”

“But not you.”

“No. If a witch in my coven wanted to, let’s say, cast a love spell, they’d need an incantation. They could do it, of course, because blood and bone are the primary targets of such a spell, but they’d still need one. They’d write it themselves or get it from someone else if they weren’t confident in their spell making. But I… could just do it. Could just manipulate the blood, enchant it with my own power. Straight from the source. No words. No chanting.”

“Just your power.”

“Yes.” You hesitate. Might as well, while you’re at it. “And, I can use blood to see the future.” He stiffens.

“Divination?” You nod, and he studies you before murmuring quietly, “I didn’t know mortal witches could practice Divination.” Mortal witches? What is that supposed to mean?

“They can’t. We’re not mortal.” His eyes narrow.

“What?”

“My coven has always used their gifts to prolong their lives. It is a blessing, and a curse.” He raises an eyebrow in surprise and you shake your head. “Not me, though. Not yet, anyway. I’m still my natural age.” You offer him a toothy grin, and while he nods thoughtfully, his brow furrows in contemplation.

“Well, aren't ye full of surprises, eh?” He hums, and then presses you closer, leaning forward until his mouth is waiting, just above yours.

“Kiss me.” You whisper, fingers clutched in his shirt, desperate for him, for his touch, for anything he could give you.

“Ye never have to ask.” He answers, and then seals his lips to yours, stealing your breath while his hand sinks into your hip, your body heating under his ministrations, your head dizzy with lust and affection for him. He shifts you in one movement, so you’re straddling him, and you can feel the outline of his cock in his jeans beneath you, can feel the heaviness that sits there. You sink down, just slightly, enough that your clothed cunt barely rubs over him, the contact sending little electric shocks through your body, and you whimper into his mouth. “Fern.” He murmurs, and you sneak your tongue past his teeth, lavishing him as much as you can, eager to soak up every piece he’s willing to give. He groans, and your hands drift to his waist, a thumb tucking beneath his skin and the button of his jeans, desperate to touch, to feel, to have him… when his fingers encircle your wrist and pull you away. “We canna’ dove. It’s late.” He says mournfully. Your heart sinks, soul cresting with sadness, and he strokes some strands of hair from your face gently.

Why doesn’t he want you? Were you reading things wrong? Have you done something?

He brings your palm to his lips, kissing you tenderly, and some of the bitterness leeches from your soul, your heart gentling it's disappointment, your dejection ebbing away on silken spun clouds.

“Right. Of course.”

He sighs, like he’s bearing the weight of the entire world, before knocking his forehead against yours gently.

“I’m sorry, sweet Fern. It’s not you, ah just… it’s late.”

“That’s alright, I understand.” You hoist yourself off his lap, and he scratches his head, more so in a way that seems to be a nervous tic than a necessary action, and you shrug. He stands, body held in stasis halfway to you, arm extended like he wants to touch you, grab you, but he’s holding back. You eye the porch door, and he frowns, something uneasy flickering across his gaze. “I’ll see you tomorrow?” you blurt before he can say anything, and he tenses.

“Of course.” He rushes to assure you, and you give him a nod before turning away.

“Goodnight.” You call over your shoulder, before slipping inside your flat and flicking off the porch light.

“You’ve mentioned… you ‘ave books about mermaids?” His fork digs through the container of noodles, lifting a perfect mouthful to his lips after the question, and you nod with your own mouth full of pad see ew.

“Sort of. They’re not really… mermaids in the sense like, Ariel and such.” You’re sitting opposite him upstairs, in the kitchen of your flat, with a window open, cool breeze flowing through your curtains. Your mind wanders to the ancient Greek text that sits on one of the shelves, it’s writing penned by the old gods themselves, words magicked by you to be hidden from most eyes. “They’re different.”

“The Nereids.” He says plainly, and you blink in surprise. “The ones who lure mortals to their deaths?”

“You know of the Nereids?” He nods, scooping another bite into his mouth, swallowing before he continues.

“My mum used to tell me stories about them. Said they were hunters, used blood spells to trap their victims.” You sigh into your wine glass. His fingers snake across the table and then up your forearm, tracing featherlight touches on the inside of your wrist.

“They don’t use blood spells.”

“No?”

“No.” You scoff. “Their magic is much more complex than that. The blood songs are not spelled. They’re naturally occurring. The Nereids do not choose who sings to them.”

“So, it could be anyone.” He muses, and you shrug.

“Yeah. I’m sure it’s pre-determined by something, somewhere. Some magical force but, the mortals… they’ve no idea. It’s not like they choose, to have their hearts ripped from their chest during sex.” Johnny startles on the stool, body shifting in a rapid movement, so quick your eyes almost don’t catch it. “You didn’t know?” It wouldn’t surprise you. Not much is known about the Nereids. You only hold this knowledge because your coven is well informed, due to the length of their lives, and because you possess one of the few texts left that references them in such detail. Both you and your coven hold the truth of what lurks in the sea close to your hearts. Another secret to keep, another truth never to be borne.

But the wine has made your tongue loose and well, you can’t help but give him everything he wants, anything he’s asked. His eyes flash, and he cradles your hand in his, stroking across your palm with his thumb.

Your words flow so easily, so uninhabited.

It feels so free, so right.

“No. Had no idea.” He watches you carefully, dancing candlelight spinning shadows along the walls and across his face. He looks handsome as usual, but something in the way he regards you now feels different. Dangerous. Thrilling. Your thighs press together almost subconsciously, low whirring of need humming inside your body, and your fingers tighten on the stem of you glass as you continue.

“Yeah, they need them… to live. It’s very… complex. The song creates a pull of sorts, I think.” You drain your glass before motioning to the wine bottle, tugging its contents into your glass with a little flick of magic. “It’s pretty sad. They fall in love with their victims for a night, and then harvest the organ and eat it before the sun comes up. It’s what sustains them. The love, the blood, the magic.” You gesture to the bottle and then to him, and he encourages you with a nod. “It all comes from the heart, you know?” You tap your own for reference, finger padding at the skin over your breastbone, over top where your heart beats just a little faster than normal.

“Aye, I guess it does.” He murmurs, fingertips light against your skin. His attention is focused on you, unwaveringly so, and you fidget under the scrutiny. He looks so… ethereal, in the dim candlelight, so otherworldly that you have to blink a few times to make sure you’re not seeing things.

You’re not.

He’s just really so, so beautiful.

It’s late when Johnny poses another question, clearing his throat over the low volume of a movie playing in the background. He lays behind you on the couch, the curve of your ass pressed into his hips, his arm slung over your belly, palm pressed to space above your navel. His breath fawns over your cheek, and he presses soft kisses to your temple in quick succession before you feel the vibration in his chest.

“I was thinking…”

“Yeah?”

“What if… it was someone you knew? The mortal, who had the Nereid’s song. Could you save them somehow?” It’s an interesting question, and you pause for a moment. His fingers stroke the back of your hand, before wrapping around your wrist and bringing your palm towards his mouth, lips pressing a gentle kiss to your skin before pulling you tighter into his embrace.

“I don’t know. I suppose you could, extract the song. You’d have to call it forth because it’s naturally occurring. You couldn’t just… cast a spell. You’d have to summon it, bind it to something, probably yourself, and then pull it from the mortal that way, but then you’d be dooming the Nereid to die. They need the heart, to live. I don’t think I could make that choice.” His hand skates along your ribs, under your t shirt, stroking up and down your skin slowly. Soothingly.

“I don’t think I could either.”

“That’s not what I meant!” You shriek with laughter, chest expanding as you rock backwards, leaning away from him and his devilish smile. His arm wraps firmly around your waist, keeping you close to him, fingers playing across your clavicle while you giggle.

“Aye but it’s what ye said.” He’s been taunting you relentlessly about last night, when you fell asleep on the couch and then proceeded to talk for a few hours, all while you were blissfully tucked away in a dream somewhere.

“Nooo Johnny.” You moan, mortified, and bury your face in his chest. You peek up at him, and your eyes betray you, even though it’s the last thing you want. You cannot hide it, the giddiness, the happiness you feel when you’re around him. It swamps you in glee, exuberance oozing from every one of your pores. Your power feels sweeter, feels lighter, feels more peaceful now than it ever has before.

You know it’s because of him.

You dread that it’s because of him.

Four days later, you’re cataloguing some new arrivals when the front door of the shop bangs open, smacking against the wall, nearly shaking the building, the sound alone bringing you to your feet in a panic.

Your aunt stands in the doorframe, body thrumming with spells just barely contained, anger flooding the space between the two of you.

“What have you done?” She screeches, eyes mad with rage, and you stare at her horror while Jet hides behind your legs.

“I don’t... what’s going on?”

“What’s going on?” She jeers with an acidity that taints the air. “You’ve always been such a foolish child.”

“I don’t understand…”

That male you brought to Samhain wasn’t a mortal, you stupid girl. He was Fae.”

“Johnny? No, he’s… he’s not. He’s-“ He’s not. He couldn’t be. He wouldn’t lie to you.

“Have you not heard? What’s happened?” she spits. She's confused. She must be. This can't be right.

“Heard what?”

“A Nereid has been taken, to Faerie. By one of them.” You laugh nervously in her face, the absurdity of her statement unsettling.

“No, that’s not possible.” Why would a Nereid leave their home? How would they leave their home? They need human hearts to survive, after all. How would that even…

The room spins. Your Aunt continues to scream, going on and on about how stupid you are, how foolish and naïve, how you’re lucky you’re the blood spinner because otherwise, the coven would have already burnt you at the stake. Alive.

But you cannot focus on any of it.

All you can hear, all you can picture, is the horrid replays of those conversations with Johnny.

All you can think about, is how easily your lips spilled those secrets. How free it all felt. How right.

“You know of the Nereids?”

“I didn’t know mortal witches could practice Divination.”

“I suppose you could, extract the song…”

“They don’t use blood spells.”

“You’d have to summon it, bind it to something, probably yourself…”

“It all comes from the heart, you know?”

“Oh, gods.” You whisper, mouth dropping open in shock. Your aunt finally goes silent, the whole room falling quiet as the blood rushes in your ears.

“You’re dead to us. You’ll perform your duties for Divination, when necessary, but outside of that, you’re to be shunned. No one is to speak to you, of you, ever again.” She pauses, glaring at you with contempt. “The jury’s still out, on whether you’ll be tried and burned.”

“I didn’t… I didn’t know… I didn’t do it intentionally.” You don’t even know why you’re trying to explain yourself, why you’re bothering. She won’t listen. No one will care. You broke your oath. You betrayed the thing you were supposed to protect. Your chest heaves, lungs fighting for air as the walls narrow in on where you stand.

All for some stupid attention. All because some guy, someone you thought was just a harmless mortal with a tinge of power, smiled at you and kissed you sweetly. Because he told you were beautiful, and held your hand, and went on walks with you in the park. Because he kissed you like you meant something, like you mattered.

Your aunt stops at the door, casting a parting remark over her shoulder as she leaves.

“Your poor mother, Fern. I hope her spirit never discovers what you’ve done.”

It doesn’t take long, to find him. You thread your power through the city, scrying your magic through every drop on blood on every street, every corner, ever floor of every building until you locate him, sitting at a two top table outside of a pub, a handsome male across from him. They’re speaking in hushed tones as you turn the corner, and you stop for a moment to take them in.

How could you not have seen this?

Those strange feelings, his scent, the shadow of something primordial in those eyes were all trying to tell you the same thing.

This male is not a man at all, but Fae.

You stomp down the rest of the block, urging mortals away, using your magic to push them, to send them scurrying in other directions, just as the one sitting opposite Johnny spots you, mouth dropping into an o of surprise before he’s speaking, lips moving rapidly.

Johnny swivels in his chair, but it’s too late. You’re already upon them.

Your rage, your shame overshadows your hurt, the fear that threatens to drown you, as you stand in front of him spitting mad, your magic swirling around you in violent hues of red and purple while he stares, dumbfounded.

“You tricked me, you Fae bastard.” He stands, hand outstretched in a cautionary gesture.

“Fern-“ He tries, but you steamroll him. He’s Fae. Don’t listen to a word he says.

“You used me!” You hiss, fist unclenching, raising in front of your body like a weapon.

“No, listen-“ The other one, like him, is standing off to his left, watching you warily while you yell, tears wet on your cheeks. He steps closer, coming to stand nearly behind Johnny’s shoulder before Johnny waves him off with a concerned look on his face.

“No! You listen! Do you have any idea what you’ve done?” Your power throbs through you, biting and gnawing to get out, to strike him down and hurt him, hurt him as he’s hurt you, betray him as he’s betrayed you. Your feelings and thoughts and magic all swirl together, weaving and bending into a chaotic mass of pain and sorrow and anger, surging forward, and then your finger extends, pointing right at him.

In the blink of an eye the air shifts and he drops his glamour, exposing the true strength of his power, the tips of his ears, the mighty weight of the magic he carries in his veins.

Your words die on your tongue.

His hand darts forward, strong fingers wrapping around your wrist and pulling you close, close enough that he can incline his head above your ear, voice razor sharp, lethal and cold when he whispers in an accent you've never heard before:

“Did ye just point at me, little witch?” You’re stunned for a moment, terror galloping through your heart before your sense of self-preservation kicks in and you wrench your arm away, stepping back as quickly as you can.

“Stay away from me.” You hiss. Johnny hasn’t reverted back to how you know him, with the soft angles and rounded ears, his glamoured state, you now realize, and staring him down is a feat in its own. It hurts, to look at him, and you know it’s intentional, you know it’s the way they operate. They aim to sow fear. To scare. Their blinding beauty is just another means to an end, just another tool for them to use.

Something shifts, and Johnny’s eyes move, the intensity of their gaze wavering as he regards you.

He looks… upset.

No. No he doesn’t. He’s not remorseful. He doesn’t care. He used you. He lied to you. He tricked you.

You step away slowly, afraid to show your back to him, and he takes a half lunge towards your retreating form but it’s too late, you’re too far away from him now, and when you finally turn to run, you hear his voice on the wind.

“Fern, wait!”

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everythingelseisextra · 1 year ago

Text

Come Home (Tommy's Perspective)

Part Fifteen: David and Goliath

Description: Tommy doesn't tell you everything. So much gets stuck in his mouth, including his business. Warnings: PTSD, language, Tommy being angsty I guess Word Count: 4796 (sorry) Tag List: @theshelbyslimited @ttaechi @weaponizedvirtue @Majesticcmey @Optimisticsandwichgladiator @zablife @princesssterek @mm0thie @callsignvenus @ay0nha @mgdixon @fairytale07 @dreamy-caramel @ce1iat @algae-tm @dragonsondragons @trentknd @nothingofsimplicity @babayaga67 @shelbydelrey @globetrotter28 @look-at-the-soul

12 Hours before the attack on the barn

When she leaves, my mind clears. I think differently when she’s here. Softer, like a spell cast to make what I’ve learned and what I’ve made myself less important. She leaves out the front door, and I walk back through the house. Footsteps echoing through the halls like a heartbeat. It’s easy to slip back into a routine, to abide by the list that creates itself somewhere in my head. I find the phone and dial the number without thinking about it. Pick it up, hold it to my ear, wait.

“Hello, Tommy.” Arthur, the usual rashness to his words drowned out by the phone’s crackling. His drawl is recognizable to me like I’d know my own hand, and it’s something of a comfort after the talk I’d had with her. “Why’re you calling me at this hour?”

I forget he’s not awake nearly as early as I am. My day, and her day, too, starts before the sun. I don’t give it any pause. He doesn’t care about the real reason I’m calling him. Wants his orders from his sergeant major and to put his head down and do it. “I need you to start what we talked about, Arthur. With the girls. Talk to ‘em, get what you can out of them, see if you can find any of the men who hold their leashes.”

“On it, Tom.” A rustling of movement tells me he’s just finishing getting dressed. “That all?”

“Tell John to do the same. Stay on the outside, don’t stick your nose in where it doesn’t belong.” I can smell breakfast in the air. All I want is a drink and a cigarette. Too early for that. Need to eat. “Tell me what you find.”

“All this for that woman who sprayed you with the hose, eh?” There’s amusement in his tone that I don’t like. Like he’s caught me on some trick I took, like he has something on me. Maybe he does.

“Yep,” I say shortly, not inviting more questions.

“I hope you know what you’re doing. Just looking out for you, Tom, that’s all.”

“I know what I’m doing.” I pinch the bridge of my nose, then drop my hand. “Goodbye.”

“We’re worried about you here. Seems a bit soon, doesn’t it? After Grace and all that—”

“Goodbye, Arthur.” I put the phone down and huff out a breath.

Seems a bit soon. Maybe it is. Maybe I’m all up in my head, afraid to be alone at night, so I attached to the first kind face I saw. Maybe our meeting was some mistake made by me to draw her into the dark.

No. She carries the same burden as I do, in a different form. If our meeting was anything, it was mercy. If some cosmic mistake is what brought us together then it will take another one to tear us apart.

—

Alfie Solomons leaves after the briefing on the Russians. The door remains open. My brothers stay. Their eyes flick down to the ground and stay there, and I slowly sit back down onto my chair. None of them want to be the first to talk. I look to Arthur, let him feel my gaze. If I feel something at their reluctance to leave, it’s too deep for me to be aware of it. I shy away from feeling too deeply. Nothing set in stone, and yet, everything a dirt road. Tread the same path too long and it will become the only path there is. I refuse to be limited by my own emotion.

“So, Russians, hey?” Arthur tries at skirting away from whatever shames him. I stare up at him, unamused. “We— we uh— we fucked up, Tom.” Arthur stumbles over the confession and John shoots him a look of venom. “I fucked up.”

I raise an eyebrow, waiting.

“One of the girls— well, you know how they are— I had some drink in me and she— she asked some questions. Shouldn’t have answered them, Tom. Should’ve kept my bloody mouth shut. It doesn’t matter now, they know. I told it to ‘em, and now they know. Nothing to do but—”

“What do they know, Arthur?” I keep my voice even. My head throbs where the stitches were taken out months ago, another sign of my dawning insanity.

“You know how it is, they act all nice to ya and—”

“He told them about hose-girl.” John cuts in. “He told them that he knows about the one that got away.”

My eyes lock onto the drawer in the desk where my gun sits, hidden. “How much did you tell them?”

“Ah, well, it was all very— I mean, I told them—”

“Get to the fucking point.” Inside that drawer is a weapon I’ve held to the temples of many a man, myself included. Inside that drawer is the hope I have of protecting my own. Including her.

“I told them she has horses. That’s all. That she has horses and doesn’t live in town. All I said, I swear it.” His voice carries bravado, covering up for the anxiety I know he has. He doesn’t like displeasing me, and he certainly has.

My words come short and quiet. “You gave them definitive information about a woman they’ve been trying to find for years.”

His silence resonates.

“Answer me, Arthur.” I tear my eyes from the drawer to pin him down, trying to lock onto his shifty eyes.

“Yes, sir, I did.” He looks to John for support, pleading with him for backup. He finds nothing but a stony face.

“And you didn’t think to inform me of this before I planned to meet with the fucking Russians?” My voice threatens to raise and his eyes grow furtive.

“I thought—”

“I don’t give a fuck what you thought!” I stand, slamming a hand down on the desk in front of me. Arthur flinches. “Her blood is on your hands, and you’re standing there telling me what you thought?”

“It was my mistake, Tom, I’m sorry.”

“Yeah, you’re fucking sorry. We’re all fucking sorry.” I grit my teeth, grind them, and walk out from behind the desk. They turn on instinct, soldiers at attention, their eyes on my back. “We go to the Russians, and we go to save what’s left of her. Understood?”

“Yes.” John’s voice.

“Arthur?” His name is rancid on my tongue. I grow antsy, a green horse on its first ride, flinching and preparing to bolt. I should be by her side, getting her out of there. I should be hunting down the man who thought he could own someone like her.

But I have business. The world slowly lowers down on my shoulders, and I am not Atlas. I cannot shrug.

—

I leave the Russians with the scent of cigarettes, whiskey, and Tatiana’s perfume lingering on me, and the thought of Grace stuck in my head. I was careless, and now I’m hungover, disorganized. The night is still young, and we reach home before the moon is bright in the sky. First thing I do is pick up the phone and call Moss. I ask him about a woman in a barn outside of Birmingham, and he tells me they found two dead bodies with her.

“She’s safe?”

“She is for now. She won’t talk and she has no record, Mr. Shelby, we gotta take her in.”

“No.” I shake my head. “Keep her. See if she’ll talk. I’ll come get her.”

I need an ally. I need help, with everything, not just the quiet things. I need someone who can stare down the barrel of a gun and keep their mouths shut. I need someone who ignores the urge to run, who knows that they’re a monster, too. Two dead bodies found at the barn. One smashed, one shot. When I close my eyes, I can see myself pulling the trigger, smashing the skull. When I think about it, I can feel her fear and determination. My brow furrows, my lips part. She sits alone in a cell while men she doesn’t know interrogate her.

“Is that all, Mr. Shelby?”

“Don’t.” I shake my head, a headache stretching between my temples. “Don’t make her talk. Let her wait. I’ll be there.”

“Yessir, Mr. Shelby.”

“That’s all, Moss. Goodnight.”

I put the phone down and make my way to the bathroom to clean myself off, to rid myself of the smell of other women and spirits and the taste of Grace on my lips. So that she doesn’t smell it, yes, and so that I can forget it ever happened. So that I can wash off the shame and fear and overwhelming sense of loneliness. So that the path I tread doesn’t become beaten.

—

After I’ve cleaned the wounds on her head, after the blood has been washed off, after the sins of my war have been confessed, she sleeps in the bed next to me. I’m on my back, but my head is tilted. Her eyes flutter beneath her eyelids. Her lips part slightly. Moonlight shines on her skin. A swollen bump grows underneath her chin, skin broken.

If I could love her, it would be heavy. Something to carry with me. My love, I’ve learned since Grace, has teeth. Maybe it isn’t love. Maybe possession, maybe control. I can grip with clenched, white knuckles. I can force someone to come back to me, not because they want to, because they have to. I want to love her but I doubt that I can. When I try, something hurts, and I cannot tell her where, only that it does.

A desperate part of me that I do not visit often wants to know what it’s like to be consumed. I am always the possessor, not the possessed. I want to be claimed. I want her love to have teeth, like mine, that can show me that my armor is only skin. If she was the one to cut me, I would bleed forever. That desperation believes that, even with Grace’s death, there is a person out there made exactly for me. That desperation believes that the war I fought in might be echoed in someone else’s. That desperation believes that I have found her and I am ruining it.

I get up from the bed and my body aches. Faint bruises form on my trachea, where Tatiana pressed down. I look at myself in the mirror and empty eyes stare back. There is fear behind them. I want to lay back down with her and forget about last night and tonight and all the regrettable nights I will undoubtedly have until she is brave enough to touch me.

In three days time I crawl back into a tunnel, deep underneath the earth, with the pressure of the world lying over me, precarious. I brave the underground for the sake of a robbery that could make or break my career. I promised Grace to stay legal. She’s dead. And the company runs.

—

“We have your son. Get in the car.”

Rain patters on the outside of the car. I’m in a tinfoil box, and my son is out there. “First. Is he safe?”

“Of course he’s safe. All children are dear to me.”

Michael’s voice, his confession, speaks to me from memory. My son, in the hands of men who have little respect for physical boundaries. Who have little respect for children themselves.

“You have all the cards. Tell me what you want me to do, and I will certainly do it.” My words are choked at the ends, not broken, but holding anger and panic.

“You ever drive one of these beasts?”

“I’m asking you to conduct business.”

“I borrowed it. Lent it. By a lord. For the duration of this business.”

My head bowed, my eyes unblinking, staring forward, waiting for the order that will save my son. I breathe heavily. I have no choice. I have to comply. “I will certainly do what you need me to do with no complaints.”

“We were forced into doing this awful thing. We did warn you that your son would be in danger if you deviated from the plan.” The priest speaks to me like I’m thick, words slow and gentle and pretentious. “It was you who made a mistake, you understand that?”

“Yes.” Anything. Anything to get him back.

“What mistake did you make? Do you even know?”

Now it’s a game. A show of power. I have no choice. I must comply. “Tell me what you want me to do.”

“You made a deal with our enemies.”

“I will do what needs to be done.” “You went behind our backs to stop the Soviets from blowing up the train. But it’s alright. It’s alright. We’ve rectified your mistake. You ask me ‘what do I need to do?’ Well, here’s what you need to do, you fucking mongrel, you.” He hands me an envelope. I take it with shaking hands. “But since the Bolsheviks will not be blowing up the train, you’ll blow up the train yourself. It’s always been about the explosion. From the beginning. The bang. The outrage. Understand?”

I nod, unable to do anything else. A mechanical movement, trained into me, comply, comply, comply.

“Those are notes and fragments for you to scatter in the wreckage. Implicating named officials from the Soviet embassy.”

“I will scatter them. It will be done.”

“Good. Our friends at the Time and the Daily Mail will do the rest. And once the British government cuts diplomatic relations with the Soviet Union, that will be our mission accomplished. You’ll have been part of a fine adventure.” His eyes land on me. I can feel his gaze, despicably soft brown eyes, a red herring. “To help with the outrage, we need people to die in the explosion.”

I feel nothing. I am an empty shell of a man, puppeteered by a God that despises me. “How many?”

“Let’s say; six? Rail workers, perhaps. Men from the factory.”

I nod. That's all I can do. “And I want my son returned to me within an hour of the explosion.”

“Oh, it’s conditions now, is it?” The amusement in his words sends chills down my back. I shift forward.

“We need to fix the handover in advance.” Firmness. Clinging to what little power I have.

“I haven’t finished with you yet, Mr. Shelby. We also hear you’re digging a tunnel. Mining for precious stones under Wilderness House. I’m told they have a faberge in the strong room. The Lilies Of The Valley Egg, made in 1898. One of the Odd Fellows has a wife who’s obsessed with faberge. He wants to give her the egg for her birthday…”

“He will have it.” Comply.

“And the economic league will take all the jewels that you steal, to cover our considerable expenses. The fight against communism isn’t cheap, you know? So if you want to see your—”

“I will bring you all the jewels.”

“A bang first. Then bring everything you’ve stolen to your office at dawn.”

I shake my head. “No. No. I’ll not be able to get the jewels to you by dawn. The tunnel has hit clay.”

“If the Saint Andrews clock strikes 5:00 am on the night of the robbery, and we don’t have everything that we’ve asked for, the bell will be tolling for your boy.”

Thunder rumbles. I nod, closing my eyes. My son. The last piece of Grace I have.

“Now get out of my fucking car.”

—

A day has passed since I’ve seen her. She has her horses. She’ll think of me when she has the time, wonder where I’ve gone off to. I have no doubt she’ll worry tonight. She’ll pace the room we share and think she’s made a mistake, some blunder that’s chased me away. I think as I drive that this might be the end. My disappearance, my lack of communication, my lies, might be the final straw for her. She knows nothing of the Russians or the Soviets, knows only little of the priest. I’m sure she expects me back when the sun starts to go down. I’m sure her sleep will be fitful or impossible without knowing where I am.

I won’t be going home tonight. She will rise before dawn, when I crawl out of a tunnel, and she will wonder where I am. Perhaps she’ll call Ada, who’ll tell her nothing. I am Midas. When I touch her, she turns cold, so I don’t. I don’t tell her of the business I conduct because she doesn’t deserve to be part of this bloody fucked up world I’ve created. So, she’ll wake up, and I’ll be gone. No explanation, no contact. And I’ll come home when the sun has risen and I’ll explain nothing. I protect my own.

I protect my own, but I’ve chosen Charlie over her, and of that I am guilty.

There’s gray in the sky when I arrive at the tunnel. Johnny Dogs shouts at me, seeking an explanation for my sudden appearance. I shout back something about my boy and the priest and midnight, and before he can stop me, I climb down into the tunnel.

I don’t feel. I try to chase away the ebb and flow of my head during daylight, above ground, when the danger separates itself from the soldier I used to be. I’ve built a dam between myself and whatever wave of emotion comes crashing in. I can see it come, but I am never drowned by it. Not when I’m on top of the world instead of underneath it.

I am trapped in a birth canal of mud and the sound of picks against clay. I cannot move in any direction without being pressed against some wall. I watch the only way out disappear behind me. There’s no escape except to complete my mission and pierce through the earth. Some nightmare shakes the earth around me. My heart pounds in my chest. I’m covered by dirt and it staunches the blood from the abrasions; from the axes, from the rough stones, from myself, that mark my shaking body.

The single lantern flashes shadows and I can hear the Germans against the barrier in front of us. A race against time begins. No apparatus supports us, all we have are pickaxes to eat away at the earth in front of us. Tunnel warfare springs to life, and my head pounds, and the dam is broken. My hands shake and my eyes are wide and there’s no doubt that I am terrified. Doesn’t matter. I can be scared and still work, still function, still complete the business I’ve forced myself into. There are men by my side that inch forward with every second, who I trust, who know the tunnels as damn well as I do.

I am ripped into being alive. Sensations, doubts, fears, absolute terror, things I have not felt since the war. On hands and knees, chipping away at impossibility, the earth rumbling with soldier’s feet and mines exploding on the no-man’s-land I tunnel beneath. Strangely, there is fear, and next to it a sense of belonging. This is my grave that I dig, and I am meant to die here, underground. This is my home, the first place I learned to run from, the first place I promised myself I would never return.

One of the men seizes and I do nothing to help him but send him out. On the edge of the shakes myself, I am wired to do nothing but dig. Forcing the wet clay apart, blood and sweat dripping from my forehead, inching forward bit by bit with the other men.

I remember rot. I remember bodies buried in the clay. I remember the sun being a dream. I remember each shake of the earth a bad omen, each sound of picks on the other side a forewarning to our deaths. God watched idly as I buried myself and other men in a grave I dug myself. We told each other not to listen when we screamed, when we convulsed at night, when we broke from the pressure of the world on our shoulders.

I can feel sludge beneath me, slipping, and I know I’m going too fast. My men build supports with timber to hold up the earth on weak substructures. Condensation drips onto me. The ground around us shivers, rocks tumble from around the supports, and we pause, waiting, expecting to be buried. Nothing.

Gasping for breath. Body bruised and battered. Swimming in the suffocating pressure of the earth surrounding us. Trying desperately to dig upwards, to save our own lives. To survive. None of it real, just the sound my picks and the men building supports.

I reach the end and plant an explosive. Backing away. Blinking the blood and sweat out of my eyes. It goes off, and I expect to be buried but have no time to fear it. Before the smoke clears, I’ve escaped the tunnel, and I can breathe, if only for a moment. My shaking hands scoop jewels into a canvas bag, giving no thought to what I grab, where I grab from. I take and take and take.

There’s a shout that I don’t have much time. I suck in a breath, snatch blindly at the last few jewels. Crawl back into the tunnel, throwing the bag of jewels in front of me, following the men as they begin the creep back up.

I’m the last out. The other men have gone to clean themselves up. Panting, I lie in the dirt where I belong, and roll onto my back to stare up at the black sky. My breath fogs the air. Bits of my body stings where the skin was scraped off. And I pant.

I can’t breathe. I can’t breathe.

—

Somehow, I manage to drive. I don’t see the trees around me, don’t see the grass or the hills, just look straight ahead as my destination grows on the horizon. A single phone booth on the side of the road, resolute. I don’t turn off the car, stepping out and walking unsteadily over to it. I place a coin in, turn the handle, and wait.

“Let me speak to him,” I say.

My son’s babbling fills the phone and I smile. “Hello, Charlie.”

He’s unharmed. He’s safe. The nightmare, for now, is over. A lump forms in my throat and I don’t understand it. I’m smiling. I’m relieved. My hand shakes. There’s extra liquid in my eyes.

“Hello, Charlie,” I say again. He responds with a quiet dadda and nothing else.

“Can you hear me?” I sniffle and fend off the rising pressure in my chest, holding it off until I’m done, until I know he’s safe.

He mumbles something about being tired and I smile again, heart simultaneously filling and being stabbed with something cold. “Yeah. You go to bed. Good boy.”

The call ends and I put the phone down. Something in me bends and bends and bends and then, finally, snaps. My brow furrows and I squeeze my eyes shut and a small sob wracks my body.

It was a success. My son is safe. The jewels are ready. I should be fucking grateful that I survived this. That we survived this.

There’s a sense in me that there was no success, only what appears to be one. There’s a sense in me that tells me I’ve pushed those I want close further and further from me. There’s a sense that I will never be the man I hope to be because it’s hard when I’m always fucking unwanted. There’s no light at the end of the tunnel unless I blow it up. There’s no joy to be had unless I force it.

And I sob, because I feel everything. There’s an ache in my chest and a hole in my heart. There’s pain through my body and a horrible loneliness in my head. There’s relief, pure and unadulterated, and there’s terror lingering from the tunnel, images flashing through my mind of what burned itself into my mind in France. Claustrophobia burns through me. I sob over what I’ve destroyed like I want to stop and worship it, and soon, I’ll be back with a pick in my hand and explosives waiting.

My son has grown up barely knowing me because I’m consumed by business. My heart has been broken too many times and I fear that it will never be made whole. I am a soldier with only the cause of ambition to guide me. And I feel everything, even though I try to hide it.

I take a breath, pressing my eyes closed, then pull myself together and straighten. I call her. I suspect she won’t pick up, but I try anyway.

There’s a click and her voice, distorted by the distance, says my name in a tone I can only describe as fearful. “Tommy?”

“Yes,” I say, words still choked.

“Where have you been?” Not steady, not brave, not the tone I know from her.

“Business.” It’s the only explanation I can give.

“Business? For two days straight?”

“Yes. For two days straight. You need to know who I am.” I squeeze the earpiece, stopping my voice from wavering. “You need to know that I can’t give you what you want.”

There’s quiet on the other end of the phone. My hand continues to shake.

“What happened?” The fear is gone, in its place, worry.

“Nothing happened,” I lie. “Do you understand me? I can’t be the one you need. You think I’m going to change but those fuckers out there are worse than I am.”

“I’ve never wanted you to change. I’ve never asked for that. And no one can be everything to someone. I’m not expecting that from you. I just want you to tell me when you’re going to be gone like this.”

“They’ve issued an arrest for my family and I have to let it happen.”

“What?”

“For my brothers, for Pol, for Esme and Linda. I made the wrong enemies.” Please, forget about me, choose to leave. “You should go before it all goes to shit.”

“Tommy. I’m not going. I’m staying with you. You’ve made a mistake, that doesn’t mean I’m going to abandon you. I told you I would forgive your rottenness and I plan to keep that promise.” Her voice is strained. “Tom, just come home, we can talk—”

“I’ve gotten mixed up in something too big for me.” I close my eyes, a small tear dripping out. “I won’t have a family after this.”

“Thomas Shelby, I swear to God, if you don’t come home, I’m tracking you down and dragging you here myself. Okay? So get back in your car and drive your ass home. You’re gonna be fine, you’re not gonna end up without a family. You’re going to be fine.” Her voice softens towards the end and I feel myself drawn towards her, despite everything. “You won’t be alone.”

“I fucked another woman.”

“That doesn’t surprise me in the slightest. Quit trying to make excuses for me to leave you. Come home, we’ll calm you down, and we’ll talk about it.”

“My brothers told them where you were. The attack was my fault.”

“I get what’s happening here. Something scared you, and you think you’re hurting everyone around you, so you’re self-sabotaging. Come home. That’s all I want. Don’t you want to give me what I want?”

I do. I always want to give her what she wants. There are better men out there who could love her. There are better people who could protect her without making the mistakes I did.

They’ll have to get through me, though.

“I’ll come home.” I open my eyes and blink hard, ridding them of their bleariness. “I’m not the man you want, love.”

“So you keep saying.” Her words grow wry. “You forget that you don’t get to tell me what I want. And I want you. I don’t know how to make that any clearer to you.”

I nod and give in to the words she speaks. “Okay.”

“I’ll see you soon, Tom. Yes?”

“Yes. Goodbye.”

I put the phone down. This shallow world, this twisted and broken body I live in, this mind that I cannot control, somehow she is a master of all of it. Somehow she puts me at ease. Love, I think, is two people inspiring each other to live. And she gives me a reason, and she stays by my side.

Dawn breaks, and I walk back to my car in silence.

#only the wild ones #tommys pov #tommy shelby #peaky blinders #tommy shelby x reader #thomas shelby #peaky blinders x reader #thomas shelby x reader #peaky blinders imagine #tommy shelby imagine #peaky blinder imagine #peaker blinders fandom #tommy shelby fanfic #thomas shelby x y/n #thomas shelby imagine #thomas shelby fanfic #peaky fucking blinders #peaky blinders fanfic

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cthonic-bunny · 7 months ago

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Hi!

What do you think about Lilith conjunct sun in synastry? Man being the Lilith and basically he doesn't have other planet in the same sign.

Or if you don't use asteroids, what do you think about a man with pisces sun, moon in Taurus (I don't have a birth time so there's a small chance he may fall in the first three degrees of gemini, but I'm almost sure he's definately a Taurus moon), Mercury in Aquarius, Venus in Pisces and Mars in gemini? Like an overall impression, because to me is like an world salad describing some kind of Tortured artist TM

For Lilith contacts, when the man is Lilith and the woman is the planet person, I’ve noticed that Lilith can develop some sort of fascination or appreciation for the theme of the planet it touches. I’d also like to know which house the two fall in for more context on how it might manifest!

In negative scenarios, I feel like it points to some fetishization of that planet’s quality, or a desire to exploit those qualities in some sense (I personally noticed this as the planet person when a man’s Lilith squared my moon, for example). Again, the houses in which the two fall in can provide more context!

For Lilith conjunct Sun, Lilith can really enjoy how the sun person expresses themselves and shines. They might find you to be “different from the rest,” and that adds to the sun’s person perceived sex appeal in the eyes of Lilith. They can feel like you truly have your own authentic identity. They can really like your confidence, and encourage you to put it on full display like a peacock. Since they spend time admiring your confidence and authenticity, they are very likely to notice when you’re not being your true self in a given situation or around certain people— which might breed a feeling of self-consciousness in the sun who might feel overly perceived by Lilith. Lilith can just give you a look and you might feel called out. I feel like Lilith can find the Sun person to be beautiful, but has a weird way of letting the Sun know they admire them. They might just assume you should know that by the way they look at you. They might enjoy getting you flustered and shy, because others might not get that reaction out of you. You might feel more shy while talking to them, and might not understand why you feel so “soft” or “weak” when you talk to them! However, I think they want you to maintain that confidence you had before they got you, because it’s so alluring to them.

I feel like the moment they catch this, they are aware of the power they have over you. By your ego diminishing in front of them and because of them, theirs feels a bit more inflated as a result. They feel more confident in their own seductive powers because of how you react to them. You might make them feel more invigorated and secure in his sexual energy. If things progress to a physical point, Lilith will be putting on the show for the sun, now using that as his opportunity to be the peacock in this dynamic. Lilith might love the darkness the sun naturally exudes, and wants to embody that together and take it to a whole new intensity that seems so far removed from the original vibe they picked up from the sun.

I think Lilith can project a bit onto the planet person and wants to form them into the idea they had of them in their head, so they can fully embody the aesthetic type of taboo dream girl they want by their side to frame or reinforce their own identity.

I feel like Lilith might have played it cool in the past, but will soon be introduced to feelings of jealousy and possessiveness once they get the sun person. They were drawn in my the sun’s radiance, but now that they caught feelings, hate that other people can feel that and want the sun person the same way Lilith does.

I feel like the sun person might have fun dressing in a way that is desirable to Lilith, because once Lilith is comfortable providing praise and compliments, it’s always exactly what the sun needs to hear to feel sexier.

You both might encourage one another to be your freest selves, even if it draws in negative attention or feedback.

—

Your description of “tortured artist TM” is so funny, but I feel like it’s accurate as hell 😭 that basically sums it up, for real!

I feel like he definitely has a soft side, but finds it hard to vocalize until he feels a real camaraderie with someone. He has good taste, and appreciates good style in someone. He likes when someone has good manners. He might gate-keep the full extent of his humor, but once you get to know him you’ll see that he’s probably HILARIOUS. He would really appreciate someone who listens to his interests, and values his intellect. He would probably appreciate dates to art museums, eclectic restaurants or hole-in-the-walls, dates to farmers markets and thrift events, or even book fairs. I feel like he could be interested in philosophy, and appreciates more complex conversations with people he genuinely wants to be close with. He would love someone who he can listen to music with or share music with, someone to watch and dissect films with, and someone who makes him feel safe to show his weird side!

#lilith #Lilith synastry #sun conjunct Lilith synastry #astroblr #astrology #astrology observations #relationship astrology #composite observations #sexstrology #astro notes #astrology blog #synastry

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sapphicseasapphire · 10 months ago

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Hiii, I ADORE your chain as Cryptids AU, all of your art is gorgeous and every character is wonderfully unique, I wanted to ask for a lil more lore if possible? While Four is my favorite character we have not had nearly enough asks for Hyrule! And fairies in general, in your au are they more fae-like with some trickster tendencies or very kind and giving like the Minish? Thoughts on bottles, etc? TYSM!

Oh boy oh boy do I have some Hyrule Thoughts. And some general fairy thoughts as well!

(Under the cut because this is gonna get long)

For this au, I’m thinking of just Zelda fairies. Little glowing balls of light that flutter on fragile wings, iridescent and magical and gentle. Fairies have an affinity for magic: all kinds of magic, though they’re best known for their healing abilities. There isn’t a single archetype of what a fairy’s behavior will be. Some can be tricksters, some can be kind, some can be shy, some can have the most ill of intentions. Fairies are like people, really, in that they’re not just all one thing. (This is what separates them from spirits, really. They’re just on the cusp of ascension, but unlike Koroks or Blupees or Dragons or anything like that, they cling to their mortality and allow themselves to grow and evolve. Because of this, Hyrule is not a part of the telepathy circle).

There are many communities of Fairies, and they tend to group up around a Great Fairy as their leader. There are some colonies that are independent of Great Fairies, though, but they are rare to find, as they are at a much higher risk.

You see, while Fairies are magical, they’re very fragile. Usually, a typical Fairy wouldn’t posses enough magic to defend themself against a Hylian captor. Docile and tiny, they’re quite easy to bottle up and carry off, and easily discarded once they’re used. Great Fairies are much more powerful than the average Fairy, and even more powerful than a Hylian, so sticking around them is preferred. They protect the others.

Hyrule is a very unique case. You see, he was born with the Spirit of the Hero. For this au, the Spirit of the Hero acts as an enhancer for any kind of spiritual or magical power a Link already possesses. For example, Twilight is only able to shift because he’s descended from a God and possess the Hero’s Spirit. (Otherwise, one of his parents would have had God Powers TM too, and they probably wouldn’t have died so soon).

In Hyrule’s case, having the Hero’s Spirit grants him much more magic than a typical Fairy- almost as much magic as a Great Fairy herself. All of this power in such a small frame… no one is the wiser. Hyrule has enough magic to properly defend himself (if he had any sort of training… which, as a child, he didn’t) and most importantly, he has enough magic to hold a Hylian disguise for a LONG TIME. His glamour can change the way that he’s perceived but cannot change his actual shape. Others can see and even touch his changed form, but it is not real.

ANYWAY. Yeah. Bottles. Fairies are afraid of them, are afraid of Hylians. And Rito and Gerudo and Gorons and Zora and monsters and literally everything under the sun. When you’re two inches tall, everything is a threat.

Fairies are hunted mercilessly by Hylians, mostly. They’re never killed, not outright, but they’re taken from their colonies and shoved into a tiny bottle, sometimes for weeks and months on end (Fairies don’t starve as quickly as other species would, able to expend magic to keep their little bodies functioning). That being said, they often do not survive captivity. A tiny little bottle, often shoved in a bag and jostled around, no light, no food or water, all alone, just glass on all sides. It’s no place for a Fairy. Even if they do make it out (after expending magic to heal whatever wound they were abducted to treat), they will rarely make it back to their Great Fairy before succumbing to magical exhaustion or being captured again.

On the topic of magical exhaustion: Fairies have a limited amount of magic they can expend before they have to recover. Even one as powerful as Hyrule has their limits. Recovery almost always means rest, and it can mean their body does a forced shut down and simply stops working for days at a time. Often, Fairies are more hungry when they’re recovering, as magic can no longer be used to sustain the body.

Hyrule is less vulnerable to this than other Fairies would be, but when he’s standing next to the Chain? And every single one of them is hurt? After a fight where he’d used his magic to take down dozens of monsters? All while keeping up his glamour? Yeah, he’s gonna be feeling that one.

Telltale signs of magical exhaustion before it gets to the point of actually passing out: Physical exhaustion, drowsiness. Headaches, sudden hunger. Feeling cold. Often, the other heroes might notice Hyrule picking up an extra serving at mealtimes or ask to huddle up with someone at night (oftentimes Sky, as his wings are very warm and he doesn’t bat an eye when asked to cuddle). Hyrule sleeps longer, but never seems to gain any more energy.

Magical exhaustion, if pushed too far, can be fatal.

ANYWAY. When Hyrule first joins the Chain, he forces all of them to free any Fairies they might have. He enforces that rule as others join, and is hesitant to lower his glamour. I’m think that for a long time, they don’t even know he’s a Fairy. He’s terrified that if they find out, they’ll bottle him up and use him for healing and never let him go. For. Long time, he’s terrified of them. Fairy Bottlers surround him. It’s not until he physically cannot keep his “Hylian” form up that the others find out what he is, and he never expected them to be so understanding. So… apologetic. Actually legitimately regretful of their Fairy Bottling pasts.

ONE MORE THING. Four can turn Minish sized. When Hyrule works himself to magical exhaustion and passes out, he goes back to his True Form, the two inch tall lil Fairy. And of course, when that happens, it’s really really difficult for the Chain to move him or help him without accidentally hurting his tiny body. So Four will shrink down and help him to bed, check to make sure that he wasn’t hurt when he fell unconscious, and stay with him at their size so he’s not alone when he wakes.

I have many more thoughts but this is getting actually so long. I apologize!

#the legend of zelda #chain as cryptids au #sapphire rambles way too long #cryptid lore #sorry I rambled #a lot of lore I think #and I have so much more actually #I love getting asks like this #cryptid hyrule #links meet au

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echekate · 10 months ago

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Zombie apocalypse AU pt. 2

some more hc's just because I can't get my mind off it

or is it more of a drabble?..

gn!reader x Hobie Brown

tw: amputation of a limb, a mention of suic!de at the end, suggestive stuff, but mostly fluff (don't ask me, that's how zombie apocalypses work)

As the winter passes Hobie finds himself feeling quite comfortable in his new place. Wether it's the Town that has more decent ways of existance than the one he previously lived in or certain someone who keeps his want to fuck off at bay, he starts thinking less about leaving and more about pros and cons of staying, and... Well, you.

The commune that everyone basically calls the Town is quite different from the one he used to be in before the big shit TM happened. The biggest difference is probably the place having not one allmighty leader but many of them, a dozen or so people trying to keep the place, this isle of civilization, from falling apart. The second difference - no big rules. The only ones are make yourself useful and don't stir up trouble. Considering that the place doesn't have too many people, those are enough to keep the place organised and safe. Any problems that come up always get solved by "the big bosses" who look after the Town.

And the more Hobie thinks of it, lives in it, the more content he gets with how things work. After all, he's got no problem with occupying himself or being useful. And he's not the one to start trouble if he's fine with how things are going.

And then there's you.

You who was helping him during his recovery. You who welcomed him so warmly at your place, and introduced to your parents if you still got them. You who let him use your bed until his leg was fine and he could move to the couch. You who told the big bosses you'll take care of him and he won't be any trouble and a waste of resources. You who helped him when he needed to get out and shared your warmth with him during those cold nights of hunting outside

Shit, since when did he start thinking so much about your warmth?

One thing after another, everything leads to Hobie starting to hesitate. And then one thing happens that pretty much seals his fate.

Could there be a more perfect moment? You and him are at the infirmary after coming back from another sortie. His cheek rests calmly in your palm as your other hand moves over his face, cleaning small bruises left after your little adventure. Bleak sunshine of the spring sun filters through the blinds on the windows, gently touching your skin. It's quiet, peaceful, you've gotten used to sharing both talks and comfortable silence with him.

Your head's been full of thoughts of Hobie's inevitable departure ever since the winter days had ended. You feel like any time now he can just seep through your fingers and disappear. And what's so bad about it, right? He's just a boy who was there to reach a helping hand when you were in need of one. But here's the thing: you and Hobie just... Click.

There's not too many people of your age among survivors to be picky about your friends. But ever since you've met Hobie you had this feeling that if you met him before the apocalypse, you'd be best friends for sure. He makes you feel less lonely, more cheerful, more seen. You can discuss anything without judging each other. And now you have to wrap your head around the fact that he'll leave soon? You want to respect his freedom, you really do, but... Yeah, no fucking way you can just let him go.

You barely notice the way your hands slowly come to a stop as the thoughts fill your head. And just when Hobie raises his eyes at you to ask why the hell did you stop caressing his face with your lovely hands your work, you find enough courage to meet his gaze and whisper a soft "Hobie, you should stay."

Your lips are so close and wouldn't it be just a perfect moment to kiss them? Because - hell, he wants that. But despite you being just a few inches away looking at him with such tenderness, you seem like you're not going to move any closer. So the best thing that comes to Hobie's mind is to smirk and say, "Sure thing, dove. Anythin' if I get a kiss fo' tha'."

And just like that it suddenly gets to you that all those nights cuddling in the woods you probably weren't the only one to get a little too comfortable. Because now behind that cocky expression on Hobie's face you see that he means it - you give him one kiss and he'll follow you to the Hell itself. But you turn into such a mess of joy and embarrasment that you're sure you'll fuck it up. So you ask him to wait till evening. To join him on his night watch. "Promise you won't leave 'till you get it." And he gives you a promise.

And when you join him on the town's wall at night, take his hand to let him know you're here, that's when you finally give it to him. Yes, you give it, because he lets you be the one to decide if you truly want it this time and doesn't try to take it himself. After all, it's in your best interest to convince him to stay, and a kiss is the price you must pay. But as soon as you do, your deal is sealed, and that's when Hobie shows you just how much he has to give back. He spins you two around to press your back into the wall and kisses you again and again till the pile of melting snow falls from a canopy above your heads making some noise and startling you.

You stay for a few more minutes to laugh and talk quietly and soon leave to get some rest. But you go home filled with joy because you know you both felt it that moment - none of you can leave the other now without leaving your heart with them.

At some point Hobie realises he has used your hospitality for long enough and after exploring less inhabitated parts of the Town for some time he finds himself a perfect spot. The house clearly has been rummaged through and looted more than once, but it isn't the thing that takes his attention. An impressively built tree house in the backyard though... Now that's more like it. Oh and a garage attached to the house? Maybe he can even go back to crafting stuff like he used to do before the world collapsed.

Hobie doesn't wait long before moving there and finally leaving your place. And though you miss him living close to you, now Hobie has a place of his own that suits him best. A place he can and will decorate to his liking. And a place where you finally can be truly alone with him. Perfect for nice and long makeout sessions with some music playing from your old headphones you share that certainly will turn into something more with time, like pawing at the skin under each other's clothes as you grind against each other and pant into other's mouth. Yes, a perfect spot that he doesn't mind sharing with you.

And hey, he still visits you, too.

What you've got between you two you're not in a rush to name. It's just kinda there, it has been since the moment you've brought Hobie to the Town. Though if before that kiss you could pass as a couple of really good friends that just seem to get along very well, after it happens your connection becomes painfully obvious to anyone in the Town. I mean, it's hard to misunderstand. You've been close before, but now you become nearly inseparable. Some people even start wondering if it's even possible to meet Hobie without you being nearby and the other way around. You sit there with him when he tries to build stuff in his garage. He helps you with whatever you do.

It is love, that much you know for sure, but whenever you try to explain it, you fail. Because labels and names don't really matter when the world slowly falls apart, and you feel too much anyway to try to define it with few words. Hobie, i believe, barely even tries. He just feels and enjoys it.

As for 'keeping himself useful'... Let's be honest, no one has ever expected Hobie to just settle and become a proper townie. And remember? He goes wherever you go, and you go scout sometimes, so of course he keeps you company. And it's hard to express just how much easier it becomes with him around. It's a former loner we're talking about here, he knows the best spots to hide, the best ways to avoid hungry undeads. Despite the outside still being dangerous and horrifying, with Hobie by your side your chances of survival really skyrocket.

And I imagine that you meet the rest of the spidergang that way. They're lost and scared and gods know how they've managed to survive this long, but one way or another you find them during your expeditions and bring them back with you. Just for them to see just how cool you and Hobie are and want to become a part of your scouting team, too. And hell does it feel like getting children with him...

And to the darker part that i've mentioned in the end of the pt 1

Of course with a job as dangerous as yours it's only a matter of time when some really bad stuff happens. Bad as in your hand getting bitten when you already think you've managed to escape that groaning mob of shamblers. As in Hobie immediately grabbing you and putting a tourniquet on your arm to stop this shit from spreading any further, quiet despair in his eyes because he knows exactly what must be done. Bad as in him taking a deep breath and sinking a big blade of his hunting knife into your flesh, aiming to separate the joint while other arachnokids try their best to keep you in place while he cuts off your forearm, only leaving behind a piece of skin to put it over the wound and sewing it up with a few sloppy stitches. It's imperfect, but hey, he did his best, and at least now he can bring the rest of you back to the Town, alive.

Hobie's fine if you're mad at him, he takes it like a champ, all of your "I'd rather if you just shot me" and "Great, you've made me fucking useless and made me live with it" things. He knows you'll thank him later, when it gets to you he has saved your life once again. He doesn't try to change your mind or make you less angry, he just waits and nods and helps you without a word whenever you encounter a task that used to be so easy when you had both your arms but that can be so troubling now. And he's really delicate about it, only helping when you almost get too upset you can't do it on your own. He lets you let your steam off on him, but he'll immediately offer you his vocal support and anything you need as soon as you let him know you need it or need him.

And yes, as soon as you get back he starts working on making you a new forearm. First it's just some quick and simple stuff, but hey, the boy's a genius, he'll manage to make you something really good. He'll be looking for better and better materials on your expeditions and experiment with them and i'm pretty sure he can come up with some really cool robotic stuff in the end.

And when your pain and shock and anger wears off and you realise just how much strength it took him to do the thing he did and then endure your behaviour, you apologise immediately. And just as quickly he forgives you. Because hey, when the world is at the brink of death, you can't let things like that just ruin a connection like the one you two have.

You just have to understand that if one day you turn and Hobie has to shoot you, the next thing he's shooting is probably himself.

________________________________________________________

(english is not my first language i'm struggling lmao so sorry if there's mistakes)

pt. 1 | pt. 2

#across the spiderverse #atsv #atsv hobie #hobie brown headcanons #hobie x reader #hobie brown x gn!reader #hobie brown x reader #hobie brown x you #hobie x you #spider punk x you

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underrated-lovers-of-apollo-poll · 9 months ago

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Round 4: Poll 1

*Please Read*

I advise everyone to read each contestant's story to get a well-rounded understanding of each entry. I urge you to not just vote for the one "you know best". I have everyone's stories/reasons why they should win under the cut.

(Branchus art by @literallyjusttoa and Rhoeo art by @amiti-art)

Propaganda:

Branchus

What's The Love Story?

Apollo disguised himself as a goatherd one day soon after killing Python and Branchus came across him, fell instantly in love with the beautiful shepherd, and kissed him. Apollo was just as enamored with Branchus as he was with him and granted him prophetic abilities, as well as a crown and magical staff!!

Going back some years to Branchus's birth, you could say that his mom received a vision of his future as a lover of Apollo - she dreamt that a glowing sun went into her mouth and through her stomach.

Also, since Apollo met Branchus soon after killing Python, he's probably Apollo's first lover EVER! Which is SO COOL APOLLO'S FIRST LOVE WAS A SHEPHERD BOY THE BISEXUALITY IS REAL

also also, an altar was built on the place where Branchus kissed Apollo <3 true love <3 and prophecies from Branchus were second only to Delphi itself, so Branchus got some STAR TREATMENT

Why Should They Win?

First Love = First Boyfriend <3 the queer is strong in this one

Yooooung Loooove Vibes TM

THEY WERE ADORABLE I NEED MORE OF THEM WHERE ARE MY BRANCHUS FICS

Rhoeo

What's The Love Story?

Her dad was THE worst and when he found out she was pregnant he didn't believe her that the father of the baby was a god so he put her in a wooden chest and threw into the sea. Jokes on him because Apollo was baby's father so Rhoeo made it safely to Delos. She gave birth to Anius and placed him on the alter in Apollo's temple and asked him to save the baby if he was truly his (idk why he needed saving tbh, the myth does not specify this. I headcanon that he was born too early)

Apollo then took Anius and not only saved him but also started to raise and mentor him.

Rhoeo later married Zarex who adopted Anius so our boy had 3 parents, good for him. And there are no myths about her dying a horrible death so she probably had a long and happy life (unlike some other lovers of Apollo 🙃)

Also around the same time Rhoeo got thrown into the sea in that wooden chest, while her sisters were watching over their dad's wine, it got destroyed by the swines. The sisters were so terrified of their father they decided to jump of the cliff but Apollo saved them and turned them into goddesses.

Why Should They Win?

I think Apollo truly loved her not only as a lover but as a friend too. It was not a one night stand like often happens in the myths. He loved her enough to save not only her and their son but also her sisters (like come on he turned them into goddesses). He let her live on his sacred island. And he loved her enough to let her go. While gods are often very possessive of their lovers (Apollo included, rip Koronis), he had no problem with Rhoeo moving on and getting married. I like to think that they stayed good friends and Apollo was very happy that she found such a great guy like Zarex to marry.

Kids?

Anius

#HYDROGEN BOMB V HYDROGEN BOMB #round 4 #branchus #rhoeo #greek mythology #the trials of apollo #tagamemnon #underrated lovers poll #apollo #apollo deity #pjo apollo #trials of apollo

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puffin-smoke · 2 months ago

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hiii its me again here to annoy you about--

Lovely x Treasure pt2!!

I made them a playlist! I'm very proud of it, will update it alot.

Also came up with a ship name! ✨️GoldSparks✨️ yes I'm very proud of myself what of it

Last we left off, the two had finally met again at the summit after a few years apart. Feelings are resurfacing and be promptly suppressed.

The two exchanged numbers as soon as the Summit was over, but Lovely didn't really bother to use them when they first showed up at Treasure's door. "I just needed to see you again."

Lovely offers to walk Treasure to work and they then get to chatting. Lovely sort of interrogates them about everything that's happened since they sort of dropped off the face of the planet.

They're trying to recapture of feeling of like normalcy and safety that they haven't had since Vincent. Treasure is safe. And warm. this is very platonic of them

Also Lovely has to deal with the fact that all of their friends think they're fucking dead. So that's a fun conversation.

Treasure: "I met him at this stupid party Alex dragged me to."

Lovely: "Oh, how's Alex been?"

Treasure: "Horribly depressed."

but, after that great conversation, it feels just like normal. yknow just with all the more romantic tension. which has been a constant in their relationship for years SO a little more wouldn't hurt.

So Lovely starts walking Treasure to work whenever they have a spare moment. Sometimes Treasure might forget their lunch and Lovely will sprint back to go get it with VAMPIRE SPEEDDDD

they want to show off. they want Treasure to be impressed. this is their horribly repressed way of flirting

I'm imagining them dressed in full black in a bigass coat so the sun can't hurt them, while Treasure is just in a T-shirt and jeans. Noir Detective x Normal Guy (tm) (my Treasure is a fucking hairdresser)

anyway THE PININGGGG

FOR WEEKS

Vincent is just like "Wow, Lovely's been a lot happier recently. I'm a great boyfriend." (copium)

Lovely vents to Treasure about all the shit going down with the House. It's not a particularly fun topic, but Treasure's fine with it. They want to be someone Lovely goes to when things aren't fun, when they need a reprieve. They will gladly be a distraction, since they can't be anything else to Lovely.

#redacted lovely #redacted treasure #redacted audio #redacted headcanons #Spotify #redacted goldsparks

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cyantomatos · 1 year ago

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Even Stars Will Fall - CH 8

Pairing: Eventual Oberyn Martell x fem!Reader x Ellaria Sand Word Count: ~2.8k Warnings: Rylan is no longer just a creep, he is upgraded to Bad Person TM, misogyny disguised as being helpful, talk of how bastards are treated in GoT world Notes: Little bit of a note for this chapter, I mention Ellaria's kids and the children Oberyn had before her in this one. I did all the research I could short of reading the books before I wrote this whole fic, including my own timeline of events, but there isn't a whole lot of info about Oberyn's children. I'm sure pretty much everything I say about them other than their ages in this is inaccurate, but I'm not planning on them really playing into the plot much, so I'm willing to deal with it. I'm sorry if it upsets anyone though! Also, this is the last chapter I have written in advance, so while I promise there won't be as big of a gap this time as when it took me a year to update, I'm not sure when further chapters will be up. Fingers crossed it's soon, we're about 70% done with the story! (I think)

Last Chapter | Masterlist | Next Chapter

As it turns out, there is actually quite a lot of work that goes in to preparing a name-day celebration for a prince.

Even with the celebration just over a week away, there were more servants bustling about the palace than there normally was. There were extra rooms to prepare for the guests, food that could be made in advance to lighten the load the day of, and some decoration was already taking place as well. The grand hall at the center of the palace that opened onto the spectacular main gardens was already being draped in gold and burnt-orange fabrics since it was rarely used other than for celebrations like this, and the decorations would not get in the way so early before the celebration.

Soloman was busy as well, expertly directing a team of gardeners supplemented with temporary help for the next week in ensuring that the plants in the palace gardens were up to a royal standard. You weren’t sure it was necessary, Solomon spent so much time making sure the gardens were already perfect year round that surely there wasn’t much more that could be done, but he wouldn’t hear it. The prince deserved perfect, so he would get better than perfect.

It meant you had little to occupy your time for a while, however, since your amateur gardening skills would only be in the way.

After the second day that Solomon kindly, if a bit exasperatedly, re-directed you away from the gardens when you offered to help, you weren’t quite sure what to do. One of the passing maids, seeing you standing and staring wistfully out at the busy gardens as she passed by, quietly suggested you check out the palace library. It wasn’t going to be used during the celebrations, she said, so you couldn’t possibly get in the way in there.

That was how you found yourself later that day curled up in a surprisingly deep pile of cushions in the corner of the library in front of a large open window, a stack of books by your side that sounded interesting. You’d expected a palace library to be mostly academically focused, but were pleasantly surprised to find a rather large collection of fiction books.

Ellaria joined you the next day, claiming she was tired of the nervous energy filling the palace in anticipation of Oberyn’s name-day.

The two of you were curled on the numerous cushions, basking in the sun streaming in through the window. Reaching the end of a particularly tense chapter in your book you sighed and set it aside, wincing as you stretched your arms above your head.

“It is not good for you to sit in one position for so long, my dear. Especially hunched over like that.” You turned to see Ellaria smiling softly up at you from where she was lounging at your side, one hand resting on her ever-growing bump, her hair unbound and glowing against the cushions.

You felt heat creeping into your cheeks under her gaze and glanced away, carefully marking your page. “I suppose you’re an expert in being uncomfortable, at this point. How you handle that belly pulling on your back I’ll never understand.”

Ellaria laughed, tipping her head back into the sun and closing her eyes. “You become accustomed to it after a while. It helps that this is not my first, I knew what to expect.”

You studied her as she spoke, grateful for a little time just to stare at her. You knew people said that pregnant women glowed, but it had always seemed to be an exaggeration to you until Ellaria. Although that could just be her, you wouldn’t be surprised to find she was always radiant, pregnant or not.

“Where are your other children? I don’t think I’ve seen them around the palace. Oberyn also has other children too, right?” Ellaria nodded, absently rubbing over her bump. You doubted she even noticed herself doing it anymore.

“At the Water Gardens, most of the time. Oberyn likes to keep them away from Sunspear and the danger and political intrigue. Dorne is certainly safer for bastard children than some other places, but there are still those that think Oberyn should not claim his children so openly. It is easier if they are not in Sunspear. Safer.” Ellaria’s voice was tinged with sadness as she spoke, and you reached out to slide your hand into hers where it rested on an elaborately embroidered cushion.

Her eyes opened, squinting slightly in the bright light, and she smiled up at you. “I miss them, sometimes, but I agree they are safer where they are. Elia is only five, and Obella three. They do not need to be caught up in all of this. Even Oberyn’s other children are still young, although Nymeria will be fifteen soon. I suspect she will not be content staying away for much longer. Obara is the eldest, nineteen I believe, and she is just like her father. Unable to stay in one place for long, although Oberyn has somewhat grown out of that. She travels, but comes back to visit her siblings and father often.”

Ellaria looked towards the ceiling resting her head back against the cushion again. “Sometimes I wonder how the universe chooses soulmates. I would never claim not to be good enough for Oberyn, nor would he, but it would have been much simpler had my soulmate not been a prince.”

You leaned forward, smiling softly and dropping your voice almost to a whisper. “It could have also been much worse. Imagine your soulmate was Northern. I don’t think you’d survive anywhere that got anything close to cold.”

Ellaria’s laugh echoed around your bubble in the shelves, her eyes swimming with joy when they slid back to your face. “You are right about that, my dear. I am not built for northern men and their stone castles.”

A polite cough interrupted your laughter, and you turned towards the sound with an apology already on your lips, assuming it was one of the librarians come to scold you for being too loud. Instead, the words died just about as quickly as your joy when you saw Rylan standing at the gap between shelves, grinning at the two of you.

“Apologies, ladies. I was told that you had been spending your time in the library to get away from the commotion, but I was not aware you had company.” You were instantly even more grateful than before that Ellaria had decided to join you. The idea of Rylan being able to catch you on your own, isolated as you were so far back in the shelves, set off alarm bells in your mind.

“Well, I am just as useless with the preparations as she is, and to be honest I would not want to participate even if I could. So I decided what better way to spend my day than hidden in the library with one of my favorite people?” Ellaria’s smile was sharp, although you were sure you only knew the difference because of so long spent around her. To Rylan it likely only looked polite, although his own smile turned somewhat forced as he looked first to Ellaria and then to where your hands were still clasped against the cushions.

“A wonderful idea.” You could swear the words hurt Rylan with the way he ground them out. He looked back to you then, taking a step further into your little sitting area, and you had to suppress the urge to ask him not to enter your space.

“What can we do for you, Lord Rylan?” His plastered-on smile faltered again at the emphasis you placed on his title.

“Actually, I was hoping to speak to you privately, my dear.” Before you could insist whatever he had to say could be said in front of Ellaria, her hand was already slipping from yours. You turned to her, indignant at her being so quick to abandon you, but something in her eyes when they locked on yours told you she wouldn’t be going far, anyway.

You looked back to Rylan with a smile as Ellaria rose off the cushions, taking a moment to steady herself with a hand on her belly. “Of course, my lord.”

Rylan stepped aside enough to allow Ellaria to pass, waiting a moment after she was gone before taking a few more steps towards you. You suddenly realized you did not want to be sitting practically on the ground with him so close and pushed yourself to your feet, a flash of irritation burning through you at Rylan’s offered hand after he had only stood and watched Ellaria struggle on her own.

You avoided his hand, pulling yourself to your feet and clasping your hands in front of you. “What did you want to speak to me about?”

Rylan studied you for a moment, and something about his gaze made you suddenly feel like a cow on an auction block with the way he seemed to be counting everything valuable about you. His eyes never left your face, but you still had to resist the urge to raise your hands to cover yourself.

A moment later he took a breath, charming smile back on his face. “Well, my dear, I have a proposition for you.”

You couldn’t think of a worse thing to hear out of his mouth.

“As it seems you may be stuck in our world for the foreseeable future, possibly permanently, considering I have not heard of any progress being made on figuring out how you even got here in the first place, you are in a precarious position. You are a young, unmarried woman, with no male relatives to advocate for you, living on the charity of the princes because of my cousin's fascination with you. However…” He trailed off, his smile taking on a rueful tilt. “My cousin’s affections can be somewhat...fickle.”

You straightened at that, more annoyance than usual tickling at the back of your brain. “I don’t like what you’re insinuating, my lord. Oberyn is my friend, Ellaria as well. Neither of them would turn me out like that, and Doran is not cruel enough for that either.”

Rylan tilted his head, spreading his hands placatingly. “I am not saying they would, my dear, but you must admit that you are currently dependent on their generosity. I would simply see you safe in your own right, not dependent on two princess to remain generous.” Crossing your arms you took a half step back, a pit of dread beginning to form in your stomach at where this conversation was heading. “And what would you propose as a solution?”

At your question, Rylan’s smile grew. “I would like to propose marriage, my dear. To me.”

You were wrong. There was something worse.

It took a moment for his words to fully register for you, and you couldn’t help letting out a short, incredulous laugh once they did. “What?” Rylan’s smile didn’t falter this time, and he took an eager step towards you. “I have been looking for a wife for some time. I am afraid that next to my cousins I am not as appealing of a prospect for most women, despite having considerable wealth and a title of my own. You are beautiful, my dear, and strong. Marriage to me would keep you safe, provide you with a comfortable life that you would not be in danger of losing on a whim.” His words filled your mind, setting off so many alarm bells you could hardly concentrate. You took a step back, trying to maintain space between the two of you, but Rylan only stepped closer until your back was against a shelf and he was only inches away.

He took your hand, holding tightly when you failed to fight the urge to snatch your hand away. Rylan’s eyes were wide now, and in the back of your mind it registered that he looked slightly unhinged as he continued.

“Oberyn already has his soulmate, my dear, as does Ellaria. You are nothing but an intriguing diversion to the two of them. I would cherish you, as my wife, shower you with jewels and fine clothes. You would never have to lift a hand again if you did not wish it. Oberyn has the title, yes, but I could give you so much more than he can, my love, and our children-”

You yanked your hand out of his, the idea of having children with the man standing in front of you enough to break you from your panic. Placing a hand firmly on Rylan’s chest you shoved, forcing him back a few steps to give you room to breathe.

“Enough! Why on earth would you think I would marry you, Rylan?” Mixed emotions spread across his face as he stared at you, no doubt the confusion at your reaction warring with surprise at you finally dropping his title in your annoyance and anger.

“What?” he seemed genuinely confused, and it only angered you further.

“Why. Would. I. Marry. You.” You enunciated slowly.

Rylan only continued to stare at you for a moment. “I...I just explained what you would gain…” You scoffed, rolling your eyes. “Yes, a title I don’t want, money and gowns and jewels I don’t want, a marriage to you I don’t want, and children with you that I would never in a million years want.” You were the one to step forward this time, the anger seething beneath your skin giving you confidence you otherwise wouldn’t have. “I don’t need a man to protect me, my lord, and I would certainly not put you on the list of potential suitors even if I did need one. I am happy with my place, with Oberyn and Ellaria.”

Rylan seemed genuinely shocked by your reaction, and a small part of you almost felt bad for how thoroughly he must have deluded himself into thinking you would react positively. That small part was quickly stomped out, however, when he drew himself up to his full height, anger spreading across his face.

The lord took a step closer to you, and this time you refused to step back and let him have that ground.

“I would be careful how you speak to me, my dear. I am not a man to be disrespected so brazenly.” You glared right back up at him, keeping your spine straight through sheer force of will powered by indignation despite how you wanted to run from this confrontation.

“And I am not a woman to be so easily intimidated, my lord. I am not from here, you cannot treat me the same as you can women from here.” You leaned back just slightly, letting your eyes scan condescendingly over him. “Not that it really seems to be working even on women from your world, either. How long have you been looking for a wife, exactly? Struggling to find one outside of your cousins shadow?”

It was almost like you slapped him, the way he flinched at your words. You’d known the lord was jealous of his cousin, it was obvious really, but it seemed to hit home a little harder than you’d expected.

Rylan stared at you for a moment, and the charged silence was almost enough to make you lose your nerve. When he finally stepped back you had to resist the urge to let out a breath. He took a few more steps back, glaring at you the whole time, before raising a finger towards you.

“Some advice, my dear, for surviving in this world. Do not make powerful men angry.” Before you could respond he turned, stalking out the gap between the shelves that served as an entrance to your little area.

The moment he was out of sight you nearly deflated, shoulders slumping as one of your hands groped for a shelf to hold yourself up. Your other hand reached for your necklace, the swirled blue gem sitting warmly against your chest. You’d taken to fidgeting with it in moments where you needed calm, and it always seemed to soothe you the moment you touched it.

You heard soft footsteps a moment later and looked up in alarm, expecting to see Rylan there ready to force your hand. Instead, you saw Ellaria standing in the gap between shelves, eyes wide in alarm. You realized she must have stayed near enough to hear the whole conversation, concerned to leave you totally alone with him.

She took a step towards you, and you suddenly found you couldn’t hold yourself up anymore, the adrenaline from the last few moments finally seeping out of you. You slid down to your knees against the shelf and Ellaria rushed forward, kneeling in front of you as steadily as she could.

“Are you all right? Did he touch you?” Her words came out in a rush and you shook your head, reaching out shakily for her hand.

“No, no, he didn’t touch me. I just…” You couldn’t find the words, but Ellaria seemed to understand, leaning her forehead against yours as you both closed your eyes. Ellaria’s voice also shook as she gripped your hand tightly.

“It will be alright, my dear. Everything will be okay. No one could take you from us. No one.”

Taglist:

@marvelousmermaid @tanzthompson @lowlights @dobbyjen @tanzthompson @casa-boiardi @sarahjkl82-blog @ecuadorlady @fan-of-encouragement @obscurexsorrows @badwolf-on-baker-st @knivesareout @writeforfandoms @gorgeousgrogu @leto-duke @xoxabs88xox @kirsteng42 @hauntedmama @urofficial-cyberslut

Join my taglist here!

#Oberyn Martell #Oberyn Martell x reader #Ellaria Sand #Ellaria Sand x reader #Oberyn Martell x reader x Ellaria Sand #ESWF #Even Stars Will Fall

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girlfriendsofthegalaxy · 11 months ago

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tuesday again 11/28/2023

tuesday again no problem will be taking a break for the 12/12 edition (not next week but the one after)

listening

previously featured Os Mutantes, a countercultural brazilian rock group, is back bc i heard A Minha Menha on an instagram reel by @/ vintagepulps on a showcase of brazilian pulp magazine covers.

youtube

the SECOND that driving riff hit i experienced a brief moment of fuckor bc this is exactly and precisely the kind of song i like. this translation tells me it translates to My Girl. it's got moon/sun imagery. it's exactly the kind of song to drive around to in the summer while having an absolutely crippling crush on the person in the passenger seat. spotify

reading

you wouldn't download a woman...

TWICE

watching

I'm No Angel (1933, dir. Ruggles) a 1936 black comedy written by Mae West and starring the babiest Cary Grant you've ever seen. i added it to my letterboxed bc i saw screenshots of this one specific dress. that’s so much sideboob. good for her.

we don't use the term "adventuress" anymore to describe a woman who does various physical or social stunts to land a husband and i think that's a shame. Tira (yes) is a burlesque dancer and (separately) a lion tamer at a down on its luck circus, becomes famous through putting her head in a lion's mouth, and leverages that fame to fall in and out and back into love.

your enjoyment of this movie will hinge on your tolerance for astrologers, circuses with animals in them, and depictions of black housemaids that have not aged super well, even if they're mostly there to stroke her ego. i'm sort of torn on what rating this would get today-- i'm assuming R bc there's a woman expressing desire but nothing actually happens beyond kissing and some sitting in laps. some peril for the lions i guess?

i do not think this particularly nailed its landing, and i'm not totally sure why they got back together, but mae west in straight up burlesque and the shimmiest dresses you've ever seen is so much fun to watch it doesn't really matter. this is sort of sidelining the her very funny, extremely quotable script. apparently any movie she wasn't allowed to write or heavily doctor her own lines just completely flopped, which i also think is very funny.

just straight up on the internet archive

playing

triple header for Things That Came Out This Decade: Genshin Impact (September 2020), Deliver Us Mars (2023) and Gamedec (2021).

brief Genshin update: your main companion in the game, Paimon, the little fairy bitch, has been the recipient of some worrying foreshadowing lately. hey Paimon you wanna tell us anything???

Deliver Us Mars, free on Epic this week. i want to like this game. i think there should be more weird little eurojank original scifi B-franchises like this and you should be able to feed your family by making them. i do not want to continue playing this particular little franchise.

it's the second game by KeokeN (The Netherlands) and published by Wired Productions (UK, although they are partnered with Koch, which means they’ll be bought up soon), a studio of under 20 counting support staff (some of who are certainly part time or on hourly contracts) and an intern. after doing that basic background research i ratcheted my expectations back a couple notches and deleted a somewhat catty paragraph about video game hair.

this is a sequel to Deliver Us The Moon, which was a successful Kickstarter and Steam greenlight (TM (C) R) and it seems they spent the four interval years mostly polishing up the predecessor Deliver Us The Moon, which i do not own and do not plan on playing.

Deliver Us Mars bills itself as an action-adventure, but during my time with it, it was more of a cinematic movie/walking sim with extremely light puzzle/platform mechanics. there are extensive childhood flashbacks following a dad around as he trains his daughter to be an astronaut. the timing and insertion of these never quite clicked for me-- they take forever and they were never as interesting as what they interrupted.

youtube

this game is not good at signposting or tutorializing. i had to restart a chapter twice bc the unique controls popped up for a brief fleeting moment on screen and weren’t in the keybinding settings. i could never quite get the mouse and keyboard camera sensitivity right, and platforming/vertical elements seem to only be partially implemented: you can only really successfully approach certain segments from extremely specific dead-on angles. there are like three big boxes in your path that you have to clamber over at one point and i do not think it should take a solid minute and a half for me to get over them. some reviewers praised the lack of signposting during the launch sequence (causing you to frantically look around at a million unlabeled buttons and levers to see if any of them were highlighted as a thing you can click) as a fun way to ramp up stress but i fucking hated it.

after two and a half hours, and only just making it to a ship OUTSIDE mars, i decided there are other games in the world. this hits some sort of minimal viable story benchmark for me, i can see why some people love it, but i don’t want to find out what happens bad enough to play through a slow game that handles terribly and isn’t much fun to exist in.

does get points for big fuckoff dishes.

Gamedec is an isometric RPG, where you are a near-future private investigator who handles delicate personal matters inside wildly popular MMORPG VR games. unfortunately all the trailers suck shit.

youtube

this is catnip to me. i love a no-combat game where i have to walk around and talk to everyone and click on everything and write things down in a little notebook. i loooooooove being nosy. i've played through the first two and a half chapters (kinky second life, racketeering farmville, and real life uh oh) and i'm having a fucking marvelous time. the writing team clearly had a lot of fun, the VR game worlds feel very alive and vibrant-- there's a ton of possible weird little flavor interactions that go a very long way toward making me forget this is a limited-perspective isometric. this is like praising an RPG for doing what it says on the tin and being an RPG, but the most recent RPGs ive played have been fucking terrible. it's not shoehorning me into one-true or main-path choices. extremely forgiving of failure, which is good bc i straight up accidentally killed my first client. i know he was a kid but he kinda had it coming imo. sometimes kids just suck shit

im so delighted by this shitty little apartment-- it's got to be fucking bizarre to exist in, bc of the ultra-loft ceilings you need to make it be isometric, but it somehow manages to feel like a studio apartment and a seedy back office all at the same time. a game that is in general very fun to Look at. will have more thoughts as i continue playing but this is really scratching some sort of itch for me. commits to the bit. funny but sincere. a pastiche in ways i personally do not find annoying. has not hit me with like konami code style references yet. due to the fact this is also in my epic games store library i believe this was also free at some point

making

fallow week for me. phil has been regrowing skin at a good clip and i can no longer feel each individual vertebra, AND we have another vet appt on friday to get more/different antibiotic goop and all of her vaccinations and microchipping done. mack made a hairball and is getting put back on an actual wire slicker brush grooming schedule. my beautiful girl seems to have a particularly dense coat among the domestic shorthairs of my acquaintance, although that may be bc she is a new england girlie and we constantly exist in air conditioning?? mixed feelings about scheduled brushies from her, even with short and light sessions. we’ll get there.

helping.

#tuesday again #tuesday again no problem #phil

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athanasius-symposium-of-writings · 1 year ago

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Cupid's Curse

Chapter Fifteen

Taglist: @gingermous @mt2sssss @dev-angeline @graciexmarvel @yawny0-0 @yumeillu @angel-bi666 @ahookedheroespureheart @stevenandmarcslove

Chapter Fourteen | Chapter Sixteen

Warning: trippy experience with powers, nsfw, reader sad (i promise not for long i swear! Maybe)

A/N: okay listen, listen I saw Desire, and like AAAAAA i love them they so dramatic tm lol plus sandman crossing over w moon knight is big bain to me

The shrine to Aphrodite is covered by a thin black cloth, the closet door is shut also covered by the dark veil. You do not wish to been ‘seen’ by her right now-- As if she could see you. If she did… She would have bedded you as her way to restore your faith in her power and her love. You turn over on your bed with your eye drifting close, breathing slowing, and soon you fall asleep.

When you open your eyes it is due to hearing the chirping of birds, not the bird sound that they make in this modern world, but the real chirping of birds. A fair warm breezes pass you, the soft crashing of waves upon a beach, the sun high and bright in the clear sky. You take a deep breath as you stand in the garden of your Goddess’ domain. Her paradise is where land, sky, and sea are all set to a perfect moment. Beautiful, as beautiful as the moment of her birth. A piece of Poseidon’s domain was taken when she rosed and her power burst to life. Her claim is absolute.

When you discovered this dream realm (for humans) it was when you slept the first night after the union of her heart with yours. Awaking here when her realm was grey and dull, lifeless and colorless. As you lived throughout the ages and your lovers gave their love to you, this realm once more bloomed like the red rose your Goddess’ loved so much. Seeing this realm also means your heart is hurt.

Yes, this is the place your heart sends you to mentally to restore the bond between Aphrodite and yourself.

Standing up before dusting off the sand off your peplos, it is depressing to wear this currently when you feel like shit.

Like you said from the beginning: this is both a blessing and a curse. Currently, it is a curse and after what you did with Lockley, you rather rid yourself of Love completely… Not true but you feel awful.

Your very being is the essence of what the Greeks define and believes Love is, ranging from a romantic view to the dark twisted nature of this emotion. The fascination with this secondary emotion, how it can never be truly ripped out of mortals no matter what they do to each other or themselves. It lingers, it can fester, it consumes and ruins; it never leaves a mortal or divinity's heart.

How it drives everything we do without us knowing it. The first emotion is taught to us by the embrace of the love of one.

Why else would every land have a deity (or deities) of Love both the emotional and mental aspects of this complex, yet simple drive within all creatures from mortal to divine? No one is safe from its grasp.

Though most only claim avatars of Love, in general, are simply creatures of lust.

A sex avatar– Debasing…

Though right now you feel like those words are true, that every insulting thing you called yourself is true, that you don’t deserve Steven. Oh, beautiful Steven… Steven deserves better.

For Steven, you will go against the desires of Mania, you only need his love– nothing more. Yet, that is always easier said than done.

Standing basking in the warmth and smell of home, of Greece when the air wasn’t so polluted and the beaches were clearer than they are nowadays. Her realm, your piece of a home long ago; out in the water is her shrine. A temple built on the very spot she sprung from the water bare and gorgeous. What she told you she did spring from the water, but it was painful as she became more and more alive as the sea foam she came from was turning into her very body; she was not as beautiful as the story goes. She was monstrous and when the first human gazed upon her, she took the appearance of what the mortal mind perceived as ‘beautiful’. As Greece grew and more ideals changed, so did she find her way.

Her form of beauty and her definition of beauty are shared with her believers: none however will match her beauty.

When you look at the temple, you are looking at want created her, as she form before she was the Goddess you love and miss every moment of your immortal life. Her smile, her touch, her voice; her poor Agape who she granted a gift you lost in touch with.

When you enter the usually silent temple bright but hollow, you find it dark. Not dark enough that you cannot see but dark enough that you do not wish to enter. You step back but the darkness rushes past you before engulfing your world.

Naturally, you raise your hand up to block your face, eyes squeezing shut as your head turns away. The world shifts and soon the darkness clears as the scenery is completely different and the scent of Aphrodite is gone– Replaced by the scent of peaches? The memory of summer cutting up peaches and the taste that lingers in your mouth and is shared in a kiss. Summer peaches.

Slowly your arms lower and eyes open to see yourself in completely red, a red like blood, and sit on some strange design.

"Welcome, my child!" A cheery playful tone echoes, "Oh? I see, you have my darling girl's heart." You turn around then around again and again until you are once more facing the chair. There stands a person in a black bodysuit with black feathers on the shoulders, a long v-line that stops midway down the chest. Skin like snow, eyes gold yet it could make gold look pale compared to those eyes, lips painted a dark red and forming a toothy smile. The cat ears are not what is expected to rest on lustrous blonde hair.

"Come, come, don't be shy. Your gifter wishes to see you."

Gifter? You walk forward, hands picking up the bottom of your robe and the pitter-patter of your barefoot against what feels like marble. The mysterious gorgeous figure smoothly like the finest silk sliding off the skin, they stand on heels and when you stand before this androgynous divine person.

The giggle and way they rest their arms over your shoulders, well-kept nails playing with the accessories holding up your hair. "Aphrodite, how you have changed dear. Or would you want to be called (Name)?"

You do not why or how but you are captivated by their charm, "I.. Who?"

"You silly one! Your name, shall I call you by your name?"

"No, I mean yes, who are you?"

They draw themselves away a step placing both hands over their heart, "Don't tell me you've forgotten your gifter!" Making a 'tsking' sound as they wiggle a finger in front of you, "That is simply unacceptable! After all, my power has given your dear Goddess her precious life and power."

You are even more confused which must be clear on your face because they roll their eyes and scowl.

"Desire, dear. I am Desire." Walking around you before pulling you backward close to their chest, "Where I touch, things want and need and love - drawn to their objects of desire like butterflies to a candle flame."

There is a story rarely told as most divine creatures often do not speak of anything stronger than them. In reality, there is an origin point, something older than the Gods.

The Endless. Beings of the certainties and inevitability.

There are many and Chaos told you (Aphrodite) they are what grants many beings like us (the Gods) the power freely used as they wished.

You touch your head as Desire is humming in approval as you remember what Aphrodite learned.

"Father?" You aren't sure what to call them given they are well… Transcending gender fits them.

"Hmm, you know I thought that would sound good: a parental relationship but it just sounds off for us." Whispered like the dirtiest of secrets, "Gifter is better and has much more importance." Fingers dancing down your arm, your lungs breathe in deep then release it as Desire unlatches a clip holding your peplos.

"I almost couldn't find you, such a faint spark," You find yourself falling backward and they appear above you as your back hits the comfort of a bed. "Now why is that?" They place a thin long finger on your lips shushing you, "I know why, silly darling. That is why I am here after all!" Finger tracing the column of your throat.

"Why?" You gasp out as mere touch is… Is… Like her touch.

"Because the heart you deny is my favorite gifted and you humans need to stop limiting yourself." His hand wraps around your throat not squeezing through, "And I'm bored. So entertain me." Desire absolutely loves mortals, love how Desire influences everything.

Interweaving itself into anything or one with a passion to: work, create, kill, or die. Plus, he adores you and loves the union of Goddess to the mortal trope.

Also, there is the admirable and the annoying, you are edging close to annoying for Desire. Aphrodite was a favorite because she caused drama! He so loved seeing the messes she made, especially ones that got out of hand! Sure, they could understand that you are essentially not Aphrodite but his powers run through you and he expects a better performance to entertain him when peeks in.

You lay there drowning in the scent of summer peaches, kisses tasting of black raspberry, and the touch of silk.

Yet, you tremble in fear as your hand grips the sheets, tears running down those cheeks.

"My poor gifted, let it out. Your gifter will be here to take it all in."

The emotions rushing through you remind you of the time Aphrodite had you in her bed. You had cried, and grieved because you felt broken… Undeserving of her love because you didn't understand what love is nor could you reciprocate it— Or so you thought.

Her scent is the sea, her kiss taste of quince, and the touch of rose petals.

"Give me your all, there is nothing I cannot handle," They sit up, slipping out the top part of the bodysuit, "Show the brilliance of that borrowed heart."

You believe them, the sense of safety, craving to touch someone who will not be driven mad by your— Their— Power.

The glow of your eyes, hair, and way Aphrodite's mark on your chest; Desire inhaled the scent of the sea during the spring. Yes, his creation was crafted from sea foam because he merely wanted to make something. A whim. A fun girl that was close to their personality.

Desire is disappointed they have not slept with her but you will do. A pretty gem to grace his touch. Desire loves to indulge, it is part of his very being. Thus he wants you, a demigod, to bask in essence— The purest— Form of raw Desire.

"Where I touch, things want and need and love - drawn to their objects of desire like butterflies to a candle flame." These words were spoken to you by an entity.

Where you burn hot, Desire burners hotter; they engulf you like flames of Hephaistos' forge.

Comforting to be the one overwhelmed, drowning in the rush, granted a release no mortal could deliver.

There is sex but more… Flesh means nothing yet holds meaning. A vessel, a way to express art. It is strange for most of it you were essentially high while also possessed. It is a bit hard to explain.

There are tears as Desire brings out the pain of love, Gods, there is a lot of pain. Want is terrifying when not tempered.

Then comes the bliss, all the lust. When you are wild and free. Unbound and greedy.

Love is the release, the ultimate goal of a Love Goddess.

When you recall that moment… You felt loved. Loved, love the way Steven feels for you. Pure and with every part of his divided heart.

"Yes, show me."

Exposing, baring, stripped of the walls and years of self-imposed chains.

"Agape," Your avatar name, "Open your heart to me."

The recent memory, the one that weighs in your pretty heart is what Desire peeks into especially with all the pain laced in it.

You find yourself digging into the heart of Jake Lockley, digging to find the source of his agony! Even if it means giving in to temptation. The way Lockley buries his cock in your mouth is slow and gentle, but do not mistake it for kindness. No, he wants this drag out, for you to feel the soreness of your throat the following day, to remind you this is what you are denying yourself. He groans, a smirk that exposes his teeth, his hand gripping your hair and messing it up. Hips snapping forward nearly caused you to choke. Lockley's eyes are closed as he is brought to the heavens of lust. His heart… Guarded and cold, you wonder what sort of heartbreak did Lockley endure to cause him to become the man you currently are forced to deep throat. A heart you wish to give your love to but know better than to touch without a barrier, he is not Steven… Though you doubt Lockley could comprehend your love for Steven, how the heart within your body loves easily and can be enthralled and obsessive; you know… You can see the love he wishes to share buried deep into his guarded heart. Being the avatar and host to the heart of Aphrodite, you are a waking aphrodisiac in both the sexual and comfort aspect of the heart. You remain steadfast as you gave Lockley only a very satisfying, with a condom on, blow job. Though it doesn't cover everything, your lips and your saliva does touch his skin, to heighten the intensity of his desires enough to get him to cum faster. Your sympathy for broken hearts all too often gets you in trouble, you swear you will learn yet you keep making the same mistakes. Your whimper egging him on as holds you down to the base of his cock to swallow his seed— Though all you taste is the flavorless condom. Jake lets go of your head allowing you to slip away, your fingers pulling off and tying the condom closed. "Aw, ain't gonna at least drink it up for me?" Eyeing as you get up, fixing your skirt, and tossing the condom in a nearby mini trash container. He grabs a cigarette from the table, a cheap complimentary pack with some matches at the bottom for those who like to take a smoke after sex. You don't see the appeal outside of black-and-white movies.

Desire holds you as regrets, disgust, guilt, self-hatred are bleeding out of you. The memory is erotic but they can see clearly you resented yourself and the nature of being a being of Love. A mortal response, one they understand though they feel you are beyond such things. Your only task (outside of entertainment) is to indulge.

When the pain fades, your nose bleeds as you never fully unleashed the power of Aphrodite. No, the pain is twisted to and laced with pleasure. The mortal part of your heart, comforted by the essence you feared from the very beginning or felt you could never grasp.

He taught you to enjoy yourself, something you haven't been doing for many years.

Fear stilled you. Embracing your gift would mean consequences.Not indulging as you should be. Be Agape, be Eros, be Aphrodite.

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funnylittlelad · 2 years ago

Text

Rules Made To Be Broken - Steve Harrington x gn!reader

Masterlist - AO3

<< Rule One | Rule Three >>

summary: As you and Steve grow closer, things seem to be going perfectly. That is until your police chief father steps in. The more you lie the deeper a hole you dig, but what else can you do? No matter what your dad says, you're not staying away from Steve Harrington.

wordcount: 6k

notes/tags: Hopper!reader, secret dating, sneaking around, fluff, friends to lovers, events of season three do not take place (canon divergent), Hopper is a bit of an (redeemable) overprotective helicopter parent, mentions of/talks about: abusive parents, Steve's father is his own warning, Good Brother Jonathan (tm), tumultuous relationships, divorce, death, and family trauma.

Rule Two: No Going To Steve's When His Parents Are Home

You’re doing this for Steve. That's what you tell yourself every time your anxiety starts getting the better of you. This is for Steve. Steve won't let anything bad happen to you. It’ll be when movie night usually is. As far as your dad and Joyce are concerned, it's still just movie night. It's not you meeting your boyfriend of a couple of months’ parents.

Steve explained to you that they want to meet less because you're dating and more to make sure you're real. They want Steve to prove he isn't lying to get them off his back. You can do that. You can sit there and act as evidence, nothing more. The part of you that comes from your dad barks a laugh in the back of your head. Yeah, right! Good luck keeping your mouth shut! it cackles.

The lying is beginning to take its toll on you. You're losing sleep because of the guilt. It feels like something's changed with us. You don't come to me anymore. Your dad’s words reverberate in your bones. One night you lay in bed holding back a sob that burns the backs of your eyes. You lay there and you wish you could go to your dad about this. You wish you could tell him how nervous you are to meet your boyfriend’s parents, maybe even get a hug from him. How could you, though? Every day it feels more and more like you won't be able to have both your dad and Steve. It terrifies you.

“Okay, you look awful,” Jonathan sighs one night from his bed.

“Gee, thanks,” you deadpan from your own bed.

“I mean it. This clearly isn't good for you. Maybe your dad was right,” he shrugs.

“My dad couldn't be more wrong about Steve, actually. Don't act like you don't know that,” you bite.

“All I know is Steve was a dick for a lot longer than he hasn't been,” Jonathan snaps.

“No offense, Jonathan, but everyone’s a dick to you.”

It’s a low blow and you know it. You're aware of the shit he gets in the halls of Hawkins High.

“Whatever, I don't know why I said anything,” he grumbles.

“Yeah, me neither.”

Jonathan keeps his mouth shut after that. A small bit of guilt bubbles up but is quickly swallowed by the hungry guilt monster. He’s only trying to help, you scold yourself.

The following day Steve helps you look at a few cars after work just a bit out of Hawkins. Your dad is on duty. He was less than enthusiastic when he heard Steve could help, but it isn't against any of his rules. Steve brings your laced fingers up to his mouth so he can brush his lips over your knuckles as he drives.

“Does this mean soon you won't need me to drive you around anymore?” He pouts.

“Just cause I won't need it doesn't mean I won't want it,” you say.

“Good, 'cause I like being able to feel you’re there,” he smiles and squeezes your hand a bit.

You smile dopily at him. So much affection washes over you as you watch him. The afternoon sun hugs every one of his features adoringly. It's as if the sun exists only to allow you to view his face.

“Do you want to hang out when we’re done? Like at my place?” You ask nervously.

“Are you sure? Doesn't your dad need to be home?” He spares a glance at you as he drives.

“He will be by the time we’re done. I dunno, I was thinking maybe if he gets used to you being around he won't be as upset when I tell him about us,” you shrug.

“You’re going to tell him about us?” Steve breathes.

Whether it's out of shock or fear you're unsure.

“I mean, eventually, yeah.”

Steve nods thoughtfully.

“It's worth a shot,” he decides.

You smile at the thought that you could desensitize your dad to Steve. Perhaps you could even prove to him that Steve is nothing like his father and never will be. Steve presses another kiss absentmindedly to the back of your hand as the thought crosses your mind. Yeah, there's not one glimmer of John Harrington in Steve, that you can be sure of.

The first two cars you look at are duds. The third grabs your heart immediately. It’s a little rust-brown thing, not much, but at the same time, it's everything. You agree on a date and time to come back for a second look. Then you're on your way back to Hawkins. It’s such a nice day out with Steve not having to worry. Until a storm cloud catches up with you.

As the Welcome to Hawkins! sign flits by, lights begin to flash behind you. Red and blue.

“What the hell? I didn't do anything,” Steve mutters.

“He’s not pulling over you. He’s pulling over me,” you sigh with a roll of your eyes.

Steve pulls over, the chief's truck pulling up behind him. With one final squeeze, you let go of each other’s hands. Your dad stalks up to the driver’s side window and Steve cranks it down. Your dad leans with a forearm on the door to peer in the car.

“Were the lights really necessary? We’ll see each other at home in like fifteen minutes,” you say.

“How’d the car shopping go?” He asks.

“It was good. We’re going back to look at one of them next week,” you answer.

He nods. Then his eyes move to Steve. He takes a moment to measure him up.

“How’s your mom?” He asks him.

Steve looks startled to be spoken to at all.

“Oh- uh- good, she’s good,” Steve stutters.

Your dad nods.

“And your dad?”

“Same as always,” Steve smiles tightly.

“Dad,” you interject, “We’ll see you at home.”

“We will?” He questions.

“Yeah, Steve is gonna hang out for a little bit since you’ll be home,” you tell him.

His eyes flit between the two of you for a moment.

“See you at home,” he says but his eyes stay on Steve.

Steve smiles and nods before carefully pulling away. The chief’s truck stays behind you the entire time. Every time Steve’s eyes flicker to the rearview your face warms.

“I’m sorry about him,” you say.

“Hey,” Steve grabs your hand, “I knew what I was signing up for.”

“Did you?” You question insecurely.

“Yes, I did,” he states firmly.

A small smile finds its way to your face.

“He’s always been like this, y’know. It’s just never really mattered before,” you tell him.

“Does that mean it matters now?” He smirks.

“Yeah, dingus,” you laugh, “I actually like you and I’d like for you to stick around a while.”

“You haven't been in any serious relationships then?” He inquires, failing at casual.

“I've had some semi-serious things, but,” you shrug, “I always knew my dad would become too much eventually so I never really let myself get too attached.”

“Until now,” he raises his eyebrows at you as he parks in the driveway.

“Until now,” you confirm with a small smile, “I’ve never felt so much so fast before.”

“Me too,” Steve says with a scrunched-up face.

You laugh as your dad exits the truck, lighting a cigarette. You sigh watching him stroll to the porch.

“Okay, we should go in,” you decide.

Steve nods and follows your lead. The two of you pass by your dad to enter the house. You give him a playful punch as you go by. Steve gives him a respectful nod and smiles. When you walk in, Will and El light up at the sight of Steve.

“Nuh-uh,” you shake your head and grab Steve’s arm before he can be sucked in by the munchkins, “He’s here for me not you. You guys will see him at Scoops tomorrow, I’m sure.”

They pout dramatically at you but don't argue.

“Hey, maybe now that you’re supervisor we’ll visit you at work more,” Will teases.

The kids always insist that the arcade by Family Video is better. You can't argue too much. Yours is a lot smaller with a smaller selection. They seem to think your new position equals free video games, though. The news leaving Will’s mouth makes you cringe.

“You got the promotion?” Steve asks with wide eyes.

Your cringe turns into a half smile as you look at him.

“Surprise?” You say, your voice pitched slightly higher.

Steve lifts you up by the waist and spins you around with a wide smile. You fall into laughter as you grab his shoulders.

“Congratulations!” He cheers.

There’s the creaaak thud of the front door falling shut. In a second, you’re on the ground. You and Steve stand at least a foot apart. Your dad stands in the doorway with a slight frown.

“What's the celebration?” He asks as he toes off his boots.

“I got the promotion to supervisor,” you tell him.

“Congrats,” he nods with a small smile.

You smile back.

“Okay, we’re going to hang out in my room. There's a new album I wanted to show Steve,” you tell him and gesture down the hall.

“Door stays open,” he states.

You pause and furrow your brows.

“What?”

“Your door. It stays open.”

“Dad, that’s ridiculous. I’m nineteen years old. I’m going to close my bedroom door if I want to,” you state.

“My roof,” he says.

“No,” you huff, “I’m drawing a line here. I put up with you being crazy every other time. Jonathan closes the door when Nancy is over! Steve is my friend . Come on, Steve.”

Steve avoids your dad’s hard gaze and follows you down the hall. You slam the door after he enters for good measure. He sits on your bed as you fume and pace, mumbling angrily to yourself. Eventually, Steve reaches out and catches your wrist as you go by. He tugs you over to him until you’re settled between his knees. He smiles up at you sweetly.

“How’re you feeling, baby?” he asks gently.

Heat floods your face at the pet name.

“M’fine. He’s just so frustrating,” you grumble.

A chuckle tumbles from Steve’s lips. Your brows furrow at him in question.

“You look just like him right now with that face,” he says.

You groan and cover your face with your hands. Steve grabs your wrists and pulls your hands away from your face. You give a dramatic frown.

“Now you look even more like him,” Steve laughs.

You roll your eyes with a smile you can’t fight off. With a playful slap to his chest, you escape Steve’s hold. You pop your favorite tape in your stereo and hit play. It’s Fleetwood Mac’s self-titled album, which tends to surprise people. People usually expect you to have a taste more similar to Jonathan’s. Your clothes aren’t always terribly far off from each other. Hell, you'll admit you've stolen a few items from his side of the room. You turn the music up so it’s loud enough to cover your voice, but not too loud that you can’t talk at all. When you reach your bed again you let yourself fall back into the space next to Steve.

“Once I finally have a car, the next thing I’m saving up for is an apartment,” you sigh.

“Well, now that you run the place,” Steve smiles down at you, “that won't be too hard.”

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. I’m a supervisor , not the owner or anything,” you chuckle.

“Ah, soon enough they’ll just hand over the keys,” he waves you off playfully.

You roll your eyes. In a swift motion, you yank his arm so he falls over you. He braces himself on his forearm. You catch his face in your hands and bring him in for a kiss. The unusual feeling of his lips causes you to pull back suddenly.

“Are you wearing lip gloss?” You ask him with a smirk as you pull away, lips stickier than before.

“No, it’s chapstick,” he says defensively.

“Stevie, it’s sticky and cherry flavored. No way you’re convincing me this is chapstick,” you snort.

His cheeks are absolutely glowing red.

“There’s cherry-flavored chapstick!” He argues.

“Yeah, at the store, not on your lips,” you tease.

“Alright,” he falls onto his back, “I didn’t think you’d notice. I thought it was chapstick when I grabbed it.”

You laugh which earns a bright smile from Steve. The thin green crown around Steve’s pupil reminds you of his father. What will your dad think when he finds out John Harrington knew about your relationship before he did? You chew on your lip as you wonder. Steve takes hold of your chin in the crook of his hand and uses his thumb to tug your lip from its prison.

“Are you sure your dad won’t care that it’s me you’re dating?” You ask quietly.

“The only thing he’ll care about is that he didn’t pick you out for me,” he answers.

“They really don’t care about what you want at all?” You frown already knowing the answer.

“No, I’m here to make them look good,” he smiles wryly.

“Is there anything I should know going in?”

Steve takes an even breath in through his nose as he considers it.

“My mom will be easy. She isn’t present enough to really grasp what’s going on most of the time anyway. She’s nice, though,” he explains slowly as his brain continues to churn through thoughts, “My dad will be a dick to me on purpose. He’s going to try to embarrass me, drive you away to prove you were only after money. I guess just… prove him wrong.”

You lean over and give him a tender kiss on the cheek.

“I’ll prove him so wrong he’s the one that’ll end up embarrassed,” you promise.

Steve grows a brilliant smile.

“I know you will.”

When Joyce gets home around an hour later she’s elated to find Steve there. She insists he stays for dinner. Even when both you and your dad start to protest. Now that there's a dining table big enough to fit the army of kids that are over here every other day, there's no warding her off from insisting people stay to eat. It’s worse than you imagined. Steve is sitting next to you and across from Will. Jonathan and El sit on either side of the younger Byers. Your dad and Joyce are at either end of the table. Your dad’s stern stare is mostly on Steve. You wish you could hold his hand to ease his anxiety.

“So, what’s the car you’re thinking about?” Your dad asks, finally breaking the awkward silence.

“It’s a ‘77 Rabbit. Bit dinged up, but I like it,” you answer pleasantly.

“Volkswagen,” your dad comments as he rubs his chin.

“Yeah,” you say slowly, pleasant mood waning.

The table holds its breath.

“Those things are known for overheating.”

You roll your eyes, proud they stay in your head.

“I know,” you gesture next to you with your thumb, “Steve already told me.”

Steve offers a nervous smile.

“It’s in really good shape, well taken care of, and I know what to look for in a test drive,” he backs you up.

Your dad stabs his food with his fork and nods. There’s something a little different in his eyes when he looks at Steve. You can almost believe he's lowered the threat level on Steve by at least one.

“Where’d you learn about cars?” Your dad asks him.

He knows Steve's dad didn't teach him a thing other than anger and violence.

“Magazines, mostly. Friends in school. Books,” Steve shrugs.

“Books?” Jonathan snorts not so subtly.

With flared nostrils, you kick his shin beneath the table. He hisses in pain and shoots a glare at you. You shoot one back. Joyce quietly scolds Jonathan. Your dad is busy rolling his eyes while Will and El snicker. When you look back, Steve is watching you with a tender smile that you’re sure is far too obvious. You’re a little too enamored by it to care. Quickly, you compose yourself and look down at your plate as casually as possible.

“Careful where you point that thing,” you whisper and tap the corner of your own smile.

A small laugh bursts from Steve drawing attention. The tips of his ears go ruby.

“What’s so funny?” Your dad questions.

“Nothing, it was an inside joke,” you shake your head.

Your dad starts talking to Jonathan about college. Jonathan starts halfheartedly going on about Emerson. You let yourself get stuck on Steve for a moment. A hint of a smile appears on your lips as you observe him interact with Will and El so easily. It's like he’s another older brother. The distraction means you miss Joyce bearing witness to the entire lovesick scene. Pieces click together for her then and her heart cracks. She glances at your dad with a small frown.

Her eyes slide back to you. They find Steve’s attention is back on you. It’s never gone from you for long, that's another thing she noticed tonight. She isn't sure how aware of each other’s feelings you are, but she knows one thing for sure. Your dad is preventing you from really trying with Steve. He's standing between you and something that could be good for you, that could make you happy.

Joyce knows his bias against Steve is unfair and rooted mostly in his feelings for Steve's father. Well, half in his feelings for Steve’s father and half in his fear of losing you. Something he can already feel happening, causing him to grip tighter. She sighs as she makes a decision. She has to knock some sense into your dad. She fears if she doesn't you’ll end up resenting him and he’ll really lose you.

“You guys doing that movie night this week?” Your dad asks as dinner wraps up.

“Yup, every Friday,” you answer, collecting your and Steve’s empty plates.

“Parents aren't home?”

Your eyes narrow slightly and dart to him. Something about the way he asks causes the hairs on the back of your neck to stand in warning. He’s asking because he already knows the answer. He’s fishing for a lie. Steve’s mouth opens in the face of your hesitation. You know he’s posed to lie, posed to try to save you only to unknowingly damn you.

“They are,” you answer quickly, startling him, “but they’ll be gone before we get there.”

Your dad nods slowly, eyes bouncing between the two of you.

“We’re absolutely positive?” He presses.

Guilt claws its way up your throat. Once again, you think about how John Harrington is going to know about your relationship before your own father. You open your mouth to snap about him being rude but don't get the chance.

“We’re absolutely positive,” Steve answers evenly.

Your dad settles a thoughtful stare onto Steve. After a moment he just nods and looks at you again. As the guilt monster grows even more, you expect it to take the shape of something horrid. A Demogorgon, perhaps. It doesn't. Your dad gives you a small smile as a peace offering. The guilt monster peaks around his chair with a familiar sly smile and blonde pigtails. The image of your little sister dries your throat. You’ll be lucky if sleep comes at all tonight.

Joyce catches you before you can head to Robin’s. You have clothes stashed there to change into. This way your outfit doesn't tip anyone off. You’re just finishing lacing up your shoes when she knocks on the open door. She stands in the doorway with a small smile and her hands clasped in front of her.

“Do you have a minute before you go?” She asks.

You nod and she enters. You sit up straighter when she closes the door behind her.

“What’s up?” You question.

“It’s about Steve-”

“If my dad put you up to this-”

“He didn't. I’m here about him, actually. I know he has certain opinions and concerns, but… I’m not blind. You two clearly like each other. I think Steve is a good kid and you two deserve a chance,” she tells you calmly.

Your heart begins to race.

“Wh- what are you saying?”

“I’m going to talk to your dad. I just wanted you to know why he feels so strongly,” she sighs.

You pat the spot next to you on your bed. She perches herself there. Her eyes are big and sad, something you hate to see. You don't see it often anymore, not since you all started living together.

“If you’re going to tell me about Steve’s dad, I already know,” you inform her.

“What do you know?”

“Enough,” you shrug, “That he’s controlling and abusive. That Steve couldn't be any more different from him.”

Joyce nods. She glances at the door and then back to you. Something sits heavy on her tongue, you can tell. It drops a pit in your stomach. Maybe you don't want to know.

“Your dad has had to answer more than one call at their house. The Harringtons have always been known for two things in Hawkins. Money and… well, hitting,” she explains evenly, “From what I know, Steve didn't call 911. It was always the neighbors. Now, your dad doesn't blame Steve for that, but he doesn't trust him either.”

Acid burns the back of your throat as tears burn the backs of your eyes. You can't fathom it. You can't imagine sweet, kind, gentle Steve growing up around such violence and chaos. You can't imagine him even considering raising a hand against you. It all only makes you want to get to him quicker, hug him tightly, and promise that you know he won't continue the Harrington legacy.

“Steve would die before hurting me,” you say shakily, “He’s never- He’d never do anything like that.”

You can feel Joyce’s eyes sit on you. You keep your own on your hands in your lap.

“You two are already together, aren't you?” It’s half a question, half a sigh.

Your eyes fall shut. All you can do is nod.

“I don't like that you've been lying,” Joyce says, “but I understand why you’ve been lying. I’ll talk to your dad about being easier on Steve. Just know, he may be upset for a little bit when you tell him.”

“Thank you, Joyce,” you smile gratefully at her.

She grabs your hand and gives it a squeeze. Then she tells you to have fun and lets you go. You say goodbye to your dad and walk to Robins. The only reason you don't run is that you don't want to sweat before going to Steve’s. Joyce’s words rattle around uncomfortably in your head. Your dad doesn't blame Steve for that, but he doesn't trust him either .

It doesn’t occur to you until you're walking into Robin’s that Joyce was wrong. It’s not that your dad doesn't trust Steve. He doesn't trust you. He doesn't trust you to make your own decisions. He doesn't trust you to take care of yourself. He doesn't trust you to be in a relationship at all. Now, he likely doesn't trust a word from your mouth. For good reason, but your stomach still twists.

You tell Robin about the conversation with Joyce as you get ready. Her eyes are owlish as you speak. She lays on her bed staring at her ceiling as you change near the closet.

“It's good, though, right? I mean, you have Joyce on your side. She always seems to be able to get him to change his mind,” Robin says.

“Yeah, I guess,” you sigh, “I just don't feel good about her lying for me too.”

“It's temporary.”

“I know, but… how temporary? I hate this, Rob. I hate lying and sneaking around. I just want to be able to see my boyfriend a-and meet his parents- even if they do suck! He told me I’m acting differently, but I don't know what he wants from me! I can't have a life and be close to him,” you rant, eyes watering by the end.

Robin stands. You’re dressed and sufficiently nervous. It doesn't matter how nice you look, it won't be nice enough. Robin walks up to you and wraps you in a warm comforting hug.

“It’ll all work out, I know it,” she says softly because she doesn't have any other words.

“I hope so. I know it's soon, but I think I’m falling in love with him, Rob, and I really don't want my dad to hate me for that,” you whisper in reply.

Robin just hugs you tighter. You give her a kiss on the cheek when Steve arrives before bounding out to his beemer. You manage to steal the first kiss this time. There's a moment before pulling out where the two of you take each other in. Steve is in an ironed polo with white and coffee-brown stripes. Jeans hug his legs in the way you love and his white tennis shoes are secure on his feet. He looks so good you want to eat him up.

“You look… wow ,” Steve breathes.

“Shut up,” you smirk with glowing red cheeks.

Steve grins brightly and pulls out of Robin’s driveway.

“You look wow too, by the way,” you tell him teasingly.

He chuckles and his hand finds its home on your thigh. Yours finds its own home over his.

“Nervous?” He asks.

“Very,” you admit.

“Nothing my parents think or say will ever change anything. I don't care what they want anymore,” he assures you.

You squeeze his hand.

“I know,” you answer.

This is the first time you’re nervous walking up to Steve’s door. His hand is always on you somewhere, never not touching now that you’re on Harrington grounds. He leads the way in, giving you as much time to prepare as possible. Stepping into the house is like stepping through a portal. It smells different. Clearly from someone cooking, but it isn't anything you’ve smelled Steve cook before. Everything is brighter. You realize more lights are on than usual. Even the sounds are off. There are light voices, but not the ones you’re so familiar with. In the background is subtle jazz music to fill in any empty spaces. It’s so… bizarre .

Steve’s back straightens, shoulders tensing up. You watch forlornly as your Steve recedes and their Steve comes out. His arm circles you almost protectively as you venture further into the house. Before you face his parents you come to terms with the idea that you’re alone right now. Your Steve is gone at the moment. He had to make room, save face. So, you’ll do your best to get by on your own until he’s back.

“Mom, Dad,” Steve says as you enter the kitchen.

He formally introduces the three of you. You manage a nice smile despite your nerves. Up close you can see the frame of Steve’s face on his mother. She’s truly a beautiful woman with a kind smile and sparkling brown eyes. However, something about her eyes is a little off. They don't feel like they're looking quite at you. Steve’s father gifts you a polite smile as he shakes your hand. It takes a moment for it to really click, but when it does you feel a bite of shame in your gut.

Steve’s parents are dressed nicer than the two of you. You aren't sure they own anything that isn't at least business casual. Your eyes bounce to Steve to really take in the way he matched you in casualness. Did he do that on purpose?

“How did you two meet?” Steve’s mother asks as you all sit around the table.

“The police station when we were around six and seven,” Steve answers, drawing your surprised gaze, “We- uh- we were both there waiting to be picked up after school. Uncle Phil was watching me that day for whatever reason.”

You recall the day in question. The two of you made pirate hats out of newspapers and turned the station into your ship. It was so brief and so long ago. You can't believe Steve even remembers it.

“You two have been friends that long?” His father asks with questioning eyebrows.

“No, we really only became friends the last year or so,” you reply, “but it’s just always been kind of natural with us, I guess.”

Steve smiles at you. A crack in his exterior, a glimpse at your Steve. He’s swept away again by his father’s calculating eyes. The smile dies.

“Are you in school with Steve?” His mother asks politely.

Your eyebrows twitch into a furrow, but you quickly catch yourself.

“Uh- n- no, we-” you start.

“We’ve both graduated, mom. We work at the mall together,” Steve finishes for you.

“You weren't being asked, Steve,” his father chides sharply.

“I’m sorry, sir,” Steve mutters quickly.

“Oh, it’s fine. He usually just says what I would have anyways,” you wave him off casually.

Steve's eyes dart to you in subtle amazement.

“It’s still rude,” his father states with an air of finality.

“I don't know if Steve has a rude bone in his body,” you chuckle lightly.

“You said you work at the mall together,” his father drawls, “What do you plan to do?”

“Right now I’m just focusing on the promotion I got. I haven't decided on a set career path,” you answer honestly.

“Oh, congratulations,” his mother chirps.

“Thank you,” you make a point to smile at her.

Steve pours water into your half-empty glass before you can ask. He also retrieves the salt before you can reach for it. Every little thing he does to ease your evening brings a small smile to your face. He’s taking care of you. Even in front of his parents, he’s taking care of you in any way he can.

“Lance from Boston called the other day,” his father comments offhandedly halfway through the meal, “Said they could use help opening up the auxiliary office.”

“Does that mean we’re going to Boston?” His mother asks.

“Actually, I was thinking Steve could go to Boston.”

Both yours and Steve’s faces snap to him.

“What?” Steve balks.

“I think it would be a good opportunity for you to start climbing the ladder in the company. Don't worry, it isn't too much work,” his father says casually.

You swear your heart has stopped.

“N- no, I’m not doing that,” Steve protests, “I don't want to work for your company. I don't want to go to Boston. I- I like my job right now. I don't want to do it forever, but I can figure that out!”

He’s borderline panicked. You lace your fingers through his under the table. The movement of your arm doesn't slip by his father.

“Right, because you have so much here to worry about,” his father rolls his eyes, “You have to get serious, Steve. Friends and relationships will only get you so far. You really think anyone is going to want to stay with you if you can't bring home a decent paycheck?”

Steve’s mouth opens and snaps shut. His eyebrows furrow insecurely. You tighten your grasp on his hand.

“I can make money doing something else,” Steve argues weakly.

“Okay, what? If you want to make money another way, fine. But you have to tell me what. You can't keep wasting your time working at the mall,” his father snaps.

“I don't know yet-”

“Then you're going to Boston. End of discussion.”

“Yes, sir,” Steve sighs defeatedly.

It rips you open. You’d like to punch John Harrington in the nose.

“For what it's worth,” you say, grabbing everyone’s attention, “from someone who is here every day, there's a lot in Hawkins for Steve. Actually, I don't think it'd be the same without him. I don't just mean me, either. Although, I’ll admit I’m definitely a big part of it.”

Steve hooks his ankle around yours beneath the table. You turn your smile on him and find his waiting.

“You remind me a lot of your father,” John Harrington sighs, “Getting involved in family business that doesn't concern you.”

“That's not fair. We’re all at this table having this conversation,” Steve argues stronger now, “You just don't want to admit you don't know anything about me or my life.”

It's an outburst that silences the table for a minute. You think Steve’s grip on your hand may shatter your bones, but you’re okay with making that sacrifice for him. He keeps himself stoic, but you can tell. You can see the anxiety and the anticipation. His father’s piercing green eyes slide from Steve to you.

“Does the chief know where you are?” He asks pointedly.

You swallow nervously.

“Yes,” you don't technically lie.

He hm’s as he regards you carefully.

“And he knows who you’re with?”

“Yes,” you don't technically lie a little quieter.

He knows you're with Steve at Steve’s. Steve’s father’s eyes glint in amusement. He smirks like he’s privy to something you're not. It leaves you feeling anxious and exposed. Then his expression hardens and moves to Steve again.

“Stay in Hawkins. Waste your time at the mall, but you’ll be doing it without our money. You can stay here, but that's the only help you'll receive from us. So, you better make your decision wisely,” his father offers what he thinks is a difficult ultimatum.

“Okay,” Steve replies without hesitation.

“What?” His father questions coolly.

“I’ll stay in Hawkins with my nothing,” Steve answers with a shrug.

His father’s jaw clicks as it sets. His knuckles go white around his utensils. An even exhale exits from his nose.

“Fine,” he states with that finality again.

“Wait,” Steve's mom points at you with her fork, “Are you Jim Hopper’s kid?”

And just like that the conversation moves on as if that confrontation never happened. The night isn't awful considering. It's certainly uncomfortable, but you can deal with that. You manage to make it to the car before Steve's all over you. He crowds you against the passenger side, hands holding your face as he presses a passionate kiss to your lips. You grip his shirt, the only purchase you could get in your surprise. Your skin buzzes with the feeling of Steve. He pulls away, but you follow and steal another kiss. He smiles into it.

When you finally let him go, he keeps his forehead on yours. Something he noticed you like. Really, you like proximity in general, but you especially like being close enough to steal kisses.

“You’re amazing, y’know that? I don't think I tell you that enough,” he smiles.

“I mean, I wouldn't object to you telling me that more,” you smirk.

“You’re,” he kisses you again briefly, “amazing.”

“Please,” you chuckle, “you were a total badass in there!”

“Yeah?” He grins.

“Oh, big time. The way you stood up to him was honestly hot,” you tell him flirtatiously.

“Is that right?” He wiggles his eyebrows at you.

You laugh and playfully shove his face away. He laughs too, letting his forehead fall to your shoulder. Your fingers comb lightly through the back of his hair. His hands drop to rest on your waist.

“Steve, this might sound stupid, but did you dress like this because of me?” You ask quietly after a moment.

He lifts his head. You come face to face with familiar furrowed eyebrows.

“I always dress like this,” he says.

“I know, but you must have known how nice they were dressed,” you point out.

His caramel-apple eyes search yours for a moment. He takes an even breath.

“I knew if we were both dressed normally they would assume you were ‘dressed down’,” he does finger quotes, “because of me. Not because you don't care.”

To his surprise, you give him a small smile. He was expecting you to be something close to offended at least.

“That’s really sweet,” you tell him softly.

“What’s sweet was you standing up for me back there.”

“Me? Steve, you just gave up everything for what you wanted. You did just fine on your own,” you shake your head.

“I wouldn't have been able to if I didn't have you.”

“I doubt that. You’re very capable.”

“Are you kidding? I only cared about staying for you,” he chuckles like you're silly for not realizing.

“R- really?”

“Yeah, you dope,” he laughs, “I love you.”

It's like you're flying. You crash your lips into his, both of you smiling.

“I love you too,” you tell him with a chuckle.

He kisses you a few more times before taking you back to Robin’s.

<< Rule One | Rule Three >>

#steve harrington x you #steve harrington x gn!reader #steve harrington x reader #steve harrington fic #steve harrington #hopper!reader #stranger things fic

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lavenoon · 2 years ago

Note

Since I can't read yet I come here with a question instead! (And if this wasn't already planned and won't spoil anything, of course). Because I'm an absolute sap, how does the first kisses happen with each of the boys?

So, the truth is, nope no kisses were planned - because while I am absolutely a hopeless romantic, I often forget there's a part after the mutual pining. Whoops!

But our idiot trio... They grow closer and don't even really notice. Like walking a mile and just thinking about each individual step, then looking back and going "Oh"

The reveal is a midpoint for that - they grew as close as they could for the roles they occupy in each other's life, and afterwards have that relationship as solid base to build even more on top of it.

Now for the actual kisses?

It's Y/N who takes initiative in both cases - the boys are a little more aware of how down bad they are, desperately trying to flirt while a lot of it either flies over Y/N's head or they interpret it as "normal" behavior (which it is, but still, way to miss the point, dear). So the little bird is the one who has to have their "Oh." moment!

I think. Well, this is me, and on the fly adaptations are the norm, so yes.

This realization comes late (because I am a whore for mutual pining, even though it's not quite self-aware in Y/N's case), after HQ finds out that they know each other's identities.

In the end, our dear star agents are let off the hook easy, due to some combination of "Well, we kind of knew this was going to happen sooner rather than later, our mistake to not separate you immediately", Dawn being a convincing bastard along the lines of "Knowing each other's identities can be quite the advantage, actually. We can join each other's long-term missions without any risk to our civilian identity, and you know how effective we are in the field", and also some bit of plot armor, I suppose (lmao)

But I've mentioned it before - they get one "test" mission to see just how efficient their trio is, and if it's worth looking past the (unintentional) breaking of rules). I still kind of want this to happen on a cruise? For Reasons(TM)

Robin poses as a high-standing trust fund kid, a role they despise but which explains both the need for a bodyguard and why no one has actually seen them before when they introduce themself. They play the role decently well by simply channeling their snappy attitude they used to show towards Dusk back in the day (and of course, still sometimes do, but much much more affectionate these days)

Dawn is the daytime bodyguard, mostly present for the afternoon meetings and keeping Robin from just. Mauling the sleazy business people they're forced to mingle with. They get flustered more than enough, still more used to the nice neighbor, so to be out of their comfort zone within the mission and then kept off balance by their way too smooth rival/ bodyguard?

It gets worse when they just feel that twitch in their fingers, watching as illicit deals go through, and they can't do anything yet. Sun makes sure to hold them back, a firm but gentle hand on their shoulder before he takes their hand to brush over their tensed knuckles. Signals them that yes, he saw, too - and it'll be okay. They'll take care of it together as soon as they can, and there's absolutely no doubt about that in his mind. The confidence is infectious, and Robin has a small moment of realization just how much they trust and understand Sun, and how much more they want to learn - they couldn't imagine a life without him long before already, but this makes them aware of that terrible need for more, still. All this condensed in the short thought "God, I want to kiss him."

They need to process that.

Unfortunately, Dusk doesn't help. Smug as always, he's their escort for any of the evening activities, more focused on the social aspect and having fun. Some dances, smarmy cocktail parties, plays - you name it, there's something going on, and for the sake of information Robin has to attend as much as possible.

They try to interact with everyone else, but truly just cannot stand these people, and are too unused to playing nice. They regularly tap out, and just go back to their bodyguard - scary guy, really, don't they mind? "Not at all, he's a sweetheart! (:" *cut to Moon standing near the wall, glowering with thermal vision and sharp teeth, arms crossed to hide the twitching fingers* "... Right." But they go back, and notice that it's reassuring for them both. They drag him onto the dance floor at some point, missing steps and dancing out of tune, because they just get so caught up in their usual banter. One comment just nearly breaks them, and they fear they're threatening to burst their cover with how loudly they want to laugh. If only they could shut him up with a kiss -

Wait.

Again?

And thus the crisis begins. They bide their time for a day or two, just processing that yes, they're in love with their - their.

Their everything sounds so incredibly cheesy - but they are, aren't they? Neighbors, rivals, friends - they touch each other's life on all accounts.

Theirs, they settle on. That's what they want the boys to be, anyway.

They don't know when it started - they just look back, and it looks like this was always the way things would have gone. Of course they ended up here - every step only took them closer to this point.

It's time for the next one, then.

Turns out they're just a bit of a romantic sap, and they look for "good" moments. Fortunately for them, I am also a romantic sap, and will god mod their universe to fit my cheesy needs.

They get Dawn first. They have a moment to themselves, after a long afternoon of boring meetings, and Robin stays behind in the room for a moment to breathe. Dawn waits near the entrance, glaring at a few people that just carelessly shoulder check him. Lets out a noise of disgruntlement, then crosses the room to check on Robin. They assure him they're fine, they just need a moment without this stuffy atmosphere. They glance up at him - and the amount of brain cells that activate in that moment is unheard of for them.

Perfect opportunity. "Lean down", they ask him. "Your tie's messed up. Let me fix it?" And Dawn - well, he's positively surprised for sure, that's a bold step for his little thief! So he is not complaining! He obliges, so so happy and confident that they finally started making some advances! He does not expect that they are about to just skip a couple steps entirely. Tug him down by his tie, the other hand settling on his shoulder, but the kiss itself is surprisingly delicate after the startling force to get him there. They pull back after a moment, trying to assess - and Dawn is just completely stunned. Well. They were pretty sure, but... "I didn't misunderstand, right?"

That's when Dawn snaps back to reality, and just cups their face with both hands, widest grin on his face before he mimics that first kiss again and again. But it's too passive for him, and they got their human kisses, so now he's adding a good nuzzle into the mix, all while Robin starts giggling. He's a little eager, after months of pining - so the two of them may stumble into the chairs and desk behind them. The noise does startle them out of their little moment, but then Robin looks at him, and just entirely deadpan says "Don't tell Dusk. I'm going to get him."

Dawn loses it, which is saying something, and they join in immediately after. He does promise to not snitch, though.

They don't have to wait long. Another on deck cocktail party, and they end up staying late long after the staff cleaned up the last of the drinks and snacks. The night sky out at sea - that's a view even Dusk will let them stay up for. They just lean on the railing, listen to the waves crash against the ship, and crane up their necks to look at the stars. After a while Robin does feel that, so they crack it. Dusk, very much interpreting that as "that sounded bad", just immediately looks down to check on them. They blink, surprised, when he's all worried with his hands near their neck, just fluttering and checking for an injury that isn't there. Yup, they think. This idiot gets it, and now. So they cup his face, resulting in a surprised little jolt when he locks eyes with them. Idiots already getting kissed. A little more insistently than Dawn, perhaps, but also over just as quick. They pull back again, look at his stunned expression, and grin. "Yup, been wanting to do that for a while."

Dusk... Appalled. Offended. Insulted to the core. He grabs them by the lapels of their suit, dragging them forward, and just shakes them (gently). "Then why did you wait this long?" And they're just holding onto his wrists and giggling, going "But this was perfect!" "I'll give you perfect -" "Like right now?" "Right -" And he blinks at them, and yeah, actually - like right now. Some of the remaining staff do remind them they aren't alone at some point. They just kind of slink back to their room then - giggling to each other like the fools they are.

They do kind of agree to leave any further new PDA for after they return home, and somehow the pining becomes much more bearable with the thought that it's only a few more days. There's a date - and then they'll discuss going on one <3

#answer let luce #chaotikanvas #accidentally undercover #I got SO distracted I am still so distracted #I am so sorry FHDJSK #but here <3 #kisses <333 #this is 1.6K words #have fun FGHDSJ #posting this NOW before i get distracted again

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mumms-the-word · 8 months ago

Text

New Normal

Day 28 of the BG3 Fic February Challenge

We're almost there guys :') I can't believe I've posted 28 fics about BG3 content here

I have Thoughts(TM) about what all of my Tav/Durges are doing after the game ends, after the epilogue, etc., but I wrote two for today (one was already written lol). If you're curious about what my Durges get up to, I've speculated in the tags since I haven't finished either game yet

Check out my masterlist of BG3 fics!

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28. Describe your Tav/Durge's life after BG3 ends

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Nearly six months had passed since Dani and her little company, as she liked to call them, had defeated the Netherbrain, but her work was far from over. The brain had wrecked her beloved Baldur's Gate, and while she could shrug off the damage to the Upper City districts, she couldn’t ignore the rest of the city. So just as soon as the celebrations were over, she rolled up her sleeves and got to work.

She’d half expected Gale to tire of Baldur’s Gate and ask her to leave it for Waterdeep, but to her surprise, he’d also rolled up his sleeves and offered his services wherever they were needed. She might have been the one dragging him hither and thither, finding new projects to tackle alongside Jaheira’s Harpers and Nine-Fingers’ guild and the Flaming Fist loyal to Ravengard, but Gale’s spellwork was invaluable in every circumstance and he was quick to offer solutions when others struggled to think of any. When he wasn’t researching a way to salvage the crown from the river and reforge it to give to Mystra (or, having completed that, ways of cooling down Karlach's heart, ways of granting Astarion the ability to walk in the sun again, a cure for Shadowheart's Sharran wound, and much, much more), he was following Dani, lending his magical strength to her and those she sought to help.

She only loved him more for it.

Together they worked to make sure the tiefling refugees were cared for. She knew the city well enough, even as damaged as it was, to know the best place for Danis and Bex to set up their bakery, or find shelter for the tieflings kids, who all seemed content enough to stick with Mol. Dammon was more than all set at his forge, Lakrissa and Alfira had already found a place on their own which they were turning into a music school, and Rolan had his tower, of course (and she would always be grateful for the fact that he opened up the tower’s resources to help with city’s reconstruction, too). It was only all too convenient that, apart of Rolan’s tower in the Upper City, the bakery, the forge, the music school, all of the homes and businesses of the tiefling refugees happened to be in the same district, even the same neighborhood. The Lower City had become a new home for the tieflings, with new families just waiting to take root.

She wasn’t entirely altruistic about her aid, however. As the savior of the city, she negotiated first pick of a house for her mother and another for the Rovers, both in good parts of the Lower City, before finally choosing a property for herself and Gale. Her mother and the Rovers would live near the new tiefling neighborhood where they could join in that community (if they so desired) while she and Gale secured a modest property overlooking the Chionthar and the hills beyond. The balcony didn’t quite offer the same sunset as Gale’s balcony in Waterdeep, but it was close.

It was in her little balcony that they sat now, six months since their victory, a bit tired from their day’s work but satisfied. Dani had decorated her balcony with a comfy loveseat similar to Gale’s in Waterdeep, and it was there that she loved to stretch out, her legs in Gale’s lap as she read a story or wrote down a song or, as their current personal project had become, jotting down notes and passages detailing their adventures in order to turn it into a book someday. Better to get a head start on Volo before he published his account with all the details all wrong. On evenings like this, Gale usually balanced a book on her legs or held the tome gingerly in one hand while his other hand absently smoothed up and down her calves. They spent many an afternoon like that, lost in their own little worlds, reading or writing.

At the moment, however, her legs once more in his lap, she was writing a letter to his mother, the slightly intimidating, dauntless Morena Dekarios. She remembered their first meeting all too well. Gale had insisted they take a break from their work in Baldur’s Gate to pay her a visit and break the news to her of their engagement in person. Dani agreed—after all, fair was fair. He had already met her mother, and her mother positively loved Gale. But Morena was another story entirely.

She was certain Morena would disapprove of her. Dani was hardly an elegant, well-educated woman of class or substance. And though Dani was rarely one to feel shaky nerves or stage fright, something about meeting Gale’s mother had made her palms sweaty and her brain second-guessing every decision that had led up to their meeting. She honestly, truly would have preferred to take on the Netherbain again, alone, than face Gale's mother and suffer her judgment.

But to her surprise, aside from a sharp once over the moment that Morena’s eyes had landed on her, she found Morena nothing but warm and welcoming. Morena was delighted that Gale had finally found someone to love him as much as she did and made Dani charmed and at ease in her lush Waterdhavian home. The only negative emotion Dani could discern from her was that she was a little sad that her boy had decided to live so far away...for now.

“It won’t be forever, right, my love?” Gale had said, turning to look at Dani. And though she wanted to protest a little—Baldur’s Gate was her home, after all, the place that had made her, had shaped her—she always had a hard time saying no to his warm, brown eyes. Or to adventure, when it called, and Waterdeep seemed like a place where adventure came in spades.

“We have work to complete in Baldur’s Gate,” she’d said, “but once that is done…I wouldn’t mind seeing what the City of Splendors has to offer.”

Of course, they were married in Baldur’s Gate, not Waterdeep. That part she had insisted on, feeling as though she might risk Morena’s ire to do so. But Morena had merely waved her hand, unflustered, and said it made sending invitations easier. Not every Dekarios liked to travel, it seemed.

The wedding itself had been quite small, by Waterdavian standards (so Gale had said) but she thought it was perfect. Her mother had made her wedding gown entirely from scratch, hand-stitching the embroidery along the hem of the skirt and around the neckline. Each member of the Merry Rovers had given her a sash to tie around her waist, as was customary for Baldur’s Gate bards. Brann had even gone a little misty-eyed when he put his sash, a soft, worn, light blue linen thing, in her hand. Liara had given her one in pinkish-red, insisting that she had been saving it for her own wedding day, but Dani clearly deserved it more. (Dani of course disagreed and promised to find an exquisite sash for Lee’s wedding, which was, they both agreed, long overdue.) Kellen had chosen a pleasant gold color, while Paraxxel, finally safe and recovering and back with the Rovers, had gone with a dark blue. The day of her wedding, Dani wore all four sashes from all four Rovers, arranging them so that each color was visible.

Brann had insisted he and the Rovers play for the festivities after the ceremony, but Dani pointed out Liara would very disappointed not to dance, so Brann had relented and said they would only play half the time if Dani and her “fancy wizard fiancé” could conjure up a band to play the other half. Gale had gone one step further and learned a spell to conjure spirit instruments just for the occasion, though Dani and the Rovers had to teach them the music beforehand (not that she minded a reason to play with her old troupe again).

She and Gale held their ceremony in a park overlooking the river, with tents and rugs and pillows and pieces of furniture scrounged together to make a half-decent ceremony and reception space for all the guests. Gale wanted to cast an illusion to create an entire palatial venue, but Dani told him to save his energy. She didn't care about the venue. She just wanted him there, and she wanted her friends there, and she wanted there to be music and dancing and food and wine and fun.

It didn't have to be perfect. She wasn't perfect. She didn't mind if all they did was pay a priest to say some words in the middle of the street, so long as she was well and truly married to him. Besides, the conglomeration of tents and furniture reminded her of the camps where their love had first formed. It may not impress her wealthier guests, but it was special to her.

They married at sunset, exchanging a kiss as the sun dipped down behind hills. Gale always did look best with the orange-gold light of a setting sun to make every warm tone in his face, eyes, and hair that much warmer. And he’d been swooningly handsome in his wedding garb, a gift from his mother and Tara, carefully selected to match Dani’s hand-made outfit without outshining it. She'd been all too giddy to show him off, to be on his arm. The Gale Dekarios, her new husband.

Nearly all their friends had made it, to her surprise. Astarion had to watch the ceremony from a safe, shadowy distance until the sun was set enough for him to join properly, but Shadowheart, Lae’zel, Jaheira, Minsc, Halsin, and a whole host of friends she’d made along the way—nearly every tiefling she’d bonded with, Jaheira’s kids, Florrick and Duke Ravengard of all people, and several others—they’d all been able to sit to view the ceremony itself. It was made all the more perfect when Gale surprised her with one of many wedding gifts, conjuring a scrying eye that allowed Karlach and Wyll to watch from Avernus and allowing Dani to briefly converse with them. She'd broken down in tears, missing two of her best friends, but she'd been grateful they would witness her wedding at all and that she could speak with them, even for a short time.

The post-ceremony festivities were a bit of a blur, now, a few weeks after all was said and done. Dani remembered getting Gale to dance not just once but several times, and dancing with plenty more people besides. Lee, Paraxxel, her mother, Brann, Shadowheart, even Astarion had deigned to join her for a brief turn. She remembered laughing often, kissing Gale often, hugging everyone she loved often. She remembered thinking that Baldur’s Gate had never looked so beautiful than it did in that park, surrounded by her friends and family, the trees hung with lanterns and fairy lights floating blissfully through the air.

And then it was over, and she and Gale had fallen into bed that night exhausted, only to rise the next morning with plans to return to the restoration of Baldur’s Gate.

That hadn’t happened, of course. They’d both slept in until around noon, and by that time they’d decided to just stay in for a day. Dani had promised Gale they’d go on a honeymoon trip as soon as they could be freed from a few obligations, but Gale had other plans. Since they were just going to stay at home for the day, why not make the most of it?

He’d spent hours conjuring illusions for her, starry galaxy skies and seas of stardust, as he used to do, but also grassy fields to lay in, mountain peaks to gaze out from, views from the deck of a ship sailing to far and exotic lands. In his visions she’d walked hand in hand with him through colorful markets and stood at the edge of canyons and valleys that took her breath away. And when his illusions started to wobble as he yawned and grew tired, she wrapped herself around him and kissed him a hundred times as thanks.

Alas, no rest for the wicked after that. They still had a city to rebuild. Books to write. Letters to answer. Patriars to ignore.

Dani smiled to herself as her pen paused on a sentence to Morena, glancing up at Gale. He was tracing idle circles in her leg with one hand while concentrating carefully on the book in his other hand. The setting sun glinted off his wedding band.

Like hers, it was made of two metals, a simple silver that had formerly been one of her many earrings and a beautiful gold that Gale had carefully selected from his mother's jewelry collection (which she was very quick to offer) to match the gold of Dani's eyes. They'd gotten Dammon to make two simple rings out of the metal and then found a jewelry smith to cut each ring in half, then join opposite halves together, and then engrave them. It was a Waterdhavian marriage custom, one that Dani had fallen in love with as Morena and Gale explained it to her. She flicked her gaze down to admire her own ring, appreciating the craftsmanship and what it meant to her and Gale, before looking back at him. He read on, absorbed in his own little world.

She took advantage of the moment to watch him, admiring his profile, the shape of his lips, how soft his hair looked. Her husband. Every time she thought that word she got a little giddy.

She shifted and reached out to brush her fingers against his shoulder, not wanting to disturb him too abruptly. But whatever had captured his attention, her touch had easily broken. He lowered the book immediately to turn and give her a smile, as if he'd been waiting for her to seek his attention.

“Yes, my love?”

She giggled slightly and sat up, shifting to sit comfortably in his lap. “I just wanted a kiss,” she said, weaving her fingers loosely together behind his neck. “Nothing much.”

“You know I am always willing to oblige you, my love,” he said, matching her smile. He set his book aside and wrapped his arms around her waist, leaning in to brush his lips against hers once, twice, several times.

“I love you,” she murmured against his lips.

“I love you,” was his ready response. Always on his tongue, that little sentence. Always full of warmth and sincerity. He must have said it a thousand times already.

She looked forward to him saying it a thousand times more. Here, in Baldur's Gate, their new home, and beyond, in Waterdeep, on the road to new adventures, in the dark of the night, in the first hours of the morning.

She was happy to be in her city, seeing to its recovery, making sure everyone she loved had a warm home and that the city would be back to normal soon. But she knew deep down that it didn't really matter where she was. She was a Merry Rover, used to roaming. But now she was also Dani Dekarios, and she was content to be with Gale, her husband, wherever their adventures took them.

———

Ardynn gazed up at the stars, her head pillowed on Halsin’s bare arm as they lay, unclothed, on a threadbare blanket in a small clearing in the woods. Withers’ party had come and gone and they were on their way back to Thaniel’s lands, to the community they had built, together. Halsin was eager to regale the children with new stories for their bedtime tales and Ardynn was eager to settle once more into the life she had fought so hard to earn. A home of her own. A life partner to spend her days with. Children to care for and people to help as they built new lives in Thaniel’s recovering lands.

Halsin had been shocked when she responded to his plans of leaving Baldur’s Gate to build a refuge in Thaniel’s realm by insisting that she would go with him. He’d been quick to mention all that she would be leaving behind, but she shook her head, pressing her hand to his heart and reassuring him that she was certain of what she wanted. She wanted him. She wanted to join him in his new purpose. She wanted to build a refuge with him, away from the city, where nature and society could live in a healthy balance. It was Halsin’s dream, but it had become hers, too.

So for the last six months, they’d worked together to build their little village, taking care of an entire gaggle of children, restoring buildings so that they could become homes for weary refugees, slowly but surely creating a home for themselves.

They had chosen a cabin that had been ripped in half by the destruction of the shadow curse, but had since been made whole again through Thaniel’s intervention. A living tree now grew up from the floorboards to hold part of the ceiling. Thick vines patched the holes in the walls and mossy rocks made up part of the new foundation. They tended their home as if it were another living thing in their care, because it was.

She couldn’t wait until they were back home again.

The owlbear was coming with them, too. He slumbered deeply several feet away, curled up in the grass. She would have to figure out where he would sleep once they were back home, but she didn’t mind. She loved the big, silly creature.

And he wouldn’t be the only new addition to their community, before long.

She turned her head to watch Halsin. His eyes were closed in meditation, his breathing deep and even, but she knew that he would awake with the barest touch of her hand. She didn’t disturb his meditation just yet. She simply watched, smiling to herself, cradling close the news she would have to give him soon. Perhaps tonight. Perhaps in a few days.

It was easy to keep it a secret for now. For one, the idea terrified her as much as it thrilled her. For another, she didn’t know how Halsin might react to such news. It was still so new to her, it barely felt real. But even she couldn’t ignore the flutters in her body anymore, and after Shadowheart’s subtle comment at the party…

You feel a little more substantial than before.

There was no denying it now. Shadowheart had been teasing, had chalked it up to Ardynn’s new settled lifestyle, but Ardynn knew better. And after a few more moments of conversation, Shadowheart had gleaned part of the situation for herself.

“Swear to keep it a secret?” Ardynn asked her. “I haven’t told anyone else. Not even Halsin.”

“You don’t want to announce that kind of news at a party like this? You never know when we’ll all be gathered together again.”

“I’ll tell everyone in time. In my own way. Once I’m sure I’m not imagining things.”

Shadowheart had relented and kept her silence, but it had been a little thrilling, finally having a friend that was in on the secret. Finally feeling like she wasn’t just imagining the changes she felt. She’d almost asked Shadowheart to do some kind of diagnostic magic, just confirm her suspicions, but she’d held back.

Now, though, she was absolutely certain. She pressed a hand to her belly and held her breath. There was a new, subtle firmness beneath her fingers, but that wasn’t what she was seeking. She closed her eyes, concentrating.

There. A tiny fluttering, almost so small as to be missed, deep within her. Unnoticeable by her fingers alone, but felt nonetheless.

Hello little one, she whispered silently in her mind.

She opened her eyes again, her face still turned toward Halsin’s. He remained deep in meditation, oblivious to her thoughts, her worries. She didn’t have to worry that he would be a terrible father. That part wasn't necessarily her concern. He lavished love and affection on the children that had accompanied them to live in Thaniel’s realm. She recalled the thought he had shared with her, spoken softly and mournfully, back when they were still in the city and had finally met Jaheira’s family.

I was never afforded a chance to start a family of my own. Serving nature always had to come first.

Now he had his family. He had dozens of children to share his love with, and a community of others who were helping to heal the land and tend to it. He had Thaniel, too, and he had her.

She just hoped there was a little bit of room left over in that big, fierce heart of his for one more.

She couldn’t wait any longer. She reached out and gently brushed the backs of her fingers against his cheek, whispering his name. He turned his head, seeking more of her touch, as his eyes opened slowly. She waited until he was looking at her, fully awake, before smiling and cuddling closer into his side.

“I could stare at you for a lifetime,” he murmured, before she could say anything. The arm around her shifted and she felt his fingertips brush down her side. “Is there something wrong, my heart? I thought you would be asleep by now.”

She shook her head. “No, nothing is wrong. I was just thinking.” She took a deep breath and decided this would go better if she could more easily see his face. She sat up, shifting to settle on her knees and turning to face him. “There’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you for several days now.”

“Oh?” He propped himself up on one elbow, looking pleasantly curious. It helped settle the bundle of nerves in her stomach a little. “Tell me, my love.”

She opened her mouth to say the words but found she couldn’t at first. She swallowed and tried again, her words coming out in a small whisper. “I think I am with child.”

She saw the change in his expression immediately. He stared, his lips parting slightly, and then his gaze flicked down to look at her bare middle. A look of sudden, avid, almost boyish curiosity stole over his features and he sat up, pressing one large hand to her stomach, golden nature magic glowing from his palm and sinking into her skin. She held her breath, watching his face as it changed from curiosity to baffled wonder to misty-eyed joy. She panicked a little when he dropped his head down, pressing both hands into the fabric of the blanket beneath him, only to feel her heart wrench when he lifted his head again and she saw the tears gathered in his eyes.

“You are,” he breathed. “You’re with child.”

“Your child,” she said, cradling his face in her hands. Tears were threatening her eyes too now, especially when the first teardrop tracked down his cheek. She rubbed it away with her thumb. “Our child, Halsin.”

He whispered something she didn’t catch, some prayer or praise to Silvanus, and gathered her up in his arms, hugging her fiercely to his chest. She wrapped her arms around his broad shoulders and hid her face in his neck, fighting the urge to laugh and to cry all at the same time. He laid back with her still held tightly in his arms before finally letting her go.

She pushed herself up on her hands, gazing down at him and finding his face wet with tears even as he grinned widely, elated. She laughed slightly and wiped the tears from his face. “You’re a bit big to be crying,” she said, recalling the words Oliver had said to him all those months ago. Halsin laughed too, wrapping his arms loosely around her middle.

“How could I not? I am not ashamed.”

“And you’re not upset?” she asked, still brushing her fingertips against his cheeks. She paused to lay a hand on his chest, gazing earnestly down at him. “We have so many children to look after already, and much work to do besides.”

“Upset? Far from it. A child of my own blood…” He caressed her face with his hand, sinking his fingers into her hair, and she couldn’t help but nuzzle into his palm out of habit. “It was a distant dream. I never assumed anyone would wish to stay with me long enough to make that a reality. And yet…here you are. Choosing me again and again.”

“I will always choose you,” she whispered. She pressed her hand more firmly against his chest, over his heart. “Always, Halsin. For as long as you’ll have me.”

He smiled, his face beaming with joy and love, and guided her head down so that they could kiss. She lost herself in his kisses for a moment, happy to be pressed against him, skin to skin, with only the moonlight as their witness. But then she felt his smile against her lips and his laughter against her body.

“I shall have to take better care of you once we are back home,” he murmured.

“And you shall have to be careful not to spoil our child more than you spoil any of the others,” she teased, pulling back to grin down at him. She knew he wouldn’t. Halsin loved all the children equally. It didn’t matter whether they were his blood or not.

“Our child,” he breathed, still caressing her cheek and gazing lovingly up at her. “I can scarcely believe it.”

She smiled and bent forward for another kiss. “I love you, Halsin,” she whispered.

“And I love you, my heart.” He pressed his hand to her belly again, turning his head to direct his voice downward toward it. “And I love you, little one.”

She giggled and rolled to the side until she was curled up against his side again. She guided one of his hands to rest on her belly and snuggled in close, closing her eyes. “I can’t wait to meet them.”

“Nor I, my heart. Nor I.”

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