#most of chrome is just ao3 | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

veebeeboo109 · 3 months ago

Text

Cleaning up the Timeline

{Xavier takes you shopping and comes to a realization. Zayne has a nightmare. And Rafayel gets a treat.}

Read on ao3.

Tags: Reader/L&DS Men, Romance, Maid AU, Eventual Smut. SFW (For now)

Chapter 5: Shopping

Saturday finally comes, to your palpable relief. You’ve never been so excited to go grocery shopping– or at least, you were. Until you see a neatly hand-written note left for you on the kitchen counter.

Y/N,

I apologize but one of my patients needed emergency surgery early this morning. I won’t be able to accompany you shopping. Please allow Xavier to chaperone. I will see you for supper.

Zayne

You sigh and fold the note, putting both it and the credit card with it into your pocket. Zayne’s penmanship is hasty but legible, and so distinctly him. Especially when doctors have that bad rep for having illegible handwriting.

You’re not sure what the game plan is. Should you look for Xavier? Or should you take some initiative and go to the store by yourself? Zayne texted you a list the day after you started here and you’ve added a few things in the short time you’ve been working. It’s funny to see the favorite for each of them listed, and you spent one of your breaks trying to guess which one of them ordered what.

You assumed the tea and peppermint candy is from Zayne. The spicy chips and ‘ Chilean Sea Bass (NOT FROZEN)’ and the three other types and very specific fish are Rafayel. Xavier and Sylus are harder to guess for, but you assumed the protein powder was for Xavier (he’s a hunter after all. Needs the protein). And the chunky peanut butter must be for Sylus.

It’s just guesses, but it makes you feel a little closer to these new roommates– employers? What are they to you exactly? Certainly not friends, though Rafayel likes to play hot and cold enough that maybe he’s an enemy.

You put on your coat, the borrowed gloves and scarf, and tap away on your phone in search of the nearest store.

Unluckily for you, it’s over a twenty minute one-way walk, and that’s to a convenience store. Not even a proper grocery. You scowl, remembering the frigid temperatures and that your bike is still parked on the other side of the city. Not that you could do a good grocery haul on a motorbike anyway. It’s not too far of a walk for nicer weather, but you worry about the state of your toes and lugging all the food in the snow.

Luckily, for you, Xavier appears. Tucking a coat over his shoulders and adjusting the collar. He wears a deep grey-blue coat that’s cut just below the waist with shiny gold buttons.His gloves are white, along with his scarf, and you ponder– who is styling these men?

“Are you prepared?” He asks like you're heading into battle.

“Where do you normally shop? I found a convenience store but it’s over twenty minutes walking.”

“I can drive us.” He answers as he pressed the elevator button. “There’s one store that the others insist on. It’s called…” He pulls out a piece of paper from his coat and reads it, “...Harrison’s Grocery.”

“Did Zayne leave you a note too?” You chuckle as the two of you descend to the garage.

“He wanted to make sure I took you to the right place.” Xavier lets you exit the elevator first and you turn to wait for him. His expression is passive, neither seeming irritated nor pleased to be assigned your babysitter for the day.

“I appreciate your help. I promise when the weather is nicer I can go myself.” You assure, waiting for him to show you which car is his.

“It’s fine.” He replied, sliding up to a sleek chrome number, the most modern of the collection. A sleek silhouette with little breaking up the single line from bumper to bumper.

Xavier barely beats you to the door handle, opening it for you. You’re a little startled by the chivalry but smile gratefully as you climb in— he even hovers his hand near your head to make sure you don’t hit it. Such a subtle action, but it makes your stomach flip.

When Xavier starts to drive, you're grateful to see the snow has finally stopped. The car is eerily quiet, and the soft whirring when he accelerates tells you it’s entirely electric. A stealthy vehicle for a peculiar hunter.

While the days of petrol and diesel engines are gone, a fully electric vehicle is almost vintage. Hyper-efficient hydrogen engines are the norm now, or vehicles that run on protocore synthesized fuel.

It takes almost fifteen minutes to get to the grocery, and you take note of the turns he takes so you can take them too. And when you arrive, you open your GPS on your phone and tag it. It’s a family-owned store. The reviews that pop up under the GPS listing rave about the friendly atmosphere and its owner.

Xavier opens your door too and you thank him. The store is larger than you’d thought it’d be for a family-owned grocer, but it’s nice. When you enter and see the diverse selection of produce and the huge meat and seafood section, it makes sense.

You open the list, grab a cart, and get started. Mumbling along as you grab things with Xavier hovering over your shoulder. He doesn’t comment much as you walk through the store, adding something here and there that isn’t on the list. You only grin at him– perks of being the babysitter, you get treats.

You’re in the meat section, browsing the cuts in the display while you wait for the butcher. The greying man behind the counter approaches, and you read off from the list the half dozen cuts that are there.

Xavier steps close to you, suddenly in your space and looking at you with a serious glint in his eyes, “Can you cook steak?”

Your brow creases, “Yeah? I mean, I guess? What kind?”

“Yes.” Xavier replies, and turns back to the butcher, “Three more sirloins, and a pound of skirt steak, please.”

“You like meat, I take it?” You ask as the butcher gets started on your oversized order. Xavier places his hands on his hips and nods, the soft feathery ash-blond hair bouncing.

You collect the paper wrapped order and place it into the cart, having saved this for last before you check out. It takes a few minutes to get through everything, and you're hoping next week won’t be such a big haul. Stocking up on the longer term storage necessities they were lacking.

“I saw a recipe for marinated skirt steak in an article not too long ago.” You say to make conversation while you check out, “How does that sound?”

“How long does it take?” Xavier asks, handing you a loaf of bread and then a box of pasta.

“Usually overnight, but it can only be a few hours if you’re really hungry.”

Xavier opens his mouth to answer you, but a shift in the air pulls his attention. His brow’s knit together, and his expression turns stony as he looks out the open windows just beside the checkout.

You turn to, halting in place as you wait for whatever it is that caught his attention. There was no sound. No rumble. But now that you paused, you could feel it. The tiniest shimmer in the air, like static electricity.

A Wanderer? You have just enough time to think before the sudden rush of energy shudders through the parking lot and rattles the windows. The patrons in the store shout and startle, jumping back as a pair of rocky knaves and a glowing violet obscurum terror through the lot, crawling over cars and crushing them.

Reflexively your hand goes to your hip, expecting the familiar weight of your firearm but finding nothing. An empty pocket and a reminder that you're not a hunter right now.

“Stay here.” Xavier’s low command hums in your ear, as he slides past you, rushing out of the store to face the sudden threat. His gloved hand slides across your back. A physical touch to reinforce his order.

Tossing the bread back into the cart, you decide to immediately disobey. Instincts you had thought dormant come rushing back, and you search for a weapon. An aisle with kitchen utensils is the best bet, and you find a pair of long, steel knives. Breaking open the packaging you grimace at the poor excuse for a weapon– especially against a Wanderer– but beggars can’t be choosers. And you’ll pay for the knives later.

Outside the store, Xavier– though you don’t know where he was hiding it– has a long narrow blade only pausing for a single moment before he lunges forward. The three Wanderers roar at him, howling as Xavier’s sword finds its mark. He’s nothing but a streak of light– a careening asteroid causing precise destruction.

Wielding your pair of kitchen knives, you jump into action, heart pounding and head rushing in that delicious elixir of adrenaline and endorphins. The thrill of danger and of purpose.

Xavier elegantly slashes at one of the knaves as the round obscurum attempts to lunge at him from behind. You leap forward, crashing into the beast with your shoulder and rolling to slice at its hardened hide with your knives.

Xavier looks over his shoulder as the knave disappears into the stardust, and gapes at you and your little knives. You realize you must look insane. Neither dressed nor armed for battle, but brandishing some kitchenware like a straight-to-streaming slasher flick.

“I can’t finish them with these!” You bark as you flip them in your hands, pointing the blades back to give you better leverage to shove the blades downwards onto the remaining knave's head.

If Xavier replies, you don’t hear him. Only the song of his blade as it finds the obscurums weak point and banishes it back to the ether.

In an effort to be helpful, you keep the knave busy. Preoccupying it with your ineffectual weapons. When the steel of your knives skid off the armor of the Wanderer for the third time however you toss them aside, dropping low and side stepping as it slashes at you. You manage to get around it, and you jump onto its back. It’s the more humanoid looking Wanderer’s but it’s big. Big enough to make climbing its back a challenge, but not so big you can’t get your legs around its middle and get into a makeshift headlock.

A high pitch screech leaves, more enraged than hurt. With all the strength you can muster, you force the hollow head of the knave backwards, exposing the crystalline orb in its chest to Xavier’s front lunge. The tip of his sword cracks through the violet orb and the Wanderer releases an earsplitting howl and you feel the solidity of it begin to crumble.

It dissolves into nothing but specks of light, scattering in the wind like forgotten dust. You jump back and onto your feet, brushing yourself off as you pant wildly.

“Are you alright?” Xavier asks as he tucks away his sword and approaches you. Unlike you, he’s not breathing heavily in the slightest.

You look up and can’t help the manic grin on your face, “That was some great teamwork!” You cheer, “Remind me to bring a gun next time though!”

Xavier just stares at you. His eyes are slightly wide and his breath is still. He looks frozen, and you tilt your head with a sheepish grin. You take his hand and shake it, though his grip is loose.

“Good work, partner.” You say as you begin to walk back to the store, hoping to finish the trip you’d started, “Let’s finish up and head home.”

It takes him a minute to follow you, and he’s quiet the rest of the trip. Silent as you check out, wordless as he helps you put the groceries in the car, and the ride back is spent with nothing but the soft whirring of the car and the low volume of the radio.

Anxiety gnaws at you, a corrosive pit in your stomach. Had you upset him? His hands are tense on the steering wheel– aggressively so, but he doesn’t say anything. Is he mad you defied him? Angry you stepped in? You thought you’d been helpful, given the circumstances, but maybe he didn’t see it that way?

It made the ride back a thousand times longer, and unloading the car painfully awkward. Xavier was silent as he set the last of the bags on the countertop, and he was walking away before you could even open your mouth to awkwardly thank him. You watched his back as he escaped down the corridor, and before he left your sight completely you noticed something.

Were his hands shaking?

You tried to not let your mind speculate as you put away the groceries, making a mental list of everything and a meal plan for the upcoming week instead. The reactions from these men were so peculiar. Did they like you? Or not?

The only one you felt even halfway certain about as Zayne, and that relationship was becoming harder to define the longer you lived here.

As you put the last of the pantry goods away and sighed for the umpteenth time, you heard footsteps entering the kitchen.

Xavier had returned. Dressed in a soft knit ivory sweater and jeans. In the soft midday light he looked almost ethereal. All soft edges and sugar coating. But his face was deadly. A look sharper than his blade that stared you down as he strode forward. Pressing into your space and pressing his hands to the sides of your face.

He moved your face upwards, forcing you to look at him. He wasn’t bulky so the strength behind his gesture was surprising, because when you tried to pull away you didn’t manage to gain an inch of distance.

“Look at me.” His voice was low, hushed growl. The warning of a wild beast that you hear before you can see it.

Unlike his last command, this one you obeyed. Meeting his celestial eyes and the ravaging storm in them. His light colored brows were furrowed, barely tempering a rage swelling behind them. You blinked owlishly under this unexpected attention, unable to even wonder what he was doing, or why.

So, you just stood there. Hands out at your sides, unsure of where to put them as Xavier kept you pinned with his hands at your cheeks. He was searching for something. Scoring your face and your eyes like a message in disappearing ink may reappear if he focused hard enough.

Once the initial shock of it had passed, you decided to wait. Maybe this was some kind of punishment? Some hazing to reinforce the pecking order because you’d jumped into a fight that should have been his?

“Is this because of–?” Your voice is barely a whisper when you finally find your voice, but he presses his thumbs into your cheeks firmly and shakes you ever so slightly.

“Hush.” He mumbled, some of the sharpness leaving his expression. Whatever he was looking for, he wasn’t done, and he seemed keen to keep you there until he was satisfied.

“Don’t tell me to hush.” You hiss back, irked.

“I’m looking for something.” He explained, like that was get-out-jail-free.

“Is it personal space?” You quip, tilting your chin down to sneer at him, ��Or manners?”

Xavier blinked once, and the interrogation swimming in his eyes melted away. He’d found it. Whatever it was. Without the crease in his brow and his mouth pressed in a firm line, he looked so young. Boyish almost with those soft baby blue eyes and youthful blonde hair. His hands didn’t let go at first, and it felt like he was suddenly seeing you for the first time.

“Is this because of the Wanderers?” You asked, continuing your earlier interrupted thought. “I couldn’t just stand by and do nothing. I know I wasn’t much help but–”

“Where are your weapons?” Xavier asked as he finally released your face. You expected him to take a step back but he didn’t, remaining inside your personal bubble like he belonged there.

“My firearm is upstairs, locked up.” You explain, “The others are in storage. I didn’t think it was appropriate to bring them all here– since it’s not my home.”

Xavier looked pensive, eyes drifting away from you in thought before he nodded and right back to you they went, “We’ll go get them in a few days. I’ll take you.”

Your stomach did a funny little flip, twisting in something similar to nervousness but also fluttery, “Why?”

“A Hunter should always be ready and armed.” Xavier explains, parroting a sentiment given to trainees in school, “I’d feel better knowing you followed that statue, especially if you’re so prone to jumping into battle so recklessly.”

“I was armed.” You argue, but realize it’s a poor one. “I even paid for the knives afterwards.”

“How are you here?” Xavier almost laughed, and sounded almost wistful. Like he was asking you how you’re here as in “how are you real?”.

You take a step back and cross your arms, “I needed some help, Zayne needed a housekeeper. I thought he explained that to you.”

It still stung, remembering the circumstances of how you got here. The pit of nothingness you’d fallen into that had led to your suspension and ultimate eviction. It wasn’t anyone’s business besides yours and Zayne’s, and it was too embarrassing to just blurt out to these strangers.

Xavier scoffed in a soft laugh and smiled lightly, “Right. Right he did. Well, you shouldn’t go too long without training. Maybe we could go together sometime?”

You felt like you might get whiplash. “Seriously?”

“You’re not planning on staying a housekeeper forever, right?” Xavier probed, tilting his head slightly, “You need to keep your skills sharp.”

You turned away from him and opened the fridge, fiddling with the organization of the fruit so you didn’t have to look him in the eye. “I guess I wasn’t really thinking about it. I haven’t….I haven’t trained in a while.”

You hadn’t done anything but the bare minimum for months. No extra training or exercises. No picking up extra shifts or patrols. Clock in. Shoot at Wanderers. Clock out. Rinse and Repeat. Until slowly but surely uo hadn’t held your gun for over a month, and hadn’t seen a protofield for two.

“We can train together.” Xavier’s voice was feathery soft, full of something warm and syrupy that it hadn’t had before. “How about Monday morning? Before I go on patrol?”

You closed the fridge, the cool air cutting off and leaving you under the warm gaze of this beckoning friendship.

That tired part of you didn’t want to. Didn’t want to train. To fight. To keep moving forward with pep and a smile. All that part of you wanted to do was sleep. But you were tired of indulging that venomous part of your mind. That tar pit of despair that had been slowly but surely consuming you.

“Sure.” You forced yourself to say, despite the pit in your stomach. “Do you train here?”

Xavier nodded, “If you haven’t trained in a while, we’ll just do some basic workouts. Is that okay?”

“Yeah,” You say, a little relieved. The idea of running through the training that academy had put you through sounded like torture. The battle simulations and evol training until you felt worse than a threadbare wrung out rag.

Baby steps, you told yourself. Get back into training. Get another hunter to vouch for you and you’d be back to work in no time. Xavier had offered you asn express ticket back to your old life.

Although, why did it feel so horrible to accept it? It felt like going back to a home with no one there. To a place that was now nothing but rubble and ash. Where you were greeted with memorial portraits instead of smiling faces.

Baby steps. You repeated in your head again. Baby steps.

Xavier spent the rest of the day lingering in the living room. The TV was on, and some quiet-spoken cooking show was playing, but he wasn’t paying attention. He was listening to you. He’d resolved to not follow you around the house like his mind had initially wanted, and settled for glimpses of you as you bustled about.

He could hear you hum as you dusted the stairwell, and watched you from the corner of his eyes and you swept the hallway and mopped it. It felt wrong to watch you do menial work like this while he just watched, but something told him you’d shoo him away if he tried to help.

Xavier couldn’t decide what to do now. What do you do when you realize something that shouldn’t exist not only does exist, but is dropped onto you like Newton’s apple. This was an impossibility. The four of them had agreed it was impossible, and they’d made their peace with it.

Resigned to a reality without you in it. Sentenced to exist with each other but without that which tied them together– an archway missing the keystone. A painting missing the centerpiece. An unfinished puzzle with the remaining pieces stolen from them.

Things weren’t adding up. The puzzle had always been askew, and they’d made assumptions based on the information that they had. But now? Now they needed to start from scratch. Rethink everything they thought they knew.

Only there was a problem. It’d been over a year since they’d spoken openly about their predicament. It wasn’t ideal– their living arrangements, but it was better than the alternative. Better than isolation. Better than falling into whatever pre-woven fate had been made for them.

Getting them to convene again would be tricky, especially without proof. Speculation was a honey-trap of hope that would be undue punishment for those who were still hurting. Each of them had suffered in this reality. In this new life. All they had was each other, or that’s what they’d thought.

Sylus and Rafayel were animals. Wounded beasts licking at their wounds and wasting time with different exploits.

Zayne was…Zayne.

The sound of you in the kitchen pulled Xavier from his thoughts and he realized he’d dozed off. Lifting his head, he turned to see you pulling food from the fridge to start cooking.

It was painfully, gut-wrenchingly domestic. An image he hoped he could burn into the back of his eyelid so that when he slept it was you that he saw.

It's been so long. He didn’t even know how many years it had been. This life…this reality. It had taken so much time to find his way here that his mind was too full and his heart too old. It forgot what it felt like to be near you. So when it happened again, the sensation was so foreign he didn’t recognize it.

But when you’d turned to him, sweat on your brow and the thrill of a battle won humming in your evol, he’d known. He recognized you like one recognizes their own reflection– changed, different, but unmistakably his.

Xavier rose and decided to help you, even if it was just holding vegetables or stirring a pot. The distance between here and there was too much, and he wondered if his heart kept up this rapid pace if it might actually give out.

Talking to the others could wait. They were likely to come to their own conclusions soon enough– his talk with Sylus had made that clear.

For now, Xavier would relish in this realization and pretend that nothing else existed. No past life and sacrifice. No alternate reality. No separation. No death. No Astra.

Rafayel was wandering around the darkened house in the wee hours of the morning. The rest of the house had been asleep for hours, even Sylus was back– probably crashed onto his bed still covered in gunpowder and rubble like when he’d walked in an hour ago.

The house seemed….warmer somehow. And he didn’t need to ponder much on the reason why. Rafayel knew the reason the minute he’d walked into the living area to see you and Xavier scrambling over a smoking pan like a pair of startled wrasse.

Xavier knew. Rafayel saw it in the way the blue-eyed man moved , orbiting around you like a lost satellite. A long-forgotten star he was finally able to see again. It would be cute if it wasn’t almost pathetic.

Rafayel was bitter. Something in him shriveled up. Seeing your face didn’t spark the awe or rush of sentimentality he thought it would. It just…hurt.

Ached like a wound that would never truly heal. Nerve damage and corroded bone making sure he’d feel that pain with every step. With every breath.

Pathetic. That’s what he’d thought when he’d seen Xavier all starry-eyed and gooey, but was he any different? Rafayel scoffed at himself and his own unfortunate circumstance. He was just as pathetic. Just as lost. A little boat lost at sea unable to stop itself from following the current of the ocean, drifting towards you without a paddle to even fight back from.

He could pretend his heart was closed, and that he was just playing. Nothing real. It wasn’t real, he’d tell himself, but that was a lie. It was as real as the insignia burned into his chest. As real as the ever shifting tide, he was the ocean and you were the moon. Waters chasing after you in a perpetual, impossible dance.

A crash from down below broke him from his swimming thoughts, and Rafayel’s brow furrowed. An intruder? Not possible.

Another sound and Rafayel decided to check it out, for curiosity’s sake of course.

He passed by your bedroom, slowing to see if you’d woken, but found it was silent within. Satisfied you were still asleep, Rafayel descended the stairs and went to find the source.

The hall was dark, only a low light in the kitchen giving off any sort of illumination. Another low thud sounded and Rafayel entered the living room.

Zayne was near the windows, hands pressed flat against the glass with his head hung low. He was panting, ragged frightened breaths that sounded painful and rough.

Rafayel paused, waiting.

Zayne, noticing the new presence turned, eyes blazing as they landed on the dormant sea-god.

“Y-you…” Zayne rasped, voice strangled and hoarse. “Raf–yel.”

Rafayel relaxed slightly. Good, it was one of the versions of Zayne that remembered him. Which one though?

“What’s going on?” Sylus was there, having come up the back staircase and waiting at the edge of the room just as Rafayel was.

“It’s another nightmare.” Rafayel explained, “He remembers me, so that’s good.”

Sylus looked over to Zayne with a stern expression, “Not Dawnbreaker then. That makes this easier.”

“Still sore from that?” Rafayel prodded with a chuckle, but Sylus didn’t seem to be in a joking mood. Recalling the last nightmare Zayne had had and the vengeful and dangerous Dawnbreaker demanding answers they didn’t have and lashing out at whatever moved. Funnily enough, of all of them, the only one Dawnbreaker remembered was you.

“Zayne,” Sylus said, voice almost a coo, “It’s alright. Calm down.”

The silver haired man approached the man in distress. Zayne clenched his eyes shut and shook his head, fighting something unseen in his mind. He groaned and slumped further down the window, looking out through them like he might recognize the clearly foreign scenery.

“Where am I?” Zayne was ragged, confused and frightened. He stood up taller and gripped the side of his head, “Where…where is she?”

Sylus kept a safe distance, but approached like one approaches a rabid dog– anticipating the inevitable bite. “She’s safe. She’s asleep. She’s here.”

A moment of clarity crossed Zayne’s face, and he turned to Sylus in disbelief. “Here? She’s alive? She’s here?”

Sylus nodded, reaching out, “This isn’t the world you know. It’s different. Your plan? It worked. We escaped.”

Another wave of pain nearly sent Zayne to his knees, and Rafayel stepped forward just a step behind Sylus– ready to help.

When Zayne looked back up, his flickering eyes shifted from Rafayel and then over to Sylus, “Sta–Stary–”

Sylus took Zayne’s offered hand and pulled him into him. The dark haired man all but collapsed against him. “It’s me. I’m here. We’re all here. You can rest. It worked. It worked.”

Zayne shuddered in an exhale and gripped at Sylus’ shirt. “It worked,” Zayne chanted breathlessly.

“They won’t find us,” Rafayel said as he stepped forward, placing a hand on Zayne’s shoulder and squeezing. “Rest, Foreseer. Let us carry on now.”

Zayne sighed and relaxed, the fight of his warring spirits finally easing, and Sylus only had a single moment to catch him before he collapsed.

“Get his feet,” Sylus said as he lifted Zayne’s shoulders as gently as he could, “Let’s get him back to bed as quickly as we can.”

A soft rumbling overhead made them both freeze. Footsteps in the bedroom above. You were awake.

“Dammit.” Sylus cursed.

“She can’t see him like this.” Rafayel hissed. “Carry him back, I’ll put her back to bed.”

Sylus’ eyes narrowed a bit but then he nodded, crouching down to unceremoniously toss Zayne’s limp body over his shoulder. Gentle and easy would have to wait. You couldn’t see them like this– too many questions. Not enough answers.

Rafayel rushed back upstairs, making it to the hallway just as he saw your door begin to open. Scrounging his mind for a plan, he found himself freezing, words rushing in mind but none finding his lips.

“Rafayel?” Your sleepy voice was slightly hoarse and you were even rubbing at your eye when you spied him.

“Hey cutie…” Rafayel whispered, “I can’t sleep. You too?”

You were half-asleep. Eyes barely open and one of the straps from your sleep shirt had fallen down your shoulder. The curving line of your neck from your jaw down to your clavicle and over to your shoulder is a serpentine temptation.

“I thought I heard something. Got worried.” You hummed, eyes practically drifting shut. “What’s wrong? Nightmare?”

Rafayel could eat you up. A sleepy little morsel he could swallow whole before you even had the awareness to know you were between his teeth. You were gluttonous supper before a starving supplicant, divine and not to be touched.

And what a perfect, innocent opportunity you had presented to him. A test of his morals and willpower. Placing sugar candy upon your fingertips and expecting him to not lick it clean?

“Yeah, a nightmare.” Rafayel’s voice was rougher now, thicker with the rumble of a predator. “Can I lay with you for a while?”

Perfect, innocent sacrifice. Perfect devout follower. You rubbed at your face and looked at him with pity before nodding and turning to let him in. “For a little while.”

Rafayel slid past you and into your room, a wolf slipping through the cracks of the fence into the pasture. His little lamb climbed into her bed and nestled beneath the blankets unsuspecting and warm.

With all the willpower he could muster, Rafayel did not pull back the blankets and invite himself inside. Your hazy mind would likely barely remember this interaction in the morning, and he wouldn’t take advantage…well, more than he already had.

“What did you dream about?” You're asked, partially muffled by your pillow as Rafayel lay down next to you.

Rafayel felt his heart pounding like the thunder of a war drum. Boom Boom Boom. It charged like a horse into battle, but his body remained still. Your eyes were closed and your form relaxed, sinking into the mattress and over abundance of plush cushion.

He stopped himself from reaching out and touching you. Like a valuable work of art only to be admired and not sullied. Fingertips left marks, and he couldn’t…he wouldn’t.

Not yet.

Rafayel took a deep steadying breath. This was not how he thought this night would go, but what a fun turn of events. Zayne and his…affliction. You and your endless temptation.

He considered your question for a moment, and answered even though he knew you were already asleep. “Drowning.”

<- Previous Next ->

#love and deepspace #lads #lads x reader #lads sylus #lads rafayel #lads zayne #lads xavier #xavier x reader #zayne x reader #rafayel x reader #sylus x reader #zayne foreseer #dawnbreaker #love #yearning

103 notes · View notes

dnfao3tags · 2 years ago

Text

Finding Deleted Fics: A Multi-Method Guide

i feel like we are the fandom who needs this post the most any fandom has needed it ever.

all of these methods require you to know the title, author and/or link of the fic.

[disclaimer: the fic i am using as an example is not deleted, i just can't think of any other fics to use as an example right now.]

Method #1: Wayback Machine

this is my go to method that i always try first.

steps:

every fic on ao3 has a url of archiveofourown.org/[specific-numbers]. you're gonna need that url, doesn't matter if it doesn't work anymore.

eg.

2. now you're gonna go to archive.org and enter your url in the search bar.

3. something like this will come up. it probably won't be saved as many times though, just once or twice.

just click any of the links now, either the dates marked blue on the calendar or the earliest/latest date. that's it.

drawbacks:

often, a problem arises when searching for fics rated mature or explicit.

the site will have archived this page but not the actual fic. though, maybe lady luck is on your side and clicking proceed will lead you to a saved version of the actual fic. but usually not. and not all fics are saved here. in those cases, i have some more methods.

Method #2: Search Engine Cache

search engines like google and yandex often save a cached version of sites, though yandex is much more reliable than google. i'll give you a tutorial for both.

steps (yandex):

the link isn't completely necessary, just the title and author of the fic will suffice.

go to yandex.com and search for your fic by either entering the url or entering the title and author as such.

3. this will probably immediately come up.

just enter the captcha and it should let you in on the first go but there's a glitch i've encountered where you could be entering the captcha completely correct but for some reason the site still won't let you in. for that, you just have to keep trying again and again until eventually the site lets you in. might take more than 10 tries.

4. once you're in, search results will pop up. directly clicking them will only lead you to the not found page. what you're gonna do is hover over the box of the search result and you'll see 3 dots pop up on the right.

click those and a dropdown menu will appear. click the first option 'saved copy'.

and thats it! this is a much more efficient method especially for explicit or mature fics.

drawbacks:

for some reason, when i open yandex in google chrome, i can't see the 3 dots. i can in firefox though. don't really know what thats all about.

i'll show you how to do it with google too just in case yandex doesn't work.

steps (google):

in the url bar, type cache:[link of fic]. that's pretty much it. google doesn't have a lot of fics saved though so you'll probably get a 404 page.

Method #3: Reddit

there's a subreddit called r/DeletedFanfiction that can probably help you out. either search for the fic as it may have already been posted or req it and someone will probably get you a google drive link soon enough. u/throwthisaway11112 is my lord and savior.

afaik it's still up and running fine despite the reddit protest thing (which i recommend taking a minute to look into).

Method #4: Archive.org Database

okay, now you're gonna need a lot of memory on computer for this one. i'm not gonna even bother and try to explain it, i'll just link you to the original post. thank you once again to the anon who sent me this method!

Method #5: Fandom

if absolutely none of those methods work, you can still just send me an ask and maybe my followers or i will have a saved copy. same for any other fandom, i recommend asking around in popular fandom spaces, someone is bound to have it.

#deleted fics #kay talks #save #ao3 #internet archive #excuse my poor graphic designing #i wanted to add my photo thing #but this isnt a #fic rec #so i just slapped ao3 hacks on #decent imo #hope this helps someone out #ao3 hacks #how to ao3

1K notes · View notes

star-41306 · 2 years ago

Text

ARCHIVE WAKE UP. WAKE UP ARCHIVE. AO3 CAN YOU HEAR ME?? AO3?? AO3?!?! CAN YOU HEAR ME?? ARCHIVE OF OUR OWN. ao3?? I don't know if you can hear this but, but if you can, I want you to know I'm here, okay? I'm right here. and, I LOVE YOU. ao3, do you hear me? I love you. I'm sorry I don't say it more, it's not because I'm scared of you. I'm not. I've never felt that way! never! *lightning crash as a reminder that some of the most immoral fics ever created reside on ao3* but I am scared that one day you'll realize that you don't need me anymore. and I thought that if I said how I felt it would somehow make that day, hurt more. *camera pans to wattpad and tumblr* but the truth is ao3, I DONT KNOW HOW TO LIVE WITHOUT YOU. I feel like my life started that day I searched you up on Google Chrome. you were still in light mode, and it burned my eyes. and I knew right there and then, in that moment, that I loved you. and I've loved you everyday since. I love you on my good days, I love you on my bad days, I love you on dark mode, I love you on light mode. I love you even when you're under attack. YOU'RE MY SUPER HERO!!! and, I can't lose you!!! okay? I CANT LOSE YOU. YOU CAN DO ANYTHING. you can make people laugh and sob uncontrollably, you can get through this. I believe that, I really do. but right now, you just have to fight. okay? ao3, do you hear me. you need to fight. you have to fight. fight!! FIGHT!!!

#i got bored #i hope the problem gets resolved soon #ao3 #ao3 problems #stranger things #mikes monologue #mike wheeler #byler #<- target audience #archive of our own

1K notes · View notes

ace-of-gay · 2 years ago

Text

I currently dont have a masterlist set up for this collection but i hope you enjoy this none the less, this will eventually be posted on ao3 but i dont have an account currently

Not betad or edited

Warnings: age regression, self neglect (not eating, not sleeping, etc.) slight panicked reader but not nearly enough to be a full warning, reader is a half ghoul half human cause this is my interpretation of a fantasy universe <3, cuddles!!!

age regression is a coping that can both voluntary and/or involuntary it is entirely safe and reccomended by therapists if they believe it would be effective for said person but as mentioned for some people it is entirely unpredictable, if this makes you uncomfortable please carry on thank you <3

This was originally written for my best friend so keep in mind this is our dream and thoughts and may not fit well into the ghost universe

Word count: 2,025 words

Nameless ghouls and papa copia taking care of half ghoul reader

Having spent a restless night wasnt uncommon for your or any of the ghouls, especially when seasons and elements were changing, you spent a good few weeks of the tour in your element but the farther and farther you traveled to bring enlightenment to others around the world the more the weather seemed to shift, this most recent nights travel not only took you to a new scene and new spirit of buzzing thrill but a stiffened weight of being completely out of your element, while yes it effects all ghouls it affected you far different.

Being part ghoul meant you weren't as aware of your instincts so feeling them shift always left you in a silent suffocating shock.

With so much bustle amongst the ghouls, papa having a chipper edge to his seemingly endless worries it kept the team heightened and moving, preparing and running through the setlist, this will be the biggest show yet in a city youre entirely new to.

You hid the encroaching feeling well, never once had any of the ghouls questions any difference to your demeanor; having one responsibility after another kept you busy all day nevery staying in one area for long, earbuds in and mask upon your dome, it was same as others methods of preparing just more secluded and in your zone, if there were any changes in anything at all papa, the ghouls and ghoulettes knew that they could calmly inturupt you in your flow.

Listening to every part of the setlist through the literal audio versions of it, everything on the outside seemed normal to everyone but the electric vibrations in your joints and dull ache in your head told you plenty, to the others you were staying silent to save your voice for later so to speak but to you the weight of speaking was way heavier than your desire to ask for help or for rest.

With the show quickly approaching and you having forgotten to eat you downed not one but two energy drinks, spiking youre adrenaline temporarily in hopes itd get you through the show.

All you had to do was get through the night off of artificial energy and true passion for others joy. Just like the full ghouls you spent your time during the show in your human form but unlike them you had a harder time forcing it to stay when you were exhausted.

Papa copia unbeknownst to you had his eye on you, hes the only one who saw you this morning, the deep bags under your eyes and your ghoulish grey having a pale green seemingly sickly color easily masked by your helmet, if all went well youd rest for extra tonight but he didn't see that being the only end to the night.

《~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~♡~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~》

You were a fan favorite, when you weren't singing backup vocals you were running around stage with your hagstorm base shredding in duos with swiss, bursts of fire being shot upwards, the only time you stay away from the edge of the stage, the light from the fire glinting against the slightly matte chrome picguard, just enough to catch you right in the eye blurring your vision with a blinding flash.

to the congregation watching below your jolts you send into moving your bass guitar looked like flare but for you it was sheer panic, the blinding flash was just enough to put you on the edge of tipping into a deeply unwanted headspace at the moment.

prancing over to where mountain is perched at his drums you take yourself out of the limelight and hide yourself in the downcast shadows from his drums, with the last three chords being extended for showmanship you give a desperate glance to papa with hope that he'll see your glance, and such he does.

You station yourself once more at your mic, you stum the starting chords and belt out backup vocals for the final song, your throat aches as your human form is slipping, your eyes having small flickers of change and a small stumble thankfully met with a stomp on the down beat.

papa makes his way your direction ending the set list with 'Darkness at the heart of my love', when it gets to the part without vocals he does hand flourishes while you play your bass passing by with his mic down "tieni duro piccolo", walking his way around the stage to stand center and finish up the song.

In a blurr of time everything felt like it was on sparks of muscle memory and you were at the front with all other ghouls taking a well deserved bow with a standing ovation for each and every single one of you.

Papa copia was the first to lead off stage letting the ghouls throw picks and a few drumsticks from mountain and what not, you didn't stay long to see everything but you did notice people throwing things onstage as gifts; off stage setting down your bass in a stand you stumble into papas open arms.

Your forehead lay gently atop his chest still in your helmet your horns sit near his collar bone shaking yohr head, "i cant papa, i cant" not entirely sure yourself what you meant he hummed in understanding and hushed you, gently rubbing your back and swaying side to side, "stai bene piccolo ghoul, you can rest now. Ive got you, matter of factly weve got you"

Finally relaxing enough to let your ghoul form fall free, your tail limp all of you is exhausted and you feel so small but people always said it was weird and not good, they never listened to you when you said it was involuntary or a coping mechanism it was just permanently bad.

"Oh piccolo, shh your thoughts are so very loud my dear, it is okay to be small, the ministry welcomes all with coping, we will care of you"

He holds you closer and tighter humming a tune, and just like that your walls had fallen, there was no more fighting it, big doe ghoulish eyes staring up at him, complete silence from you.

At this point the others had made their way backstage, dew came walking over to take over while papa helped collect all the instruments. "Dew, could you please take them to the bus? We will get everything "

《~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~♡~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~》in the bus now and changed in comfortable clothes dew led you to the ghoul pile nest, when you refused to sit down he stepped aside watching as you grab your comfort item from your personal bunk and made your way back to the nest laying in the center, followed by him curling himself around you.

The ghouls only ever took their helmets off when in a homely environment so dew having his helmet off was his symbol of saying you are safe.

Once everyone had finished packing up and putting stuff away they had all filed in slowly

Cumulus being the first to stop by you and dew at the nest, holding out a plush ghoul for you that she had picked up from the items thrown on stage, papa copia was next to stop by sitting with you and dew, you hadnt noticed until now that he was asleep holding onto you until mountain joined pulling him off of you so you could lean into papa as he held one of your comfort snacks and a juice, both already having been opened by him, he held you as you snacked.

Once you had finished he got up going to the front to drive the bus.

You were once more pulled into the cuddle pile by dewdrop his eyes open long enough to make sure all of your comfort items were tucked against your chest, between you both, "sleep little one, a tiny ghoul needs plenty of rest" soon joined by the rest you had finally fallen asleep, the ghouls were your element aswell. When finally at the hotel for the evening you were carefully awoken by papa, all the ghouls except dew had gotten up, but even he was awake, but he stayed to keep you warm, "it is time to go in, we are buddy system tonight, four ghouls in a room, each room has two king sized beds so its plentyful room"

You finally let go of dew and stretch, getting up to get ready you realize your overnight bag has already been packed and one of the taller ghouls hoodies layed out next to it, you could hear the ruckus at the front of the bus of all the other ghouls ready to bunk up in the hotel.

You slip on the hoodie which you now know belongs to swiss, his smell encapsulating your mind.

Papa comes up behind you placing a hand on your back "piccolo the ghouls have decided you can pick who youre bunking with, they want to be sure youre okay when tiny, loro ti amano"

You make your way to the front of the bus where you find the ghouls with their charm up. looking to papa followed by you tapping swiss, rain and mountain on the heads, the three stand up, mountain takes your bag and rain scurrys away and back with your mask in hand "are you able to use charm right now or is the mask a better option?" He questions

Taking a moment to test how well the charm feels, you point at the mask. Nodding he gently places it atop your head, he places his hand under your chin causing you to look up so he can buckle it up and tan pats you atop your head, swiss gently pulls the back of the hoodie at the bottom away from your back "curl your tail tiny" tucking it under the hoodie

Once in the room mountain sets down the bags he was carrying and helped take the mask off of your noggin, ruffling your hair causing you to chirp in response, rain and swiss hop on the bed closest to the door leaving the one near the window "copia is ordering food for everyone, hes getting youre favorite for you" mountain chimes, grabbing to tv channel guide and flipping through it.

"Movie?" You mumble causing all three of them to look over, normally youre completely silent when youre small, "you wanna watch a movie?" He questions flicking on the tv and sitting on the bed, he turns on Wall-E for you.

Sometime a few minutes later he feels you shuffle closer on the bed cuddling into his side with your comfort item in hand.

After dinner was delivered and eaten and the movie was over you had tucked yourself on your side of the bed you shared with mountain, rains lamp still on so he could read while swiss was practically cuddled ontop of him, every time you would shift or turn in bed they could hear it, causing them to watch you carefully when youd move or grumble is dissatisfaction.

there was just no way to get comfortable, this wasnt home or the bus, you werent wrapped in your family, you huff out rolling over to look at mountain, to your suprise he was looking right at you quizically.

You quickly curl into his side before he got the chance to say anything, "o parum ghoul, mi amor, papa is right, your thoughts really are so very loud" swiss sighs, pulling himself out of his bed followed by rain who lay on your open side and swiss next to mountain, it may not be a perfect ghoul pile but its better than before, rolling over when rain pulls out his book to read aloud, your head on his chest.

listen to the thrum and Rumble deep in his chest, your eyes fall closed but not before you wrap your tail around swiss' wrist where it resides clutched around mountain, your mind will feel fresh and lively tomorrow filed with the itmost of energy, especially after an evening full of cuddles and littlespace, rain places a gentle kiss atop your head and just like that you are asleep.

#nameless ghouls x reader #nameless ghouls x little reader #cardinal copia x little reader #cardinal copia x reader #cardinal copia x female reader #cardinal copia x male reader #nameless ghouls x gn reader #agere reader #swiss x reader #mountain x reader #rain x reader

860 notes · View notes

phanfictioncatalogue · 2 months ago

Note

I’ve been following yall for YEARS and have enjoyed all the incredible work you put into this :) so what’s your favorite fics? Or ones you strongly recommend

As the newest admin, I second everything you say. My personal top top recs are the following:

(TW) Absolutely Lovely (ao3) - Autumn_Kismet

Summary: His friends and family think he's acting strange, they're worried that he's depressed again, but Dan doesn't see it. The only thing he sees is the new guy at school, the quirky one with the black hair and stunning blue eyes, and that's bad. So bad... because he likes him, and Dan can't like him. Dan can't be gay. He'll lose his family, he'll lose his friends... he'll become just like his father, and that's the last thing that he wants in the entire world. It's a scary thought that he doesn't think will ever go away and if there's the possibility of that happening, of him becoming the disgusting monster that his father was, or is, then maybe the world is better off without him, regardless of what PJ's dad, his mum's new husband, has to say.

black butterflies and deja vu (ao3) - kae_karo

Summary: Once upon a time...there was a little boy, his name was- well, that’s not important. There was a little boy, and he didn’t have lots of friends.

But don’t worry, this isn’t a sad story, even though it sounds like it, I promise.

Desires (ao3) - A_Million_Regrets

Summary: What would you do if you were suddenly hauled from your inauspicious life and dumped into an unforeseen catastrophe with your worst enemy?

Dan Howell and Phil Lester completely and utterly hate each other. They fight every time they meet, and all of their friends are tired of it. But one day, these two hot-headed, reckless men stumble through a secret passage in a mysterious old house and wake up on a strange island uninhabited by other intelligent life forms. They only have each other and no way to escape. Will they fight to death, or will they learn to trust each other in a world where no one else exists? Can they put aside their mutual hatred for each other to survive this misfortune?

The Colors in You (ao3) - Phandiction

Summary: Dan is a dragon with scales as black as a moonless night. Part of the Dark's, he’s not supposed to get along with the colorful Chrome dragons from the other side of the island. But after seeing a Chrome for the first time in person, he’s transfixed by the rainbow of colored scales and against his better judgement rescues the dragon from a group of Dark’s seeking to kill it. Now responsible for hiding and protecting the Chrome dragon named Phil until he’s recovered enough to return to his home, Dan questions the laws that's kept the two species from each other for centuries.

Trust Me, I'm Broken Too (ao3) - natigail

Summary: The Lesters – the royal family of his homeland – was nothing like Dan thought they would be. Well, the King was just as horrible as he had heard but the King’s brother’s son, who was third in line for the throne, was nothing like Dan thought he’d be. Dan had been adrift for three years going from one “place of employment” to another, only his life was seen as worthless and he was more property than an employee. He had never imagined he’s end up as the property of Prince Philip.

The Prince had no intention of ever taking on a personal servant, which was a fancy name to disguise the fact a law essentially enslaved people. Phil often had to do things he didn’t want to or risk being removed from the succession to the crown. If that happened, who knew who his tyrant of an uncle would pick as a successor? When pressured into the choosing, he’d wanted to go for the most innocent, young girl, but hard brown eyes caught his attention instead.

Weather With You (ao3) - Evening42

Summary: "The man’s arms dropped slowly to his side and he didn’t speak, just looking at Phil, the glare fading from his eyes. Phil opened his mouth to speak again but was stopped by the sudden realisation that firstly this man was gorgeous, and secondly that his eyes, despite the depth of colour, were the most dead and cold that he had ever seen, the previous glare the only speck of emotion present. His mouth remained open as he struggled to regain his thoughts and calm his now wildly beating heart, a sudden large breaking wave the only thing that brought him back to his senses."

Phil moves to an isolated cottage to start his dream of writing a novel. He meets a mysterious silent stranger on the beach who has a tragic history.

where we belong (ao3) - parentaladvisorybullshitcontent

Summary: "Only you," Martyn says.

"Only me what?"

"Only you could end up stranded in the middle of nowhere with a gay author who writes gay books. Jesus Christ, Phil."

In which Phil is snowed in with nobody but the mysterious dark haired author next door for company.

-Rae

#answered #anonymous

17 notes · View notes

theglamorousferal · 6 months ago

Text

Persephone's Binding Part 14

Hardcover/Anger Management ship Sacrificial Bride au

AO3 Prompt Part 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14

Jazz dismissed herself from the rest of the group, fingers tightening on the strap of the bag on her shoulder. Jason's eyes trailed after her as she made her escape from the group, concerned.

"So, how about we get to that shooting competition that we shelved earlier this week?" Danny asks Jason and Ellie.

"Hell yeah, that sounds awesome, I've been practicing with Dante's help!" Ellie exclaimed. "We should probably change first though, last one to the training grounds has to give Cujo a bath in his huge form!" With that she sped down the halls towards the family residence halls.

"Well you heard her, you can navigate the castle enough to get there yourself right?"

"Yeah I can figure it out, you got some guns I can use though?" Jason asked.

Danny grinned, though there was something sad in his eyes. "Yeah, our parents were inventors and until they realized that ghosts aren't inherently evil they made weapons. I'll show you when we get there, see ya in a bit." He vanished from sight, presumably to go change.

Jason jogged through the castle, resigning himself to losing the race considering the two he was racing could fly at high speeds. He changed into his Hood gear and jogged his way to the training ground where it looked like Ellie and Danny were in a snark-off with each other by the targets.

Danny noticed his first and flagged him down. He led him to a building next to the targets and stepping inside Jason had to tuck in the back of his mind that the parents of the Royal family were mad scientists who saw the aesthetics of 1950's sci-fi and stuck with it. Gleaming chrome with green accents shone from the displays on the walls and from the display cases throughout the room. There were bazookas, sniper rifles, hand guns, a cat-o-nine-tails, and a vacuum all along the walls. In the display cases were tubes of lipstick, bracelets, small rods, grenades etc.

"What's with the lipstick?" he asked Danny.

"Oh, they're lasers. Same with the bracelets. This rod extends into a quarterstaff, this rod has a taser at either end. These grenades form a small portal to a random point in the Realms, these ones stun most ecto-entities." As Danny kept going on about what everything in here does, he would add in little anecdotes about how strong each weapon hits a ghost and it was starting to set Jason on edge.

"How often have you gotten hit with these?" Jason asks levelly.

Danny just shrugged. "Honestly not all that often outside of training, my dad was a bad shot and I mostly managed to dodge my mom. Honestly Jazz is the one who hit me the most when she was still learning combat. She also caught me in the Thermos many, many times." He shivered at the memory.

"Excuse me, thermos?" His previous rage was knocked away at the ridiculousness of the statement.

"Oh yeah, when we were still on Earth I had to capture the ghosts and put them back into the Realms. My parents would build things out of whatever we had when their grants started to run out and so they made the thermos as a capturing device. It didn't work at first, I think it needed more ectoplasm than they had access to because it worked after I charged it with energy. When I found out Jazz knew about me being part-ghost, she ended up trying to join us in taking out the ghosts. It...did not go too well." He rubbed the back of his neck and looked down. "There was a lot of miscommunication, she wasn't listening to us even though we had experience, and we weren't listening to her thoughts on what a specific ghost was up to. She caught me six times that first night I think." He laughed a little. "Eventually we got on the same page and she started training and actually listening to us and we all became stronger for it."

Jason nodded along to the story, glad for more information on the dynamics of the family he's technically at the mercy of right now. He gestured to a pair of pistols on the wall. "Let's get this competition underway, huh?"

Danny smiled at him. "Yeah, let's get to that."

"About time you guys came out here. Let's do this!" Ellie exclaimed when they exited the building. Now that Jason had time to look, he noticed that Ellie was dressed like you would imagine a nomad during the apocalypse would look. She had jeans covered in band patches and other patches and embroidery. She wore battle vest covered in more patches and pins with spikes on the shoulders and a breastplate with the same D-shaped logo Danny had etched into the front of it messily. She had fabric scraps wrapped around her arms under armguards and steel capped boots. Her fingerless gloves also had metal spikes on the knuckles. She also had a pair of aviation goggles over her eyes.

"Well now I definitely need to introduce you to Kon. He's also a superpowered clone who appreciates the Punk culture."

"Really? Hell yeah, that sounds awesome. Hopefully we find your dimension soon then!" They all lined up at the targets. "Now let's see what you can do Lover Boy." She smirked at him.

Jason did his best to not blush. "I'm not gonna push my feelings at your sister. Plus, we barely know each other." He readied himself to shoot, and the competition was off. They all shot true for the short range targets and moved to larger ranges. Ellie misjudged the power on her blast and blew the target apart and Danny sneezed when he fired. Jason was getting used to the fact there was no recoil on these guns as they were energy pistols, but quickly adapted. Once they got bored of stationary targets they moved to skeet shooting and they ended up playing around for a few hours at that before the guns ran out of charge and the two ghosts were starting to get tired.

They all went and changed for dinner where they met Jazz again. She was faintly glowing yellow, her eyes had more flecks of golden light swirling in them and the tips of her hair seemed to be blowing in an unseen breeze. Danny didn't seem to be bothered by the change and took his seat at her right, Ellie next to him, though she looked a bit concerned. Jason took his seat at Jazz's left and Danny began chattering away at Jazz about their afternoon.

"Jason's a pro with the pistols, we'll have to test him against you sometime and see who's better." Danny grinned, all teeth and a spark in his eye. "You're training tomorrow right? You two should spar!"

Jazz and Jason looked at each other and caught each other's eye. After a moment they both turned appraising the other, sizing up their opponent. Jazz grinned. "I think that can be arranged. I do have a meeting with some of the yeti scholars looking into the binding in the afternoon, but my morning will be training yes." She held out her hand to shake Jason's. "Do we have an accord?"

Jason grinned back and clasped her hand, giving it a firm shake. "I can't wait."

#dpxdc #dp x dc #dcxdp #dc x dp #Hardcover ship #anger management ship #jazz/jason #persephone's binding #sacrificial bride au

42 notes · View notes

yarrayora · 9 months ago

Text

Kill Them with Kindness

Summary: The most important skill Tsuna learned from Reborn did not come from any of the supplemental lessons Reborn had taught him but something he mimicked by observing his mentor. It was called malicious compliance.

Preview:

If Tsuna didn’t become Vongola Decimo, would anyone acknowledge Hayato’s genius? What would have happened to Lambo whose Family sent him on a suicide mission when he was just a toddler, simply because his body was sturdier than adults? He imagined Fuuta would still pledge his loyalty to Vongola in exchange for protection, but that protection would come with exploitation considering his ability. Lancia would never be able to prove his innocence and Mukuro… he would forever be trapped in Vindicare, while Chrome would never exist in the first place. There would be no justice for Cozart, as his friendship with Giotto would remain buried by Spade’s scheme. If he were to run away now, the people who would pay the price would not be just Tsuna.

>>read on ao3<<

#katekyo hitman reborn #sawada tsunayoshi #tsunayoshi sawada #yarra writes stuff

36 notes · View notes

shadowgast-recs-weekly · 1 year ago

Text

Happy Birthday, Aeor is For Reccing!

One year ago today (give or take a couple hours), we published our first rec list. To celebrate, I (Opera) have prepared some stats. A little bit like a reccing wrapped, only with a smaller budget and being less creepy about your data.

But thank you to everyone who has recced, every one who has read the reclist, everyone who has reblogged, everyone who has kudosed, to @professor-rye and @theusualjasper, and everyone who helped along the way.

I'm glad we've gotten this far!

To start: We've had 685 recs, 478 fics, 210 Authors, 53 reclists and 43 themes.

Most Recced Authors: (1) Mousecookie - 25 recs (1) royalgreen - 25 recs (3) SaltCore - 21 recs (4) hanap - 15 recs (5) kmackatie - 14 recs (5) Chrome - 14 recs (5) Firefright - 14 recs (8) Mlle Kurtz - 12 recs (9) road_rhythm - 11 recs (9) MinnesotaBruja - 11 recs (9) LuckyOwlsFoot - 11 recs (9) MarsBar2019 - 11recs

Authors with the most fics recced: (1) royalgreen - 18 fics (2) SaltCore - 13 fics (2) hanap - 13 fics (4) Mousecookie - 12 fics (5) kmackatie - 10 fics (5) LuckyOwlsFoot - 10 fics (7) Firefright - 9 fics (7) Jakia - 9 fics (9) Professor_Rye - 8 fics (9) Mlle Kurtz - 8 fics

Fics recced the highest number of times: Hard Mouth and The Hole in the Stone, both recced 8 times Fic recced the most number of times for a single theme: In the Closet of Our Discretion, by Firefright for Cultural Differences (recced 4 times) Longest fic recced: Dappled Shadow and Penumbral Light by Professor_Rye (463,977) Shortest fic recced: Of Constellations and Freckles, also by Professor_Rye (100 words) First fic Recced: Stay for a Spell by Palebluedot Latest fic Recced: Uncharted Waters by EmpressofWizards

Word Cloud based on what people like about the fics:

Most common content note: Choose Not To Warn Number of Series recced: 16 Percentage of Hidden Gems that are No Longer eligible (have over 150 kudos): 48% (check them out!) Number of Images Rai has Used: 27

So what's next?

Well, the absolute next thing is that sometime this week I'm going to post the reccing spreadsheet for everyone to see - if people want to look through old recs, they should feel free to! Then there's the ideas I had from the survey a few months ago - chief among them was making it easier to import information from AO3 (you'd still be able to rec fics that can't be imported or on tumblr, I'm just trying to remove some of the hassle) I'm still doing research on the best way to make that happen, and kind of selfishly want to do it myself - but it's been a busy couple of months for me.

Speaking of which - I'm having surgery in a month! A double masectomy and reconstruction on February 19 (roughly equivalent to top surgery (masculinizing)) and February 20th (roughly equivalent to top surgery (femininzing- fat grafting)). Kind of like they're turning my chest on and off again - a ctrl-alt-deteat, if you will. Anyway, I don't want cancer, but everyone I've talked to about this has said the stomach incision is worse than the chest incision, and nobody's ever described top surgery as a walk in the park. I'm planning on doing absolutely nothing for six weeks, and @theusualjasper will be taking over during that time.

Anyway, here's to another year! Thanks to everyone who has participated or helped along the way, you're all great. Even you <3

#not a rec list #shadowgast #shadowgast recs #stats

121 notes · View notes

greatrunner · 6 months ago

Text

It is a truth universally accepted that when critiquing anything regarding AO3/OTW, reactionaries enter the building, and critical thinking and discernment gets locked out.

Nia Ola (on Substack) attempted to raise the alarm about AO3's changes in Terms of Service. This bit in particular:

Nia Ola: "[...]AO3 just updated their terms and conditions so that the only way you can use the site now is that you consent to them taking your data (so, works that you've written, distributed, saved, bookmarked, etc, everything) and give that data and information to the government."

In my time reading Terms and Conditions of Service, websites claiming that they're "duty bound" to provide data uploaded to the site to the govt, depending on jurisdiction, is not a surprise. You will not be informed or told by the site(s) when the government accesses/obtained your information. All on the pretense that it would "interfere with an ongoing investigation".

It isn't dissimilar to the one I've read here for Tumblr. The bit that says (legalese-y) that anything you post on the site can be used as evidence (IIRC) if it becomes "necessary."

But as usual, the AO3 brigade worked like hell to shout them down. Folk focused a lot on how OTW made their TOS "easier" to understand. They claimed Nia Ola was spreading misinformation. Most have gone as far as quibbling with her phrasing, "giving your information to the government" (which they would be doing) based on their personal interpretation of her meaning.

After making the video (they posted on TikTok) private, Nia Ola continued to encourage people to use security measures like VPNs and secure Browsers (they mentioned Firefox; I'm sure others are recommending Tor, Brave, and lesser-known browsers with better security features than Edge or Chrome) and to back up information they didn't want to lose.

Is it an explicit consequence of the election? Probably not. AO3/OTW knows entirely that they're hosting grimy shit on their website and refuse to do anything about it. AO3/OTW, like other websites, are "all-ages". Meaning OTW knows kids as young as 13 (and lets face it, younger) are using AO3. If the US or any other country decides it's politically advantageous to go after them, AO3/OTW is gonna cover their asses and throw you under the bus.

Point-Blank-Period.

That said, I think it would be irresponsible to exclude the election as a factor altogether. Organizations (govt or otherwise) are hang-wringing about rustling conservative feathers, and censoring themselves to avoid the wrath of a Trump Admin.

KOSA and COPPA are still in play. And there's the bill targeting non-profits to consider that's likely (and did) to pass not long after it got shot down.

When Tumblr wanted the favor of the Apple Store and their advertisers, they targeted sex worker blogs and fashion and art bloggers (primarily Black/non-Black). Then, they created an AI flagging system that still doesn't work.

When enough people (and advertisers) made enough noise about the NC-17 content that FanFiction (dot net) hosted on their site (at the height of its popularity, mind you)? They made a choice that allowed the website to survive and eliminate the target on their back. Both were financially motivated, yes, but if it's a choice of annexing content to stay online or getting shuttered?

AO3 will not be an exception. It's already embracing that "Obeying in Advance" phrase y'all are in love with right now.

Nia Ola is not the only one raising the alarm or alarmed by this decision. In your haste to fall on the sword for an organization that does not care about you, try not to make an ass of yourself by dog-piling people with experience regarding the consequences of data collection stemming from policies meant to criminalize sexual content, yeah?

This will continue unless we establish actual policies, education, and protections to prevent the mass surveillance of adult spaces under the pretense of "decency" and "protecting children." Additionally, we must address the ongoing elimination of healthy and safe spaces for children.

Because in our govt's haste to claim their concern for children, the corporations they serve have been demolishing child spaces and media online to save a couple of bucks (Cartoon Network's website comes to mind), and pushing children into adult spaces. And if they're not pushing kids into adult spaces, they're inviting adults into so-called kid spaces to increase their profits (Roblox and its attempts to become anything but a game for children, to say nothing of their monetization of the ideas that kids make).

Until our culture/society overhauls its approach to sex education, divorced from white supremacy, the actual intention of creating spaces that aren't sex-negative and don't prey on uninformed children will probably always exist in short bursts.

That means our politic has to rid itself of the reactionary ilk that (a) demonizes all things sexual and (b) refuses to practice discernment and critical thinking in their so-called sex-positive spaces. Both are why places like AO3 manifest and then ultimately help no one.

And it does not help anyone that reactionary AO3 loyalists will always fight to keep conversations about the site politically and socially stunted and unchanging.

Not all censorship and moderation is or should be sex-negative or censorious to the point of infantilizing. But, if the goal is maintaining free speech and freedom of expression (as we like to think of it vs how the govt allows it), it cannot be to the detriment of itself or for the sake of it (i.e., anti-censorship is not the answer any more than autocratic censorship is).

#greatrunners meta #data collection #data privacy #media manipulation #terms of service #fanfiction #archive of our own

17 notes · View notes

ancuninfiles · 9 months ago

Text

Lithium Pt. 5

Screenshot by @lavendarr00

10.1k words - F/M - Astarion x F! Durge - 18+

Warnings: Graphic Depictions of Violence.

Summary: Ronnie must reflect on what Astarion had told her the previous day, while she plays with the strange but somehow fitting gift he gave her.

She's to meet him at the park, and they get up to 🌶️no good🌶️ past the treeline.

꒦꒷♡꒷꒦

Tags: smut, AU modern setting in London UK, mental illness, p in v sex, creampie, semi-public sex, car sex, fingering, darkfic but NOT a dead dove. PLEASE READ FULL TAG LIST ON AO3.

MASTERLIST (Other works and chapters)

Read on AO3 for full tag list and proper formatting (recommended)

꒦꒷♡꒷꒦

Beginning notes:

I wasn't expecting to finish this chapter so soon, but I fixated on it. This might be the chapter that I'm the most proud of so far :)

This chapter is a whopping 10.1k words.

I can't believe it.

I'm still trying my best to breathe life into Ronnie, but I've been finding it very difficult so bear with me as I periodically go back to previous chapters and tweak her internal thoughts.

I'm BEGGING you to read on AO3 for proper spacing and formatting </3

꒦꒷♡꒷꒦

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟓: 𝐋𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐚𝐧 𝐎𝐦𝐞𝐧

꧁꧂

It'd been less than twenty-four hours since she last saw Astarion.

And she'd spent those past twenty-four hours thinking about him.

She laid in bed with her blackout curtains closed, as it was eerily dark outside by this time of night. The lamp inside her bedroom was warm, and tungsten-like. It sat on her reddish, wooden bedside table, and had a ceramic base and an off-white lampshade, stained with specs of blood.

Nag champa incense that Jen had let her take burned on her bedside table, creating a ribbon of smoke that dispersed as it flowed towards her eggshell-white ceiling.

She let herself sink into her navy-blue duvet, wearing headphones and the soft rope Astarion left—tied in a noose—draped loosely around her throat like a pearl necklace as she listened to music.

The rope… it reminded her of him.

All day, she'd been playing with the blue chrome balisong he'd gifted to her, decorated in intricate baroque-esq engravings. It was a real one—sharp as hell, and she was careful not to cut herself on it.

She ran her thumb in a line down the engravings on the handle. The metal was warm from holding it all day, and polished like its maker had put in a great deal of care.

Her lips pulled into a smile, admiring it.

When he'd given it to her, her immediate thought was that it was insensitive of him to gift her a weapon.

—Of all things.

But then, when she actually held it—felt its weight through her arm, and the smoothness of the pins—it felt like home. That was the only way she could explain it.

Something felt familiar about the balisong.

When Astarion gave it to her, he'd taken it out of its—equally blue—velvet-lined box and given it a toss.

Everything he'd done with the knife should've been impossible to keep track of—with all of his complex tricks—but somehow, Ronnie felt names for each one on the tip of her tongue. She could almost feel the motions in her own hands as she watched him play.

Magnificent, she thought, the way he whipped it around. She couldn't wait to try it herself when he left.

When she did…

Well…

It was automatic—she could whip the blade around just as well, if not better than Astarion had.

A part of her stirred with worry. Why was she so good at this?

The only reasonable conclusion was that she'd done it before.

She didn't like that.

But a single consolation made the fact tolerable: Astarion would go mad once he saw her wielding the knife like a seasoned professional.

—Oh—he'll be so proud.

There wasn't a doubt in her mind that he—being the chaotic little gremlin he was—would be impressed at her skill.

The thought made her blush, and he wasn't even fucking there.

She opened the balisong and clipped its handle together, hugging it to her bare chest. She let her heels slide closer to her bottom, the blanket flitting in their wake.

Her knees came together and she closed her eyes.

—Astarion…

—Astarion is a vampire.

What a confession that was.

The vampire man—Astarion—had finally given her his number, but he explained that they had to talk in code, just in case his boss saw. Although, he assured her that that wouldn't happen.

The thought of it freaked her out, though, sending a chill down her spine.

—It'd better not happen.

Nevertheless, code or otherwise, she was glad to finally be able to text him.

She’d given him her work schedule, and he said he wanted to meet up with her as much as he could.

—As much as he could.

She wanted that too. Hell, she'd be elated to spend every waking hour with the bloke if it were on the table.

She'd board up all the windows in her flat—whatever it took.

The bite mark on her neck had been itchy. She tried not to scratch it. She scratched it. It bled more, smearing blood on her fingertips and beneath her nails.

He said she was the first person he'd ever drank from. That his hunger got the best of him, but that it shouldn't have been able to.

…

He described his ties to his boss as some sort of pact, similar to a “deal with the devil”. Theoretically, it was supposed to make him physically incapable of refusing orders.

Drinking the blood of a “thinking creature” went directly against those orders.

But he tried to run before, and he wasn't supposed to be able to do that, either, as it went against Mr Szarr’s orders.

When Mr Szarr found him, Astarion was punished severely—he was locked and buried in a coffin for a whole year.

Without food.

Without blood.

He didn't have time to explain everything. He had to leave Ronnie's flat before the sun came up.

Astarion doesn't sparkle.

But, up until the moment he left, he’d been very… attentive towards Ronnie. He'd cleaned her up, and gotten her a blanket and water.

And she passed out on the couch when he showered.

The process of being carried to her bed and untied roused her from her sleep.

“See you,” she whispered, half asleep as he tossed the blankets over her.

“See you,” he responded as he walked out of her bedroom.

Ronnie worried that he might get caught. If Mr Szarr could compel him to do anything, could he force the truth out of him?

He said that he and his “siblings” had historically been able to get away with half-truths and redirects. Astarion in particular had somehow refused his compulsions entirely before.

He wasn't sure why he could, but he said that he “couldn't afford to squander any blessings.”

“I wouldn't be here if I wasn't sure that you'd be safe,” he assured her.

He sounded so… genuine. His eyes were dark and serious as he squeezed her thigh over the throw blanket.

“Trust me,” he said.

She wasn't sure yet if trusting him was wise, but intuitively, it felt right. Had he given her any reason to distrust him?

Well…

other than the first day they met, when he lured her there.

But he wasn’t… he wouldn't do that again.

But it played in the back of her mind—turned her stomach.

It scared her, but… she didn't care because it doesn't matter what happens to her, really. She doesn't have a family, or many friends. Her life… it’s going nowhere.

What did she have to live for? What if not for the feeling of being held? That felt like something worth living for.

Something worth dying for.

She didn't possess such hubris to deny the inevitability of her kismet.

Death and abandonment were all her cards read. That, or she’d spend the rest of her sorry life working for pennies, living in her musty basement flat, stealing, and getting fucked up.

She'd probably end up in prison eventually—it astonished her that it hadn't happened yet.

It was inimitable—the way she’d felt in his arms. Not even Jenevelle could make her feel this way. Not ever.

But… she didn't want to kill. Was it not against everything she'd been working so hard to become?

…

But as Astarion said: Mr Szarr owns slaves—kills multiple people a week, himself. Wouldn't it be better to kill him than not? Wouldn't it actually save people?

—Isn't that justice?

Calling the cops wouldn't work, Astarion was adamant in that—Mr Szarr had been paying them off for decades.

“He must die,” Astarion expressed, as his eyes conveyed a newly surmounted level of intensity.

This was all too much to process in a single day… especially after they…

That was unexpected.

Maybe it was selfish, or maybe it was self-destructive—hard to tell which.

Was it okay? Her mind raced. He made her feel so… good. But she somehow felt… ugly—ugly on the inside.

She saw a grotesque, grey pile of sludge, tar, and sticks staring back at her in the mirror of her mind's eye.

That made her feel ugly on the outside, too.

Really, even if Astarion was doing this all as a ruse to lure her and sacrifice her again, she would deserve an end like that.

Dying sounded peaceful.

—Anyways…

She didn't want to think about it—it didn't matter.

Nothing matters.

—But other people matter. And keeping them safe.

… But not her.

—Ugh.

Her self-loathing was draining.

When Astarion told her that he was a vampire, she considered whether or not she should believe him. The internet said that vampires aren't real, but she called Jen, and Jen said that she thinks they're real.

Jen not only said that she thinks vampires are real, but also that her family are descendants of lycanthropes.

It all seemed a bit “woo woo”, but Astarion took a picture of Ronnie's neck with her phone, and showed her the bite marks.

Then she noticed the blood on his lips.

And it was hot.

It made sense. She’d never seen him in the daytime, his skin was always cool, and his eyes… she had originally thought they were a deep hazel, never having seen him in daylight, but they were red.

So either he was a vampire or she was the most gullible girl in the world.

She was supposed to meet him at one of their designated meeting spots soon.

He texted her earlier. It said: “23-green”, which meant that they would meet at the park near her house at eleven PM.

If he told her to meet her somewhere, she would.

She realised that about herself.

…

Her own thoughts and feelings were discordant—they were sickeningly overwhelming.

—It might be a good time to take those anti-anxiety meds.

Ronnie pushed herself upright, her slippers grazing the floor as she moved. Passing by the wall where her bag hung, she idly toyed with her balisong. With a practised flick, she snapped the knife shut and fastened it. The bag came off its hook, the blade slipping inside with a muted thud.

Settling onto the sofa, she leaned into the cushions and began rummaging through her bag. Her fingers sifted through the contents, searching for the medication Astarion had given her too much of that first night.

She tucked her hair behind her ear, shamefully navigating through her crumpled receipts and loose peanuts that littered the bottom of her bag.

Finally acquiring the small orange pill bottle, she read the label for the first time ever. It said: “LORAZEPAM 0.5MG SL—Dissolve 1 tablet under the tongue when needed.”

—Huh…

—Only one…

One to curb the anxiety and five to be completely incapacitated.

—How many should I take this time?

The bottle rattled as she poured the pills into her hand. They were tiny blue things, with an “A” on one side and “0.5” on the other. It was hard for Ronnie to believe that such a small thing could do so much.

—Maybe just one, she decided.

So she let the spare pills fall back into the bottle and inserted one under her tongue. She closed the bottle with a strong palm, and put it back in her purse.

The flavour this time was almost… sweet—notably less bitter than the last time.

—Good.

She liked the feeling of something so powerful, right beneath her tongue. As if she were changing the will of the gods.

The park was a five-minute walk—she had to leave soon.

꧁꧂

She left early.

She would not be late this time.

Wearing a long, dark-grey peacoat that billowed open as she moved, she locked her door and ascended the stairs of her building's corridor towards the heavy, metal exit.

She pushed it open with some effort, letting it slam shut behind her, and took long strides between the parked vehicles, crossing the empty street as it glistened with the remnants of a previous storm. The air was thick with the earthy scent of rain-soaked pavement and the subtle hint of ozone, lingering in the tiniest, invisible beads that stuck to her skin.

“Ronnie?” called a rich voice from behind her.

She froze, halfway across the black, rain-slicked street, a smile spreading across her face...

—Astarion.

Stopped in her tracks, she slowly spun on her heels, her eyes locking onto his. She tried to maintain a straight face, but the corner of her lip quirked up, betraying her attempted composure.

He was leaning against her building with his hands in his pockets, smiling with a slight furrow in his brow. He wore a white button-up dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up above his elbows and black formal trousers.

She took a deep breath. “I thought you wanted to meet me at the park?”

With a fist to his mouth, he cleared his throat, his cool demeanour faltering. “Well… I thought it might be safer if I walked you there.”

When he said that, it felt the same as when he had asked Ronnie, “How are you?”—as if it was his first time ever saying it.

“Right,” Ronnie said, stepping off the street and walking towards him.

She watched her own step up onto the curb, but was stopped by his gesture.

He offered his arm… again.

Her eyes flitted from his arm to his eyes, as if she didn't know what was happening. But she did—she knew he wanted her to take his arm.

And she loved it.

But she couldn't show him just how much she loved it.

He nudged his arm towards her. “Still playing coy, Ronnie?” he smirked.

She loved the way he said her name.

Gritting her teeth, she begrudgingly took his arm. “No.”

She tugged him, and they started walking across the street together.

And she realised that she had walked to him.

—Desperate.

—Fuck.

She was practically dragging him across the street—leading the way—but she forced herself to settle down when they reached the other side, loosening her grip around the back of his elbow and slowing to a more suitable pace.

She glanced up at him, and he had that stupid smile on his face. Again.

“Having fun, are we?” he asked.

“I just wanted to get across the street, and you were too slow,” she said, huffing and looking at the ground ahead as they approached a cobblestone alleyway.

“Oh, yes. Thank you kindly for saving me—your little damsel in distress. What would I do without you?” He laughed.

Ronnie clenched her fists. He was so… annoying.

—Ugh.

She wanted to rip away from him and walk ahead—to make him follow her the rest of the way. But she stayed. And they walked onwards through the dingy alleyway, past a smelly dumpster towards the street over.

Ronnie held her breath until they were far enough from the dumpster. When she finally breathed again, she tried to do so slowly—undramatically.

“So…” she began, gearing up for her question, “How are you able to come and see me if your boss’s rules are so… strict?”

Astarion sighed, pausing for a moment. “My siblings are able to pick up my slack for… this… cause,” he explained.

Ronnie felt the familiar pang of guilt in her stomach. “And by that, you mean they’re… bringing victims to Mr Szarr for you?”

“Instead of me,” he spat. “It's not as if I want him to have any more victims.” His face twisted in misplaced anger.

Ronnie had assumed what his job entailed before, but every time she thought about it, it stirred something pained and uncomfortable within her, almost like the smell of the dumpster. She didn’t want to think about it.

—But maybe talking about it would help.

She pressed more, “Dalyria… is she… having sex with people to lure them like how you did with me?” Ronnie asked.

Astarion stopped on the sidewalk, and, consequently, Ronnie did too.

He walked in front of her, gripping both of her arms at her sides.

She looked up at him, witnessing the subtle intensity in his brow.

“I’m. Sorry.”

Again, he said something as if it was his first time uttering the phrase.

Ronnie tensed her shoulders closer to her ears. He looked… scared.

His grip loosened, and his thumbs rubbed along the front of her arms. He was clearly attempting to soothe her, but it was like he’d forgotten how. He’d been caring and affectionate after their couplings, but outside of that, he was a bit… awkward—like he was trying his very best to keep something contained.

Ronnie wondered what that was.

“Hey—it’s okay.” She bit her lip.

“It was my job to bring you to him,” his words echoed in her memory. “Nobody has ever bested him like that.”

“I—I want to help you.” The words leaked from her. She didn’t know why.

“Just—” don’t leave me when this is all over, she wanted to say but didn’t. Couldn’t.

He wouldn’t lure her there again.

—He doesn’t even want to be there. Ever again.

Closing his eyes, he huffed out an exhale through his nose. He held his arm out for Ronnie again, looking ahead—away from her.

She squeezed and unsqueezed her hands a few times, noticing they were suddenly clammy. Hooking onto his arm, she followed his lead to the park.

꧁꧂

The swings creaked in the cool breeze, their metallic squeaks echoing in the still night. The grass and rocks around the playground glistened with moisture, dark and wet from the earlier rain. Beyond the playground, a dense treeline marked the beginning of a small patch of woods. The sky remained overcast, the stars obscured by clouds.

They walked across the damp ground and paused before the playground, standing side-by-side, the night air filled with the scent of wet earth and foliage.

“So… why did you want to bring me here?” Ronnie asked, her voice tense. She held her breath, pressing her tongue against the roof of her mouth in a nervous habit.

“The trees,” Astarion replied, “they make for accessible targets to practice on.” He released her arm and looked down at her. “Did you bring it?”

He hadn’t even asked her to bring it, but—of course—she did. Just more evidence of how embarrassingly obsessed she was with him. And he’d surely pick up on it.

She exhaled sharply. “Yeah, I have it.” Reaching into her bag reluctantly, she grasped the cold metal of the balisong and pulled it out, feeling its familiar weight in her hand.

She wanted to show him what she could do.

“Perfect. Can I see it for a moment?” he asked, extending his hand.

With a hint of reluctance, she placed the weapon in his hand, not saying a word.

While it remained closed, he tossed it a few inches into the air, catching it with ease as if gauging its weight. “Here—come,” he said, gesturing to the trees and beginning to walk towards them.

She hugged herself, though she wasn’t cold.

Following in his footsteps, she did as he asked.

She wanted her knife back.

When they reached the trees, he glanced back to ensure she was watching. Unclipping the balisong, he unfolded it and snapped it open with practised ease.

This time, when he tossed the knife, he threw it higher. It spun in the air before he caught it effortlessly by the hilt.

—I could do that.

He flung it at a tree, it spun on axis and it hit with a satisfying thunk, embedding itself into the wood.

—The poor tree.

“Want to try?” he asked, walking over to pull the knife out.

Easing the balisong free with a careful, vertical wiggle, he inspected the blade for damage.

Seemingly satisfied, he took steps toward her and offered her the blade on his open palm, like he was offering a treat to a bad dog.

Ronnie removed her hands from under her arms and took her balisong back, avoiding his gaze as she dropped her bag on the ground against a nearby tree.

Taking a few steps back from where he'd thrown it, she tossed the knife in the air just as he had, catching it by the hilt.

She hadn’t tried this before, but it felt as natural as breathing. She wasn't scared.

She glanced at him and saw him grinning, arms crossed.

He was looking at her like that again.

Eyes snapping back to the tree in embarrassment, she blushed unbiddenly and steadied herself on her two feet, a bend in her knee.

Inhaling slowly through her mouth, she held her breath.

Exhaling, she flung the balisong…

And it stuck in the exact spot he'd hit.

And she wasn't scared.

Straightening up, she turned her head to him to gauge his reaction.

His eyes widened, and his arms uncrossed as he stared at the tree. He looked back at Ronnie, cleared his throat into his fist, and painted on a smile—placing his knuckles on his hips. “You've been practising?” he laughed facetiously.

Ronnie made way to the blade-struck tree, freeing it from its peril, just as Astarion had previously. She, too, inspected the blade's tip for any damage, and she was grateful that it remained just as flawless as it'd been before.

“No, I… I just know how to do it.” Ronnie forced a smile. “Retrograde amnesia. Sometimes people forget everything from their past, but retain—uh,” she paused, swinging awkwardly, “certain skills or talents like… playing the piano. And other things, apparently.” Despite her stiff demeanour, her hands shook as she undid the handle and clipped the blade closed. She stared at the balisong in her hand. “Thanks for this, by the way. It was… actually really thoughtful,” she said, holding it tightly. Her eyes flicked back to Astarion, and her lips formed a tight line.

Meeting Astarion was one of the keys to uncovering her past.

She couldn't hide from it anymore—not when it was staring at her like this.

She'd hoped that her paroxysms were only ever a consequence of her “brain injury,” but the knife…

The knife—it changed things.

The knife meant that she'd always been this way, or something like that.

Fresh out of the hospital, she only had a few large scars. Now, she was swarmed with them.

How many people had she killed? How in the hells did she know how to wield this weapon so well?

Were there any other skills she possessed but didn't know about?

She sank to her knees on the pine-needle-covered dirt ground to place her balisong back in her bag. She pushed her palm into the earth and felt the thump of the weapon as it fell to the bottom. She grabbed at the dirt, letting the pine needles poke between her fingers. It felt good.

The wind blew through the trees, shaking raindrops from their branches, and she didn't feel anything except sick.

She heard Astarion crouch beside her.

“Ronnie?”

She wondered if that was her name before.

He brushed her hair behind her ear, and when she looked at him, her vision was blurred by tears.

Her chin was seized by a gentle grip between his thumb and finger.

And she felt the nausea fade away a little bit.

She closed her eyes.

She could stay there forever.

Until she died.

But she felt his breath on her lips, and then his lips.

And they were so soft.

She didn't want to open her eyes. She didn't want him to go. He made her feel better. He made her feel normal.

Tilting her head, she nudged closer into him, deepening the kiss.

He let go of her chin and slid his hand under her peacoat, to her back, grasping at the fabric of her shirt like he'd fall right off the earth if he didn't.

She could do anything with her hands, so she chose to hold his head, carding her fingers through his hair on both sides with a thumb in front of either ear.

She breathed through her nose as he pulled at her shirt, lowering her and kissing her into the dirt, his hand flattening under the weight of her ribcage.

Her arms flopped around the back of his neck as he unslotted his hand from her back only to hold her waist while his elbow dug into the dirt beside her.

He was between her legs, and she wrapped herself around him. It was like nothing else. Nothing had ever made her feel so… safe.

She felt safe like this.

With him.

She broke their kiss. And breathed. And opened her eyes.

And he was there…

looking at her.

He was so beautiful.

“Astarion,” she whispered, “thank you.”

His brow tensed again.

—Was he afraid for the same reason?

He tucked his face between her head and shoulder, and she held him tighter.

Allowing himself to collapse onto her, she felt his nose nudge her neck.

He was hungry.

And if she could give him a semblance of what he'd give her, she'd do it.

“You can drink from me again, Astarion.”

Groaning, he pushed his hips into her core.

And she held him so close.

“I can't.” he rasped.

Ronnie closed her eyes. “Because of—” Mr Szarr? she held her tongue.

He didn't say anything, he just rocked into her, and she could feel his hardness straining against his trousers as he hid away in the crook of her neck.

“Astarion.”

“I love it when you say my name, Ronnie.”

—How is this real right now?

She released one arm from around him to rummage through her purse beside her, her fingers tangling in the hair at his nape as she watched him.

When she found her balisong, her fingers curled around it. “Can you sit up?”

He nodded, pushing himself up and back to sit on his heels, her legs draped over his thighs.

Ronnie pulled the blade from her bag and placed it down in the dirt to shrug off her coat. The fabric slipped from her shoulders and onto the ground behind her.

His hands slid up her thighs, fingers tracing the skin beneath the hem of her loose t-shirt, lingering at the elastic waistband of her leggings.

It was very distracting.

She laid back on her coat and picked up her balisong, unclipping it, opening it, and admiring the detailed engravings on the blade.

It was really her, and that didn't make sense.

She held the blade to her scarred wrist, swiftly slicing a small line close to her hand. Blood immediately began to bead on the surface of her skin.

His expression shifted as he eyed the bleeding cut, restrained and hungry, like when she had bitten her lip. He watched the small droplet raptly as it journeyed over and around the other scars on her arm, trailing downwards towards her elbow.

“For you,” Ronnie whispered, “please.” She held up her wrist, offering herself to him.

He looked at her, seeking reassurance. She nodded, eyes steady, urging him on.

His gaze dropped back to her wrist as he took it in his hand, his thumb pressing into her palm. Their eyes locked as he leaned closer, propping himself up with one hand in the dirt.

She let him take his time, shivering as he kissed the backs of her fingers first.

This made her blood flutter in her veins.

She didn't know what this was—it felt like falling, but it was good, better than any drug she'd ever done.

He closed his eyes, turning her wrist along with his head, placing the flat of his tongue on the tiny trailing droplet. He closed his eyes so tight, as if savouring the taste.

She was entranced, watching him work his way up her arm.

The way he looked—she wanted to taste him, too.

The trees creaked and swayed, moonlight speckling through his curls.

He finally reached her wound, wrapping his lips around it. His groan of pleasure resonated through her.

It tickled, sending shivers down her spine.

She felt his tongue roll on her skin, and his hips roll into her.

He pressed his tongue onto her skin one last time before pulling away, leaving nothing left but the scratch she'd made.

She had stopped bleeding, but she knew it wasn’t enough.

He let go of her wrist, and she started to sit up. “Here,” she murmured, shimmying out from under him.

She stood, looked around, bent down, and grabbed her jacket. She flung it over her shoulder and laid it out beside a tree.

“You can sit with your back against this tree. What do you think?” she asked, her voice soft and inviting, hoping to make him feel comfortable.

He stood up and walked to her. “What have you got planned?” he asked, smiling.

“A treat,” she replied, smiling back and gesturing to the tree with both hands.

He looked at her sceptically but walked over and sat on her coat as she had asked.

Ronnie already started lowering herself to sit between his legs, her back pressed against his chest.

It was as if he suddenly didn’t know what to do with his hands.

Ronnie leaned her head back on his shoulder, looking up at him. “I’m here.” She smiled, then looked away, pulling her hair to one side and exposing the bite marks from the night before. “Please—just try.”

She tilted her head for him and closed her eyes.

His arms found their way around her torso, holding her arms to her ribcage.

His breath was shaky, each inhalation expanding his chest against her back. His exhalations blew cool puffs of air against her neck, sending shivers down her spine.

She could feel his hesitation in the way he gripped her, his fingers tracing the marred skin on her arms as if unsure where to rest. The closeness of their bodies made her hyper-aware of every sensation—the lifelessness of his breath, the steady thrum of his strange heartbeat against her spine, the way his chest rose and fell.

“Please,” she whispered, “I trust you.”

His lips brushed against the tender skin of her neck, and she felt a wave of heat wash over her. The anticipation, the tension—it was intoxicating.

He hesitated for a moment longer before pressing his lips to her neck, his mouth lingering over the bite marks from the night before. She gasped softly, feeling a mix of pain and pleasure as his teeth grazed her skin.

His grip tightened around her, his hands finally finding their place as they held her closer. Each breath—each touch—was electric, sending jolts of desire through her.

“Your heart’s not racing, Ronnie. Why not?” he murmured.

—The medication.

“I took one of those little blue pills before we came here,” she said.

“You were scared?” he asked.

“I was… stressed. Just—thinking too much,”

“About us?”

—Us?

Her cheeks bloomed with blood, the warmth spreading across her face.

“That’s better—quicker,” he noted, his breath cool against her neck.

“Do you like it better like that?” she asked, her voice breathy and trembling.

He pressed his lips to her throat. “It drives me crazy,” he whispered, grazing his fangs along her pulse point. He squeezed her arms, his grip possessive. “Stay very still, darling,” he cooed.

When he sank his fangs into her neck, she winced quietly at first as he held her taut against him.

Winced—at the pain, but it faded into a numb drumming.

It felt like everything.

He groaned again, his breath tickling her throat as he exhaled through his nose.

She tried to stay still, to keep breathing steadily—she wanted to make this easy for him.

His fingertips pulled at the skin on her arms, and she felt him take his first gulp.

She could feel him growing needy—the outline of him, against her back—and she couldn't blame him because she was feeling needy herself, with the way he held her like a vice.

Small grunts of pleasure escaped his chest as he imbibed. The more he drank, the less frantic his grip became, his hands travelling across her torso—one hand searched under her shirt, and the other ventured past her navel, slipping below her waistband.

He moved slowly and carefully, his cool fingers applying pressure to her skin on their journeys. It made it difficult for Ronnie to stay still.

She could feel her heart beating faster than before, each thump echoing in her ears. She wondered if that was why he was teasing her.

The sensation of his touch, the way he drank from her… it was stupefying, overwhelming her senses. His hands explored her body with deliberate slowness, igniting a cascade of sensations that rippled through her most sacred spots.

His one hand moved upwards, under her shirt until he was pulling down her bralette, making her breast fall out. Ronnie gasped—every way he touched her left sparks on her skin.

He grabbed her mound, and she bit her inner lip, trying not to move or gasp like before—she had to remember to breathe.

But once he had a hold of her breast, his other hand journeyed lower—under her leggings. She parted her legs for him, and when his fingers slotted between her folds, her entire body tensed—his touch was still initially electric on her starved skin.

When he felt how wet she was, he moaned deeply into her claimed neck, and that incited her unbidden squirming further.

He moved through her folds under her tight pants, and dipped two fingers into her, palming her clit. He held her like that—close to him as he hooked into her cunt and latched onto her neck like a feral animal.

She didn't dare move—she needed him to feel comfortable.

But the longer they stayed like that, the more her stomach fluttered and her cheeks burned. She hummed a small moan—she couldn't stop it this time, but he groaned his approval at her noise, rewarding her with a wiggle of his fingers inside of her and a thumb across her nipple, which only made her moan more.

He kept going like that, and her breathing picked up—she didn't know how he expected her to stay still like this. It was torture, truly. Maybe he was evil, after all.

He pressed his pelvis into her back—it was clear that he was hard.

Something felt different this time—like more than just sex. She thought of his mind and where it might be at, or if he felt the same way at all.

She hopes.

She thinks he does.

He sometimes held her like this—like he was afraid of losing her. She knew she felt like that—afraid of losing him. Afraid that he'd disappear and she'd be alone again. Alone, and messy, and fucked up.

But she felt okay like this. To feel okay was an anomaly—it never happened, not really.

Not for people like her.

There was always a shadow, following her everywhere she went, casting over everything she did, like a tall building that blocked the sun and consequently stopped the flowers from blooming there.

She felt like her flowers were blooming with him.

And it was stupid.

She was stupid.

But maybe it was okay…

She felt okay.

A soft sigh escaped her as she felt the bristling trees shake themselves dry—a drop, landing on her cheek.

And she realised that things inside her were fading away—all the worst parts being washed off and leaving her pure and… free.

And he was still there…

Pulling his fangs out with a pop and pressing his lips on the wounds he made—like an apology.

He pulled his fingers out, and took his hand out of her shirt just to… hug her. He wrapped his arms around her like before, but much softer this time—like he was okay too.

Ronnie rested on him, and they stayed there, breathing together like they had all the time in the world, or like that was enough.

The clouds were all gone, and the summer air was heavy and humid, leaving a thin layer of it on their stacked bodies.

If they were out of the city, they might have been able to see the stars, or lay in some tall grass and pick out the constellations.

She shut her eyes, and let her breaths come and go with his now-warmer arms around her.

“Thank you, too,” he murmured.

She looked up at him, and he was looking down at her. His brow was scrunched like he was afraid, again.

Ronnie turned and placed her hand on his chest. And she kissed him, like how he did for her.

A kiss meant “I'm here”.

She broke the kiss, and gazed down to where her wrist met his chest. For some reason, looking into his eyes felt like too much—as if it made a time bomb start ticking and the only way to stop it was to look away.

She gave his shirt an affectionate scrunch before turning away again.

They could still see the park through the trees, completely desolate except for the occasional squeak of the swings in the warm breeze. Everything was so dark and quiet—safe.

Ronnie imagined the sounds of people—children playing on the slides, parents chatting at the picnic tables. It hit her that she had never actually been to this park before. She lived so close, yet had only ever walked by.

“How do you feel?” Astarion asked from behind her.

She laughed softly. “Me? Just thinking about this park, wondering if it's always this quiet at night.” She laid her head back on his shoulder.

“Hmm… I suspect we just got lucky.”

Just then, a group of teenagers approached the park, smelling of spliff, laughing and hushing one another.

“Well now. Fun's over,” Astarion said.

Ronnie hung her head, sighed and then came onto her hands and knees to push herself up. She stretched her arms far above her head and then adjusted her bralette so it lay properly.

With her sneakered feet standing on her coat, she turned and offered a hand to Astarion to help him up.

He stared at her hand for a moment, then took it and pushed himself up.

Every spot his body had touched her lingered.

They began to walk away, leaving the quiet park and its fleeting serenity behind.

꧁꧂

“Do you remember being a teenager?” Ronnie asked as she walked beside Astarion down the sidewalk, her hands tucked into her peacoat pockets. It was easier that way.

“I—er—honestly, no,” he replied, his hands in his pockets as well.

Maybe he had the same idea.

“I can't remember much of my past—centuries of torment will do that to you.”

“Centuries?” Ronnie didn't know why, but she’d assumed he was younger.

“Two hundred years—give or take a few.”

“So you were here through it all. World War One? And Two?”

“Oh, yes. Work didn't stop for Mr Szarr’s spawn, either. We still had to bring…” His face twisted in disgust. “...bodies back to him.” He smiled sarcastically, turning his head to face Ronnie as they walked. “It's much easier—so to speak—to kill horrid people.” His head turned to watch the pavement in front of him. “People who the world would be better off without. By nature, my sisters are better at luring those… rotters.”

Was that what she was? A rotter?

“Here we are,” he said as they stopped on the sidewalk, between his Hummer and her building's door. “Suppose this is where we part ways.”

The aura between them was thick and heavy.

“Right.” She nodded curtly.

She stood stiffly for a moment, staring at the ground and clenching her clammy fists.

Turning to face the door, she dug in her purse for her keys, but she wasn’t ready to leave yet.

She wanted to stay with him. They still had so much time before sunrise. Still, it didn't feel right for her to pursue this; even if she could be restrained in private, it didn't change her fate.

She felt the balisong in her purse.

She began to turn to thank him again.

But he was already so close—right there.

And then he was on her—on her lips, on her everywhere.

He stole her breath with a hand through her peacoat and under her shirt, splayed out on the small of her back. His other hand carded through her hair, holding her head at the right angle.

Her own hands found purchase anywhere they could on his body with how fervently he kissed.

His splayed hand changed its goal, as he pulled at the front of her leggings' waistband, causing her to lose footing.

Her body moved instinctively, tugging at his dress shirt to untuck it at the front and undo his leather belt.

But he grabbed her wrist to stop her. And he withdrew from their kiss.

She thought she ruined it—grossed him out, or made him uncomfortable with her eagerness.

But when he said, “My car or your flat?” she thought she might fly out of her body.

“Car,” she said.

Her whole body was becoming all too hot under her peacoat as he pulled her towards the large vehicle by her wrist. He reached into his pocket, grabbed the fob, unlocked the doors, and swung one open.

The vehicle's doors were high, and the fob was tossed somewhere on the floor inside.

With his hands around her ribs, he lifted her like a ballerina into the backseat, and she watched him crawl in gracelessly as she backed away on all fours.

Once he was in, he closed the door and pressed a button to lock it.

Every window was tinted, including the windshield—making things private but not too secluded.

Astarion sat on one heel, with his other leg off the seat, and started unlacing her sneaker.

He removed it quickly, his brow knitted in focus. The other one came off with the same level of ease.

Both sneakers were tossed on the ground and he hastily slotted his fingers under her leggings, pulling them down along with her knickers and socks in one go. The rush to undress filled the vehicle with the constant rustle of fabric.

Ronnie shimmied to sit on her bum and then shook her coat and bag off before lifting off her t-shirt and then her bralette.

Everything was happening non-stop without any time to breathe between beats.

By the time all of her clothes were off, Astarion had already thrown his own shirt on the front seat, slid off his shoes, and he'd begun to unbuckle his belt.

Ronnie thought he was the hottest person she'd ever seen, with his abs wrinkled as he slouched to view his buckle.

He focused on unbuttoning and unzipping his trousers, and he stood with one knee on the seat and his foot on the ground as he used his thumbs to pull his formal trousers below his hip bones.

He stood, crouching under the Hummer roof to get the rest of his trousers off—his socks following immediately after.

He was completely naked and his cock was already hard.

Ronnie lay back on her coat—as she had earlier that night—and parted her knees for him as he stroked himself impatiently. She was already soaking from their mischief in the trees.

He brought two fingers through her folds, slipping them inside and feeling her out for good measure. When he pulled them out, he grabbed the back of her thigh, pushing it back before lining himself up with her seam, fisting his swollen length with urgency.

Once he had the tip in, he let go of his hardness and grabbed at Ronnie’s hips to twirl himself inwards, slowly.

The stretch felt lurid, and she pulsed around him as he worked his way to her cervix. It didn't take much effort for him to do so, and she knew it wouldn't take much effort for her to cum, either.

“Fuck, Ronnie. You're so tight and warm around me,” he cursed, pulling out almost completely before snapping back in. “And I can almost fit all the way inside of you.”

He began his motions, ebbing and flowing into her.

The inside of her coat was silky—it reminded her of a plush and expensive blanket. She felt like a princess as she jostled on it.

His thumb was already toying with her clit, and the rolls of his hips were sultry and languid—almost matching the rhythm of his thumb.

The car was probably rocking, and the windows were becoming steamy like the lid of a pot of boiling water.

He was gorgeous—his mouth hung open, exposing his fangs as his eyes lay fixed on Ronnie's body; looking from her bouncing tits to their lower entanglement.

And then finally: her face—her eyes.

They hadn't truly looked at one another since their coupling in the trees. It stirred something inside her—both her chest and stomach tightened and tingled, as if birds were trying to fly out of her body like it was a cage.

She didn't want to look away, but the gaze between them was no longer playful—there was something behind his eyes that synchronised with her own.

And it was terrifying.

She didn’t deserve this.

She didn't deserve any of this.

Yet he was so good to her.

It felt wrong to question what they meant to one another, but she knew he made her feel a psychotic level of yearning that was a constant effort to quell or quench. It went beyond just the physicality of it all—beyond their ready bodies that so clearly wanted each other.

And she was fitted around him like his formal wear always was. He wasn't even going fast when she came—breathing heavily as her whole body lit up with surges of ecstasy. She had to grab onto the seat to ground herself, scratching at the leather fabric with her short nails.

He rasped a lengthy “Oh” when she fluttered around him.

Gods, he was so hot.

He kept going as she rode out the tail end of her orgasm, removing his thumb at just the right time—before he started rutting much faster… and harder.

Ronnie's body was tired and limp from her climax, and he looked her over with smouldering eyes.

Her arms had fallen so that her hands rested lazily on her torso.

He got her body moving almost like liquid—that made it clear he wasn't done with her yet.

The sounds they made were sloppy and uninhibited—Ronnie's coat would surely be a mess by the end of this. It probably already was.

She could feel each push and pull of his hips everywhere inside her, pervasive like dry red wine on her tongue.

With tepid hands, he pushed her knees towards her shoulders by grabbing the backs of her thighs, leaning into her closely—the herbaceous scent of his cologne whelming her.

He drew out his motion. “There we go—all the way in, now,” he cooed, a thrust breaking his sentence.

Once he settled into a rhythm, his movements intensified, growing more vehement and purposeful.

She wanted to hold him. She could hold him. Again.

So she wrapped her forearms around the back of his neck, his skin sticky and glistening as she urged him towards her for a kiss. He complied, their lips meeting in a messy, fervent lock; all while his hips were relentless.

She could still taste her ichor on him, and smell it lacing his minty breath as their lips, teeth, and tongues fumbled against one another.

When he was done with her lips, he tucked his damp head between her neck and shoulder—the undertones of his scent always perforated her the most when he did that.

He was warmer than she'd ever felt him before, but still cooler than her. Despite his coolness, he still sweated, and he somehow made that look beautiful, too. It was unfair.

She uncrossed her hands and grabbed his shoulders, beginning to slide her fingers down his back. But she felt ridges on his skin—they felt like her scars.

They were scars.

In one swift movement, he pulled away from her, grabbing one of her wrists a bit too tightly at first.

Her heart skipped at the suddenness, breath catching in her throat and expanding the top of her chest, causing her shoulders to near her ears.

His eyes were wide, almost panicked, his hold firm as if anchoring himself to reality.

Ronnie subconsciously mirrored his expressions as he went. She just knew she did something wrong.

In the subtle intensity of his eyes and brow, Ronnie sensed that fear again.

It was a fleeting expression, but he mustn't have wanted her to feel what she'd felt on his back—his own scars.

His eyes darted away—he wasn't looking at her, but rather somewhere irrelevant as he held her wrist; half zoned out or something.

His pace became offbeat, like he didn't want to be doing this with Ronnie anymore.

She didn't want it if he didn't want it, but that wouldn't change the way she'd never forgive herself for screwing everything up.

It was always too good to be true, anyways.

“Astarion—” she began, her voice trembling with uncertainty. She didn't want to make things worse by saying the wrong thing.

Now, she was scared.

His eyes snapped to her, intense and searching. He took a deep breath, eyes closing as his thumb traced a comforting path along her wrist before letting her go. “I—” he began, but his words faltered.

And he was still fucking her, each thrust a contradiction—steady, but full of tension. Every motion was a blend of need and hesitation, making it difficult for Ronnie to track his aura.

But her body felt so right—she still couldn’t help but lose her breath each time he went into her again. However, she could almost see the cogs turning in Astarion’s mind, like conflict was carved into every movement.

She remained silent—like no words available to her could bridge the gap. Surely, nothing she could think to say would fix what felt broken between them.

It felt like everything they'd been building together was crashing down in an instant—her hands as the wrecking-ball. All she could do was lay there and take it.

Her heart hammered in the silence—

—Why hasn't he stopped yet?

She kept herself still, her hands withdrawn—since they were the grubby creatures that fucked things up in the first place.

She fucked things up.

The silence was heavy, punctuated only by their breaths—primarily Ronnie’s—and the lewd, wet sounds of their bodies moving together. His hands anchored him to her, thumbs skimming soothingly over her pelvis—steady, grounding. Like a wordless promise that he was alright.

Or nearly there.

Then, a small, stuttered whine escaped him as he rocked forward, raw and unfiltered. His eyes opened, sliding slowly from where they were joined.

Up…

Up her body, until they fixed on her neck, lingering there.

Although discomforting, it made sense. Her neck was a safe spot—far from the intimacy of her eyes, where every glance felt too close, too revealing. It was a place he could focus on, even if her clothes were still on. A place where the only scars were the ones he’d left behind, not the others that marred her skin.

The ones she wished she could erase.

She would rip herself out of her own skin if she could…

If she could have a pretty body.

But something clicked in him when his gaze met hers.

His movements grew faster and his presence hastily morphed into something needy and desperate.

He leaned in and parted her mouth with a gentle press of his thumb, tasting herself on his skin. He pressed her tongue down, eyes locked on her lips.

She could feel every ridge of his thumbprint as he drew a line, slipping it in further. She tried to relax, but her tongue betrayed her, flexing beneath the weight of his touch.

He didn’t seem to mind. If anything, he seemed entranced, his thumb pushing against her bottom teeth, inching toward the back of her throat. She felt like a dog being trained—told not to bite, not to act, just to receive. The thought of scaring him away kept her still, though every fibre of her being ached to respond, to give in fully.

On her taste buds, he moved left and right, like he always did when trying to soothe her, his flavour a familiar metallic tang—iron, life, her remnants.

The darkness around them was absolute—an endless void that swallowed everything. But him—he was clear, vivid, a beacon in the dark. It was her blood that reddened his cheeks, a vivid flush that belonged there, like ink sinking into the coarse fibres of parchment.

He could have it. He needed it more than she did, anyway.

If only he knew she'd give it all, would he take it?

He slid further in, pushing to the back of her tongue until his palm rested against her bottom teeth. She struggled not to gag, but he brushed so deeply into her throat that she couldn’t help it. The reflex came, and with it, watery eyes and a hope that he liked this evidence of his effect on her.

His eyes darkened, filled with a focused intensity, as if he were a schoolboy holding a magnifying glass to an anthill, watching her reactions with a mix of curiosity and control.

Retracting his thumb, he used her saliva to trace a slow, deliberate circle around her plump, swollen lips, painting them like a canvas.

Like he needed it.

Ronnie thought she might just die from that—right then and there. The way he looked at her—treated her—like she was the most precious thing in the world… like a shiny diamond ring, gleaming in the dark.

He slid his thumb in again, and she looked up at him, wanting him to proceed as he focused on playing with her mouth. He parted her mouth wider this time, pulling her jaw down with the firm pressure of his hand beneath her chin. His face inched closer, the air between them charged with the electric hum of anticipation.

And then he kissed her.

He drank her in with a ravenous intensity, his fingers threading through her hair, while the moist imprint of his thumb caressed her cheek with a tenderness that belied the ferocity of his kiss.

Their teeth clashed, breaths mingling as they devoured each other in a frantic, primal exchange. He caught her lower lip with his fang, the sharp edge breaking the skin just enough to draw a bead of blood.

And he sucked on it and growled like a feral and possessive creature. But even as he overtook her, his fingers remained gentle, coaxing, subjugating her with the lightest touch.

And the sounds that rattled out of him were visceral and untamed.

“You make such a mess of me, Ronnie. You—” His voice broke off in a hiss—he was so close.

He parted his glistening torso from hers, reaching down to circle her bud.

His gaze into her pupils was commanding, a silent order that left no room for hesitation, pulling Ronnie into his desire.

He was… so intoxicatingly beautiful.

Her body was feeling so much for him.

Too much.

She had to look away.

“Eyes up here, darling,”

And then she was climbing into oblivion as soon as she looked back.

His crimson gaze… it was like a ship aflame, drifting in the middle of a dark lake.

His hand synchronised with his hips. And with that, he brought her through that burning ship.

Through oblivion.

And he was doing it, too. He was there. With her. Swimming through the heat and darkness.

And then floating down.

Descending onto Ronnie, and becoming a tangled mix of sweaty limbs—his weight on hers like hydrostatic pressure; it was pervading.

He was in her in so many ways, it felt surreal.

Like possession.

He came into her like an omen, and kissed the breath out of her lungs—kissed her face from cheek to cheek. And from cheek to neck.

It felt like worship. He was worshipping her in the back of a fucking Hummer.

She let her hands drape lazily above her head.

His hips pulled from hers and she was left feeling messily revered as he poured out of her—a trail of him.

Their breathless forms, too apathetic to catch up just yet.

His arms hugged under her head, cherishing her and her neck—clearly a spot of interest.

She grinned sadly, her brows canting up. “I'll let you drink all of me one day, Astarion.”

It felt like the ultimate way to atone for what she'd done. Not only to him, but Alfira, and anyone else she'd hurt and forgotten about.

“Don't say that,” he said into her neck. “Then who will be there for me to practise sutures on?”

She didn't deserve this, but the urge to balance how much to truly show took over, causing her mind to revert and her shell to cover her once again.

Ronnie pouted. “Mean.”

Laughing, he sat up. “I mean it. That was fun—playing with my food.” He placed his hand flatly on her stomach, looking there while he stretched out his fingers. Sighing, his grin vanished. “It's not something I've had the chance to do until—”

Ronnie watched the pain wash over him—twisting in his brow.

If she could take it away—fold it up into a pill and drink it down until it swelled her brain and stopped her heart—she would.

“Let's get you cleaned up,” he said.

She should've said no—that she would take care of herself so he wouldn't have to deal with the hard parts—but something drove her to accept his offer.

Something selfish and impulsive and stupid.

He led her into her apartment with an arm around her back. Her clothes were slung over her bag strap and she folded her peacoat closed, walking down the corridor stairs, wearing her chucks undone.

Although it happened very fast, everything after that felt like slow-motion.

From her coat and bag dropping to the ground, to him tying her, to the bath they took where her ropes got all wet.

And she could finally see his back while they were in the lavatory…

Someone had carved intricate rune-like patterns into him. Like a summoning circle, or something of that nature.

She didn't pry. She didn't stare. She just let everything soak into her pores—all the soaps that he scrubbed under her restraints… under candlelight.

Maybe she could wash him, too, one day.

He patted her down, as well as himself, and then changed her ropes with the help of the cuffs on the pole—all within their sanctuary of silence.

In the bed, after all was said and done, they shared her blanket.

Until she woke up to him untying her. And with a kiss to her brow, he was gone.

He always leaves.

It hurts.

꧁꧂

Her dream had been so peaceful, similar to the one she had at the pub.

She'd been stoking the flames of a woodstove in a cottage she lived in, heating the home for the autumn. Out the window, the tall grass had turned beige, signifying the summer's end as it blew in waves with the breeze.

A kettle whistled on the stove for tea.

“Milady?”

She ended its whistling by opening its spout and removing it from the heat. Then, she poured the steamy water into a ceramic mug, its lip lined with gold.

The water glugged into the mug, turning red from the teabag that floated towards the top.

“Milady? A word, please?”

She grabbed a steel spoon, its handle engraved with a symmetrical floral pattern. The metal clinked against the ceramic as she plopped it in the water.

She turned to her green, vintage-style fridge and pulled out a glass bottle of soy-milk. Pouring it into her tea, she stirred it slowly until the liquid reached the gold.

“Milady!”

Ronnie felt a weak tug at her blankets, waking her from her slumber.

She strained her sleepy eyes open, her heart racing as she craned her head forward to make out what was in front of her, coated by darkness.

Hastily propping herself on her palms, she flicked on her lamp with a shaky hand at the bulb’s base.

Before her, stood a small man-like creature, only his nose was bony and beak-like, his chin and ears were long and pointed, and his skin was grey—lifeless, like a corpse.

He wore a dated suit, and tophat, standing at Ronnie's bedside, near her feet with his lips stretched into a smile.

“Milady! A most joyous day it is, indeed. At long last, I have found you, oh depraved one!” said the creature, bowing. “Sceleritas Fel—your ever-faithful and adoring butler—at your service.”

꧁꧂

End notes: I hope you liked this chapter! Sorry if the Discord link expires. I believe it only lasts 7 days. :')

#astarion fanfic #astarion x tav #astarion smut #astarion x original female character #astarion x reader #astarion x female tav #astarion x durge #astarion x f!oc #astarion x f!durge #astarion x f!tav #astarion x f!reader #astarion x #astarion fanfiction #astarion modern au #bg3 modern au #astarion x f! durge #astarion darkfic

23 notes · View notes

hylianengineer · 8 months ago

Text

Hey there! You asked about what other things you can do to make sure your fanfiction is safe for screen-reader accessibility. Below is a list of some things to bear in mind. Since every screen-reader is programmed differently there will always be nuances, but there are the general rules that are most widespread.

If your work contains images, use an Alt description. Both Tumblr and AO3 have this feature. If you're not sure about how or what to describe about the image, use the video or voice recording app on your phone and describe the image to yourself. Colours, any key features or poses, and so on. Descriptions don't have to be a mile long, just enough to give a clear idea of what the image shows.

Some screen-readers don't scan or access links embed into works, so bear this in mind if you're including a link that is relevant or paramount to the work. (For example, links to the clothing a character wears, a building, and so forth.)

Unfortunately, punctuation and spelling are pretty important and noticeable to screen-readers. For example, the term 'I'm' without the apostrophe will be read as 'im' like 'him' rather than 'I'm' like 'eye-m'. However a good side to this is that if you use a screen-reader as part of your beta process, it helps you to find spelling or grammar errors.

If you want an approximate of what someone using a screen-reader will hear if you use a particular word, sentence or symbol, you can use either the Chrome Reader extension or Google Translate (which is helpful if you just want to check a word or symbol, rather than whole paragraphs or whole works.) These are free and relatively accurate approximations.

If you want the visual aesthetic of a pretty line/paragraph breaker but still want your work to be accessible to screen-readers, you can use an image as a divider and simply put 'line/chapter divider' in the description. This gives you the best of both worlds.

I hope that this helps! Please also note that these rules extend to general posts, author notes, comments and so forth.

25 notes · View notes

cecilysass · 1 year ago

Text

Shine On (7/16)

Read on AO3 | Tagging @today-in-fic

Chapter 7: Across the Parking Lot

Stern’s Bakery Arlington, Virginia February 22, 2015 3:30 pm

Inside, the bakery is warm and smells of yeast and vanilla. It’s an old-fashioned looking place, with chrome tables, a glass counter and specials hand-written on a chalkboard. An older man is sweeping as they come inside, and he gives them a friendly nod. He leans his broom against the wall and walks behind the counter, seeming to anticipate their order.

“Why don’t you grab a place to sit, Scully? I’ll order for us,” Mulder suggests, although they’re the only customers, so there are plenty of tables. He lowers his voice for the benefit of the employee. “Doesn’t seem like this is the type of place to have lattes though.”

“I’ll just have coffee,” Scully says, as she turns for a table. Mulder doesn’t like the wooden expression that is still plastered across her face. She’s not acting like herself.

“Good afternoon,” the man says. He’s got thinning gray hair and an impish smile. “Welcome to Stern’s. You should try the doughnuts.”

“Thanks,” Mulder says. He’s eyeing the pastries in the case. It’s late in the day, so they’re pretty picked over, but he’s tempted anyway. “Two coffees, two of those maple doughnuts please. No—three. Three doughnuts.” He turns around and looks at Scully, who is sitting at a table next to the window, watching the car across the lot. He lowers his voice. “And… do you have a cake? Like a birthday cake? Chocolate maybe?”

“Of course,” the man says jovially. “We have chocolate birthday cake. Would you like something in particular written on it?”

Mulder frowns. “Sure.” He picks up a pen on the counter and writes “Happy birthday, Scully” on a napkin. “Can you do that?”

“No problem. Piece of cake.”

Mulder acknowledges the corny joke with a lukewarm smile. “When you’re done, can you just box it up so I can take it with me?”

“Of course.” The man leans forward conspiratorially. “Smart idea, picking up the wife a cake.”

Mulder shrugs. “It wasn’t mine.”

Before coming into the bakery, Mulder had walked back to the car to hand Jackson his coat. He knew it’d be cold in the car with the engine off, and he might need an extra layer. Scully had walked ahead, and Mulder knew she was upset. He couldn’t help but worry about it, even though he was dimly aware Jackson could be reading his thoughts.

“We can’t stay long,” Mulder had said to Jackson, tossing him the coat. Jackson spread it over him like a blanket. “If you get too cold, come find us.”

“Yeah,” Jackson had said blearily, as though that wasn’t very likely.

“I’m sorry you’re not feeling well,” Mulder had added.

“Get a cake,” Jackson had mumbled, flopping down, his eyes already closed.

“A cake?”

“Birthday cake.” Jackson, opening his eyes a sliver, gestured a little in the direction Scully walked in. “It’s a bakery, right?”

Mulder had been surprised. “Right.”

“She was hoping you were surprising her for her birthday. She was hoping you called her because of that. Not bringing her a long lost kid.”

The words appear in Mulder’s mind from nowhere. She imagined reservations at a restaurant.

Mulder leaned over to meet Jackson’s barely cracked open eyes. He spoke very deliberately. “I don’t believe for one second that you saw in Scully’s mind … any disappointment. No fucking way.”

Jackson had stared back at him a second. Those green eyes that could see right into you. Literally.

Then he lay his head down and closed his eyes again.

Now, as Mulder carries two hot coffees and a bag of doughnuts back to their table, he can’t help but marvel at the idea that Scully might have been hoping he would surprise her for her birthday. What could that possibly mean? They aren’t together. Spending time together, celebrating birthday dinners together—that definitely isn’t what she acts like she wants from him. What does that imply? Is she holding things back? Is he maybe not getting the full picture?

It’s not really the most important issue right now, Mulder supposes, but it’s on his mind. And possibly Jackson’s, too, if Mulder dwells on it too long.

“Coffee,” he announces to Scully as he places her cup down in front of her. “With cream. And here is your nasty sweetener.”

“Thank you,” she says, stilted, pulling the cup and the small yellow packets of sweetener towards her.

“I got you a doughnut,” Mulder says as he sits across from her. “They’re maple. They look really good.”

He withdraws his own doughnut from the bag with a piece of butcher paper, then holds the bag out towards Scully invitingly. She stares at it blankly.

“No, thank you,” she says.

He shrugs, and takes a big bite of his. It is good, yeasty, light and chewy, with a generous slathering of maple glaze.

“So,” he says, through his mouth of doughnut. “There are a couple of things I need to fill you in on.”

“How did he find you?” Scully asks. “How did he know to come to you?”

“That’s one of them,” Mulder says, chewing. “It seems that someone helped him find me, but he won’t say who.”

“What?” Scully sits up like a rocket, and Mulder knows her well enough to be able to observe the muscles in her neck and shoulders tensing. “Mulder—”

“I know,” Mulder says, nodding. “I know. It scares the shit out of me, too. It means someone knows who he is, someone likely knows what he can do, and someone knows his connection to us.”

“We’ve got to make him tell us,” Scully insists. “It’s too important. He can’t keep it a secret.”

Mulder takes another bite of his doughnut and regards her skeptically. “Do you remember being thirteen, Scully? It’s not as easy as ordering him around.”

“But Mulder, this is a life or death—”

“You don’t make kids that age do anything.”

Scully stops, then seems to slowly deflate. “You’re right,” she says mechanically. “You’re right.” Her shoulders slump. “Especially if you aren’t really their parents.” She grips her coffee tight, and her eyes drift back out toward the parking lot.

Her defeated expression makes Mulder want to punch a wall. Once again he’s awash in the same old corrosive feelings about William: guilt, regret, heartbreak. The same feelings that he knows all too well can take him down, make him give up entirely.

But he can’t do that now, can he? The kid is here. He needs him right now. At his Agent Mulder sharpest.

He looks at Scully tentatively, wondering how to coax her back to her sharpest, too.

“You know,” he says to her. “It sounds like he had good parents. Like they did a pretty good job.”

Her eyes lock back on him. “Oh?”

“Yeah,” he says. He thinks of Jackson’s eyes, the feeling of warmth when describing his dad’s woodworking and his mom’s preschool. “He was loved. He felt loved.”

Scully stares back at him, and he waits, watching her eyes well up with glassy tears. He knows that Scully crying is an act that needs to be given its own space, an act that can neither be rushed or stopped. He reaches forward and envelops her hand in his.

“That’s so… I’m glad,” Scully says, her voice barely more than a whisper. She picks up a paper napkin with the Stern’s logo on it and dabs her eyes with the hand that isn’t holding Mulder’s. “But they were murdered, Mulder. What if the people that murdered them are the same people that brought him to you? What if they have an agenda we don’t understand? And what will become of him now? He’ll have so much trauma.”

“Well…” Mulder finds he can’t quite speak aloud his little fantasy, that Jackson might come live in his house, at least some of the time. That he might get to be a dad to a teenage boy, at least a little, and help him heal. That Scully might get to know her son, too. He knows it’s probably childish and unrealistic, and he isn’t sure of the effect of sharing it with Scully. “I don’t know,” he finishes. “But he has us now. We can watch out for him. I think we need to, given the unknowns.”

“You said you were certain he wouldn’t run off,” Scully says, releasing his hand, tilting her head and scowling. She knows him well enough to know where there is more to find out. “What else is there you haven’t told me?”

“Yeah,” Mulder says. He takes his last bite of doughnut, nodding slowly. “There is another thing.” He takes a swig of his coffee, considers his words carefully. “The telepathy I experienced, after I touched the artifact back in 1999… it seems to be back. In some form. Around him.”

Scully stares at him. “What are you saying? You’re reading thoughts?”

“Not everyone’s thoughts,” Mulder says. “Not like before. Just his. And not just his thoughts, but his feelings, too.”

Scully seems to be speechless.

“At first I thought it was my imagination,” Mulder says. “I thought since he was reading minds, I was remembering what that was like. And you know, I was trying to imagine what he was feeling. How scared he was. How overwhelmed, by all this big emotional stuff he was having to deal with. But then I started to understand. It wasn’t my imagination, and it wasn’t just empathy. I’m definitely hearing flashes of what he’s thinking, and feeling what he’s feeling. At least sometimes.”

“Have you… told him this?”

“No,” Mulder says. “No, but I’m going to have to. Obviously. Hard to keep secrets from a mindreader.”

Scully’s lips draw together tightly. With a jerk she tugs on the bag of doughnuts and fishes one out. She starts violently ripping off pieces and eating them. “And you’re not feeling sick, Mulder? Your head isn’t hurting?”

“No,” Mulder says. “Not like before. Not at all.” He watches her anxiously devour the doughnut. “I’m not as good at it as he is. For me, it’s just every once and a while. I think I’m feeling it when it’s especially intense for him.”

“Give me examples.”

“Well, I was just … he was walking upstairs in the house. Up to the guest room. And it just appeared in my head, his thought: I wonder what it would have been like to grow up here.”

She stops chewing, her eyes wide. “He thought that?”

“Yeah,” Mulder says.

Her lip trembles again. She places the doughnut back on top of the paper bag, looks down at it.

“Scully,” he says. He reaches out for her hand again, but she slides it away.

“So he can read my thoughts and feelings, and you can read his,” Scully says in a rough voice. “And I’m in the dark.”

“Scully,” he tries again.

“No,” she says shortly. “No. I know I’m being ridiculous.”

“It’s only natural for you to feel—”

“No. Forget it.” She shakes her head, smooths back her hair, and she seems to transform before his eyes into the respected doctor at Our Lady of Sorrows. “We need to pay attention to you, how you’re feeling,” Scully says, all business. “The last time you had this ability, it didn’t end well.”

“It doesn’t feel like that now.”

“Don’t hold anything back from me,” she says firmly. “If you’re in pain, speak up.”

“I will,” Mulder promises.

“Why does he have that effect on you?” Scully wonders.

“I don’t know,” Mulder says. “I’ve been thinking about it.”

“He didn’t when he was a baby.”

“Or maybe he did,” Mulder says gently, “and I didn’t notice. When we were all together, he was so small, and everything was so emotionally intense. I might not have realized that his feelings weren’t my own or that I wasn’t simply guessing what he wanted.”

And I wasn’t around long enough to really find out, Mulder thinks. He can tell the same thought is passing through Scully’s mind, because her eyes drop again.

They’re both quiet a moment.

“We should contact Skinner about how his parents’ case will be investigated,” Scully says. “Hopefully he can get the Bureau to look into it. We need to make sure there is someone we can trust on it. And if we can, it would be good to get access to the local law enforcement’s notes on the case.”

“We’d be able to get more access as F.B.I. agents,” Mulder points out.

Scully regards him warily, sipping her coffee. “What are you saying, exactly?”

“We could ask to be reinstated.”

“On the X-files?”

“Sure,” Mulder says, “or anywhere. So we can be back in the game. Find out what we need to know. It would also give us more reason to hold Jackson in our custody.”

He’d expected Scully to scoff at the idea, but to his surprise, she doesn’t. She nods slowly, picking up another piece of doughnut and nibbling at it.

“It’s a possibility,” she says, after a moment’s deliberation. “We’d have to talk to Skinner and see what he thinks.” She looks sideways at him. “And we’d be partners?”

“I can’t imagine a new partner would put up with you, Scully,” Mulder says, shaking his head in mock disapproval. “You’re very eccentric.”

To his great relief, she smiles a little. He can’t believe that she’s even entertaining the notion at all: of going back to the FBI, of going back to the X-files, of possibly being partners again. His heart aches to think of it. He’ll never be able to keep these kinds of thoughts under wraps from Jackson.

“When we finish our coffee, let’s take him back to the house,” Scully says. “Maybe we can call Skinner there.”

Mulder nods. “Agreed.” His eyes study her. She’s gazing out the window again absently, looking towards the car, her long hair winding around her face. She looks like a woman in an Italian fresco, pensive and luminous, he thinks with a lump in his throat. He’s never known anyone more beautiful.

“Mulder,” she says, her voice wobbly, still staring outside, “is he …okay? From what you’ve seen?”

He considers how to answer the question. “He’s a good kid. He has good instincts, I think,” he says. “But he’s hurting. Grieving. Scared. And thinking about you and me—what we mean in his life—is a big bunch of extra shit to deal with.”

“Especially me,” she says softly.

“Especially you,” he agrees. “But that’s in part because he’s thought about you for a long time, Scully. He’s seen you before—in visions.”

She looks at him again, surprised. “What kind of visions?”

“You’re going to have to ask him. But he mentioned you calling out for him.”

He sees her react, pulling back slightly. She takes a sip of her coffee, nodding stiffly.

“Are you okay, Scully?”

“I’ve had dreams like that before,” she comments. “I wonder if he was seeing my dreams.”

“Maybe he was,” Mulder says in wonder. And the curious part of his brain can’t help but give that some thought, because what a fascinating thing: that Scully’s dreams would be picked up by a telepathic biological son all the way across the continent like a ham radio.

“I wish I’d had regular visions of him,” she says. She turns again to look out the window. “All those years… I would have liked to have seen him in my dreams. Gotten updates.”

He knows she would have. He knows it intimately: the sting of her longing for William, her bottomless regret.

His instinct is to climb around to sit next to her, to put his arm around her to comfort her, but he doesn’t know if she wants that from him anymore. He wishes she would ask.

He wishes she would say his name and pull his arm around her and rest her cheek against his chest. He wishes she would let him hold her for an hour, for longer, for all night. He wishes he could read her mind.

***

In the car, Jackson is breathing in, counting to four, holding for seven, breathing out. He tries to do it exactly like his therapist said, but he knows this probably isn’t the kind of mental distress his therapist had in mind.

He presses his eyes shut and tries to quiet down his shine. If he wanted to, he knows he could shine into their thoughts with no problem—the bakery isn’t that far away—but he has no desire to. He wants quiet. He wants peace.

Even so, it’s not entirely quiet and peaceful in the car. There are steady low level emissions of emotion from Scully even from across the parking lot. A constant background hum of anxiety and tension.

Jackson understands anxiety, obviously. The part of him that’s teetering on adulthood understands why she is anxious. He can even sort of sympathize. The part of him that’s still a little kid can’t help but wish she felt more … joy.

Isn’t she happy at all to see him? Mulder said she had really wanted to for a long time. But instead, every emotion she has about him—every thought, every memory—is twisted up with a kind of pain Jackson can’t even comprehend. He knows her life has been difficult; he has seen enough in her memories and Mulder’s to grasp that.

He just wishes she could somehow see him separate from all the sadness.

He sits up on the seat, Mulder’s coat tucked around his legs. He knows he needs help. He just hopes he can get it.

He massages his own temples with his fingers and tries again to relax, clear his mind.

Hey. Hey. Are you there?

He tries to project his thoughts outward in the way she taught him, thinking of them like they were radio waves.

You told me to check in. I’m checking in.

He wonders if there will be any sign whether this is working. He pauses a moment, and only hears a horn honking somewhere on the street behind him. Of course not. A sign would be too easy.

I need help. I’ve done everything you’ve said. I haven’t told them anything. But I need your help.

He waits, clearing his mind again to prepare, to make room for any response. He listens to the sounds of the busy road, to engines whirring past, tires screeching. Dimly his shine is aware of minds in each of the cars, busily going about their lives.

There isn’t an answer.

Are you getting this? Are you there?

I need help, Rose.

Rose?

He curls back down on the seat under the coat, frustrated. Maybe she can’t talk right away. Maybe the answer will come later.

He closes his eyes and enjoys the relative quiet, listening only to the sound of his own inhale and exhale.

Even in the stillness, from across the parking lot he feels the continuous thrum of Scully’s worry, a low droning buzz like a bee hive.

As he breathes in and out, he realizes it’s not just her worry he’s feeling. It’s shot through with something else, some different emotion. Something deep and fierce and glowing hot. Something he suspects must be the way Scully loves.

***

#xfiles fanfic #the x files #x files fanfic #fox mulder #dana scully #x files #xf fanfic #msr #jackson van de kamp #x files revival #my fic #shine on

46 notes · View notes