#my apologies once again for the glooms

[eilinelsghost]

Smippet Smonday

Thanks to @sallysavestheday and @welcomingdisaster for tagging me into this week's round!

I confess I'm struggling to share any of the current WIP today because I haven't managed a new word on it since the start of last week and I'm beginning to feel like the whole series is getting away from me - not in the sense that I'm moving on to something else, but a hands-empty kind of situation. I don't want that to be the case and I'm desperately hoping it isn't, because this silly little thing has been such a balm these past two years and everything hurts when I think about losing it.

So I'm pasting some paragraphs in here anyway (even though they feel stale) as some kind of practice in hope, I guess.

Anyway, sorry for being Earnest on Main. Have some of (what I really hope will eventually be) the next installment of Atandil:

He passed now through the rows of huts as one half in a dream. Some he knew at once, but a thicket of new structures had leapt up in the intervening year and left the settlement nearly unrecognizable. Here was one of the hastily erected storerooms, now turned to a shelter for some of the smaller herds. There a larger byre, which spoke to the cattle Belen had told him now drew their plows. And on this hither side, the little slope leading down to the well. The stone ledge had been built out to encompass the whole, the original wooden frame reinforced with stone and clay. Nóm’s carved hound remained, Balan noted with a smile and a quick stab of longing. The boulder had been shifted to make room for the new swath of paving stones, but its opened mouth still smiled, its tongue still lolled in search of the water trough. And there was his own old hut. Balan’s stomach lurched as it came into view. It was little changed from what he could see, though it was flanked now by two sturdy structures, each more than twice its size. These were plank-walled rather than the woven hazel and daub that crafted the original settlement; and beneath the thatch of the nearest, skeins of freshly dyed wool had been strung from the eaves to dry, while on the perpendicular wall, madder-red linen flapped in the wind. Beyond this, piles of bulrushes had been laid out to dry on strung netting, and a boy was making his way along one edge, trimming the brown ends and cutting each to size. Hathus’ forge was past these, and this too was as he remembered it—low mudbrick walls, the angled overhang which still sat cockeyed from the haste of its construction, a scattered array of tools hanging from the rafters. He clenched his jaw as a lump grew in his throat. Eimet had been keeping up a steady stream of conversation while they walked and Balan found himself struggling to follow, nodding and mumbling brief replies as his eyes darted through the sprawling settlement. He gathered them hungrily, each detail he had hardly noticed throughout the previous decades, now desperately dear and filling his heart nearly to bursting. His people. His home.

Tagging in @thelordofgifs, @that-angry-noldo, @melestasflight, @thescrapwitch, and anyone else who would like to share some snippets!

[euhla]

HOUSE OF CARDS aventurine x gn!reader

summary “a house of cards, and us inside,” a phrase that aventurine often says in between your endless arguments. you always thought that your relationship will be happy and full of affection, only to be met by illimitable arguments.

⌕ ... angst, hurt/comfort, light angst, spoilers (aventurine’s past), mentions of kakavasha, both reader & aven is tired n they broke up once in the past, arguments, gambling, pet name, anxiety ??, based on this song n my hc on this post. a/n : post for celebrating aven’s banner ! aventurine wanters will be aventurine havers :3

all day your head has been feeling dizzy after continuously hearing screams from your boss. he felt he could call and curse people whatever he wanted, not knowing that he was actually the main problem.

your body shaking violently made you feel vulnerable as you leaned on the wall next to prevent you from falling. exasperation is no longer there, easily replaced by your disgust that you can't do anything.

and that’s when you realized that there’s no smell of alcohol that always wafting through your nose. it’s strange, you think. you look around, only to be greeted by gloom and despair atmosphere.

there was only one thing that crossed your mind; “he's gambling again isn't he?” he always does it, even though his left hand always holds the chip tightly. even though he continues to doubt the blessing he received since birth.

knowing the blessings he received, you should be able to calm down; in the end replaced by restlessness doubt. what if he loses? what if he’s in trouble now? what if, what if…

and you should not doubt the blessings of gaiathra triclops, because the door next to you suddenly opened and revealed aventurine standing—while holding his injured arm.

the two of you stared at each other awkwardly for three seconds, before you opened your mouth and said, “seriously?”

You don't know whether it's because of exasperation or short of infuriation you feel right now, you immediately said that. the next thing you know, you regret it.

“what? i just came home and you greet me like that?” he scoffed.

“aven, you’re hurt.”

“of course, it’s my job afterall.” you held your forehead, feeling the dizziness appear again and this time it was more painful. “and now you act as if this is all my fault.”

you frowned at his statement. “i’m not blamming you.”

“i’m just worried because you always come home like this!”

aventurine sighed. after that he walked past you without saying anything. "at least let me treat you, just once."

your question was only answered by excruciating silence. at least answer the question.

‘no way, no way, it’s collapsing again.’

aventurine remained sitting on his king size bed which was mostly occupied by himself. he was just silent, thinking about what had just happened. i shouldn't have said it.. i shouldn't have refused.

i should have known it from beginning; we're both tired. and why do we keep trying?

aventurine is now standing, ignoring the fresh wound on his arm that he still hasn't treated. before it’s too late, he think. there is still time to apologize.

that soft knock on your bedroom door should be enough to tell you that he wants to apologize. he’s standing in front of the door with a feeling of unease that never went away, and then you opened the door.

with blurred vision and barely able to see the figure in front of you, you remained standing. "sorry," you both said it at the same time. the only words you both could say at that time.

“i’m so sorry, aven. i’m too tired that i can’t think clearly. i should always try to understand you because that's your job.” your words stopped because of your sobs. “i—“

“—a house made of cards, and stupidly, us.” aventurine stopped your words. he smiled disappointedly at himself. "we're both exhausted, and there's no one to blame.”

“i’m sorry that i’m always telling you that we can do it again. i… didn't think twice about how you feel about this,” he said.

“i always dreamed that we could live happily together like this. i’m sorry baby, it’s such a useless dream, isn’t it?”

you tried to hold back your sobs. “even if you say it’s a useless dream, just stay a little more like this. i’m okay with this.”

there will be tomorrow and we can try this again, you think. time will slow down just to let the two of you fix the mistakes in the past that once caused you to broke up.

“when i said that i don’t need you to treat my wounds, it’s because… i’m ashamed by myself; my body, my wounds, my past. i don't want your hands to touch any part of me that is despicable.” you were surprised because you never once thought he was despicable.

“aven, it's in the past, and it's not your fault.“ your hands found their way to wrap around his body. “you can rely on me now, please.”

“kakavasha.”

“please call me kakavasha from now.”

you smiled. “yes, kakavasha.”

in the end, there's nothing wrong with trying again.

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

A Hold On You 1

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as noncon/dubcon, bullying, depression, controlling and abusive behaviour, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: you try to look on the bright side of life but a man comes along to blot out the sun.

Characters: Bucky Barnes

Note: Thank you all for feeding into this.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me.

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Please do not just put ‘more’. I will block you.

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

It’s a nice day to get out. One of the last sunny days of autumn. You can smell the soil and leaves and hear the call of pumpkin spice. Maybe on your way back. 

You can’t spend another day inside. Not after the week you’ve had. Besides, once the winter hits, you’ll have more than enough reason not to go past your front door. You’re going to make the most of your day off. More so, you’re going to keep your mind busy so it doesn’t fall back into the pit. 

It feels good to move around. Between hunching at your cubicle desk and squinting over your dining room table, that crick in your neck needs to be ironed out. You have to remind yourself to stand up straight as the muscles tug between your shoulder blades. 

You stop and turn to face the record shop. As you do, you’re nearly bowled over by another pedestrian. You hadn’t realised they were so close behind you. You back up and apologise but the man doesn’t even look at you as he veers toward the front door. The bell jingle as he enters with a huff, the back of his dark jacket a vague splotch in your vision. 

Oop. You’re in the way. Again. You do your best not to do that. You never want to stir the waters or be a bump in the road but somehow you always find a way to do that. No good comes from wallowing in it. As stressful as it can be to brave the public and its unpredictability, a smile keeps you from falling apart. 

You approach the shop and swing open the door. Oof, it’s much heavier than that man made it look. You greet the associate behind the counter with a beaming morning and ‘hello?’ He asks how you are and you give the easy answer; ‘good, how are you?’ He responds with the same empty courtesy. 

You look around the covers and the little signs that delineate every genre. Before you can get into all that, you need the most important piece of all. A record player. For as long as you’ve been waiting to set foot in the shop, you’ve been saving up for the player. 

You near the table stacked with varying shades of suitcase players. You read up on each brand and style. It will be best to tuck away when you’re not using it. Your small apartment is already too cluttered. 

You pick a lilac player with little white roses stamped over the cover. It’s on sale. A sign above proclaims that you can get twenty percent off three or more records when you by a player. Well, how about that? It isn’t all doom and gloom. 

You hug the player under your arm and near the shelves mounted to the walls. You peruse the titles intently. Something new? Something you know? You definitely don’t want to get just one genre.  

As you sidle along, the corner of the box knocks against something. You look back and another ‘sorry’ bubbles from your lips. It’s that man again. He’s browsing the end cap behind you and growls at your apology. You stare at him for a moment, he seems at home in a place like this. 

“Um, excuse me, sir,” you say, “do you have any recommendations?” 

He grumbles and puts the album back in its slot. He looks over his shoulder with detest curled into his lip. The stone chiseled into his jaw makes you gulp. 

“What?” He scowls. 

“Sorry, I didn’t... I was only... curious. Have a good day, sir.” 

“Good? What’s good about it?” He hisses. You wince and move to the next section. Not far enough as he sighs, “you know, you wouldn’t like my taste anyway. Stick to your girly pop.” 

You resist a frown. You’re not going to let someone like that bring you down. You can tell that he looks for the worst in everything and everyone. You wouldn’t judge someone by their appearance but his demeanour says as much as his words. You won’t add to his cynicism but bothering him further. 

You pick out an Etta James album that you recognise. Your grandmother had the same one. You think your mother snatched it up after she passed. You didn’t get much from the inheritance. As it is, you’d rather have your grandma back. Someone to talk to. 

You move on to the rock section. There’s hair metal and classic rock and grunge and all sorts. You’re not unfamiliar with the genre but you don’t want to be too obvious.  

A scuff startles you and you glance over at the man in the dark jacket. He seems familiar. His short brown hair, his stubbly jaw, and his intensity trigger something in your head. You definitely don’t know him. Everyone you know is too busy for you. 

“Probably don’t even know how to use the damn thing,” he snips under his breath as he gets closer. 

You realise he’s talking about you. It’s no good arguing. You’ve met his kind before. Back when your friends had the time of day for you, you met that type at their parties. You avoided them. 

You leave the aisle. You don’t want to be in his way, though it seems no matter what you do, you are. You find yourself exactly where he predicted. Well, who cares? It’s all a matter of brain chemistry, right? You don’t get to choose what you like, you just like it. It makes your brain happy and heaven knows you need more of that. 

You pick out another favourite then head over to new release. You’ve never heard Sabrina Carpenter. You’ll give it a try. 

You approach the counter and as you do, another sigh storms through the shop. The man’s behind you. Oh no, had you cut him off? 

“You want to go ahead of me?” You ask as you keep your haul in your arms. 

He rolls his eyes and crosses his arms, a single record in his hand; The Boswell Sisters. You’ve never heard of them but it really doesn’t look like heavy metal. You turn back to the cashier and smile, “hello, um, this is it.” 

You put your things up as the man returns your smile. He asks if you want a bag and you say, ‘yes, please’. Things might not be perfect but it doesn’t mean you can’t try to make them better. And if a smile and manners can brighten someone else’s day, that alone makes yours a little sunnier. 

🪢

The box for the player has a little plastic handle. You’re happy for that as it makes your journey to cafe a little easier. You stand in line with your paper bag and bulky box and move along until it’s your turn. You order the pumpkin spice but think better of double up with the pumpkin cream muffin; you instead opt for the apple cinnamon with the chunks you can see through the top. 

Patiently, you stand by the wall until your order comes up. You crinkle around the other customers and claim it, balancing it all delicately toward an empty table. You tuck the box underneath and lean the bag against it. 

You tear apart the muffin, dividing the bottom from the top. You peel back the liner and eat the former first, pinching morsels between your fingers. You don’t know why you do it that way, you just always have.  

You taste the pumpkin spice. It’s good. Not too spicy at all. It tastes like real pumpkin. Considering the place is local, it might very well be. You pop the lid off to reveal the mostly melted cream and have another sip. 

You wipe the dairy mustache from your upper lip with a napkin and your eyes flick up to meet another pair. Not far from you, that man stands with his hands in his pockets. He’s waiting by the order window for his own delight. Well, that’s great. Maybe it will cheer him up. 

He glowers until you look through the window. Or not. The baristas call out a black coffee as you chew on the brim of the paper cup. You stare out into New York traffic and feel yourself getting smaller. It’s easy to feel lost in the city. 

As you watch through the window, a dark figure passes before it. You lift your gaze and again find yourself at the mercy of that man’s grim snarl. You quickly turn back to your latte. He must’ve had that black coffee. He might do with a bit of sugar. 

You try not to think about it. You don’t know him. You don’t know his problems. Just like anyone else. People don’t know that you feel heavy when you wake up or that you spend your hours keeping your hands busy so you don’t have to think. They only know the woman with the smile and the chipper voice and just as swiftly forget about her. 

You pick away at the muffin, savouring in each bite. You’re thankful for that. For that moment. You have coffee and a nice dessert and you got your record player. It's best not to think about all the existential stuff you can’t change. It will come back later when you’re alone. It can wait until then. 

🪢

Your walk home sees the sun hiding behind the clouds. The downpour begins a block away from your building and soaks you through. You keep your head down against the sheets of rain and hurry up the walk as the front door comes in sight. 

The elevator is out of order. Again. You climb the stairs in your squeaky soles and finally reach your apartment. You push inside and kick off your sodden shoes and peel away your jacket. The turtleneck beneath is just as drenched. 

You don’t strip down right away. You’re more concerned with your prizes. The records are fine, the covers just a bit damp, and the player doesn’t seem to have taken too much water. You leave it all on the counter and go to change into your favourite fuzzy pajamas. 

You come back out to the front room and stop to admire the slake of rain pelleting against the large windows. It might be dreary but it’s beautiful in its own way. You let the tempo lull you as you unpack the player and set it up on the book shelf.  

You slide the Etta James record from its sleeve and lay it on the player, moving the needle into place. You let it play as you back up, the boisterous tones of the legend melding perfectly with the raindrops. You smile; not the put-upon smile you wear for strangers but a smile of nostalgia and calm. You miss your grandma terribly but the music doesn’t make you sad. 

You go to the table, still messy from last night’s work. It never is clear. You always have scraps and bits littered over it, your sewing machine a permanent fixture on the worn wood. You sit and pick up the felt clump and go back to needling it to a discernible shape. 

Your brows nearly meet in the middle for your focus and it isn’t until the record begins to skip that you sit up. That damn kink is back. Your own fault. Can’t be mad at anyone but yourself. 

You flip the record and let it play out. When it’s over, you shut off the player. You eat the leftovers you’ve been parsing out for the week and settle in for your favourite romcom. It’s cheesy and a little lame but you only have to keep yourself happy. Or try to. 

You leave your plate on the coffee table and hunker down to finish the movie. You’re tired when it’s over but know you won’t sleep. So you go back to the table and work as the rain slows to a lazy rhythm. Your eyelids droop, your shoulders too, but you persist. 

The windows grow dark and there is only the distant shine of streetlights and few windows in the neighbouring buildings. You stare out at the blurring haze and it fades to a deep grey. You wake leaning back in the chair, your head hanging off your neck. You groan as you sit up and curse your carelessness. 

It won’t make work any less intolerable. You check the time ticking away on the clock that came with the apartment. You can get another hour or two. You get up and trod off to bed, not bothering to shut off the lights. You don’t sleep well in the pitch black. 

You fall into bed and just as quickly find yourself unbearable awake. All those little doubts and fears rise up to the surface and have you drowning just below. This is why you end up sleeping upright or folded over. Trying never works for you. Not at anything. 

[hd-junglebook]

Its Always Been You

Part 4 / Word Count 5816

Masterlist

Summary: And so, the trip to Michigan begins with a little surprise guest.

In the dim glow of his bedroom, Jack's world felt like it was crumbling around him. The shadows danced across the walls, mirroring the chaos within his mind.  Jack's hands trembled as he held the phone to his ear, his breathing uneven and his heart racing.

"Luke, I don't know what to do with myself," Jack's voice trembled, a mix of anguish and vulnerability. His eyes were glassy with unshed tears, and his free hand clenched into a tight fist.  

"I've acted like a complete fool all week. Y/n hates me. I'm feeling… I'm feeling things I never felt before for y/n, and I think I've finally lost my mind."

Luke's harsh tone cut through the silence, his confusion evident. "Jack, what the hell are you talking about?" There was a rustling sound on the other end of the line, as if Luke was sitting up in bed, suddenly alert.

Jack's pacing resumed, his frustration palpable. He ran his fingers through his disheveled hair, his footsteps heavy against the carpeted floor.

The room felt suffocating, the walls closing in on him as he struggled to contain his emotions.

"I told y/n I knew how she felt about me, and then I broke her heart. She left me all alone for three days. Jesus, I just saw her locking lips with some loser in the hallway. It's taking everything in me not to go out there and drag him outside."

"Jack…" Luke barely got out before he was interrupted again.

Before Luke could respond, Jack's voice rose again, defiant and emotional. "I'm not done." He halted his pacing, standing in front of his dresser where a picture of y/n and him sat.

It was from the night of his draft party, a snapshot of happier times. Jack's fingers traced the edges of the frame, his eyes fixated on y/n's smiling face. The photograph seemed to mock him, a cruel reminder of what he had thrown away.

He thought back to that night, his emotions, how he begged her to leave her life behind and move to New Jersey. The memory was vivid, the excitement and hope he felt then now replaced by a crushing sense of regret.

The scent of her perfume, the warmth of her hand in his, the sparkle in her eyes—it all came flooding back, intensifying the ache in his chest.

Rustling came through the speaker of Jack's phone. "I ruined us, Luke. I've ruined the best thing I've ever had." Jack's voice cracked, a single tear escaping and rolling down his cheek.

"Dude, it's almost 12am, and you're babbling about something everyone and their mom knew already. How long did you think you could fight your feelings?" Luke's tone softened, a mix of exasperation and concern.

"I don't know, Luke." Jack stayed still for a moment, his shoulders slumped in defeat. The door of their apartment closed, and he hung up on Luke when he heard footsteps approaching.

Jack perked up, holding his breath as he listened to them get closer. His heart raced, a glimmer of hope sparking in his chest.

Another door closed, leading Jack to swing open his door. Y/n had already closed her door, the click of her lock reverberating through the silent apartment.

Jack's hand hovered over her doorknob, his fingers trembling. He wanted to knock, to apologize, to pour his heart out, but fear and uncertainty held him back.

…

The sound of her alarm woke her from her restless sleep, the shrill beeping cutting through the stillness of the early morning. Her eyes opened slowly, adjusting to the darkness around her.

The room was bathed in a deep, melancholic blue, the shadows clinging to the corners and casting an air of despair. The curtains, a soft, sheer fabric, billowed gently in the breeze from the slightly open window, allowing a sliver of pale moonlight to penetrate the gloom.

"Here we go again," she mumbled groggily, her voice heavy with exhaustion and resignation. The words felt thick on her tongue.

She sat up in her bed, allowing the blanket to fall in a heap on her waist. The sheets, once a comforting embrace, now felt suffocating, tangled around her legs like the thoughts that consumed her mind.

y/n looked around the room with despair, her gaze lingering on the familiar objects that held countless memories—the framed photographs on the dresser, the stack of well-worn books on the nightstand, the discarded clothing strewn across the floor.

Y/n sighed again, the sound echoing in the emptiness of the room. She pushed the blanket off of herself fully, the cool air of the apartment sending a shiver down her spine.

Her steps were light as she dressed herself, opting for comfort over style for the plane ride back to Michigan. She pulled on a soft, oversized sweater, the fabric enveloping her like a comforting hug, and a pair of well-worn leggings that had seen better days.

As she moved about the room, gathering her belongings, the floorboards creaked beneath her feet, the sound amplified by the silence that hung heavy in the air. The scent of stale coffee and the lingering aroma of chocolate chip cookies wafted through the apartment.

Jack's door opened across from her room, his yawning loud against the stark silence of the world outside their little apartment. The sound made her flinch, her body tensing as she braced herself for the inevitable encounter.

She could hear his footsteps, the shuffling of his feet against the hardwood floor, and the rustling of his clothing as he moved about his room.

Y/n rolled her eyes, not ready to interact with Jack just yet. The thought of facing him, of seeing the guilt and regret in his eyes, made her stomach churn. She focused on the task at hand, pulling her suitcase up to the door, the wheels squeaking against the floor.

Her eyes landed on the corkboard that hung on the wall beside the door, the pictures of their innocent smiles and young faces causing her heart to break even more.

In one picture, they were grinning broadly, their arms wrapped around each other's waists as they posed in front of a sunset on the beach. In another, they were dressed in formal attire, attending a friend's wedding, their eyes sparkling with happiness and love.

Y/n's fingers traced the edges of the photographs, the glossy paper cool beneath her touch. A lump formed in her throat as she studied each image. She could feel the sting of tears behind her eyes, the emotions she had been trying so hard to suppress threatening to spill over.

She pulled the door open, rushing past the open bathroom where Jack stood in the mirror, his toothbrush dangling from his mouth and a look of surprise etched on his face.

Y/n moved with the speed of a cheetah, her feet pounding against the floor as she made a beeline for the safety of the kitchen.

Just as she thought she had escaped the awkwardness, the front door jingled, keys rattling against the metal knob like a mischievous poltergeist trying to gain entry.

Y/N stood frozen in place, her body rigid with shock as the door to the apartment swung open. The sudden intrusion had caught her completely off guard, and she felt as if she had been turned to stone, unable to move or speak.

As she watched, a tuft of blonde hair bounced into view, the golden locks reminding her of the fairy tale character Goldilocks. But this was no innocent child stumbling upon a bear's cottage; this was a full-grown woman barging into her home uninvited.

"Daphne? What the hell are you doing here?" Y/N managed to choke out, her voice rising in pitch with each word until it reached a near-shriek. The disbelief and anger dripped from her tongue like bitter honey, leaving a foul taste in her mouth.

Jack's girlfriend fully entered the apartment, dragging a garishly pink suitcase behind her. It was as if she had packed her entire life into that one piece of luggage, ready to move in and stake her claim.

The suitcase was so bright it hurt Y/N's eyes, a beacon of chaos signaling the impending doom that was about to unfold.

From the corner of her eye, Y/N saw Jack emerge from the bathroom, toothbrush still dangling from his mouth. White foam dripped down his chin, making him look like a rabid dog caught in the act.

His eyes widened as he took in the scene before him, darting back and forth between the two women as if trying to comprehend the gravity of the situation he had found himself in.

Daphne's gaze flicked between Jack and Y/N, her initial smile slowly fading as realization dawned on her face. "We planned this months ago, silly," she said, her voice dripping with false sweetness.

"Non-refundable ticket. We talked about this, Jack. It's only been three months; you can't get rid of me that easily."

She let out a laugh that sounded more like a witch's cackle, her eyes gleaming with a hint of mischief and something darker, more possessive. It was clear that she had no intention of leaving, no matter how unwelcome her presence might be.

Y/N felt her heart sink into her stomach, a wave of nausea washing over her as the reality of the situation hit her like a ton of bricks. Daphne was here, in their home, and it seemed that Jack had been keeping even more secrets than she had realized.

The air in the apartment suddenly felt thick and suffocating, the tension so palpable you could cut it with a knife. Y/N's mind raced with a million questions, a million accusations, but she couldn't seem to form the words.

All she could do was stand there, frozen in place, as the world she had built with Jack came crashing down around her like a house of cards.

Jack let out a heavy sigh, his hand rubbing the front of his scalp as if trying to erase the memory of ever agreeing to this disastrous plan. His face scrunched up like he had just bitten into a particularly sour lemon, the bitterness of the situation leaving a foul taste in his mouth.

He glanced sheepishly at Y/N, his eyes darting between the two women like a puppy who had been caught chewing on his owner's favorite pair of shoes.

"Can you give us a sec? Please?" he pleaded, his voice barely above a whisper, as if he were afraid that speaking any louder would cause the fragile peace to shatter.

Y/N scoffed, her arms crossing over her chest as she fixed Jack with a withering stare. "No, we have to leave soon, and if I don't have my coffee, I just might jump off the plane dealing with you both," she retorted, her voice dripping with sarcasm.

Her eyebrows rose so high they nearly disappeared into her hairline, the thought of being trapped on a plane with these two making her seriously consider grabbing a parachute and taking her chances with gravity.

Jack's face reddened, his frustration bubbling to the surface. "We need privacy though!" he said, his voice tinged with annoyance.

He threw his hands up in the air, as if he were trying to physically push away the awkwardness that had settled over the room like a thick fog. "Could you give us some time?"

Y/N let out a humorless laugh, the sound harsh and grating in the tense silence of the apartment. "Oh, you need privacy? That's rich, coming from the guy who couldn't even bother to tell his best friend that his girlfriend was coming to visit."

She shook her head, her eyes narrowing as she fixed Jack with a look that could have melted steel. "You know what? Fine. You two lovebirds enjoy your little reunion. I'll be in my room, packing my bags and booking a one-way ticket to anywhere but here."

With that, she spun on her heel and stalked off towards her bedroom, her footsteps echoing like gunshots in the stillness of the apartment. She could feel Daphne's eyes boring into her back, could sense the smug satisfaction radiating off the other woman in waves.

But Y/N refused to let it get to her, refused to let the hurt and betrayal show on her face. She had always prided herself on being strong, on being able to handle whatever life threw her way. And she sure as hell wasn't going to let Jack or his girlfriend see her crumble.

As she reached her bedroom door, Y/N paused, her hand resting on the knob. For a moment, she was tempted to turn back, to march right up to Jack and demand an explanation.

But she knew that it would be pointless, knew that whatever he had to say would only make the pain worse.

So instead, she took a deep breath and stepped inside, slamming the door behind her with a resounding thud. And as she sank down onto her bed, her head in her hands and her heart in pieces, Y/N couldn't help but wonder how everything had gone so wrong, so fast.

…

Y/N walked back out into the living room, Daphne turned to her with an expression of exaggerated surprise. Her eyes were wide, and a cute smile was plastered on her face, the kind of smile that made you want to pinch her cheeks but also question the sincerity behind it.

"This is your best friend, right? She's a lot shorter than I remember," Daphne said, her voice dripping with false sweetness. It was clear that she was trying to get under Y/N's skin, to establish her dominance in the situation.

Y/N couldn't help but scoff, her eyes rolling so far back in her head that she nearly caught a glimpse of her own brain. "And you're the EX-girlfriend, right?" she retorted, putting extra emphasis on the "ex" part. Two could play at this game, and Y/N wasn't about to let Daphne win.

Jack let out a groan, his head falling back in frustration. "God, just my luck," he grumbled, his eyes rolling so hard they nearly got stuck in the back of his head.

He knew that he was in for a long and uncomfortable conversation with Daphne, and the thought of it made him want to crawl into a hole and never come out.

Y/N took a deep breath grabbing her coffee, the warm liquid providing a momentary comfort before made her way back out to the kitchen. Y/N grasped the cold metal handle, the chill sending a shiver down her spine.

"Let's go before I change my mind," she said, her voice flat and emotionless. She didn't want to give Jack or Daphne the satisfaction of seeing how much this situation was affecting her, didn't want to let them see the cracks in her carefully constructed façade.

…

The journey to the airport had been a tense affair, with Y/N pointedly ignoring Jack's attempts at conversation and Daphne chattering away obliviously in the background.

Y/N could feel Jack's eyes on her, his gaze heavy with unspoken apologies and explanations, but she refused to meet his eye, focusing instead on the passing scenery outside the car window.

they made their way through the bustling terminal, Jack tried once more to pull Y/N aside, his hand gently grasping her elbow. "Y/N, please, can we just talk about this?" he pleaded, his voice low and urgent.

Y/N yanked her arm away, her eyes flashing with barely contained anger. "There's nothing to talk about, Jack," she hissed, her voice sharp as a knife. "You made your choice, and now we all have to live with the consequences."

Jack's face fell, his shoulders slumping in defeat. "It's not like that, Y/N. If you would just let me explain..."

But Y/N cut him off with a bitter laugh, her head shaking in disbelief. "Explain what, Jack? How you don’t like me? How you play this stupid hot and cold game with me? No, I think I've heard enough explanations to last a lifetime."

She turned to walk away, but Jack's hand shot out once more, his fingers wrapping around her wrist. "Please, Y/N," he whispered, his eyes shining with unshed tears. "I never meant to hurt you. You have to believe that."

For a moment, Y/N wavered, her resolve crumbling in the face of Jack's obvious distress. But then she caught sight of Daphne waiting impatiently by the gate, her foot tapping, and her arms crossed, and the anger came rushing back in full force.

"I don't have to believe anything, Jack," she said, her voice cold and distant. "You made your bed, and now you have to lie in it. I just want to forget about all of this and move on with my life. So please, just leave me alone."

With that, she wrenched her arm from his grasp and strode towards the gate, her head held high and her heart shattered into a million pieces.

The seating arrangement on the plane felt like a cruel joke, a twisted game of fate that had placed Y/N in the middle of the very chaos she had been trying to escape.

She found herself sandwiched between Jack and Daphne, her body pressed against the cool glass of the window as if she could somehow merge with the clouds and drift away from the awkwardness that permeated the air.

Jack sat rigidly in the middle seat, his body a tense barrier between Y/N and Daphne. Y/N could feel the heat of his skin, could smell the familiar scent of his cologne, and it made her heart ache with a longing she couldn't quite suppress.

On Jack's other side, Daphne slept peacefully, her head lolling against his shoulder and her soft snores filling the space between them. She seemed blissfully unaware of the silent war raging within Y/N's mind, the turmoil that threatened to consume her from the inside out.

Y/N's foot tapped incessantly against the floor, a nervous habit that betrayed the inner chaos she was desperately trying to conceal. Each tap was like a metronome, counting down the seconds until she could escape the confines of the plane and the suffocating proximity to Jack.

She could feel his eyes on her once more, could sense the weight of his gaze boring into the side of her head. But she refused to look at him. Instead, she focused on the clouds outside the window, on the endless expanse of blue sky that stretched out before her.

Y/N was lost in thought, her mind a whirlwind of emotions and memories, when Jack's hand suddenly shot out, startling her back to reality. Before she could react, he had shoved a headphone into her ear, ignoring the sputtered questions and the look of indignation that flashed across her face.

His fingers brushed against her skin, sending a jolt of electricity through her body. It was a reminder of the connection they once shared, the easy intimacy that had defined their friendship for so many years. Y/N's breath caught in her throat, her heart racing as she tried to process the unexpected gesture.

As the familiar opening credits of her favorite episode of Game of Thrones filled her ear, Y/N's eyes widened in surprise. She glanced at Jack, searching his face for an explanation, but he steadfastly refused to meet her gaze.

His eyes remained fixed on the screen in front of him, as if the answers to all of life's questions could be found in the flickering images.

Y/N couldn't help but steal glances at Jack, her eyes tracing the contours of his face, the curve of his jaw, the way his lashes cast shadows on his cheeks.

Each glance was a silent question, a plea for him to acknowledge the unspoken words that hung between them. But Jack remained stoic, his attention unwavering, as if he had erected an impenetrable wall around himself.

Even as she tried to immerse herself in the show, Y/N couldn't shake the awareness of Jack's presence beside her. The warmth of his body seemed to seep into her skin, igniting a longing that she had tried so hard to suppress.

She could feel the rise and fall of his chest, could hear the soft whisper of his breath, and it made her heart ache with a bittersweet mixture of love and loss.

Beside her, Jack remained a silent presence, his body so close and yet so far away. Y/N couldn't help but wonder what he was thinking, what he was feeling.

…

Y/N stepped out of the airport, the crisp Michigan air filling her lungs and invigorating her senses. She took a deep breath, savoring the familiar scent of pine and freshly cut grass that always seemed to linger in the air.

The sun peeked through the scattered clouds, casting a warm glow on her surroundings and making the world seem a little brighter, a little more hopeful.

She scanned the crowd of people waiting outside the terminal, her eyes searching for a familiar face. And then, like a beacon in the chaos, she spotted him.

There, leaning against a sleek black car, was Luke. A grin spread across his face as he caught sight of her, his eyes crinkling at the corners in the way that had always made her heart skip a beat. "Y/N!" he called out, pushing himself off the car and striding towards her with open arms.

Without hesitation, Y/N dropped her bags and ran to meet him halfway. She threw her arms around his neck, feeling the solid warmth of his body as he wrapped his arms around her waist, lifting her off the ground in a spirited hug. For a moment, the world seemed to fall away, and all that mattered was the comfort and familiarity of Luke's embrace.

"I missed you so much," Y/N mumbled into his shoulder, her voice muffled by the fabric of his shirt. She breathed in the scent of him, a mixture of cologne and something uniquely Luke, and felt a wave of nostalgia wash over her.

Luke chuckled, the sound rumbling through his chest and vibrating against her own. "I missed you too, shorty. It's good to have you back."

He set her back down on the ground, but kept his arms around her, as if he was afraid she might disappear if he let go. Y/N couldn't help but smile up at him, feeling a sense of warmth and belonging that she hadn't felt in a long time.

Behind them, the sound of footsteps on the pavement broke the spell. Y/N turned to see Jack and Daphne approaching, their faces a mixture of exhaustion and something else, something harder to define. Jack's eyes met hers for a brief moment, a flash of emotion passing between them before he looked away, his jaw clenching.

Luke's arms tightened around Y/N, a silent show of support and protection. "Hey Jack, Daphne," he said, his voice carefully neutral. "Glad you could make it."

Daphne smiled, the expression not quite reaching her eyes. "Thanks for picking us up, Luke. It's been a long flight."

Y/N could feel the tension crackling in the air, the unspoken words and unresolved issues hanging between them like a thick fog. But for now, she pushed them aside, focusing instead on the feeling of Luke's arms around her and the promise of a few days away from the chaos of her life in New Jersey.

Jack moved forward, his arms open wide and a grin plastered on his face, Y/N felt a flicker of hesitation. There was something about his expression that seemed forced, as if he was trying too hard to appear casual and unaffected by the tension that hung thick in the air.

But before Jack could reach them, Luke's hand shot out, smacking the side of his head with a resounding thwack. The sound echoed through the parking lot, drawing the attention of a few curious onlookers. Jack stumbled back, a bewildered look on his face as he rubbed the spot where Luke's hand had made contact.

"Ow, what was that for?" Jack asked, his voice a mix of surprise and mock indignation. His brows furrowed as he looked at Luke, trying to decipher the reason behind the sudden attack. Y/N could see the gears turning in his head, the confusion and hurt flickering behind his eyes.

Luke lowered his voice, his tone stern yet laced with underlying concern. He leaned in closer to Jack, his eyes locked on his brother's, as if he was trying to convey a message that went beyond words.

"For being an idiot and for bringing her here. Did you forget about what you said on the phone?"

Y/N felt her heart skip a beat, her mind racing with the implications of Luke's words. What had Jack said on the phone? What secrets had he been keeping from her, even as he tried to bridge the gap between them?

Jack's face flushed with guilt, the color rising in his cheeks like a crimson tide. His eyes darted to Y/N, then back to Luke, a silent plea for understanding.

For a moment, no one spoke. Y/N could feel Daphne's eyes on her, could sense the other woman's curiosity and suspicion. But she refused to meet her gaze.

Finally, Luke broke the silence, his voice cutting through the tension like a knife. "Come on," Luke said, releasing Y/N and grabbing her bags. "Mom's waiting at home with lunch. She's been cooking up a storm all morning."

Y/N grinned, the thought of Luke's mother's cooking making her mouth water. "Lead the way," she said, falling into step beside him as they made their way to the car.

As they walked, Y/N could feel Jack's eyes on her back, could sense the weight of his gaze boring into her. But she refused to look back, refused to acknowledge the part of her that still longed for his touch, his presence, his love.

Instead, she focused on the warmth of Luke's hand in hers, on the promise of a few days of respite and healing. And as they drove away from the airport, the skyline of Detroit rising up in the distance, Y/N couldn't help but feel a flicker of hope igniting in her chest.

Maybe, just maybe, this trip would be the start of something new, a chance to leave behind the pain and heartache of the past and find a way forward, one step at a time. And with Luke by her side, and the love of her family to guide her, Y/N knew that anything was possible.

…

Lukes’s car pulled up to the familiar two-story house, Y/N felt a wave of nostalgia wash over her. The red brick facade, the white wooden porch, the sprawling oak tree in the front yard - every detail was exactly as she remembered.

She stepped out of the car, the warm breeze caressing her face and tousling her hair. The scent of freshly cut grass filled the air, a sweet perfume that brought back memories of lazy afternoons spent lounging in the sun and late-night conversations under the stars.

Y/N took a deep breath, letting the peace and tranquility of the moment settle over her like a comforting blanket. For the first time in days, she felt the knots of tension in her shoulders begin to loosen, the weight of her worries and fears slowly melting away.

Beside her, Jack and Daphne were unloading their bags from the trunk, their voices a low murmur against the backdrop of chirping birds and rustling leaves. Y/N hesitated for a moment, her eyes lingering on Jack's face, taking in the lines of stress and fatigue that creased his brow.

In that moment, she made a decision. She was tired of being angry, tired of holding onto the hurt and betrayal that had consumed her for so long. Life was too short to waste on grudges and resentment, too precious to let slip away in a haze of bitterness and regret.

With a determined set to her jaw, Y/N strode over to Jack, her steps purposeful and sure. He looked up as she approached, his eyes widening in surprise and a flicker of hope.

"Hey," she said, her voice soft but steady. "I just wanted to say... I'm sorry for the way I've been acting. I know things have been tough lately, but I don't want to keep dwelling on the past. You're my best friend, Jack, and that's never going to change."

Jack's face softened, his eyes shining with a mix of relief and gratitude. "Y/N, I..." he started, his voice thick with emotion. "I'm sorry too. For everything. I never meant to hurt you, and I know I have a lot to make up for. But I'm willing to do whatever it takes to earn your trust again."

Y/N felt a lump form in her throat, the sincerity in Jack's words tugging at her heartstrings. She reached out and took his hand, giving it a gentle squeeze.

"I know," she said, a small smile tugging at the corners of her lips. "let's just focus on enjoying this trip and being there for each other, okay?"

Jack nodded, his own smile breaking through the clouds of tension that had hung over them for so long. "Okay," he said, his voice filled with a tentative hope. "That sounds perfect."

Together, they made their way up the porch steps, their hands still intertwined. Y/N could feel the warmth of Jack's skin against her own.

"Welcome back, sweetheart," Ellen said, her voice warm and rich like honey. "We've missed you so much."

Y/N felt tears prick at the corners of her eyes. “I've missed you too," she said, her voice muffled against the older woman's shoulder. "It's so good to be home."

…

Luke led Daphne and Y/N up the stairs, their footsteps echoing on the hardwood, Jack seized the opportunity to pull his mother aside. His heart raced, palms sweaty as he glanced nervously between her and the staircase, his body practically vibrating with anxiety.

Ellen's brows furrowed, her maternal instincts kicking into high gear as she sensed her son's distress. She placed a gentle hand on his arm, her touch a silent invitation to share his troubles.

"Jack, honey, what's wrong?" she asked, her voice soft and filled with concern. "You look like you've seen a ghost."

Jack swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing in his throat. He ran a shaky hand through his hair, his eyes darting around the room as if searching for an escape. But there was none to be found, and he knew that he owed his mother the truth.

With a heavy sigh, he guided her to the couch, his movements stiff and awkward. They sat down, the worn cushions sinking beneath their weight, and for a moment, neither of them spoke.

Finally, Jack broke the silence, his voice barely above a whisper. "Mom, I... I messed up. Y/N and I, we had a fight. A big one. And I don't know how to fix it."

Ellen's eyes widened, a flicker of disappointment crossing her face. But she remained silent, allowing her son to continue.

"I didn't tell her about Daphne, and she found out in the worst way possible. And now... now she can barely look at me. I don't know what to do, Mom. I can't lose her."

Jack's voice cracked, the tears he had been holding back for so long finally spilling over. He buried his face in his hands, his shoulders shaking with the force of his sobs.

Ellen's heart ached for her son, for the pain and regret that radiated off him in waves. She reached out and pulled him into a hug, her arms wrapping around him like a protective cocoon.

"Oh, Jack," she murmured, her voice filled with a mix of sympathy and gentle chastisement. "I know it's hard, but you have to be honest with the people you love. Secrets have a way of coming out, and they always hurt more in the end."

Jack nodded, his face still buried in his mother's shoulder. "I know," he said, his voice muffled by the fabric of her shirt.

"I just... I didn't want to hurt her. But I ended up doing exactly that." Ellen pulled back, her hands coming up to cup Jack's face. She looked him in the eye, her gaze filled with a wisdom born of years of love and experience.

"Do you remember the time that boy was bothering Y/N in school?" she asked, her voice soft and reminiscent. "You came home with a black eye and a split lip, but you were so proud of yourself for defending her."

Jack's lips twitched, a hint of a smile breaking through the tears. "Yeah, I remember. She was so upset, but I just wanted to make her feel safe."

Ellen nodded, her own smile mirroring her son's. "You brought her back here, to this very house. And you let her lay her head on your lap, and you caressed her hair until she fell asleep. Do you remember what I told you then?"

Jack's brow furrowed, his mind stretching back to that distant memory. "You said... you said that love is the most pure thing you can feel."

Ellen nodded, a knowing smile playing at the corners of her lips. "And I see it in you, Jack. When you look at her. You love her, don't you?"

Jack took a deep breath, his shoulders straightening his heart skipping a beat at his mother's words. He had always known, deep down, that his feelings for Y/N went beyond friendship. But to hear it spoken aloud, to have his deepest secret laid bare... it was both terrifying and exhilarating.

"I... I don't know what to say, Mom," he stammered, his cheeks flushing with a mix of embarrassment and longing. "Y/N and I, we're just friends. And besides, Daphne...” He trailed off, his eyes flickering towards the staircase where his ex-girlfriend had disappeared just moments before.

Ellen sighed "Jack, honey, the longer you wait, the harder it's going to be. Sooner or later, you're going to decide whether you want to be with her in that way or let her go and find love in someone else.”

Jack stood up, his heart lighter than it had been in days. He hugged his mother one last time, breathing in the comforting scent of her perfume. "You're right, Mom. I need to be honest with myself, and with Y/N. But... but I can't do it now. Not with Daphne here. It wouldn't be fair to anyone."

"Ellen patted his cheek, her touch a silent benediction. "I understand, sweetheart. But don't wait too long, okay?

…

Tag List <3

@favsrachz @jacktoria4ever @bunbunbl0gs @ivy-34 @rebelatbay @bxtchopolis

[springsylph]

WITCHING HOUR, CH 2/3 — [18+]

(18+) - MARKED FOR EVENTUAL SMUT, MINORS DNI!

fem!reader x arthur morgan

summary: the prodigal son returns tags: marked 18+ for smut in later chapters, reader has a backstory kinda (but now a little more than kinda), original side character(s), does arthur count as a tag, he needs his own warning, its more exposition please don't leave

word count: 4.9k

a/n: HERE! DAMN! (i'm so sorry this took so long)

<< previous chapter | read on ao3 here | masterlist

you can find a link to the playlist here! tag list (look how crazy. i have a LIST.): @photo1030

The subsequent mornings are painted with varying shades of gloom. It was smeared over the sky in thick coats, and if it was just a little thicker, it might be able to keep out the spears of light. 

Sometimes, they tickle. Sometimes, they recoil from the rigid mounds of snow and blind you and anything else unfortunate enough to get caught in the line of fire. Pain in the ass, really. A particularly nasty pain in the ass flickers in the cloudy metal of your spoon one morning while you’re shoveling grits into your mouth.

“You planning on eating the table too, kid?”

Your eyebrows shoot up, as does your spine once you lower your spoon back into the chipped bowl. 

“My apologies,” you gulp. “You’ll uh, have to forgive me, Mrs. Campbell. Seems the winter air’s gotten to my head.”  

Mrs. Campbell was a wiry, dark-haired woman of 63, and had spent more time rearing cattle than children. She was rough, tough, and at present, leveling you with a stare so doubtful that you wonder if the look you often catch on the livestock is embarrassment. 

After holding your gaze for a few moments more, she resumes the rocking of her chair from the corner and returns to her darning. A large red sock, the same one she’d whacked Mr. Campbell over the head with after she’d found it on the floor of the living room only thirty minutes ago.

“No, no, you’re alright.” Mrs. Campbell pauses, though her hands continue to work. Under, over. In, out. Not a single finger pricked. “Think that’s the most I’ve seen you take down in one sitting, is all. You bite like a bird.” She makes a funny chewing motion with her mouth—or, at least you think it’s supposed to be funny. It seems to amuse her well enough; most strange things did. 

She then asks how much horse feed is left, and you tell her enough to last for the next two weeks. You ask how her daughter’s baby boy is doing, she tells you he’s been picking his nose, and the two of you return to your respective distractions: the pulling of thread and a spoon fishing around a now empty dish while you consult silently with the peeling floral wallpaper. 

Arthur Morgan’s appearance had set you on edge, loathe as you were to admit it. The fact that there’d been no sign of him since you’d first spoken only hastened the growing dread, more so than the lack of response after your father’s men had been so kindly disposed of. 

Contingencies had been thoroughly accounted for, leaving you mildly inconvenienced at best and dead at worst. There were other conclusions you’d drawn up, of course, but dealing in extremes had its benefits.

You press your thumb absentmindedly into the corner of the dining room table. Could the Campbells have heard your exchange? No, they couldn’t have, too old. And that was excluding the fact that the main house was rather far from the cabin. Given the time frame, it would have been well beyond what was reasonable for your…situation to have been brought up. 

Besides, this was important. Better to sort this out now than when—if—he showed up at your doorstep again.

“I have a question.”

Mrs. Campbell snorts. “I presume you’re lookin’ for an answer.”

You set your spoon down, and stand to clear the table. “Do the two of you get…stray cats often?”

This time her hands waver. “During the warmer months, sure. But in this weather? I mean, if it had the guts to get through all that ‘winter air,’ I don’t see why not.” Her eyes flick up. “Would have to be real hungry, though. Or stupid, which I doubt, ‘cause cats ain’t stupid—sonuvabitch!” 

You jerk as her needle clatters to the floor. She lets a curse slip as she hunches over to retrieve it; another follows as she tugs the string loose, just a little, and her fingers trip over themselves before falling back into a steady rhythm. 

Her brows pinch in concentration. “Never met a stupid cat,” she repeats.

“I…I see.” Moving around to the other side of the table to collect what's left, you frown when you catch your warped reflection in a bent spoon. You pick it up, and your fingers brush over the bump unconsciously. “I saw one,” you say slowly. Mind fumbling over any disastrous outcomes. “A cat, I mean. He’s been hanging around my cabin for a while now. I was only asking ‘cause he’s been spooking the chickens.”

When Mrs. Campbell doesn’t answer, your mouth gets the better of you. “Only, he turned up again a couple nights ago. Acting real docile, you see.” Not docile. The farthest thing from it. “Nearly shot him then and there, but—oh, he just looked so pitiful! He’s real mean looking, all scratched up and such, but I was tired, so when shooing him off didn’t work I let him in. Didn’t hiss, didn’t bite, nothing. But, I think I may have scared him. Skittered right out the door, quick as lightning. He’s been pissin’ me off—pardon my language—but, I just don’t see why he’d go through all that trouble to show up if he was just looking to leave the moment I raised so much as a finger.”

You only cease your rambling once you realize that you’ve bent the spoon too far in the wrong direction. “I…should turn him away, shouldn’t I? If he shows up again?”

Mrs. Campbell lets out an exasperated exhale, smooths out her apron, and sets her mangled sock down in her lap. “He kill any chickens?”

“No, but—”

“You feed him?”

“No?”

“Well, I think you should. It’d be real funny.”

Funny. Funny, she’d said. 

You look to the silverware for consolation, but they can only produce a weak gleam.

“Quit making faces at my utensils, I hate when you do that. If you got something to say, say it now so I can finish this damned sock.”

Instead of making faces at the spoons, you reserve them for the tablecloth. “I just—don’t think it’d be wise.” A wanted man, with a lofty bounty at that, and you were comparing him to a mangy feline. Attempting to see him as anything other than what he so obviously was would be disingenuous. 

And maybe Mrs. Campbell wasn’t the right person to be speaking to about this, because her nose crinkles with such distaste that you have to remind yourself that you’d remembered to bathe. “You’re grown,” she says, “and you work here. I’m inclined to believe that you have enough know-how to keep yourself from doing anything too dumb. If not, oh well.”

“…Right.”

Sometimes you wonder if her daughter had moved out not for marriage, but to escape Mrs. Campbell’s dreadfully indifferent way of speaking. Still, you take her words with relative care and pray that the “feeding” portion of her advice can be altered into something much more metaphorical.

When you attempt to bring the dishes to the water bucket, Mrs. Campbell’s head snaps to you and she clicks her teeth. “Drop it.”

“I was just—”

The sock finds its way into a basket of other half-finished projects at her feet, and she pushes herself up to stand just as tall (if not taller) than any tree before snatching the dishes from your hands. “I don’t pay you to do my dishes, girl.”

You smile. “I don’t believe you pay me at all, Mrs. Campbell.”

“Precisely. Your Pa pays me. And enough with that ‘Mrs. Campbell’ mess; makes me sound like an old crone. Told you to call me Fran, didn’t I?”

Shrugging past the bitterness in her tone at the mention of your father, you turn to the doorway and pull your coat off of the hook you’d tossed it on the night before. It’s only slightly warm from where the sun has touched it. 

The beams have softened their assault on the curtains; it’s still fairly cloudy, but there’s no sign of incoming snow. Chores would be alright, if only for today. 

“I’ll work on it, Mrs. Campbell. But, I do have one more question, if you don’t mind.” You wait for a nod while you pull on your boots with a wince. “How come you don’t take on any other help?”

Like most of her responses, Mrs. Campbell doesn’t give much away. Nothing remarkable that you can discern, at least. She merely winks and carries on with her washing. But just as you set a foot out the front door, she calls out to you. 

“Hey, kid?”

You turn.

“If the worst you can call him is a spooked cat, he can’t be all that bad, can he?” 

You freeze. “Pardon?”

She looks up at the ceiling, as though her next words will appear if she gets her eyes to narrow enough. Glasses had been the first of many neglected suggestions you’d offered upon your arrival. You’d even offered to buy them yourself, with what little you’d been able to bring with you. But Mrs. Campbell, being Mrs. Campbell, had simply laughed.

Squinting, she returns her focus to the bucket and reaches for a cake of lye soap. “Ah, and tell that idiot if he slams my doors, I’ll send my foot so far up his ass that them science folks won’t have any animals left to call him.”

__

Illusory warmth finds you a few weeks later.

It isn’t quite spring yet; winter is a stubborn mule, and though the snow has receded into the dirt it still stamps its hooves into the wind. In the water, too—freezing rain taps its fingers onto the windows. Soft and melodic, it nearly puts you to sleep from your place on the floor before you remember the annoyances it’s dragged along with it. 

There’d been no sign of trouble tonight, and the chicken wire had been reinforced a few hours prior. That’d mostly been the work of Mr. Campbell, though. He’d chirped about some promise he’d made to his “lovely wife,” and went on his merry way after leaving you with some choice words from the wife in question about the importance of rest. 

The rain had started not long after. Which was great, for someone out there. But, bad for you. Pretty bad. Ugly, messy bad—because it was cold, dark, and the dirt hadn’t the moral backbone to keep itself together for any longer than two blinks before your boots were practically swimming in it. 

The trudge back to the cabin was only slightly humiliating, considering the fact that the sole witnesses were the owls you knew were hiding out in the safety of the trees. 

Scampering from the uneven path to the front porch, however, was another story. Although the pliant (no good, backstabbing) earth was quick and eager to drag you to its depths, you were aggravated enough to be slightly quicker, and your palms shot out to catch you just before your chin could meet the full wrath of the wood.

But the word “just” was a pebble cast into a pond, and the first ripple was the metallic tang that flooded your mouth. Diatribes were spat onto the ground alongside the blood, tongue throbbing with a vengeance before you drove the heels of your palms down to push yourself up. The second ripple was a little less red, but just as irritating. The rain had pulled the wet fabric of your work shirt and trousers tight over your limbs, and it had begun to border on painful when water droplets struck like one might strike the skin of a drum. 

“I’m grateful, I’m grateful, I’m oh so fucking grateful…” It was a mantra you often found yourself repeating whenever nature’s pranks sought to drive you mad. Rain was good. Rain was fine, actually, so you’d ignored the creaking of your knees and hobbled your way inside.

And here you sit: back propped up against the wall, shivering like a fool with your knees tucked into your chest. The mud crusting between your fingers barely registers while you work on releasing yourself from your wet clothing.

Which, of course, is when the light tapping on the window takes its cue to crescendo. It’s a rather flimsy cloak for the uneven thunks outside that make no attempt to conceal themselves. But your bones know better. 

Awful timing, that man. 

You feel the weight of his fist against the door before he makes contact. 

(One.)

You shoot up.

(Two.)

You lunge for the table.

You decide against greeting him with the rifle, which is a significant improvement. It’s a revolver. But you did have the good sense not to kick the door again; the rusty hinges were fragile enough without your meddling. Instead, you let it creak open with one hand on the doorknob.

You’re met with a bruise, planted right atop a cheekbone. A swollen bottom lip, blood threatening to split it wide. He’s got a button missing from his rumpled jacket, and the caving of the porch underneath his feet clues you in on the fact that he’s favoring his right leg. He’s been fighting. Fighting, and he looks about ready to keel over and die. Or pick another fight. Probably both.

Part of you unwinds at the sight of him, battered as he was. Present as he was. But the more logical part of you senses that he’s here for something, and the even more logical part of you remembers exactly what it was that stood at your doorstep.

It’s then that the stench of alcohol hits you, and the familiar smell of mud sweeps in not long after. Arthur is completely covered in it, save for his face. And—

There. There it is again.

That look. 

Your pulse trips in your throat, and you pray that he’s inebriated enough to ignore it. “You’re on my porch. Why?”

Bright blue comes back into focus, and his hands fall to his hips. “I can go where I damn well please.”

“That’s all well and good, but why are you on my porch?”

He sniffs. Peers just over your shoulder. “...House call.”

You step to block him. “Now that’s two chances. I have it on good authority that one is just fine these days, but I’m feeling generous.” And confused. Extremely confused.

His face contorts into a heatless grimace, and the doorknob squeals. You’re suddenly reminded of the odd tales of shapeshifters you’d stumbled upon as a child: one moment a man, the next a bloodthirsty predator. Not a particularly helpful development—especially since your talk with Mrs. Campbell—but it was a development nonetheless.

Arthur rattles off the courtesies typically extended toward esteemed guests while you look him over again, and your eyes lock onto his hair. Another familiar connection—doe brown strands, streaked with mud and nearly plastered to his head from the light downpour. Much less ferocious than the rest of him. But, tonight, if you have to pick, he’s a wet dog. A wet, potentially drunk dog, who was missing his hat. 

And suddenly, the natural chatter of the trees comes to a halt. 

“What’d you just call me?”

…You idiot.

“I didn’t call you jack shit,” you lie. Arthur gives a loose smirk, and your next protests become nothing but bluster. “What, the little girl that hit you knock your ears shut?”

“Figured I’d let her get a hit in, out of the kindness of my big ol’ heart.” Arthur sways on his feet a bit, peering down at you through the water that he hasn’t bothered to wipe from his lashes. Gravity finds eventual triumph, and he leans into the post before eying the revolver still in your hands. “Don’t suppose you’re plannin’ on pullin’ that trigger any time soon.”

“What’s it to you?”

Arthur’s face begins to harden, and he crosses his arms tight over his chest. “You know, last time I was here I said you were lucky. Well, I’d like to make an addendum: lucky and stupid, lady.” 

You cast a disbelieving look at the leg he’s been keeping his weight off of. “And you’re drunk. The fact that you got here without your horse cracking your head open is a miracle.”

His brows draw low, and he rubs the heel of his boot against the muddy spot where you’d fallen earlier. Blinks at the ground. Then, with the vigor of a child caught sleeping in church, wipes angrily at a speck of mud on his thigh. “M’not drunk,” he finally mutters, flicking the offending dirt out into the yard and crossing his arms again. “And I’ve got enough trust in my horse to fill at least half of that barn y’all got.”

“Just half? Not the whole thing?”

“Whole thing would be two horses.”

You almost laugh. Almost. When you don’t reply, his eyes drop back down to the gun, gaze contemplative. “You got any idea how easily I could’ve knocked that flimsy thing outta your hands?”

“Why of course I do, Mr. Morgan.” The dampness you’d been struck with pulls at you, bones heavy and patience now worn thin. You give the revolver an exaggerated twirl, the metal snatching what can be seen of the moon through the rain and reflecting it at him. “I’m real lucky you’re here to tell me so, ain’t I? Matter of fact, why don’t you go and fetch me my chair before I topple right on over? ” 

“That ain’t what I meant, and you know it.” You think he sounds somewhat regretful. But somewhat isn’t enough. 

“Do I now,” you say dryly. “You seem to ‘not mean’ an awful lot.” 

Arthur pushes himself off of the post with his shoulder and shoves his muddy hands into his muddy pockets. “I just don’t see why you people are so eager to act like you got your life for dog-cheap.”

“You people?”

“Yeah, you heard me. You people.” He’s looking at everything but you now, eyes wild but body frighteningly still. “You’ll look trouble right in the eye, and lie right through your damn teeth till it gets you laid out cold in a ditch somewhere.” Arthur gestures to the embarrassing height your shooting arm has dropped to in the time that he’s spoken. “I can tell each time you open that door that you won’t shoot. Can’t, I’d argue, ‘cause if you didn’t have my big head within one inch of that barrel, you’d be some deep shit.” His words are a forlorn echo amidst the rain, now nothing more than a light haze. 

You could shut the door and go back inside, you think. Tell him he’s wrong, because he most certainly was. Peel out of your damp clothes, because standing outside in the chill spelled nothing but trouble. Arthur wouldn’t push. He was just as prone to bluffing as you were. 

And yet.

And yet.

“I could say the same about you. Don’t think your kin would take too kindly to the fact that you’re hangin’ around someone that knows your face. Who you are.” You steady your aim. “That’s a loose end, Arthur. You don’t seem like the type of man to keep many of those around.” It’s the first time you’ve said his name all night; you’re only sure because the moment it leaves you, his entire body tenses before he sags back against the wooden post. 

The way he looks at you then might be considered cruel and unusual punishment. You think of butterflies, embroidered into blankets from childhood. Tacked to the wall of your father’s study. The only difference between them and you is that you’re free to leave.

If only you possessed something to sweeten the deal—whatever deal you could come up with in the next five seconds. To mask the returning waver of your voice, now laden with inconceivable realities. “Am I a loose end, Arthur Morgan?” 

He opens his mouth to speak. Closes it. Untucks a hand from the arms he’s wrapped around himself to scrub at his beard and finally wipe at the water you’ve been eyeballing from his lids. He opens his mouth again, now on the precipice of what might be an explanation.

“S’dangerous,” is all he says.

You see red.

The arm holding the revolver is dropped so you can poke a finger into his chest. “You’re not making any sense!” Each word is enunciated with a jab, and you cringe at the feeling of rain rewetting the mud underneath your fingernails. “You cut and run, turn up drunk and beaten half to death, practically beg me to let you inside, and then you get upset when I say I won’t pop a bullet into your head?”

Arthur pinches the bridge of his nose, voice beginning to escalate. “Now if you would just listen for more than two seconds—”

You cut him down with a harsh whisper. “Listen? Listen?” Your eyes momentarily check for any sign of a light being turned on in the main house. Nothing. Your finger falls away then, and a violent chill wracks your body from head to toe. “No, you listen. I don’t know you. You don’t know me. You said your piece the last time we spoke, and you left, so why are you on my porch!”

“I don’t know!”

Something cracks, and your vision blurs when you whip your head to recheck the lights. Still nothing. The crack fizzles out into nothingness, and you return to find Arthur close. Awfully close. And your hand is warm and—oh.

It seems his pluck is rather contagious. The noise you’d heard wasn’t thunder, but the sound of your treacherous hand clapping right over Arthur’s mouth.  

Time stills. Or speeds up, more like. The only thing you can be certain of is that ring of greenish gold around his pupils. The brush of his lips against your palm. Humid air being released in slow, steady clouds. You briefly wonder what else this warmth has dominion over, save for your cupped hand. Who else. 

The speed of the exhales increases, and envy wriggles in the dirt of your heart like unearthed worms. Did his mind wander, as yours often did? Surely not as emphatically. It no doubt ambled from one thought to the next, attention snagged only when he had the energy to do so. Had you been interesting enough to snag his?

The spell is broken by a lamp flickering on in the distance. 

“Shit!”

Sheer panic sinks its claws into you before rationality can, and you’re curling a hand around Arthur’s wrist and yanking him inside before he can protest.

You’re both panting ragged breaths once the door shuts behind you, in spite of the mere two steps it’d taken to cross the entryway. Tangible confusion permeates the air, and Arthur looks at you expectantly. It’s only fair that the (secondary) perpetrator speak first.  

But words are tricky, tricky things. And as much as you partook in your fair share of falsehoods, finding the right ones when you didn’t feel that your life was on the line was an unfamiliar practice. 

Voice quiet, you blink at the muddy footprints on the floor. “You left my door open.”

“I remember,” he replies. Simple.

The silence returns, eerily reminiscent of your first encounter. You consider telling him about the warning Mrs. Campbell had wanted you to relay to him. But then you think about all of the other things he’s missed since he’s disappeared, and your mind becomes saturated with just about everything, and somehow nothing at all. But Arthur’s voice, once again, cracks the fragile quiet. 

“God damn it!” He begins to pace, rubbing at the shadows under his eyes. You’re thankful that he’s finally lowered his voice to a whisper, though the close quarters don’t seem to help with the intensity. “I ain’t supposed to be here. Not like this.”

“Not like what? Arthur what do you—” 

“This isn’t how this was supposed to go,” he says, voice edging on the side of desperation.

“How what was supposed to go?” You look at his hands, fumbling with his belt loops. He sucks in a brittle gulp of air when he catches you looking, like he’s surprised you’re looking at him at all. 

And then, miraculously, the pieces of the puzzle fall into place. 

“I’m to kill you. Ideally this evening.” 

Until it all promptly falls apart.

You turn away. Begin to work open the half done buttons of your shirt. Arthur turns to face the door. You decide to humor him. “Who.” 

“Some man, your Pa, I presume,” he says. For the first time in what feels like eternity, his voice is devoid of any feeling. It sounds small. Not defeated, not yet, but oh so small. “Willing to pay big bucks to get rid of a ‘financial thorn’ in his side. Knew ‘bout my business in Blackwater, which I assume you’re also aware of. Said he’d had some bonds on that boat.” Blunt fingernails scratch lightly at the curtains. “He said I could sniff things out, see if I wanted to to his dirty work.”

Shirt falling to the floor, you allow yourself some time to stew numbly in your naivety while you get the fire going; you could be disappointed all you wanted once you were warm. You can hear Arthur scrubbing at his beard again when you begin to drag a chair in front of the fireplace. You sit, or collapse rather, and shuck off your boots with little care for where they land. Where the mud splatters.

“How’s Marlene?” You ask.

Rustling. He’s turned around. More frantic rustling. He’s turned back to the wall. “I’m sorry?”

“Marlene. Chicken. ”

“Ah. She’s uh, good. Eating good. Still pecks like hell, though.”

And, once again, more silence.

You bark out a dry laugh. It hurts—hurts like hell, but it tumbles out of you with a sharp snap. It snowballs into pure, unadulterated laughter. Bouncing off the walls, the drinking glasses, the mud, right into the fire and back out again. It continues until you’re left with nothing but a pathetic wheeze rattling your lungs.

Settling into the back of the chair, your head lolls back till you can see an upside down version of the bewildered Arthur you’d turned away from. The angle is awkward, and the blood rushing to your head makes him look all warm and fuzzy, but it’s precisely why you’ve chosen it.

“Didn’t think finding all this out would be so funny.” He speaks as if poking a tiger.

Another half-hearted chuckle slips out of you. “Good god, I thought you were trying to proposition me.”

“Proposition you?” He scowls. “What on earth would I—” 

Arthur stops. Blinks one of his blinks. Gives his eyes another rub. Blinks again. He’s been doing that a lot, lately. This “blinking” thing.

“Oh.” He frowns.

Frowning right back, you push yourself to stand and toss some old papers from your table into the fire. “No need to seem so put off by it, gosh. Should’ve told me you were out for my head from the start. Would’ve made this a hell of a lot less embarrassing.” Disappointment had beat out the warmth.

You wait for an apology, or a joke. Or something. Anything. But you’re met with nothing. The paper eventually crumbles into nothing, too, smoke tickling your nostrils alongside the smell of rain.

His voice sounds from the back of the room.

“I didn’t say that.”

You whip around.

“Say what.”

He speaks as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “I didn’t say I wasn’t. Interested, I mean.” When you point to yourself, he rolls his eyes. “No, the couch.”

There was no couch.

The two of you watch each other for a bit. Then Arthur finds another annoying spot on his thigh to rub at, and you’re watching him.

“You’re drunk,” you conclude, voice flat. You pull on a blanket, suddenly conscious of the bareness of your shoulders. “You’re drunk, or tired, or both. You weren’t here. I didn’t see you, you didn’t see me. Am I clear?”

You stand on wobbly feet and motion for him to leave.

“You don’t think I’m joking, do you? I meant what I said.” He brushes past your outstretched hand to clunk into the chair, mirroring that same awkward position you’d found yourself in earlier. Strong neck arched, fire light catching the water that’s begun to bead on his cheeks. “I don’t do charity. Don’t think I have the money for it, actually.”

“How kind of you.”

“I mean it. Truly.”

“Then come back tomorrow,” you blurt.

Fuck.

What the hell were you doing? “You come back tomorrow night, sober, and we’ll see.” No, we would not.

But it’s too late—Arthur is rebounding off of the chair, straightening out his jacket (he’s noticed the missing button, finally), and striding to the door before you can retract your mistake. Even so, you follow after him like a besotted moron, only stopping when he turns to face you once the door is back open.

“Tomorrow, then,” he says. Eyes dark. Searching.

And then he’s stooping down. Reaching for your hand. Pulling it to his dry lips, and pressing a chaste kiss right to the top of it. He chuckles when you shiver, still clutching the blanket tight around your shoulders.

You’re released soon after. And Arthur gives you one long look, tells you to lock your door, and leaves.

—

next chapter >>

[cosmic-crybaby]

Break My Heart Again - Tommy Shelby x Reader

Part 5

Summary: After being childhood friends, you and Thomas made a promise one day to get married, but when he returned from France, he came back a completely different man.

Warnings: Angst with a happy ending.

1934, soon after Tommy's' battle had ended. Three more Shelby's' dead, and one less evil he had to worry about right now. His second wife, Lizzy Stark, was nowhere to be seen and was never found. Neither was his son, Charles. After the alleged affair with Diana Mosley, she left Tommy behind. As he did with the rest of his family.

So, where was he now?

Ireland. Finding himself knocking at the door of the home he knew she resided in. The sun was barely breaking through the forever gloom of the grey clouds, he shoved his hands in his pockets as he turns around, looking at the green grassy hill, cattle grazing the lawns minding their own.

"Who are you?" The voice came from behind him. Tommy moved his body, eyes snapping down in front of him to see a young girl. Around the age of four or five, standing in the threshold of the doorway. Her head was slightly tilted, as she peered up at him with her big eyes. Tommy tried to find the words, as he was speechless. She looked almost identical to Charles.

"I...I am um..." He began to speak, but footsteps cut him off and made him look up again. The front door was pulled open.

And then she appeared. His last breath got caught in his throat when his eyes fell on her. She looked even more beautiful than the day he saw her. The day she left and the day he found her, all those months later. Seeing her up close again, made him feel like he was frozen. His mind was buzzing with a myriad of questions, apologies, excuses. She wore a house dress, her hair was pulled into a bun, pieces of hair framing her slim face.

"[Name]," Tommy said. His voice made her eyes quickly snap up from the young girl to him. She froze for a moment as she saw who was waiting for her. She never thought she would see THE Thomas Shelby...ever again. Everything else seemed to disappear when she locked eyes with him.

"Mummy...who is this?" The girl pulled on her mothers dress, breaking the silence.

[Name] managed to break her eyes away first to see her daughter, Maeve, looking between the two adults in confusion.

"Darling...this is an old friend...Tommy Shelby,"

Old Friend was an odd way to put it. Knowing they were nowhere near that title, it made Tommy chuckle a bit. But the label would do for now. The young girl nods once and smiled up at the tall man.

"It's nice to meet you, Mr. Shelby," Maeve spoke before turning to her mother.

"You as well, darling," Tommy managed a small smile. [Name] cleared her throat and kneeled down a bit to talk to Maeve.

"Maeve, can you be a big girl and go check on Cian for me? make sure he's still asleep," She suggested, knowing that she didn't want the children to be around while she talked with Tommy. The girl nods with determination, exiting the area and down the hall. [Name] takes a deep breath and moves away from the door.

"Come in,"

The inside of the Byrne estate was large, clean, and full of light. Nothing compared to what Tommy had at Arrow house, but it somehow had the same comfort. The two sat across from each other at the dining table. Tommy would tell it was well crafted and made from the hands of the Tall brunette man he saw before. Neither Tommy nor [name] knew what to say to each other. It felt like hours had passed as they were locked in each others gaze.

"You found me..." She stated.

"I did...I came looking for you, everywhere...Turing to every connection I had...I had to find you [name], " He answered her, not bothered how desperate he sounded.

Because deep down he knew he was.

"Why now?" She questioned. "After all these years,"

"I wanted to apologize, for everything I had done and put you through...I'm sorry for lying, for the things that I left out, for leaving you...everything. You deserved to know, more than anyone," Thomas answered, his words rang in your ears, holding as much sincerity as they can.

The woman across from him nods, her face didn't change as she stared at him. Her glaze bouncing from his eyes to his lips to the worn hands he placed on the table.

"I had wished you well and vouched to never lay my eyes on you again, yet here you are apologizing to me again...You sure made a name for yourself Tommy," She commented, a small smile forming on her face. She couldn't lie, she was proud of him. "It wasn't uncommon around here, my late husband would speak of it every now and then, I would have to pretend like I didn't know who you were,"

"Late husband?...my condolences,"

[Name] nods once and held her hand up for a moment to stop him from going on further.

"He passed just last year, consumption...Maeve was only four and Cian was barely a year," She informed him, a lump caught in her throat and a gloss in her eyes. A knowing look formed on Tommy's features, he would know all about loss.

Greta, Grace, John, Polly, and Ruby.

"Do you have anyone for yourself now?" She asked, changing her subject.

"I did...remember Lizzie Stark?"

[Name] nods, and refrained from rolling her eyes. After she had exposed Tommy for who he really was, she found out about his secret relationship with his assistant. Leaving her spiraling under the realization that again, he chose another woman that wasn't her.

"We got married and had a daughter, Ruby...she's gone now, also consumption, after everything had happened, Lizzie took Charles and left,"

Silence had fallen between them, but it wasn't daunting...it was comfortable. She didn't know what else to say...what else could she really say? She looked at the dining table, her nail slightly digging into its' surface while Thomas held his gaze on her for a moment, admiring her beauty and how, even now, she still looked as youthful as ever. He ultimately made the decision to break the silence between them.

"I don't want to waste any more of your time...Just know what I am still sorry," He said to her, shifting as he felt the heartbreak hit him and standing from the dining table. She said nothing as she heard his chair scrape against the floor, and his footsteps leading him to the foyer. An inch away from grabbing the door handle before he caught her voice calling for him.

"Tommy wait!"

He quickly turned around. Their hearts pounding as she stood in front of him. She looked like she wanted to spill something to him. Tell him everything that she had held away. Her eyes searched his until he asked a simple: 'what is it?' in a breathy tone. Her lips quivered as she tried to find the words. For once, she was speechless in front of him.

"Maeve...she's not..." [name] started. She took a deep breath and Thomas found himself holding her shaking hands in his. She swallows and nods once as he looks into her eyes. 'Breathe'.

"My husband, Andrew, he didn't know...For Christ sake I tried to keep it from him all these years and after he passed, I feel guilty even now...but, Maeve she's not his...she's yours Tommy," Tears pricked her eyes. Tommy stared with wide eyes. He couldn't question her, the time added up, he saw what her late husband looked like and he saw what her daughter looked like. He could recognize those ice-like eyes anywhere. Licking his dry lips, he sighs heavily.

"I know..." He mumbled. "I could see the Shelby resemblance in her when I saw her...I didn't want to believe it at first...but after looking at her again, I saw it,"

She wanted to call an objection to his words but decided to keep her mouth shut, knowing that the Shelby's liked to keep their pride.

Even if it was an exaggeration.

Silence fell between them once again. Tommy steps closer, grabbing one of [names] hands. His hands were ice hold and hers were warm like the flames that roared in the fireplace.

"I'd like to see you again, [Name]" He told her, a ghost of a smile forming on his lips.

"There is a lot of catching up that we need to do...," She looked down at their intertwined hands. Thomas reaches for the woman's other hand. His gaze softened as he drew in closer, her lids closed slowly as his cold, cracked lips connected with her soft and plump lips. Her heart ignited, that small flame that slowly gave out when her husband passed suddenly blew up. Except this time, it was a different type of love. This version of Thomas Shelby was...new.

The woman tried to keep calm as the gangster pulled away from the kiss, afraid he wouldn't be able to stop once he got started.

"Very well then," Giddy on the inside as she kept her smile small.

"I'll see you tomorrow," He told her calmly, one hand rubbing up and down her arm before he took his leave.

The days and weeks to come, Tommy got along well with Maeve. The more the two got along, the more [Name] saw the resemblance. Cian was more attached to his mother by the hip, usually shadowing her until he was familiar enough with Thomas's presence. With the two in bed together one night, [Name] lifts her head as she felt Thomas digging through his nightstand.

"What are you doing?" She asked curiously as she tried to look in the drawer as well. Thomas held the object in his hand, closing his hand into a fist as he laid back down and looked at his beautiful girl.

"I found this, a few months ago...before I came to see you," He started. "Everything else was destroyed, but I kept this because I knew I would find you again one day, and give it to you..."

"Come on, Tommy what is it?" She asked, sitting up on her knees, trying to reach for his hand. He pulled his hand away and gave her a look. 'Wait' It said.

"No matter what happened between us, I knew I would come back to you, even after all these years...all of this pain...it has always been you...I'm so sorry it took me all this time to realize it," He told her. He grabbed her hand with his free hand and slipped the gold ring on her finger. It still fight like a glove, maybe even more-so now. In awe, she watched as he slipped the ring on her finger. It was cold on her warm skin, causing goosebumps to form on her arms.

"Thomas...?" She gasped. Looking at him, then at the ring, then at him again as her eyes were wide, tears forming in her eyes.

"[Name]…will you do me the honor of marrying me?" He asked. It made her think back to their childhood and that promise they made for each other.

"Oh Thomas...yes," She nods happily. Not hesitating to jump into his arms and kiss him like there was no tomorrow.

"I've loved you from the start,"

---

[Tag List]

@mysticalbouquetwolf-posts @milljane @cyphah @diosa-ahre-blog @badlandsbrunette @adaydreamaway08 @namelessghoul0 @deltamoon666 @cherryslyce @calmingmelody96 @bruher @galactict3a @soulmates8 @angelofdarkness2468

[ruhjkie]

Threads of Time

Summary: In a twist of fate, after their respective deaths, Aemond and Lucerys are transported back in time to the pivotal moment in Storm's End—just before Aemond demands Lucerys' eye as payment for an old debt. Unbeknownst to each other, they are thrust into the very moment that changed their lives forever. As tensions rise and old wounds reopen, both must confront the weight of their past actions, grapple with their unresolved feelings, and decide whether to follow the course of history or forge a new path that could alter their destinies and the fate of their family.

Pairing(s): Aemond Targaryen/Lucerys Velaryon

Author's note: inspired by a lovely idea from @technicallyfriendly. Thank you for allowing me to use it <3

Also posted on AO3

here: Part 2

_____________________________________

The storm raged over Storm's End with a ferocity that matched the tempest inside Lucerys Velaryon’s heart. Lightning crackled in the distance, illuminating the towering stone walls of the castle, while the wind howled like a beast hunting its prey. The sea, dark and unforgiving, crashed against the walls below, as if it too sensed the impending violence.

Lucerys stood at the hall, his breath coming in ragged gasps, his body tense and trembling. His hand, still clutching his hood, fell slowly to his side as his eyes locked onto the figure coming out from the shadows. Aemond Targaryen, tall and imposing, emerged from the gloom, his silver hair glinting in the brief flashes of light. His single eye, burned with a mix of anticipation and something far darker.

Lucerys remembered a time when Aemond had been his friend, his uncle — a distant yet familiar presence in the Red Keep, a boy who shared his blood but not his heart. Now, as he stared into Aemond's unyielding gaze, he longed to see something different, something that resonated with the quiet hope stirring in his chest. But all he saw was a man warped by years of resentment, his eye heavy with the weight of an old wound that only he seemed unable to let go.

The air between them crackled with unspoken tension, a force so thick it felt as though even the castle’s ancient walls could scarcely contain it. Lucerys' mind spiraled, disoriented as fragments of another life surged to the surface. Memories of dragonfire scorching the sky, the monstrous maw of a beast closing in, and the sensation of falling into darkness—a fall that should have marked his end. Yet, here he was, standing at the precise moment when everything had unraveled, as if fate had dragged him back—for redemption perhaps, but he did not yet know. The realization was dizzying and he wondered if he was caught in some cruel trick of the Gods.

Aemond’s voice sliced through the heavy silence, sharp and cold as steel. "Wait, my Lord Strong. Did you truly believe you could fly across the realm, scheming to steal my brother’s throne without consequence?" His gaze darkened, the bitterness unmistakable, and as he tossed the dagger to his feet he said. "You owe me a debt, taoba. An eye for an eye.”

The words reverberated in Lucerys' ears, sinking into him like poison. This was the moment—the one that had haunted his nightmares and his final breaths. Now, he understood why he was here: to face the mistake that had changed everything. He had longed to apologize, but after the accident, fear took place—he knew the Greens would never allow him close to Aemond again. So, he wrote letters—many more than he had ever intended—each one an attempt to make amends, to soothe his uncle's rage, and to mend the fragile connection they had once shared. Yet, no replies ever came. The silence was louder than any rejection, and over time, the guilt settled deep within him, buried like a wound left to fester.

Now, standing on the precipice of destiny, something shifted inside Lucerys. The fear that had once paralyzed him, the fear that had driven him to flee, was no longer there. He saw it all. Instead, his fear had become a blade, poised not to strike at Aemond, but at the very fabric of fate that had brought them to this moment. The storm seemed to pause, like it was holding its breath as Lucerys made his choice. His feet moved—not in a frantic attempt to flee, but with the calm certainty of a man who knew there was no other option. If Lucerys Velaryon was to prevent the fate of a war, then so be it.

Something was not right, Aemond knew as everyone too—a shift in the tides of destiny. Lucerys caught the hesitation in Aemond’s eye. This wasn’t how it was supposed to happen—Lucerys was meant to beg, to run, to fall under the weight of Aemond’s long-nurtured wrath. But instead, Lucerys was moving, and he wasn’t moving away. Lucerys Velaryon had run towards the blade.

“No!” Aemond’s voice, filled with a panic he had never known, shattered his paralysis. He lunged forward, reaching out for the boy—no, not like this, not his nephew—who had once been the center of his hatred. But it was too late. 

With a shout that was equal parts defiance and despair, Lucerys raised the dagger to his own face. The world narrowed to the cold, unyielding edge of the blade, and before Aemond could react, Lucerys drove it deep into his own flesh. Pain exploded through Lucerys’ skull—a blinding, searing agony that consumed every thought, every sense. He screamed, the raw, primal sound echoing in the storm’s howling wind. Blood gushed from the wound, warm and thick, running down his face, staining his clothes and the stone beneath him.

Aemond stood frozen, his outstretched hand hovering in the air, as if time itself had stopped. Deja vu. The dagger slipped from Lucerys grasp, clattering to the stone—a sound lost to the storm. His fierce, vengeful sapphire eye now reflected only horror, as he watched Lucerys destroy himself in a desperate act neither of them had foreseen. With one final, agonizing pull, Lucerys wrenched the dagger free, his blood-soaked eye dangling grotesquely from the blade. The sight was a twisted mirror of the vengeance Aemond had sought for so long. Lucerys swayed, his strength rapidly fading as pain and blood loss overtook him. His legs buckled, and he collapsed to his knees, the dagger falling from his fingers, the severed eye rolling across the cold, wet stone.

He looked up at Aemond, his one remaining eye filled with tears and agony, his breath coming in ragged, uneven gasps. His voice, when it came, was broken, pleading. "Will you leave me be, qȳbor? Is the object of your torment finally settled? Am I free?"

The words, spoken through a veil of pain, shattered something deep within Aemond. This wasn’t the victory he had imagined; it wasn’t the sweet taste of revenge he had craved for so long. Again the gods were mocking him. All that remained was emptiness—a hollow void that swallowed reason and purpose. The debt that had consumed him, that had brought him to this windswept castle, had been paid—but not by his hand, and once again, Aemond was left to witness the ruin of his own blindness.

Aemond’s hand trembled as he reached out, cupping Lucerys’ bloodied face with a gentleness that felt foreign, wrong. The storm around them raged on, unnoticed by either, as they remained locked in the terrible intimacy of the moment.

“Yes,” Aemond whispered, his voice thick with a grief he did not yet understand. “Yes, taoba, you may leave.”

But even as he spoke the words, he knew there was no leaving—no escape from what they had done. The eye, the blood, the pain—these were the bonds that now tied them, forged in suffering and regret. They knelt there, two broken souls, as the storm finally began to subside outside, its fury spent. The chaos of the onlookers in the room crept in, but neither Aemond nor Lucerys noticed. The future lay before them, dark and uncertain, the weight of their choices pressing down like the very heavens. They were no longer just Aemond and Lucerys— rivals, enemies, whatever they might be called. They had become something more, something that defied the simple lines of love and hate, revenge and forgiveness.

The storm outside had passed, but it had washed over them both, leaving them tangled in the web of destiny. And now, a new beginning awaited.

[boxofbonesfic]

Title: The Endless

Kinktober Masterlist

Kink: Body Horror

Pairing: Dennis x Reader, Ransom x Reader

Wordcount: 6,011

Summary: The evil at the heart of Drysdale manor defies all explanation—and comprehension.

Warnings: Body Horror, Victorian Era, Eldritch Horror, Lovecraftian Horror, Dubcon, Noncon, Monsterfucking, Manipulation, Graphic descriptions of gore

A/N: here’s my super late second Kinktober entry! i’m sorry procrastination got the better of me this month, but i hope you all still enjoy my work. as always, comments, reblogs and feedback are always welcome. 💖 mind the warnings, and enjoy!

You are awake. 

Cool air stirs the moth-eaten drapes hanging over the narrow window, and gooseflesh rises on your clammy, sweat-damp skin. Your hands tremble as you clutch the bedsheets, aching from the tightness of your grip while you stare into the dark. 

Why are you awake?

Your bedroom is awash in gray twilight, illuminated only by a stripe of cold, clear moonlight that spills across the floor like water. The shadowy corners of your threadbare room offer no answers either, and you slowly unclench your shaking fists to place a hand over your heaving chest. 

A dream? No. A nightmare. 

Nothing of it remains now, only dim memories of pulsing warmth, of hungry hands and mouths. You swallow, your tongue sticking to the roof of your dry mouth. You have not slept easily in the manor since your arrival two weeks prior, and tonight is no different.

The wood flooring creaks underneath you as you make your way toward the window, intent on closing it. You pause with your hands on the windowpane, staring up through the glass. It is a cloudless night, the full moon hanging low above the treetops like a fat jewel. The sky around it is dark—there are no stars. No stars at all. 

How can there be a moon, but no stars?

You do not remember opening the window before you went to sleep, and as it creaks shut, the servant’s bell rings insistently beside your bed. You turn toward the sound, your lips pressed into a thin line. It doesn’t stop ringing as you gather your robe up from the back of the chair by the desk in the corner, and tie it tightly around your waist. After a few tries, you get the oil lamp on the bedside table lit, and soft orange light blooms on the wick. The still shadows in the corners of the room now breathe and shift as the flame dances behind the glass. 

The bell rings again. 

The hallway is dark, the cool air still and stale. Your lamp casts long shadows on the walls, dimly illuminating the dusty, ill-kept portraits hanging there. As you pass, the grim faces of Drysdales past glower down at you, the corners of their lips seeming to curve in the firelight.

The light plays tricks sometimes, in the dark. 

You can hear the wind outside, branches scratching against the worn, crumbling sides of the manor, like tapping fingers. The manor had been a grand place once, but try as you might, you cannot imagine it so. Few traces of that splendor remain in the empty rooms of decaying furniture and dead leaves. Much like its owner, the house is failing, curling in on itself in its old age, the water-logged walls sagging inward as if the house were holding its breath. 

You ascend the stairs, careful not to put too much weight on the railing; the iron is pitted and rusting from the damp, and you are not fool enough to trust it. As you reach the landing, door at the end of the hall opens, spilling light into the gloom. Dennis stands in the doorway, fiddling with his spectacles. 

“S-sorry to wake you,” he mumbles. It’s as if he’s trying to look anywhere but your face. When he does, his cheeks go pink, and he looks away again. “H-his chest is hurting again.” 

You offer him a tired smile. 

“You needn’t apologize to me for doing my job, Mr. Drysdale.” In the short weeks you have been at the manor, you have come to know Dennis Drysdale as a sweet, nervous man, and he has done little to dissuade you of that impression. He steps aside to allow you into the room, still stammering as he trails behind you. 

“That may well be, b-but is after midnight. I-I’m perfectly capable of administering the injection myself, but he insisted. Grandfather can be quite…stubborn.” He murmurs the last part as he closes the door with a sharp click. The master suite is bright and warm in comparison to your room, a fire raging in the marble hearth, and the sconces lit. 

“I truly am sorry for waking you.” Dennis catches your sleeve with the tips of his fingers. Suddenly, you are not cold at all, your body brimming with heat. 

“It’s really no trouble. Consider it repayment—I did so enjoy seeing the grounds yesterday.” You had thanked him then, too; and his cheeks, already bitten red by the crisp autumn chill had gone even redder. You have found little to like about Drysdale manor, but Dennis’ company remains one of few instances of silver lining.

“P-perhaps I-I could show you more. I-inside, I mean.” His expression turns hopeful. “The music room i-is quite lovely.” 

“I would quite like that.” 

You wash your hands in the darkened washroom before removing the injection kit from the cabinet. The bed at the center of the room is a massive, four postered thing that like the rest of the manor, has seen better days. The intricate carvings on the canopy’s pillars are worn with age now, the gold leaf eroded by time and touch, and the red velvet curtains eaten through by moths. 

Ransom Drysdale lies on the bed, his breath a wet rattle in his sluggishly moving chest. The old man smiles at you as you approach, and despite his age, his teeth are remarkably straight and white. Ransom’s thin, drawn skin stretches tightly across his skull, the bone pressing through so sharply you can’t believe the skin doesn’t split from the force. He reminds you of a baby bird, light and fragile. He beckons you with one frail hand.

“Good evening.” 

“Mr. Drysdale,” you greet him. “Are you not feeling well?” His smile thins, and he gestures at himself.

“This body is almost ninety-five years old. I never feel well.” He watches you with remarkably sharp blue eyes as you put on gloves and prepare the long silver syringe, poking it through the rubbery covering stretched over the top of the bottle. Ransom offers you his right arm, fist clenched as you tie the rubber tourniquet. He doesn’t move as you slide the needle in.

“Don’t get old,” he advises as you put pressure on the pinprick, staunching the sluggish flow of his blood. 

“I don’t think I can stop that,” you reply, wiping at the spot with an alcohol soaked pad before wrapping his thin arm in a bandage. “The Lord gives us each our time.” You clean the syringe off and store it back in the kit. Ransom’s  dry laugh becomes a gurgling cough, and when he pulls his hand away from his mouth there is red staining his palm. 

“The Lord?” He scoffs. “Come now, I thought you much more intelligent than that.” You cannot help your own lip from curling in disapproval. 

“Of course I believe in God.” You snap closed the latch of the kit with more force than necessary. His smile widens at your words, and for a moment all you can see are those too-white, too-perfect teeth. There are so many, it’s like his mouth is wider than it should be. 

“Ah, yes. You are a proper lady, after all.” Mockery drips from every syllable, and you cannot stop your own face from wrinkling with distaste. “Please, indulge an old man his eccentricities.” He pats the bedside with a frail hand. “I shall be asleep soon enough.” You glance at Dennis, who stands near the fireplace, doing his level best to not be noticed. 

“You are an atheist?” You ask as you sit. 

“Not by chance,” Ransom replies. “But by experience.” For a moment, there is no sound other than the crackling whisper of the fire. He stares at it, and the flames dance strangely in his eyes. “All my long life, I have seen little of the doings of God.”

“And what have you seen?” The wind howls outside, and the fire burns low, and the old man’s eyes seem to pierce through the very essence of your being. 

“The malevolent dark.” Ransom licks his lips. “Once you have peeled back the veil and looked beneath, my Sweet, there is no way to sew back up the wound.” A chill rolls down your spine as if drawn by an icy finger. You look away.  “How can one be God of godless things?” You want nothing more than to leave this room, for the elder Drysdale’s bright blue eyes to look anywhere but at you. 

“I am not a theologian, Mr. Drysdale,” you reply, swallowing thickly. “I am a nurse.” 

“And is that all you are?” He asks, and you shrink at the hunger in his gaze. “Beneath?” The way he looks at you… Were he a younger man, you suspect he might have reached for your hand—or the hem of your dress. You stand, suddenly, your face uncomfortably warm and your stomach churning. 

“I trust the pain has subsided?” The question comes out curtly, and Ransom laughs, his voice like dry reeds. 

“Yes thank you.”

Though the hallway is as dark and unwelcoming as it was before, you still  prefer the quiet dread over the fevered intensity of the elder Drysdale. Somehow, it takes longer to find your room again, the twisting, labyrinthine corridors more confusing in the dark. You set the lantern on the desk and untie your robe, hanging it neatly on the hook at the back of the door. 

Once you have peeled back the veil and looked beneath, there is no way to sew up the wound. 

As you turn toward the bed, there is a noise like rustling paper. Your chest seizes, and you feel your body clench as you turn toward the sound. For a moment you do not see it, squinting in the dim light of your little oil lantern. There by the door, the corner of the wallpaper has begun to peel. As you watch, it curls down another inch or two, gummy strands of old glue snapping as it falls. You move to fix it, standing on the tips of your toes to reach. But as you press yourself against the wall, it is not spongy, crumbling plaster you feel but warmth. Like skin.

You recoil, retching. 

The faded vines painted on the yellowed wallpaper writhe like snakes as you stare, their leaves trembling. There is a buzzing in your skull, a vibration that makes it impossible to focus on the shifting patterns. You reach up again, and catch the edge of a loose strip under your fingernails. There is a wet, tearing sound as you pull at the wallpaper, your fingers slipping, slick now as you peel the paper back from the wall. Your eyes widen, and you drop the strip in your hand with a muffled shriek as you clap your hand to your mouth to stifle it.

There is no stone or plaster beneath the yellowed wallpaper—but instead there is raw, red flesh. Dark, purple veins ran through it, disappearing beneath the torn edges of the paper. It pulses wetly with the house’s heartbeat, and a lidless, red rimmed eye peers out at you from the gore, rolling as you reel back. 

Warmth trickles from your nose, and you wipe at it with the back of your hand, a whimper escaping your lips as it comes away wet and red. The heartbeat grows louder and louder until it is all you can feel, trembling in your bones. It isn’t half as horrible as the voice, though, the voice that whispers into your bleeding ears like grinding glass—

You collapse to the floor, and as your vision narrows, and on your tongue you taste warm copper. Your body trembles violently, your limbs flailing. The full moon shines down on you through the window, the only light in the starless sky. 

There is no way to sew up the wound.

—

You wake in near darkness to the sound of a knock. The little window at the foot of your bed reveals a darkening sky, its edges tinged with fast fading pink and orange. I slept all day? You quickly rinse your face in the bowl at your bedside, wincing as you wipe at the crusted blood by your nose. It comes away easily, and you rub it between your fingers until it dissipates in the water. 

Another nightmare. 

The wallpaper by the door is whole and unmarred, no signs of the horrific thing you’d seen beneath it. Perhaps you’d scratched yourself in your sleep? It is the only remaining possibility. The knock sounds again, and you call out over your shoulder. 

“Coming!”

When you open the door, Dennis is on the other side. 

“Oh good, you’re awake.” There is genuine relief on his features. “You were quite tired, earlier.” In his hands is a tea tray, and your face warms when you realize he’s brought it for you. You step aside to allow him entry. Dennis sets down the tea on the desk, and stands next to it awkwardly. 

“I do not remember your earlier visit,” you say apologetically as shame settles like lead in your belly. “I was remiss in my duties today.” 

“You were unwell.” Dennis waves off your concern, smiling gently at you. “The house still stands, and my grandfather remains as ill-tempered as ever. There is little you have missed.” Your laugh is unexpected, escaping your lips before you can stifle it. Dennis’ smile widens. 

He is so handsome when he smiles. And he is, truly, without the worry and anxiety lining his face, he seems twenty years younger, standing there in your room. 

“You are too kind.” 

“Someone should be.” He holds your gaze a fraction of a second too long, and you feel your heart flutter in your chest. “Your, ah, your tea. We shouldn’t let it get cold.” 

“Oh, n-no. Of course not.” 

There are no chaperones here in the manor to ensure the two of you remain decent, but you leave the door open out of habit anyway, the sunset turning the hallway orange and purple. You drop two sugars into your cup, and then pour in the tea from the little porcelain pot. 

“Have you always lived at Drysdale manor?” You ask, and Dennis shakes his head. 

“Oh, no.” He looks down at his cup. “When my mother died, Ransom took me in.” 

“I’m so sorry.” His smile turns sad. “And your father?”

“Died before I was born. He and Grandfather didn’t really… get along. I’d never met him until the funeral, actually. He raised me. Paid for my schooling…” Dennis pauses, looking wistfully at the bands of fading sunlight. “It is a debt I can never hope to repay.” He turns those soft blue eyes to you. “I know the manor is… less than pleasant.” 

You cannot disagree. “You should not have to stay.” 

“Grandfather will let me go, soon.” He says, though neither of you truly believe it. “He says the time is coming when this house will be mine to do with as I wish.” 

“And what do you wish to do with it?” You ask, draining the last of your tea from your cup. 

“Let it crumble into the sea.” Dennis finishes his cup, and places it back on the tray. “I am truly happy to see you better. You did not seem…yourself.” 

You grimace. “My nights have not been particularly restful, Mr. Drysdale.” Reluctantly, you meet his gaze. “And the nights here are long.” Dennis looks at you with a grim smile. 

“They are indeed.” He casts a pensive look at his teacup. “I should like to visit somewhere with long days.” 

“Somewhere warm. Somewhere the sea isn’t quite so gray, and cold.” Dennis’ expression lightens as you sigh. “I do miss the sea.”

“I should like to see it. Your sea, I mean.” Dennis has seen even less of the world than you have, the majority of his experience limited to the manor and the sleepy township on the other side of the overgrown wood. To one side of the crumbling manor is the wood, and the other the sea. Here, it is as dark and cold as the manor that looms over it, angry waves crashing endlessly against the rocky bluffs. 

“You are a young man, yet. There is plenty of time, if you do not mind me saying so, Mr—”

“Dennis. Please.” His fingers twitch on the desk, like he wants to touch you. “I should like to hear you call me by my name.” You hesitate, almost afraid of the familiarity. 

“Dennis.” His smile is brighter than the setting sun.

“Thank you.” 

— 

The house is a cruel maze. Every turn you take brings you back the the master bedroom, the doors appearing insistently around every corner. You do not want to open them. You want anything but to open them. The doors glow with a sickly pale purple light, vibrating and pulsing excitedly like a beating heart. Around you, the hallway is brightly lit, the chandeliers above you sparkling as if they’d only just been dusted, the wood paneling polished to gleaming. You turn away, and the house creaks around you like it’s heaving a sigh. 

You do not want to open the door, but the dream does, presenting it to you as you try to flee from it, the hallway stretching out in front of you with the doors at the end. 

The handles are cold under your fingers, and you press down on the latch, throwing them open. Ransom waits for you on the other side. With every step you take toward him, he looks younger. He is handsome when you reach him, and though his eyes sweep down over your naked body, you feel no shame. 

“Nothing great can be had without sacrifice.” The knife he presses into your hands is of the clearest, blackest glass. The symbols carved on the hilt vibrate in your skull painfully. Your body moves without your direction, turning towards the fireplace. Dennis stands in front of it—naked too. 

“Cut.” 

You do. 

You have to put the symbols somewhere—they can’t stay in your head, they’re too big. It hurts to have them there, and you need to put them somewhere, anywhere. So you put them on Dennis’ skin, carving them lovingly into his chest. He doesn’t scream. 

“Cut.”

You do. 

The knife slides in like butter, and Dennis’ skin parts as easily as the wallpaper. What pours out of him isn’t blood, thick like tar, like pulled taffy, pooling at your feet.

You sit up, a scream threatening to burst from your throat. Like last night, the only light is that of the moon, painting shapes on your wall through the window. Shaking, you reach for the matches, lighting the wick of your oil lantern with clumsy fingers. 

The dream has done more than unnerve you. Warning t you bells ring in your mind’s ear, calling for you to run, run—and you want to. You look down at your hands—there is blood under your fingernails. 

I have to find Dennis. 

The thought consumes you, driving you as you tie your robe around your nightgown with shaking hands and sweaty palms. The darkness in the hallway is oppressive, bearing down on your little lantern with weight that leaves you staggering. On the wall, the portraits whisper to one another, just out of reach of the dim firelight. You wipe at the blood beginning to leak from your right nostril, and the droplets that have already dried there flake off onto the back of your hand. 

“Dennis!” Your voice is muffled by the dark, swallowed by it—not even the echo returns to your ears. 

Slowly, you ascend the stairs. 

With each step, the discomfort weighing in your stomach like lead grows heavier and heavier. Something terrible awaits you upstairs, you just know it—and yet you cannot stop. 

The air at the landing is thick and warm, and you gag as you breathe it in. You hold your lamp aloft, praying that it will illuminate the bespectacled face of your host—it does not. There is a gurgling moan, muffled by the closed door, and you shiver when you hear it. 

“D-Dennis?”

Pale light leaks out from underneath the door of the master bedroom, and terrified tears gather in your eyes as you approach it. There’s a dull thud, and a wet crunch, and the light pulses like a heartbeat. With a shaking hand, you push against the door.

A scream rips itself from your throat. 

The putrid mass of flesh almost hurts to look at, looming in the dimly lit chamber. It is as though Ransom has been unmade, reduced to a trembling puddle of skin and hands and teeth that cling to Dennis’ writhing body like a leech. Its form is a grotesque patchwork of twisted flesh and horror, malformed limbs, distorted faces that writhed and contorted with sickening fluidity. Its skin—if it could even be called that—was a pulsating, mottled mess of sickly colors; patches of ashen gray and bruised purples that oozed dark, foul blood. 

Everywhere it touches, it sticks fast like glue, the flesh flowing together seamlessly, like they’re one single being. 

Blood trickles from both your nostrils, flowing down over your lips as your brain rattles uncomfortably in your skull. Something like a mouth opens wide, revealing rows and rows of teeth while bulbous unblinking eyes stare at you from his misshapen form. It speaks, and warm blood leaks from your ears at the sound of its voice. 

“Godless-ess-ess things-ngs-gs.” The mouths do not speak in unison, each stepping on the tail of the other as they rush to get the words out. The Ransom-thing pulls Dennis’ mouth open, and his gurgled moan of pain is cut short as it reaches inside. His throat bulges obscenely as the fist travels down it, and the wet choking noises are all you can hear as Dennis turns tearful, bloodshot eyes to you. That horrible light grows warm enough to burn, the skin of your cheeks blistering and splitting open in the wake of its brilliance. 

How can it shine so bright and be so dark?

The world bends, ripping open like paper as the room runs like watercolor paint, with only darkness behind. It’s like he said. You cannot make the words come out of your mouth as your eyes begin to roll, your jaw locking. You taste fresh blood as your teeth sink into your lip, your whine of strangled in your tight throat. Malevolent dark. Blood is dripping from both of your nostrils, leaking warm copper all over your lips and chin. Your head feels full to bursting, like everything inside is going to leak out of your ears, and you are falling—

And you go willingly into nothing. 

—

The sunlight streaming through your window is the brightest its been since you arrived. It is the warmth on your face that wakes you first, and then the terror lances through you, fresh as ever. The same four walls greet your wide eyes as you stare disbelievingly around the room. Your mouth tastes like stale blood, and you find the source as your tongue touches the sore patch on your lip where your teeth had broken through the skin. 

You wash yourself as quickly as you are able before venturing out into the uncharacteristically bright hallway. Perhaps it is the angle of the sun through the window on this particular morning, but the worn carpet seems brighter, its pale red restored to bright crimson. The portraits on the wall have lost their gaunt, fragile quality. Indeed, you can see their rosy cheeks, as if their sallow complexion was shed with the heavy dark. 

As you arrive at the second floor landing, you spy Dennis in the doorway of the master suite. 

“Dennis!” You rush toward him, your heart in your throat as you recall your blood-soaked nightmares. For what else could they be? He looks surprised to see you, pausing with his hand on the door handle. 

“Good morning,” He replies, his expression grim “I was—I was just going to call for you.” You pause in your preliminary inspection of his features, 

He looks at the ground. “He died last night.” 

“What? He—he died?” Your shock makes you take a step back, searching Dennis’ features for the lie. There is none. 

You look past him into the bedroom. Ransom’s frail body is indeed there on the bed, his skeletal chest still. You wait for a moment, to see if those mad blue eyes will open again, but the do not. Dizzily, you lean against the doorframe, one hand on your thundering heart. The memory is there, as sharp and clear as crystal. Tearing flesh and sinew, the thick taste of blood in the air—

 “I-I should check his pulse.” You grimace at the thought of approaching the bed, but you do not know what else to do. “To be sure.” Dennis shakes his head.

“You-you don’t understand,” he says sadly. “I-I was here when grandfather took his last breath.” Dennis’ blue eyes shine with unshed tears, and you suspect he might have cried before you’d gotten there. “I have already sent for the vicar—h-he should be here tomorrow.” You have no desire to approach the bed, nor Ransom’s body. He moves forward to close the door, forcing you back out into the hall. “You… you need not stay longer than necessary. I—I shall of course ensure you are fully compensated for your time.” 

“My time?” You pause, shaking your head. “I—are you alright?” He seems fine, his skin pale but unblemished. There are no teethmarks, no missing fingers, no melting, gelatinous flesh. Instead, he smiles at you, that soft, gentle smile.  

“I was sure you would be packing your bags already. Not… asking how I am.” He reaches for your hand, passing his thumb softy over your knuckles as your cheeks prick with heat as he shakes his head. Your stomach flutters at his words. With a sharp intake of breath, you sink your teeth into your lip, tasting warm copper as it aligns with the delicate bite mark you’d left behind just last night. Dennis drops your hand, as if suddenly aware of the impropriety of having held it in the first place. 

“I—I’ve no right to ask, but… Will you stay? Until the vicar arrives?” 

“Of course!” You exclaim.  In truth, you do desire to leave the manor—more than almost anything—but you’ve little desire to leave Dennis alone in this dismal, terrible place. He clasps his hands behind his back, like he’s trying to keep from touching you. 

“Thank you. For all you’ve done for my family.” His reluctant to say it leaves him floundering for, a moment, his mouth working silently. “And for me.” Your throat tightens, your tongue floundering uselessly in your mouth. 

“Y-you’re welcome.” 

—

It feels as if you’ve wandered into a dream as you pack up your things, emptying the dark wardrobe in the corner of all your personal effects. Your face heats as you recall the warmth of his hand, the softness of his smile. Were you back in the city, were you both unfettered by duty and class—perhaps Dennis might have courted you. And if you had parents to approve of the match, certainly they would. 

Another life, perhaps. 

As you finish tucking the last of your belongings into your bags, a light knock comes at the door. 

“May I come in?”

You look down at yourself hurriedly, smoothing nervous hands over your dress. 

“Yes.” The door opens slowly, and Dennis smiles bashfully on the other side. 

“I thought perhaps we, er, we might have dinner. Together.” He looks down. “T-the cook always goes home just before dusk, and I, well…” Dennis doesn’t have to say it. He doesn’t want to be alone. You don’t either. 

“I would like that.” 

You’ve not eaten in the dining room before—indeed you’d never been in it at all except in passing when you had very first arrived. Now, however, it seems almost warm, the sconces lit, a fire raging in the massive hearth as the dying sunlight fades from the wide, tall windows. He greets you with a nervous smile. 

“Please—sit.” He pulls out your chair for you, and then takes the seat to your left. The dining room is well lit, the cobwebs cleaned from the rafters. The low chandelier is polished to gleaming, and you wonder at the state of the manor. Dennis uncovers the plates, setting aside the dish covers. There is rabbit on your plate, with fresh asparagus in cream—by far the most appetizing meal you have had since coming to Drysdale manor.

“Oh, Dennis…” It feels like he’s done this for you. “This is lovely.” 

Dennis’ rings tap softly against your wine glass as he fills it. Funny. You hadn’t noticed him wearing them before, though you cannot be sure. You pluck the proffered glass from his fingers, and take a sip. It’s light, fruity. 

His expression fills with warmth as he looks at you. 

“I-I admit, I h-have come to quite enjoy your company.” He says softly. “Would it be bold to assume y-you feel the same?” Your throat tightens, and you look down at your plate, your face warming. 

“Bold, yes. Quite bold.” You clench your hands together under the table where he cannot see. “But not untrue.” You smile at him.  Dennis is as easy to talk to as ever—perhaps even moreso, now, without the specter of his grandfather’s disapproval hanging over him. The food is delicious, and you find yourself ravenous for it, eating with gusto. 

“If it is not too grim to ask, what will you do now?”

“What do you mean?” Dennis cocks his head at you. 

“Well, I—you said your grandfather would be letting you go, soon,” you reply, dabbing at the corners of your mouth with a napkin. “I thought you might travel.” 

Dennis chuckles. “Why would I do that? I’ve everything I need right here.” I would let it crumble into the sea. He reaches for your hand, and you let him hold it. “In fact, I… I thought I might ask you to stay with me. Here, at the manor.” You cannot help the look of distaste that flickers across your face, and Dennis laughs. “I know, I know. But it’s mine, now, you see? We can do whatever we like within these walls.” 

“Firstly, we shall take down those horrid portraits,” you reply, and he laughs. 

“See? You’ll make an excellent lady of the house yet.” 

There is a weight to his words that brings prickling heat to your cheeks. 

He sweeps away the plates, uncaring when one of them tips onto the floor, spilling half eaten food onto the rug. Dennis pulls you close and you gasp, your palms flat against his chest. You don’t push him away, though, no, your fingers tangle in his lapels, clinging to him desperately as he stares longingly down into your eyes. 

Dennis kisses you then, softly brushing his lips against your own. You can taste the hunger on his skin. 

“You care for me,” the words are hushed. “And I you.” You grip the edge of the table behind you so hard you feel the blood drain from your knuckles. His mouth is fierce against yours, his teeth tugging at your bottom lip until you gasp. The swift pecks you have been given pale in comparison to the way Dennis seems to want to consume you, the hungry way he drinks down each weak little mewl you make. 

When you imagined Dennis’ hands on your body, you had thought perhaps that his fingers would tremble as they undid the buttons of your dress—but instead they are sure, steady. He parts the layers of fabric until your cheeks burn with the indecency of it all, but you cannot bring yourself to ask him to stop. Instead, it is your voice that trembles as you mumble against his mouth. 

“T-the servants, someone will see—” 

“They don’t stay after dark,” Dennis pushes the two halves of your dress from your shoulders and it pools at your hips as he scoots your hips backward until you are seated firmly on the table. “You know that.” His soft blue eyes are hard and ravenous, now as he looks at you. Your cotton under-dress offers little decency, the dark circles of your nipples poking up through the fabric. Dennis drags his thumb across one of them, glorying in your muted whine.

Your head spins, buoyed by the sweet wine still on your tongue. God in heaven, you want—you want to touch him too, and you do, cupping his face as he devours you. That is what he’s doing, you realize as Dennis’ teeth tug hard at your lower lip. He drinks down each breathy cry as if he has been desperate for them all this time, and you gasp as he drags his mouth down your jaw, nipping at your throat before pulling away to admire the indecent bruise you know is forming at your throat. 

“D-Dennis—!” His gaze does not waver, as if you had not called his name. He fills every moment, so that no space remains for your uncertainties. “W-wait, we should—” 

“We should have each other as we desire.” Eagerly, Dennis drinks in every inch of exposed skin as he pulls aside your collar, licking his lips. He takes his time to with each button, undoing them one by one until he reaches bare skin. “Don’t you think, my Sweet?” He looses the tie at his throat, dragging a thumb across your parted lips as he works loose the buttons on his own shirt. You falter as you reach for him, your brows drawing together in confusion.

You aren’t sure why his words have given you pause, why they set warning bells ringing in the recesses of your mind. You think of your dream again, that horrible, hungry flesh, and for an instant, Dennis’ lips taste of copper. He gropes at your bare breasts, breathing heavily against your mouth as he moans. You push at his chest, suddenly finding him heavier than you’d thought he’d be, and so much more solid. 

“Dennis, Dennis wait—” There is annoyance on his face when he pulls away, an emotion you’ve not yet seen him express, not with you. 

“For what?” He snaps, his eyes hard. “The vicar, so that I may place a useless trinket on your finger?” He holds your hand up, dragging his lips along the back of it. “Oh, but you’re a proper lady, aren’t you, Sweet?”A proper lady. Dennis nips at your fingers with sharp teeth. “I promise I’ll keep you,” he says, grinning darkly as you stare at him. “Forever.” 

Dennis peels away the last vestiges of your clothing, leaving you bare before him. 

“Beautiful.” You’ve had no touch other than your own, and your eyes go wide as Dennis’ cups your warm center with a groan. He slides his fingers along the seam of your lips, parting them to reveal your slick folds. He smiles. “Not such a proper lady, then.” 

Perhaps it is the way he says it, the way he turns his head just so, the smile on his lips turning just a tiny bit cruel. The knowledge passes from your mind and leaves your lips in an instant, his true name falling from your tongue in shock and horror. 

“Ransom?”

The smile widens, curling at the edges of his lips and spreading until it is so wide it threatens to split his skull in two—

“Dennis!” 

“He’s not here, Love,” Ransom’s mouth has too many teeth in it. “I ate him all to pieces.” His eyes are empty black holes when he looks at you, that horrible purple light leaking from his mouth. Warmth leaks from your nose as you push fruitlessly at his chest. “They always did say the resemblance was uncanny,” he says, clucking his tongue at you. “Don’t you think so, Sweet?”

You scream. 

[porcelain-thyme]

The Herbalist (Tree Sentinel x fem!OC) - Chapter One

(I put it as OC but tbh it could be a reader insert since I leave the character description light and also she just goes by one name Morte)

My first ever fanfic lol, I saw someone on here lament the fact that there was no Tree Sentinel fanfic and I agree, so I decided to write one lol, this is the first chapter and I will probs be updating every week or so lol. I might write for other characters too. Added a read more so it didn't take up the entire feed cause its long lol

You heaved against the solid wood, the crisp morning mist embraced you. Limegrave's fair beauty, covered with a veil of golden rays, held you still as your eyes scanned the vast field of grass waltzing with wisps of wind. The hushing of the trees lulled the falling Erd leaves to the ground as you hesitantly stepped away from the door.

In the distance you could hear the songs of birds echo and the salty waves crash against fine sand. 

‘It feels too good to be true compared to what they prepared me for.’ you thought.

Scanning your surroundings you noticed the cute little critters hopping around and on the edges of rocks perched some proud birds, both animals you had never seen before. Your own town was too dimmed in an everlasting mist for anything cute to survive, like the gloom sucked out all the fun of living. The shadow of the ruined building covered the left. Bushes and trees scattered around. Beside you, a few steps away, a flower glowing softly stood, swaying in the sea breeze which hit your sinuses, dry and pungent with salt. You crouched down, putting your weight on the balls of your feet. You were enraptured by its beauty,  your gloved hand reaching out to caress the delicate petals. This wasn't enough, so you peel the fabric from your hand to freely examine it. 

It's soft and full of life, nothing like the plants you have back at home, where the endless dull skies leaves the ground barren of flowers. But here is different, you have never felt such a lively and soft material, the small  indents of the veins running the white velvet flesh leaves you giddy with wonder.

Your  head swivelled for more wonderment, finally landing on a group of vermillion star-petalled flowers. You rushed over, breathless with awe, the joy vibrating in your chest, as you once again examined a new specimen.

“I was waiting for you to approach me. Seems like you didn't  even notice, strange considering I'm the only other person here.” A voice from behind you greeted, full of mirth and sass.

You startled so much that as the breath finishes its course out your mouth, you already had your sword ready.

“I would suggest against striking me, Tarnished. It will certainly not end well for you.” His voice lilted with a slightly gravelled tone.

You turned red and heated with embarrassment, this was not how you wanted to greet what you presume to be a fellow human.

“My apologies, Sir. You startled me.”

He huffed lightly, though you couldn't see his face you could see his chest rise and fall. Which relieved you. At least you were not completely alone.

‘You seem to take a while to think, Tarnished. Should I take a seat and wait.”

You eyed this stranger with suspicion, as he took  a seat on the soft grass. There was no harm in keeping your guard up around here.

“Might I ask who you are, Sir?”

“I will once you put down that sword. I have no intention of harming you. In fact, I am here to guide you.” You saw the crinkles around his eyes as he smiled. He sat there, leisurely with no care in the world. You decided to heed his request, awkward and overwhelmed by everything.

“You certainly look different from the other Tarnished that come here. Have you any training at all?” He was looking  at you with  what seemed to be concern, like he can see right through the bulky armour and linen cloth.

“I have been trained, thank you very much. What’s more of a concern right now is that fact that you still haven't answered my question.”

He huffed out another chuckle. The sun had now warmed your skin in comfort at this point, as it climbed to midday.

“Varre. My name is Varre and I'm your one shining hope in this land, despite the fact that you are maidenless.”

‘Maidenless?”

His head tilted towards the Erd tree, eyes distant as if this was nothing new.

“Yes, well, you need a  maiden to help you on your journey. A patroness of sorts.”

Your head whirled in confusion as you sifted through your memories. You had heard nothing of maidens from the high priests who taught you.

“You're thinking again, Tarnished. It seems to be a bad habit.” There he goes again. Like the  matter was some joke, like you were a joke.

“I have a name too, Varre.” You were sharp with your retort.

“Oh, yes? And what would that be?” He seemed to have been mocking you still.

“Morte.”

“Morte. Seems fitting considering your chosen vocation.” Hazel eyes piercing right through  your armour.

“I… I didn't choose this path. It was chosen for me.” You said heavily, eyes downturned in shame with your  heart layed on top of your guts.

“Oh? And here I  thought all Tarnished  were here for their own selfish reasons.” He seemed surprised.

The sun was past its throne, starting its journey back to his chamber. Like he could feel the ensuing uncomfortable talk.

“The High Priest from my town said it has been my duty since birth to find the Elden Ring. I never wanted this life and frankly I'm too physically weak to even fight a wolf off. But they seemed to have insisted that since it is my duty, that I will find a way.”

He was silent, listening intently with the still physique of a statue.

“If I am to be completely honest, after hearing that I am not the first nor the last I feel as though this path is moot to me now. Surely, there are people more fit  for the task than I.”

He seemed to be in thought for a while, like the cogs in his head were turning.

“It seems that I am not the only one who’s a slow thinker.” 

He let out a small chuckle, mercifully moving his gaze to the ground.

“This situation does seem to need more thought than I expected.” He has straightened his posture, his legs crossed.

“Aha!  Now you know how I feel.”

Things go quiet after that. It wasn't awkward silence but more of a perplexing one.  Around us the world kept its cycle. The moon had started to tuck the sun into bed with blankets of dusk clouds. The shadows were more prominent as they covered the rolling fields and in the distance ruins glowed with slight warmth  from what seemed to be a fire. Still even with the golden veil gone the land before you held its beauty with pride.

“You know… all throughout my life people have directed me, never left me alone. Now that I'm here, I feel lost, even though they gave me instructions. I need to find the Elden Ring, but I just want to explore this place now. It's not like they can find out what I'm doing, but I still fear that they will.”

He was back to staring at you now. our legs were crossed and hands held your head, like a saddened child.

Suddenly he got up, stretched his popping spine and then let out a groaning exhale.

“Follow me. I might know a way to help.”

He's  held out his hand now, keeping a respectful distance as you use his arm to pull yourself up. His hand was warm and his grip firm compared to yours.

The back of your legs slowly forced themselves to straighten after lack of use while you stretched your arms out above your head in a Y shape. Bones and muscles expanded and settled back with a similar exhale. 

He turned around and headed down the slight hill, his footsteps were heavy and his clothing swayed slightly with his confident movements. You followed behind, timid and on edge. Following a stranger could be very detrimental, but that was your best option so far. The further you walked down the more you could see the fields, to the left were ruins of what seemed to be a rounded coliseum. 

To the centre was a path that led to the lit church, which seemed to be guarded by a large armoured man on an even larger horse. You were surprised that you did not hear the thudding hoofs of this majestic beast nor the scrape of metal against metal. 

“It's best to keep your distance from the Tree Sentinels, let them do their jobs and they will let you do yours.” His voice level as though this sight is normal in these parts, and for all you knew, it was.

You continued down the hill to a glowing pile. Wisps of gold gilded around it like a campfire, as you stand next to it. It’s pretty and it illuminated the surrounding environment  and you had this pull to touch it and to know if this light is warm and if it felt like the wind softly caressing your hair.

“Go ahead. Raise your hand towards it and let's see what it does.”

“What happens when I do?”

“It's a site of grace, it will; be able to tell you where you need to go. For most of you Tarnished, if not all that I've met so far, it leads you to Stormviele castle.” He had this tone of excitement, like a child anticipating a treat.

“It won't hurt me, will it?”

“Not in the slightest, Morte. If anything it will feel pleasant.”

So you heeded his wishes and crouched down. This must have been the magic that the high priest talked about. It held warmth to it and in the centre, levitating, was a tear shaped orb. You reached your hand out towards it, not knowing what exactly you were doing. The warmth from the grace site passed through the material of the glove with ease to finally touch your skin. It was like you could feel every particle of grace fit into the imprint of your skin, like gold filling cracks of pottery.

Like wading your hand in a pool of water, you could feel the movement of the grace as your hand shook still.  It was textured like fine sand, almost powdery but the coarseness still gritted slightly against the fingerprints and dried valleys of your hand. 

You focused on the feeling and all of a sudden you felt something shift, like movement in water. Opening your eyes you look over to see Varre staring at you intently.

“It does feel pleasant.” You were breathless, the awe of the situation holting your mind.

He still didn’t answer, but he leaned close to the site, like he was looking for something. Through the grains of grace you felt something, like uneasiness embodied. It felt like the grace of wavering slightly, like his pulsing heart's increased rate was felt by it. You felt nervous now, something was wrong. You realised that he said this would help guide you but you can’t feel nor see anything to suggest a path. If anything it just swirled like usual, only glowing brighter with you connected to it. It felt homely and warm, it was a comfort you never wanted to let go of.

He finally spoke, though there was hesitance and confusion tinting his usual teasing tone.

“I haven’t seen something like this before. How do you feel?”

He was looking at you now. His eyes were intimidating even with the concern behind them. You felt like he should have the answer to this, but seeing someone who has supposedly been doing this for quite a long time look at you like a lost pup had you in a bit of panic. The thumps of muscle against your sternum became more noticeable by the second. You look down at your hand then back up at Varre, then repeat swiftly while you conjure up your answer.

“Great? I’m not in any pain. Isn’t this supposed to happen?” Laced through your answer was confusion and a drop of fear.

“Move aside for a bit, dear.” you were taken aback by the pet name but still did so.

He degloved himself and moved his hand towards the grace. It did exactly what it did to you, only next came a glowing string that danced towards you with, well, grace. It circled around you and when you lifted your hand toward it you could still feel the grains of grace against your skin.

“You're supposed to see something like this, the grace is supposed to guide you on your path. This is different, it was static like you have no path to take.”

You froze when he said this. Though the thread of grace still warmed you, the shivers of anxiety began to wracked your body. This could not be happening, you need guidance. You’ve needed it ever since you were born and now you're being told that there was no guidance left for you. As though it was possible to run out, you used it all up during childhood and now your bank was drained. You took a tiny step back, tears birthing from your wide eyes as you start to feel the air crawl from your lungs.

“No… that can’t be.” 

It came out as a pathetic whimper and the sobbing began. Your frame was shuddering, bones and flesh unsynced as you panicked right in front of a stranger. You felt the grace leave as he got up to move towards you. The hand that was once outstretched towards grace was now stretching towards you.

“Don’t panic, we will sort this out. There is certainly a reason for this, grace sites can not make mistakes.”

He closed the distance with his hand moulding to your shoulder, he had bent slightly to try and catch your pathetic eyes. You were in hysterics, the very reason for your existence was denied from you. How could you ever face your town now? You were to be the high priestess once you acquired the ring and now you will be nothing more than a pariah. You did not know what to do with yourself, you felt drenched in cold water, hands stretched out to your sides slightly, you shook from the very core of your being. Your muscles had already become stiff and crowded, the clothes and armour you wore felt constricted, the very hemming of your collar felt like it was strangling you.

“You still have grace, dear. It just seems to be wanting you to do something different with yourself. It’s telling you that your destiny is not the Elden Ring. Shouldn’t this be good news to you considering your hesitance?”

He was logical, and finding the Elden Ring certainly wasn’t something you wanted.

“But I need to do it. My very existence was created on that fact.”

You were still shaking, but the embers of anguish and wrath had started to glow. It felt unjust to you, that this would happen so late in your journey. All that training since birth, gone to waste.

“Oh Lambkin, It will be okay. Why don’t we talk to a friend? They might know something of this.”

“But I have none.”

“Ah, but I do. Come now, it’s only a short distance. Just down to the church of Elleh.”

You could tell he was panicking slightly, but he tried to keep it in for your comfort. You were a spirit in limbo, all directions felt too far for you, but you still crawled your way out of that burrow of self-pity to take the hand of Varre.

You both trudged down the hill towards the glowing church, the closer you got the more you saw the ruins it was in and the site of grace. But that was not the only thing illuminating it. The warm glow of fire encompassed the back wall of the ruin dancing ever so slightly. It was easy to see in the darkness of the night. Looking up you realised that this is the first time you’ve seen stars. The fog surrounding your home town only allowed for the moon to shine through, but tonight you realised that there was more than just the moon up there. It was close to distracting you from the contortions of your heart and the headache that throbbed at your crown.

You glanced over at the Sentinel making his rounds, you were walking closer to him. This prickled your skin especially with his foreboding helmet of gold following you as you went past. The horse he sat upon was well behaved and only flicked its head slightly to shake away a glowing bug that landed on its nose. You looked around the land, to find specks of glowing bugs everywhere and the soft caress of the moon shining on every surface. The air was chilled, but that was comforting against the heat of your distress. The air filled your lungs with renewal, it woke your mind up from the maorose sea of sludged guilt and bleakness. 

Even with the current circumstances, you had not felt this alive in a while. In fact you never had felt so much in your lifetime. It was like something inside of you was awoken in this land. Like it was breathing with you, and moved with you. You were like a stormy planet, violent swirls of rain and rocks moving across your surface while your core stayed unchanging.

You were now just hiccupping and the cold air of the night had dried your tears for you. The soft cling of grass grounded you and the warm grip of Varre led you to the entrance of the ruins.

Inside was a grace site in the centre and to the very back right corner camped a man and a mule. He stared at you two as you made your way over, timidly you hid behind Varre.

Once you reached the grace site, Varre told you to wait there and play around with it. He continued on to greet the stranger, standing together and talking in hushed whispers.

You crouched down to take off your glove only to realise you left it behind. It stung your heart a bit to have done so but you continued on and reached towards the illuminated wisp. Once again connecting to the pool of grained grace, you felt calmed and comforted. It was like it felt your sorrows and held you close. You tried something different this time, you tried to empty your mind, like the monks back in your hometown. It was hard to untangle your mind from the self-pity and thorns of wrath that caught you, but once you had somewhat cleared your mind it happened.

You felt the pool increase around you, you could feel the boundaries of the walls and the movements of all the livin things around you. In the distance the rocking of the large horse caught your attention, then the slight movements of Varre and the stranger in the corner. You could feel one of the hopping creatures stir in its sleep in the burrow by the ruin. The grass danced in waves and the cool air complimented the warmth of grace. Everything felt alright.

You then felt Varre and the stranger walk towards you, you focused on that movement of grace. It was like you could feel their curiosity, the tilt of their heads and the glances between them.

“I have not seen this before.” It came from the stranger. Just a quiet whisper but it was like the grains were moving his voice closer to you. You opened your eyes to see them just a few feet away staring at the glowing of your arm.

Your arm should not be glowing like that, like the very flesh and bone had been replaced by the ethereal. Disconnecting from the grace site did not stop it either, for it kept glowing slightly, whorls of grace making up your skin and pure gold your bones. The sensations were still there as you tried wiping it off with the linen cloth of your skirt, but nothing came off except for the ever-present glow.

Varre moved closer towards you, you could feel his movements and went to examine your arm. The stranger stood close to him. Varre turned your arm this way and that, he then gave you a pinch.

“How did that feel?”

“Fine, I guess. It didn’t hurt, if that was what you meant.”

“I pinched your arm pretty hard.”

“I felt the force, just not the pain.”

“Hmmm…”

He seemed deep in thought as the stranger went up to have a look. He was gaunt and covered half his face with a cloth. His clothing was strange, red with tufts of white fluff around the borders. His skin was ashen grey dry from the sun, joints and ligaments showing through as he moved his hands.

“This is Kale, he’s a merchant that wonders these parts. I thought that he might have some information to help us, but it seems as though I was wrong.”

“You are certainly a peculiar Tarnished.” His voice was soft and pleasant.

“Her name is Morte. She doesn’t like being called Tarnished, and at this point I don’t think she is.”

“You’re right, Tarnished aren’t usually blessed with powers like this. I heard whispers that near the Erd tree there used to be maidens with similar powers. They would dance around at night and by day they care for the surroundings of the tree.”

“But she’s not from here, so how could she have acquired something like this.”

Kale took a while to think.

“I don’t know, maybe that’s her path.”

“If it was then she would have been led to the Erd tree by a path. It just keeps her there at the sites.”

“Maybe that is the path? Maybe her’s is the land she’s on.”

You were standing there, letting them discuss amongst themselves while you examined your arm. You felt more assured now that you have two people trying to aid you, but at this point you just wanted to focus on something more elating than the point of your existence. So you started to rock side-to-side as you thought of the Erd tree maidens. Their life seemed so joyful and simple, much more simple than finding the Elden Ring. You started to wish that you were born an Erd tree maiden instead of some small girl from a fogged land. To be with sisters with the same goal, dancing around with fits of laughter and murph while by day you took care of the grounds of your home in contemplation and ease.

“Can we continue this some other time? I feel tired.” Your voice was small but they still heard your plea.

“Certainly, Lambkin. Let’s get you some rest.” His voice was soft and warm and you realised that you can still feel everything in grace. It was pleasant.

They wanted to set you up by the fire where you could be kept warm, but you insisted on staying by the grace site to play around with it more. So there you were, sitting cross-legged with your grace arm outstretched. Focused once again. You can feel the familiarity of Varre and Kale’s conversion as they sat by the fire, the very shifting of their bodies could be detected through the grace. You could perceive everything but it was not overwhelming, nor was it confusing. You just could and it felt right.

Just maybe you could exist like this, instead of a high priestess with the Elden Ring. After-all, power never excited you.

You lay down, curled on your side by the site. Eyes fixed on its glow as you felt true peace. The anguish was replaced with assurance and you were fortified with the knowledge that there were people similar to you. Your face relaxed and so did your body as you reached your hand towards the site, playing around with the wisps of grace as you dozed off. Turning your head towards the sky, the stars held your eyes in their celestial hands as the Earth cradled your drifting form.

…

You woke from your slumber with the tickle of dew covered grass and the light of the waking sun. You still faced the sky and clouds clothed in dawn greet you with a good morning. The birds were chirping and through the tree the wind rushed. The crackling of the fire behind you told you that last night was real. Usually the morning after you cried there would come a headache, but you felt the opposite this time. You felt like you were made anew. Stretching as you sat up, you let out a sigh and looked around. The ruins were just as beautiful in the light. Reaching your new hand to the site you connected with it once again, it felt comforting to do so. You felt the land around you move as you breathed in and out, it felt nice just being able to exist for once. Even though you panicked last night about the lack of a path, you felt better  now and more assured. 

Varre and Kale were snoozing by the fire, you could sense their chests rising and falling. The mule was laying there with his head on Kale’s lap, ear flicking every once and a while. The morning air was fresh and the sunrise warmed your back. You were now under his veil too.

You decided to get up to look around by yourself. You made your way out of the church, running your new hand along the cool stone. Grass covered the ground in clumps that had you walking carefully, the sun had fully emerged from the horizon, its golden rays glittered in the dew drops covering everything. It looked like everything was covered in grace. The sky was clear with fluffy clouds sparse in its field, coloured in pastels that you had never seen before.

There was a rising deep inside of you, as though a metamorphosis ws taking place. The muscles of your heart snuggled together. Your whole body felt the exhilaration of finally understanding what a new day was.

You started to giggle, legs giddy as you pranced around. You grabbed your skirt in your hands and began to sway. Slightly to your right lay the colosseum ruins and before you was the ruins you came from. The wind twirled the locks of your hair between their fingers as you floated around Limgrave.

You felt like you belonged with the roots of the trees and the dancing grass, it felt like you were home.

You pranced around a bit more when you felt a presence behind you, one that was very familiar. Stiffening up you slowly turned around to face the Sentinel. He was even more intimidating up close. He towered over you, armour glistening in the morning sun. His horse was by his side and let out a huff of curiosity, staring and your small form. You did not move a muscle, as if he would not perceive you. It was sickening, the fear you felt, the way your gut contorted and your heart pressed itself against your spine. The horse stretched its head towards you, snuffling the air for your scent. It was gentle as its nose grazed your arms with huffs of air. 

Your eyes were tearing up, you could not die this early. The Sentinel had not moved, but you knew he was staring right at you while his horse investigated. Finally he huffs and a fog of air escapes his helmet. Tugging the lead of his horse, he moved past you. You fell to the ground with relief, the Sentinel seemed to have not been interested in you, a small victory for the morning.

[its-jaytothemee]

Until I Met You - Chapter 28

Chapter 28: Shadows of Grief

Pairings: Halsin x Tav

Word count: 5,041

Rating: Currently M, will be Explicit in later chapters.

Read on AO3

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Summary: Tav encounters a familiar face among the shadows. Part 28 of the slow burn fic. Tav and Halsin POVs.

Tags: Slow burn, mutual pining, hurt/comfort, emotional hurt/comfort, fluff, eventual love confessions, eventual smut, angst, implied past rape/non-con and abuse, graphic description of injuries, brief suicidal thoughts.

A/N: If you were heartbroken at the end of the last chapter I have good news!! it gets worse.

“Tev?” Tav called out to him again.

She fell back onto the damp soil, staring in horror at the twisted version of her brother before her. Time seemed to slow down, her ears were ringing and the tears in her eyes blurred her vision. All of the air had been knocked from her lungs, making her chest heavy with grief as she gasped to catch her breath. The sight of Tev’aron consumed her, causing her trap of vines to disappear and allow the other enemies to approach unimpeded.

“Tav? TAV! What is she doing?!” She could hear Karlach trying to get her attention but couldn’t bring herself to take her eyes off Tev.

“I’ve got it,” Gale yelled back as he unleashed a massive line of lightning through most of the shadows.

She squeezed her eyes shut, hoping it was all an illusion. A trick of the light, a cruel amalgam of her tired mind and the shadows stirring around her. Anything but this.

But when she opened them again, Tev’s twisted, snarling corpse had stood up once more and was stalking his way toward her. She looked up with pleading eyes, hoping that somehow she could still reason with this cursed shell of a man, that her brother was still in there somewhere.

Before she knew it, a flurry of jabs caused Tev’s body to fall to the ground, completely lifeless. With it, the small beacon of hope she had sheltered and kept lit for a hundred years – through winds and storms and gloom – was snuffed out in an instant.

“What in the hells was that Tav?!” Astarion yelled, standing above her. He was breathing heavily as he sheathed his daggers. Their other companions focused on taking down the last few enemies.

Tav didn’t respond, she just crawled over to Tev’s body and began to sob, laying her head on his chest. Every ounce of grief and sorrow she had locked away over the last century came crashing down on her. With a growling scream, she grabbed a nearby rock and hurled it into the darkness in front of them, desperate to relieve the despair she felt welling up inside of her.

“Fuck! Fuck this fucking curse! Fuck these shadows!” She sobbed and gagged in between the screams. “FUCK!”

She stood up and continued to grab anything she could find to throw – rocks, bones, clumps of dirt – screaming and cursing until her voice was hoarse and her lungs couldn’t take in enough air to make a sound.

Her companions moved out of the way to give her space, concern and confusion apparent on all their faces. Exhausted, she collapsed back down on the ground and lifted Tev up to hold his head against her chest. It had been a hundred years since she had seen his face. To see him like this now…

“Tev…I’m so sorry…” She whispered her sobbing apology over and over as her tears soaked into his matted curls. Her hands gently stroked his hair, pushing stray pieces from his face.

“Tav?” Astarion’s voice was much softer now.

She still couldn’t respond; she kept sobbing into his hair until her entire torso ached from the guttural cries. Her body rocked back and forth, knuckles turning white from gripping his body so tight. A warm, golden light shone behind her, and a moment later a pair of large arms wrapped around her shoulders. Halsin pulled her close to him as she clutched Tev against her chest.

“He deserved better than this,” she choked out with gasping breaths.

“I know, Tav. They all did,” he whispered against her temple.

“Who is he?” Gale asked quietly.

“Tev’aron…my brother.” She could barely get the words out before another wave of sobs took over her. “To think he’s been here all this time…”

“His suffering has ended now. He can be at peace.” Halsin tried to assure her.

“Peace? There’s no peace here. Look around you!” She was yelling again, unable to control her rising temper. “All hope and light have abandoned this place. What chance do we have against it?”

He recoiled slightly at her harsh words, adding a layer of guilt to her grief.

“We still have a chance, Tav. I have to believe that, and I think you do too.” She buried her head further into his chest. He placed one of his hands over hers, helping her hold Tev’s body up.

“I can’t leave him here,” she whispered as she stroked Tev’s cheek.

“Here, soldier. Let me.” Karlach had come over to kneel next to her, tear lines staining her cheeks. She held out her arms and helped lift his body off the ground. “We can at least give him a proper burial, yeah?”

Tav nodded, still sniffling, tears continuing to fall down her face. She allowed Karlach to take her brother’s body into her arms. Halsin helped her stand up, one arm around her shoulders to steady her. Gale appeared on her other side, offering an arm for her to take.

They made the short walk back to their camp where Karlach carefully set Tev’s body on the ground at the edge of the small clearing. Tav sat down next to him and reached out to hold one of his hands. She ran her other hand over his hollow, sunken cheeks. The feel of his cold skin brought more tears to her eyes, he was always so warm. His tattoo was just barely visible beneath the dirt and grime coating his entire body, the tattoo that they had gotten together after she joined the Harpers. At some point, Lunari had made her way over to her, resting her head in Tav’s lap with a low whine.

She could hear the others quietly explaining what happened to the rest of the party. Their words were soft enough that she couldn’t make out the details, but she didn’t care. 

Karlach came to sit with her after a while, putting a warm arm around her shoulders.

“I’m really sorry, soldier. I wish I could have met him.” Karlach sniffled with her words.

“You would have liked each other, I think. He always did have a weakness for the tough ones. You would have had him wrapped around your finger the moment he saw you throw a goblin across the room.” Tav smiled weakly as she leaned into Karlach.

“I like the sound of that. That means we could have been sisters, you and me.” Karlach gave a light laugh.

“We don’t need Tev for that. I’m happy to call you my sister anyway.” The tears in Tav’s eyes spilled over again. “I think I could use a sister right about now.”

She hugged Karlach tighter, grateful for the extra warmth. They sat there together for a while, Tav telling stories from their childhood. How Tev always snuck her extra fruit tarts, and how he was the one who first taught her how to use a bow. She told Karlach about the day the curse was released, how she and Tev had been separated for weeks due to the fighting.

Eventually, Halsin joined them. He knelt on the other side of Tav and took one of her hands.

“We’re ready when you are, my friend. Let us help you give him peace.” He helped her stand as Karlach picked Tev up again.

They joined the rest of their companions just outside of the camp, a small grave had been dug into the dirt in front of them. Tav took a deep, shaky breath and followed Karlach over to them. She took a moment to whisper one final goodbye in Tev’s ear, giving him a soft kiss on the top of his head.

As Karlach moved to set him down, a small piece of parchment in his jacket pocket caught her eye. She quickly snatched the envelope. It was a letter with a name scribbled on the front.

Ria M.

She took the letter and held it against her chest before stashing it in her pocket. She didn’t have the strength to read it here and now.

Slowly, Karlach lowered Tev into the narrow grave. The others had a light sheet to place over his body. As the thin fabric fell over his head, the tears came back with a vengeance as she realized that it was truly the last time she would see his face. Gale appeared at her side, presenting her with a shovel. With shaking hands, she took the tool from him and scooped up a small pile of dirt.

“Beneath the sun. Beneath the moon,” she began in Elvish as she dumped the shovel full of dirt into the grave.

“My spirit like leaves, blown far to sea. I sail away to night eternal.” More dirt covering his body as Tav’s hands began to work furiously to shovel the soft soil over him.

“Do not mourn.” Her voice caught on the words, the tears running down her cheeks to mix with the dirt stuck there. Her breathing became more and more ragged each time she drove the shovel into the ground.

“I shall be reborn...”

Tav’s hands slipped along the handle of the shovel, causing her to fall to the ground. She stayed kneeling there, clutching the shovel against her as she sobbed.

“Yet my heart shall always be with you.” Halsin finished the prayer as he took the shovel from her and moved in another batch of dirt. The others took turns moving the rest of it. They all helped her place rocks along the top to protect the fresh grave.

Tav knelt at the edge of her brother’s final resting place. The heartbreak she felt was unlike any she had experienced before, paralyzing her, making her numb to the cool evening air. Halsin placed a comforting hand on her shoulder causing her to lean into his touch.

“I’m sorry my friend, but I must make haste to Last Light. If I can speak with the Flaming Fist there, I may be able to find a way for us to be rid of these shadows forever.” His voice was so hopeful, she hated how bitter it made her feel.

“Of course. I’m sure a couple of the others would be happy to help get you back there.” She tried to smile at him even as her lips trembled. He gave her a puzzled look in response, like he had hoped she would still accompany him.

“I just need some time alone. Don’t worry, I won’t go far.” She grabbed a nearby torch and turned to walk away.

“I understand.” His voice was low and reserved.

Tav had selfishly hoped that he would offer to stay with her. But she understood. The sooner he could find out a way to be rid of these shadows for good, the better. She hoped the disappointment wasn’t too obvious in her expression. Lunari followed her, but Tav stopped and held out her hand.

“No, girl. Stay here.” The wolf whined in protest, but dropped her haunches into the dirt.

As she made her way towards the trees, dragging her feet in the dirt, she somehow managed to keep the rest of her tears in her eyes until she was out of view of the camp.

***

Halsin watched Tav shuffle away into the dark, her shoulders slumped and head hung low. He vividly remembered the feeling of seeing someone you love warped by this vicious curse. Despite his numerous friends and allies that fell here, he had been lucky to avoid such an ordeal since they had returned.

“You should go talk to her.” Karlach walked up beside him. “She’ll listen to you.”

“I have no words that can comfort this kind of grief, Karlach. She just needs time.” Even as he said the words, he didn’t truly believe them. “My focus must return to banishing these shadows, once and for all. For Tav and her brother…for everyone.” His chest tightened with each syllable.

“Hmph. I guess I was wrong then.” She sounded disappointed, maybe even angry.

“What do you mean?” he asked, confused. Karlach let out a long sigh.

“I thought that you liked her, that you cared about her, y’know? The way you two pair up around camp cuddling in front of the fire, the way you flirt even though you’re both terrible at it. Don’t think we haven’t all noticed how she’s the first person you check for injuries whenever we return to camp.” Karlach gave him a small smile.

“I do care for her, but you don’t know what you’re asking of me, Karlach. I’ve waited over a hundred years for this chance. I…I can’t risk losing it.” That familiar pull in his chest was irresistible, yearning to drag him after Tav. The invisible tether binding their hearts together was pulled even tighter with every step she took away from him.

“You wouldn’t even have that chance if it wasn’t for her!” Karlach yelled before releasing a heavy sigh to calm herself.

“If you’ve really waited that long, Halsin…what’s a couple more hours?” Her voice was softer now as she placed a warm hand on his shoulder.

Halsin considered her words for a moment. The last century worth of meditations and prayers had been filled with desperate pleas for answers, for knowledge. Knowledge that he could finally put to use. He thought back to his growing despair every time he reached out to try and find Thaniel, only to be met with silence. He thought back to the defeat he felt at his capture, truly believing he would die at the hands of the goblins, believing he had lost the chance to banish these shadows.

Then, he thought of Tav.

Alone, grieving, and full of guilt…just as he had been all those years ago. Just as he still was now. No one had come to comfort him. He had just been named Archdruid, he was given no time to mourn. Tav was the one who came to his rescue, she was the beacon of hope he had prayed for over the last century, his guiding light in a world of darkness. Thinking of her alone, surrounded by shadow was enough to nearly knock him to his knees.

Oak Father, forgive me.

Halsin took a deep breath and patted Karlach’s hand on his shoulder.

“You are a good friend, Karlach.” She grinned back at him. He started to move forward but turned back to her.

“Am I really that bad at flirting?” he asked.

“Yes,” Astarion’s voice called out from somewhere behind Karlach, she let out a loud laugh.

“Not as bad as Tav though. Go on, go get your girl, bear man.” She was still smiling at him.

He grabbed a torch and ran after Tav.

***

Tav didn’t know where she was going, just that she couldn’t sit around the campfire with everyone tonight. In her heart, she always knew that Tev had died, but some deep, dark part of her held on to the smallest sliver of hope. She hoped in her worst nights that he had escaped somewhere, that he was scouring the lands of Faerûn so they could be together once more. That hope kept her going through countless lows, the hope that maybe, just maybe, she could find her brother again.

Now, what did she have? A group of battered, exhausted adventurers, plagued with mind flayer tadpoles and a host of other problems. Hopeless pining after a druid who seemed so afraid of his past that he wasn’t willing to look for a future. Hundreds of years of life ahead of her, with no family and no one to share it with.

She stopped at a large tree with huge roots sticking out of the ground. There was a little divot between the roots big enough for her to sit in. She drove the end of her torch into the cold dirt, sitting next to it and leaning against the rough trunk. The ever-present chill in the air reminded her of her creeping loneliness. Pulling her legs close to her chest, she allowed her grief to consume her. The headache forming behind her eyes protested at her sobs. Her eyelids fluttered closed, desperate for rest she knew wouldn’t come.

Suddenly, she was sprinting through the streets of the Lower City, the cool stone scraping her bare feet. Tav’ahria was desperately trying to keep up with Tev’aron who was attempting to lead her to a safe house. They hadn’t said a word since they fled the party, they only ran. 

What remained of the train of her gown kept snagging on various objects as she dashed through alleys and around corners after Tev. And each time she would slice a shred of the soft fabric free with the dagger he had given her, frantically trying to keep herself from slowing down. She wasn’t sure if they were even being followed anymore, but she didn’t dare spare a glance behind her.

Eventually, Tev stopped and grabbed her arm to pull her into an inn. She took a moment to catch her breath, wiping away the sweat dripping from her brow. Many of the tiny braids weaved into her hair had come loose and were sticking out from her head in a wild pattern. The skirt of her dress hung around her knees in tattered shreds from cutting away the snagged pieces.

“Wait here, Ria. Don’t talk to anyone until I return.” He squeezed her shoulders lightly and disappeared into the small crowd.

She leaned her head back against the wall as she scanned the room before her. Patrons of all shapes, sizes, and colors talked and laughed among the tables. Pretty, young barmaids navigated their way around the room with expertise, spinning around drunken customers while delivering drinks and cleaning tables. 

The room had a liveliness that was unfamiliar to her. She had attended her fair share of parties and balls, but none felt as alive as this gathering in front of her. She was used to polite, idle chatter and elegant, stuffy music echoing off grand walls. But here…everyone was loud and crude, the only music came from a bard off in the corner who was being drowned out by those singing along to his songs.

The singing was terrible, the bard’s lute was in need of a good tuning, and the smell of ale mixed with something unidentifiable made her stomach churn a bit. Yet somehow, it was the most beautiful sight she had ever seen in her long life. It took her a moment to identify the feeling.

Freedom.

The laughs and chatter around her brought tears to her eyes. She ached to meld into the crowd. To laugh and drink and play cards until the sun started to rise. Without thinking, she took a step forward, longing to feel as carefree as everyone around her.

“Ria!” Tev reappeared beside her. “This way.” He tilted his head towards a door to the side of the building. He had grabbed a cloak and threw it around her shoulders, pulling the hood up over her head to obscure her appearance. 

She gave one last wistful look to the room behind her as he pulled her into another alley. Tears flowed down her cheeks, cooling her face with the evening breeze.

“Hey, hey…” Tev turned to face her once they were outside. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. Nothing at all.” She smiled up at him as she wiped the tears away using the cloak he had given her. Unable to help herself, she started to laugh uncontrollably. He gave her a worried look.

“I’m free…I can do what I want. I can laugh and drink and curse and dance and…” The smile on her face kept getting wider and wider. “I can do whatever it is normal people do. Why did I wait this long? Why did I stay there?”

Tev gave her a hug that threatened to crush her spine. She hugged him back and cried into his shoulder.

“Come on, our ride should be here any minute. The Harpers have enclaves everywhere, we can lay low for a while to make sure we’re safe.” Tev pulled away and smiled down at her.

He led her to the edge of the alley where it met the road, peering around the corner. A small horse-drawn cart was making its way towards them. It slowed as it approached the alley, and Tev quickly tugged her toward the back of it. He pulled her up to sit among the crates and barrels as it resumed its traveling speed. The person up front turned to give a nod to Tev, which he returned. The cart bounced along the cobblestone roadways as it made its way toward the outskirts of the Lower City, causing their shoulders to bump together periodically.

A welcome fog started to settle over the city, giving them even more cover to make their escape. The lights dimmed in the mist as it swirled around her face to form a light layer of cold moisture on her skin.

Tav’ahria wrapped the cloak she was wearing tight around her body, trying to fight off the evening chill. Tev put one arm around her shoulders and pulled her close to him. She sighed as she leaned on his shoulder, her eyelids starting to feel heavy.

“You came back,” she whispered.

“Of course I did.” He leaned his head down to rest on hers. “I’ll always come back for you, Ria.”

Tav blinked and returned to the shadows, still as heavy and dark as they were one hundred years ago. She had searched for Tev for months after the curse was unleashed. Desperately seeking anyone who had witnessed the battle to inquire about his whereabouts. For years after, she kept tabs on Harper safe houses and enclaves, hoping that he would make his way through their underground network. No one knew his fate, whether he fell to a sword or succumbed to the curse, or if he was hiding out somewhere, still alive and awaiting a rescue that would never come.

But she knew now. He had been trapped here all this time, being warped by this wicked, unnatural darkness. The guilt she felt was crushing her, she felt unable to move under its weight.

“I should have come back for you, Tev…” she whispered the words, knowing they would disappear into the shadows.

Who would come back for her now? Who would drag her from these nightmares and run with her to safety?

You’re just a lonely little flower again, wilting away in the dark.

***

Tav’s footprints led Halsin to a small, nearby clearing. There was a large tree at its edge, and he found her curled up against the trunk, nestled among bulky roots. He called out to her in a gentle voice.

“Tav?” No response, only stifled sniffles. He took a few more steps toward her.

“May I come sit?” he asked, waiting for any invitation to do so. She nodded, the movement barely visible with her shoulders heaving.

He sat close to her, the rough bark of the tree scratching against his clothing. Tentatively, he reached out to place a hand on her back. Her shoulders were tense, and it felt like her entire body was shaking.

“I thought you were going back to Last Light.” Her voice was raspy and strained.

“It can wait just a bit longer. I think I belong here with you right now.” Karlach’s words echoed in his mind.

“I’m so sorry you had to see him like this, Tav…” he trailed off, slowly stroking her back.

“I can’t stand the thought of him being here, Halsin. Buried away in a strange land, without even the sun to shine on his grave.”

A sadness most familiar to him as well. His entire family had passed, but at least they rested in their home of High Forest. There was little he wouldn’t do to ensure they didn’t have to spend eternity in a place like this.

“It doesn’t have to be this way forever.” His own voice was beginning to crack. “We can bring the light back to Moonrise.”

She turned to look at him, her face lined with the trails from her tears. Not a trace of hope could be seen in her reddened eyes. He held his other arm out, inviting her to come lean against him. Her bottom lip started quivering, and she dove into his arms, burying her face in his shoulder. She had both arms wrapped tight around his waist, clinging to him as if he was her only anchor to the ground. The sudden movement startled him, but he quickly relaxed into her warm embrace.

“I’m sorry I yelled at you,” she mumbled into his shirt between sobs.

“You have nothing to apologize for. I know all too well the pain of being back in this accursed forest.” He leaned his head down to rest on hers.

They sat huddled against the tree together. The only sounds were Tav’s cries, slowly calming as she relaxed in his arms. He felt a surprising amount of relief sitting here, holding her.

I have given you all that you need. Find your balance. You know the way.

The Oak Father’s words drifted to the front of his mind.

Perhaps you don’t have to do this alone.

Halsin was the one to finally break the silence.

“For decades I have begged Silvanus’s favor, desperate for answers. I have been so consumed by grief and despair, so convinced that I had to banish this ancient evil on my own, that I could not see the gift he finally sent me.” He paused to take a deep breath before continuing.

“Even when she dragged me from the maws of the goblin camp.”

Tav tilted her head to look up at him, wiping a line of tears and snot from her face. A few of the stray hairs from her braid were now stuck to her cheeks.

“Now that I have you here with me, I’ve come to realize that I cannot do this alone.” Admitting this to her was a weight being lifted from his shoulders. He peeled the stray strands from her face and tucked them behind her ears.

“Do you really have a way to lift the curse?” she asked.

“Perhaps. I won’t know for sure until I can talk with the Flaming Fist. If Thaniel is alive, I need more information to guide me. I can’t just charge in blind, or I’ll likely end up lost myself.” He could hear the frustration creeping into his voice.

Tav studied him for a while. With each passing moment, the look in her eyes became more and more intense.

“Then…we’ll find a way to wake him up. We won’t leave this place until the shadows are banished. Forever.” There was a sudden strength in her words that made his heartbeat quicken.

“I’ve already asked so much of you.” The strength in his own words faltered as hers grew.

“You aren’t asking. I’m offering.” Her eyes had cleared and the hopelessness he had seen before was now replaced with determination. “If you think it can be done, we’ll make it happen.”

Halsin’s breathing became unsteady, looking into her eyes brought all the desire of the past weeks to the front of his mind. Finally, he had someone to share this burden with, someone who understood his pain. For so long, he had pushed away any possible distraction, and now he found himself so close to achieving his goals…but that selfish ache returned to his chest.

He leaned forward to rest his forehead on hers before giving her the softest of kisses. Their lips just barely brushed against each other. It was all he could afford right now. The light touch was still enough to send his heart aflutter.

She blinked at him a few times after he pulled away. A surprised smile pulled at the corners of her mouth. He took one of her hands in his and held it against his chest.

“I care about you, Tav,” he whispered, struggling to contain the urge to take her into his arms for the night, to feel every inch of her skin pressed against his own. “I know that you wish for us to be more than this but…” He closed his eyes and sighed.

“My guilt and my duty to this land have weighed on me for some time. One day I hope my heart will be free to roam again but until then…I’m afraid that this is all I have to offer for now.” He looked down at the ground, almost ashamed to admit it.

Tav’s other hand came up to rest on his cheek, her thumb tracing the lines on his face. She moved her hand up to the hair falling around his ears, allowing her fingers to gently run through the strands. He squeezed his eyes shut and leaned into her touch.

“I’ll take it.”  She put her head back down on his shoulder and hugged him closer to her. He wrapped his arms back around her to hold her in place, a relieved sigh escaping from his lips.

I’ll take it.

He never knew those three words could sound so sweet.

“Okay, enough wallowing.” Tav sniffled after a few minutes and stood up, wiping the tears from her face. “We need to get you to Last Light.”

“Are you sure? If you’re not feeling up for it yet, I’m sure the others can get me there.”

“I’m sure. Let’s send this curse back up Shar’s fucking ass where it belongs.” She held her hand out to help him up. A proud grin came over his face.

There’s that righteous rage.

“I need no further encouragement.” Halsin let her pull him to his feet. She threw her arms around his neck once more in a hug.

“Thank you, Halsin,” she whispered against his shoulder.

“Anytime, Tav.” He pulled her tight against him as he buried his face in the crook of her neck. She tried to pull away, but he held her there a few moments longer, not quite ready to let go and face his destiny just yet.

[straykids-97]

Ruby

“Ambition like a liquid ruby stain.” 

Mingi is an educated man in all aspects…

Warnings: Vampire!Mingi, innocent!reader (a little ditzy but we still love her), slight dom/sub dynamics, obvious age gap, friends-to-lovers, mentions of Mingi being lonely, mentions of blood, marking, unprotected sex, exhibitionism (if you squint). Lmk if I forgot anything. 

Word Count: 2.1k (kind of self-indulgent… Heh.) 

A.N: If anyone wants a part two to this please lmk! :) Also don’t mind while I go off on a tangent… Mingi is a few hundred years old whereas the reader is implied to be in her early 20s. Ik the age gap bothers some people but it’s not like the reader is supposed to be underage. If this bother’s you, then DO NOT read this. Anyway, enjoy it for those who want to read :) 

Your favorite pastime in your small, quiet town was to visit the trails. You’d often hike to a calm spot near the brook to read a book, finding consolation in being solitary. The tranquil environment made you happy, it was better than the noisy house that you lived in with your family. The invitation of staying home while studying at college was clearly a mistake, after all, you loved your family, but it made studying hard. 

This is where you found yourself now; studying for midterms in the warm undergrowth of the familiar forest you spent most of your time in. Spread out before you on the blanket you were sitting on was your notes and two other textbooks. You groan, leaning your head back against a tree. You take a deep breath, closing your eyes as you sit there. You reopen your eyes and glanced forward, seeing a man standing a few feet from you. You gasp, holding your chest, “Oh, no,” he panicked, holding his hands up in defense, “I didn’t mean to startle you.” You feel your heart running away in its cage as you take in the man's looks. 

He is tall, and lean, wearing jeans and a loose-fitting shirt. You could see veins running up from his hands to his forearms, where they disappeared into his biceps. His soft dark hair was parted down the middle, revealing his sweet-looking brown eyes. He didn’t look like someone who was out for a hike, but then again, neither did you. 

“What are you doing out here all by yourself?” 

That question was the first of many. Mingi was an interesting young man, to say the least. He was well-traveled and seemed to know quite a bit about just about everything. When you asked him how he could know so much, he simply smiled and said, “Being lonely can get boring. So I found things to do in my loneliness.” Whenever you asked him about his family, he would always give you that same soft smile and tell you that he was alone. It made you sad; you could see the gloom in his eyes whenever he talked about being desolate. But, sometimes you just couldn’t help yourself when it came to Mingi. Your family adored him and spent a lot of time with him as well. He was always polite, but never seemed to get close to anyone… But you. It was odd. But part of you didn’t seem to care. As the months turned into years and you were now in your final year of college, you found comfort in seeing Mingi. 

When you found out the huge secret a year ago, you spent time apart. Unsure of how to really feel about it. At first, you didn’t believe him, but then when he showed you, it scared you. And that’s why you distanced yourself for a few months. But, it was hard. Mingi had become a bit of a habit in your life, and it felt empty when he wasn’t around. Eventually, you apologized and now, you two were inseparable. 

Today, you were settled on a blanket, nose-deep in your favorite book when Mingi joined you. “Good afternoon, Y/n.” He said formally, making you snort. “Good afternoon, Grandpa.” You snap the book closed and look up at your friend. He chuckled once and flopped beside you, “You know I hate that.” He pinched your leg, making you yelp. “Not so hard!” You cry, swatting his arm. “Don’t be a brat and I won’t pinch you then.” He retorted, making you roll your eyes. “That was hardly being a brat.” Mingi released an annoyed sigh but appeared to let it go. For now. 

“How’s studying going?” He asked, nudging the book so he could read the binding. “English 4. I thought you were done with this class?” He questioned. “I am. But, I’m re-reading it for an assignment.” You roll your eyes, tossing the book. You gasp as Mingi grips your wrist; not enough to hurt you, but to warn. “Enough of this attitude of yours.” He growls. Mingi rarely got frustrated with you, when he did, he never lashed out or yelled. He just got very quiet. Like he did just now. 

“What attitude?” You grumble, yanking your hand away from him. “You’ve had it for the last week. What’s wrong?” he demands, staring into your soul. Your eyes shift away, feeling uneasy. You hated and loved how he did that; saw straight through everything. Right into the depths of your mind, almost as if he could read it. Though, you knew he couldn’t. But sometimes it makes you wonder. You chalked it up to him being old, being able to read people because of his experience that came with age.

“Y/n…” he warned. You finally lament, “I’m just stressed.” You admit, leaning against his shoulder. “This is my last year of school, and then I’ll really be an adult. I’ll be job searching by the beginning of next semester… And then…” You make a falling gesture, almost like a roller coaster going downhill, “Kaboom.” You sigh, “I’ll be married, with probably 3 kids, and divorced before 40.” Mingi stiffens at the word ‘married’, causing you to turn at him. “...and stuck in an endless loop of work, work, work until I retire at the ripe age of 70.” You notice that his fists are balled at his sides, making you frown. “What’s wrong, Mingi? Did I say something to upset-” he stops you. “What if…” He stops, almost as if he wasn’t ready to say what he wanted to. “What if what, Min?” You soften as you look at his stone features. His gaze is a million miles away, but his face remains expressionless. “What if you didn’t have to get old? Like me?” Your face pales, “Mingi… What are you talking about?” 

“What if… What if I wanted you to join my Coven?” His question makes your blood still. “Really?” Your voice was so soft that you didn’t trust he could hear you at first. But you knew he could. “Yes. What if I want you to be with me… Forever?” Mingi turns to face you, holding your cheek. You gulp, seeing his eyes now burning with an emotion you’ve only seen a few times in your life. 

Lust. Passion. Desire. 

“Tell me, y/n, that you want it too.” He breathes, his voice barely above a whisper. Your eyes bounce between his and his lips. “Tell me that I’m not alone in this feeling, please.” He pleads. Mingi pulls you into his embrace, holding your hip as he takes a deep breath. “Your heart is racing, y/n.” He notes, making you shudder. It was racing, but you weren’t scared. You hadn’t been scared of Mingi in a long, long, long time. Was it the excitement that made your heart race, or was it partially fear? Fear of the unknown, fear of what’s to come if you say yes. 

His eyes swirl to ruby, making you melt. You had only seen this happen twice, once when he caught you kissing an ex-boyfriend at a party and one time before your period. You mewl softly, “Mingi-” you melt into his body and he groans, “Please don’t tease me with probably, y/n. I need a definite answer.” His lips were centimeters from yours. Your head was swimming, you forgot about the space around you, forgetting that you were in the forest, forgetting that Mingi was a vampire. The only thing that was on your mind was sex. 

“Mingi, please.” You begged. His eyes were an intense ruby, “Tell me, y/n. Yes or no.” His voice was calm, precise, seductive. “Yes.” You panted. “A thousand times. Yes.” Mingi lets out a frustrated hiss and pulls you into his chest and rolls you onto your back, shoving your school books to the side. He wastes no time with the fabric that separated you two. In his fervor, he accidentally tore your shirt, “Opps.” He chuckles, lips attacking yours and hips grinding against the spot that craved him most. 

Words evaded your mind and you couldn’t think of anything at the moment. Only him and what you wanted him to do to you. 

He pulled the last piece of clothing that separated you both and licked his two first fingers, “Can’t skip foreplay, can we?” You feebly shake your head as his fingers dance along your wet core, making him chuckle, “Maybe we don’t need foreplay after all?” He teased. Mingi pressed his fingers into you, immediately finding that gooey spot that all the guys before him never could find. Your back arches, and his free hand pins you to the ground. His lips find a spot on your neck, sucking and nibbling as he flicked his fingers inside of you. You felt the world spin as he continued his slow, tortuous speed. “So sweet. All of you.” He groaned, pulling his fingers out of you. You gasp, and the lack of feeling sent you reeling into the atmosphere, “Mi-” You began to protest but the feeling of his cock pressing against you made you stop. Earning a chuckle from Mingi, “If I knew this would shut you up, I would have done this a long time ago.” He slowly rolled his hips forward until they were flush with yours; letting out a groan as he stilled. “Fuck, y/n.” His voice was shaky as he grabbed your thighs, pushing them against your stomach. He lifted your hips just enough for him to stroke deep inside of you. You gasp, eyes snapping open to see his ruby eyes staring into yours. His firm muscles tightened as he thrust, abs flexing as his hips moved against yours. Your small hands gripped his wrists, desperately trying to hold onto anything you could grab as he began to thrust harder. 

Your small moans turned into louder ones, your orgasm fast approaching. Mingi dropped your legs and put his hands on either side of your head, staring into your eyes as he moved. “Will you be mine? Forever, y/n?” He whimpered. You nod, “Yes. Yes, Mingi. Yes!” You cry, holding onto his muscular shoulders and wrapping your legs around his hips. He let out a loud groan, his mouth falling open. You could see his sharp incisors appear as he threw his head back, “Fuck!” He grunted, head lulling forward. 

It all happened so fast. 

Mingi gripped your chin, moving your head to expose your neck. He let out a throaty groan as he leaned into your neck, “This is about to be one of the best orgasms you’ll ever have, princess.” He pants. You gasp, his lips attaching to your neck. Next, you felt teeth pierce your skin, making you let out a shocked squeal. At first, it hurt, but after a few moments, a hot sensation filled your limbs. Mingi was right; this was about to be the best orgasm you had ever had. You shuddered, legs pulling Mingi closer to you and hands clawing at the skin of his back. “Fuck!” You cried, your orgasm rolling over you. The heat in your veins didn’t cease as he went faster, lips still attached to your neck. You let out a strangled moan as he held you prisoner, fucking you into oblivion. 

After a few moments of pure bliss, Mingi pulled away, your blood dripping down from the corners of his mouth. He held your hips as he pounded into you at a harsher pace, “Mine. All fucking mine.” His sharp teeth were still visible as he threw his head back again, emitting the most deep-sounding moan you had ever heard. Mingi’s hips faltered for a moment, and then he stilled, chest heaving for a few moments. You watched, completely exhausted as his eyes went to their usual chocolate brown and he slumped back onto his heels. His eyes danced up your body as he lay beside you, moving your hair out of the way to view the bite on your neck. “I hope it didn’t hurt.” He murmured. 

After a few moments, you catch your breath and reply, “Only for a moment.” You admit, before looking at him. “But, I think it’s worth it.” Your response made him smile brightly. Anyone else would have thought the blood smeared all over his chin would be terrifying, but it didn’t seem to bother you at all. Perhaps, Mingi’s vampiric ways were meant to find you. Maybe you two were meant to be… 

Maybe. Just maybe. 

Tags: @anyamaris @vibessonvibes@s3onghwaswifey @whatudowhennooneseesyou

Lmk if you want to be tagged!!

©️straykids-97

[cool-fancier]

Echoes of Regret

Synopsis: In a dimly lit room, you and Bada faced the scars of a troubled past. Bada expressed her pain, and you acknowledged your past mistakes. The room held heavy memories, and although you apologized and promised change, Bada remained skeptical. A fragile hope emerged, a chance to heal together, but the wounds of the past lingered. Tears fell, and the room felt heavy with the shadows of a love tainted by betrayal and errors.

A single, dimly lit lamp provided the room with a soothing glow that created long shadows that danced on the walls. You and Bada were seated across from one another, the weight of the past hanging over you.

"Every time I look at you," Bada began, her voice barely above a whisper, "all I see is the face of the person who once told me they loved me, that I was the only bright spark in their dark world."

Her words hung in the air, heavy with the weight of unspoken memories. The strange echoes of a history marked by both love and suffering seemed to take over the space.

You studied Bada's face, seeing the turmoil in her eyes, the mixture of anger and hurt that she had carried for so long. It had been a long journey to this moment, a journey filled with heartache and healing.

Bada's expression hardened as she continued, her words laced with bitterness. "But you will never find someone who loves a soul as filthy as yours."

The room appeared to hold its breath briefly as a result of the words' sharp cut.  The wounds from the past had not fully healed, leaving behind raw scars. You spent years trying to make apologies because you were aware that your actions had severely harmed Bada.

However, in this silent space, it felt like a moment of disclosing the truth no matter how difficult it might be.

You inhaled thoroughly, keeping your voice calm but apologetic.  "I'm sorry, Bada. I hurt you. I will never be able to fix the damage that I did you in the past."

Bada's attention stayed averted to you as she scanned your words for genuineness.  Her voice softened a little, "No, you can't," she answered.

You said, "But what I can do is prove to you that I've changed. That I have dedicated myself to improving myself for you and for us, that I have worked on my own and my weaknesses."

There was a flicker of uncertainty in Bada's eyes, a glimmer of hope buried beneath the layers of hurt. She once had a tremendous affection for you both, one that cut through the gloom in both of your lives. And perhaps, just perhaps, there was a chance for a fresh start.

As you anticipated Bada's reaction, the room appeared to hold its breath once more. The past still weighed heavily on everyone's shoulders, but there was also a sense of possibility—a chance to mend what had been torn apart.

A tentative smile formed on Bada's lips; it was a fragile but hopeful gesture. She mumbled, "Maybe, just maybe, we might figure out how to heal together."

There was a glimmer of hope at that exact moment, a possibility for love to once again find its way into the hearts of two souls who had experienced the darkest of storms, as the shadows danced on the walls and the past and present clashed.

However, the wounds were severe, and the scars left by the past were difficult to cover up. The atmosphere in the room appeared to become chillier as the grief grew heavier.

As Bada spoke, her voice quavered and unshed tears were visible in her eyes. "Do you remember the way you looked at me the night before you left, those eyes filled with despair?"

With sadness in your own eyes, you nodded. "I remember every second, every word, and the pain that I brought to you."

As Bada fought back tears, her shoulders began to tremble. "I remember you telling me that you loved me and that I was the only light in your dark world. You disappeared in a split second after that."

It seemed as though the walls were closing in on you both and were suffocating the two of you. You were separated by the scars of the past, which looked like a chasm that could never be crossed.

You softly touched Bada's hand with your shaky fingers. "Bada, I can never make up for the past. However, I want to make an effort and try to find a way to fix the harm that I did."

Now that she was crying uncontrollably, Bada wiped them away with the back of her hand. She cried out, "I don't know if I can ever trust you again," with a broken voice.

You had a crushing weight of sorrow and regret as you realised that the pain you had caused was irreparable. You mumbled, "I understand," your voice tinged with sadness.

The silence in the room grew heavier with the weight of the emotions that went unspoken. It was a sad moment of reckoning when the past and its terrible effects had to be faced.

You both remained still as the night drew on, locked in a wordless hug of sadness and sorrow. You two struggled with the memory of a love that had once burned brilliantly but had been coated by the darkness of mistakes and betrayal while the room remained poorly lighted and the shadows became deeper.

[valerileygreen]

@inception30daychallenge Day 17: How did the team spend the rest of the week on the first dream level?

2 days, 11 hours, 45 minutes.

That’s how long they’ve been here, and they still had almost 5 days before waking up.

Arthur was sure he’d go insane first. He hated sitting idly at the best of times, but here, with anxiety about Cobb and Saito’s fates and crippling guilt gnawing at him and nothing to distract him, it was a particular flavour of hell.

He let out a weary sigh and tightened his grip on the rail overlooking the city. He was alone. Eames still had a duty to look after Fisher and no one was talking to Yusuf right now. Ariadne had stayed with him for a while at first, relating what happened on the third level and Limbo and just keeping each other company, but when she decided to go back to their designated warehouse to rest he didn’t follow, needing to keep on the lookout for projections. 

It was admittedly a flimsy excuse, the projections had calmed down now that Fisher was, presumably, at peace with everything, and there were remarkably few of them in the area of the city the team had claimed for themselves at a distance from where Fisher was staying. But he had already fucked up far too much for one job, he wasn’t going to take any more risks.

He tensed as he heard approaching footsteps, but then he recognised who it was.

‘Eames. Shouldn’t you be with Fisher?’

‘But babysitting is so boring, darling. I reckoned your company would be more pleasant.’ Eames answered cheekily.

‘Piss off, Eames.’ Arthur turned away from him. ‘I’m not in the mood for your games.’

‘Mm, it appears I miscalculated the pleasantness of the occasion.’

Arthur snorted. ‘Seriously Eames, why are you here? In case you haven’t noticed we’re still in the middle of a job and you left the mark alone. Do you realize how irresponsible it is?’

‘Relax, Arthur. Fisher’s fine, I may also hazard that the inception worked. But he actually did ask for some time for himself, so…’ He shrugged. ‘I’ll just go check on him tomorrow.’ 

Eames leaned on the rail beside Arthur. ‘I’m more interested in seeing how you're holding up, honestly.’

Arthur rolled his eyes. ‘I’m fine.’

‘Ariadne doesn’t think so. And forgive me, Arthur, but looking at you,’ he gave Arthur a once-over with no trace of his usual leer. ‘I’m more inclined to believe her than you.’

Arthur scowled. ‘Ariadne can well mind her own damn business. And you as well.’ It came out less angry and more brittle than Arthur would have liked, and he looked away.

Eames gently bumped his shoulder to Arthur’s. ‘Come on, pet. Don’t be like that. You can’t blame her for being worried.’

‘I wish she didn’t. There’s no need.’

‘Debatable. And in any case it doesn’t work like that, I’m afraid. She’s a good sort. Did you know she’s already dragged Yusuf out of his shame corner? And probably lectured, psychoanalysed and then forgiven him, by the look of things. Next we know, she’s going to rope him into playing cards or chess or something equally ridiculous.’

Arthur huffed out a poor approximation of a laugh. ‘Has she, now? I bet she even told him what’s the best way to grovel and apologize to us.’ He shook his head. ‘She’s too smart for her own good. And too good for our kind of world.’

Eames chuckled. ‘She’ll rule dreamshare one day, let me tell you. She’s even better than Cobb.’ And like that the mood sank again.

‘So is that what got you all doom and gloom, now?’ Eames asked after a minute with a sigh, far more softly than before, and Arthur felt a surge of rage.

‘Oh, for God’s sake, Eames! Of course it is! How can you be so unaffected?’ He snapped irritably. ‘Cobb and Saito are gone and lost in Limbo, and we’re still trapped here for days and not truly safe till we wake up and out of the plane, and we don’t know if and how they’ll be able to wake up at all, and if they don’t who knows what the hell expects all of us once we land, and it’s all my fucking fault!’ His voice kept rising and becoming more frantic as he got more and more worked up. ‘It’s my fault for being unable to do something so fucking simple as checking if he was militarized, and now all our fucking lives are hanging by thread! And for what? For nothing, no one!’

‘Enough!’ Eames grasped at his shoulder and shook it a little, the contact and firm order both so unexpected that stopped Arthur in his tracks. Then lower, gentler. ‘Enough, darling. Please. You can’t do this to yourself. You can’t take the blame for every single thing that went wrong. Not everything is neatly recorded, and even if it was, you had more than enough on your plate and no matter how hard you try you’re not a robot. Unexpected shit happens all the time. It’s not your fault.’

Eames started rubbing his thumb on the soft skin of his neck soothingly, and Arthur didn’t deserve it but he was weak, he was so fraught and exhausted that he couldn’t bring himself to shake his hand off, greedy for Eames’ warmth. ‘But it is. We wouldn’t be in this situation if we had known about the militarization.’ He said brokenly.

‘Or if we had known about the sedative.’ Eames grumbled. 

And yeah, okay, Eames had a point, that betrayal still stung. But still, it wouldn’t have been such a problem if he had done his own goddamn job. ‘But-’

Eames interrupted him right away with a squeeze of his shoulder, his gaze so intense Arthur felt himself unravelling under it. ‘But nothing, Arthur. You fucked up, okay, that’s true. But the mess we’re in isn’t just your fault. That knowledge wouldn’t have protected us fully anyway. Maybe Saito would have still been shot, or maybe you in an attempt to protect us, and then we would have been in even more trouble. We will never know. As we don’t yet know if Cobb and Saito are actually lost forever or not. But there’s no use despairing now, so let’s try to stay optimist instead, yeah?’

‘Eames…’ Arthur choked around the lump in his throat, and his vision turned blurry.

Eames suddenly wrapped his arms tightly around him. ‘Oh, Arthur, please, stop torturing yourself for it. You did the best you could. And even if it wasn’t enough, even if Cobb and Saito won’t wake up, we’ll cross that bridge when we get there. Together. But Cobb already came back from Limbo once. So, and I can’t believe I’m really saying this about that bastard, have faith in him.’

It was just too much, the last shreds of his facade crumbled and Arthur buried his head in Eames’ neck and cried all his frustration and exhaustion and grief, while Eames merely held him close and whispered sweet reassurances.

When his tears subsided he didn’t move, a bit embarrassed by his outburst, but Eames didn’t comment, merely asked if he felt better.

‘Not really. But maybe-’ Arthur let out a shuddering breath and finally lifted his head to look at Eames. He was smiling, sad and impossibly fond, and Arthur’s heart squeezed. ‘Maybe you’re right. If there’s someone who can come out of Limbo it’s Cobb, so we have reason to hope. I’ll try not to worry about it so much.’

Eames’ smile brightened. ‘That’s the spirit, love. And lucky for you, I know the perfect distraction from life’s troubles. How about we go teach Ariadne and Yusuf proper poker? We’ll make him lose all the extra money he’s unduly earned as punishment.’

Arthur let Eames drag him away in companionable silence.

It didn’t last long.

‘So.’ Eames started. ‘What happened in your level? It was only a fraction of a second so I can’t be sure, but I’d bet what I saw wasn’t the ceiling of the room.’

And so Arthur told him about how he fought projections in zero gravity and improvised the kick by exploding the elevator.

Eames’ eyes widened more and more, and when the story was finished he stopped them. ‘Why are you being so bloody modest? That’s genius. Never let anyone tell you you have no imagination. You saved us, Arthur!’

‘That’s you, I believe.’ But a small smile was playing on his lips.

‘Well, sometimes I’m an idiot.’ And he kissed Arthur soundly, and Arthur couldn't help kissing back, it had been so long. 

They pulled apart at the same moment and rested their foreheads against each other. ‘Darling, what are you doing after this?’

Arthur’s heart was pounding, but he was still the pointman and ensuring everyone's safety had to be his top priority. ‘Assuming everything goes right, we’ll need to separate, just like we planned.’

‘Can’t we just leave together? Just the two of us.’ Eames pleaded.

‘No. It’s too risky,’ Arthur reasoned, sounding regretful. ‘And I’m long due for a visit home.’

‘Oh. Yeah. Yeah, you’re right. But after that we will talk, right? About… this.’ He gestured helplessly between them, and his eyes were so huge and hopeful, mirroring the same longing Arthur felt, and Arthur couldn't resist.

‘Yeah.’ Arthur promised, entwining their fingers. ‘We’ll talk later.’

It was still raining, but Arthur felt lighter, a ray of hope in the shape of Eames had finally pierced through the thick clouds in his mind. Things were still a mess and very uncertain, and there was nothing to be done now till they woke up, but no matter what the future held, he wouldn’t have to go through it alone. He smiled.

[mx-legend-of-faye]

My apologies that it’s been so long since I’ve made a longer post of my own. I had some things to deal with and I was not in the mood to post anything.

As an apology—and okay its maybe not the best “apology” considering its sad—though, here:

Imagine Wild, having already spent a while traveling and bonding with the chain, getting sent back to his own time without his newfound family. And now he’s stuck there, no portals showing up for her to bring her to their family or to bring their family to them.

And this is Wild. Wild with their self esteem issues who sees himself as a failure. Wild who is probably thinking that maybe Hylia didn’t want him helping the other heroes anymore. Maybe Hylia had given him a chance and decided that they didn’t deserve it, so She sent them back alone.

So Wild throws themself into helping the kingdom, doing everything they can for others with little regard for themself, because he doesn’t want to fail anyone ever again.

And then Zelda asks her to come underneath the castle with her.

Wild gets the Master Sword—gets Fi—from where she has been resting. It brings back memories of the stories Sky would tell her about Fi, when neither of them could sleep. Sometimes the two would be joined by Time or Twilight, or any of the others in the chain really.

Wild looked up to all of the chain. They were heroes, heroes who hadn’t failed like he thought he had. And over the time he spent with the chain Wild became close with them all but especially Sky, Time, and Twilight.

So picking up Fi after having been pulled from the chain…

Well, she swore she wouldn’t fail again. Not Hyrule, not Zelda, not the heroes who came before him—their family. No, Wild wouldn’t be failing this again.

But then it went sideways, and he and Zelda found Ganondorf. And under his watch, in his hands, Fi was shattered. Zelda was lost. Gloom spread.

Wild woke up alone. Alone, in the sky, with a decayed version of Fi, and a hand that’s not his own. If Hylia ever let him see Sky—or any of the others—again… he didn’t think he could face them, not with what they let happen. They promised themself that she wouldn’t fail again and now look at what’s happened.

They were determined to fix this, fix their mistakes. So Hylia damned determined. And they took blow after blow, both physical and emotional. Until finally it was over. It was over!

But once again, Wild had made Zelda wait. He failed and Hyrule suffered for it.

No portals appeared soon after Ganon’s defeat and Wild didn’t blame Hylia for not sending him back to the chain.

Wild didn’t know that the chain has been desperately trying to get back to him.

Eventually though a portal did open up, and Wild went through it, and the chain was complete once more.

The others were so relieved to have Wild back. But Wild, no matter how much and how desperately they missed the chain, was not relieved.

She may be fixed now but Fi still broke in his hands. He failed her, and by extension he failed Sky. He never wanted to fail Sky, not more than he already had failed everyone including him.

But he had. It still happened. He had to live with that fact. And he couldn’t face Sky knowing that fact. He kept quiet about what happened to Fi in his second journey.

The chain knew Wild was acting more closed off, like she had been when they first met her, but thought it might just be from having been separated for so long for another journey. They were only sort of right.

One night, not too long after getting Wild back, neither Sky nor Wild could sleep. Twilight was seemingly gone at the moment but Wolfie was there, curled up next to Wild. Time was the one awake for watch at that hour, but he gave the two as much space as he could.

Sky started to share a story about Fi, like he used to before Wild had left the chain, and that was Wild’s breaking point. They broke into silent sobs, and Sky immediately hugged them close, asking what was wrong.

Wild told him. Her voice was full of self loathing and pain as she recounted what happened to Fi, what she failed to save Fi from. How she failed Sky.

The rest of the night was spent with Sky reassuring Wild that “no, you didn’t fail me, you didn’t fail her. It wasn’t your fault Wild. Don’t blame yourself. Ganondorf did that, not you. I’m not mad at you, I promise. You’re family, Wild. And I know you tried, you tried so hard and you did so well. Wild you have nothing to apologize for.” Wolfie stayed right by Wild’s side the entire night. Time brought over a blanket for the three of them—four of them, when Wild grabbed his hand and asked him to stay.

That’s how the rest of the chain found them in the morning. Someone grabbed Wild’s slate to take a picture.

Wild didn’t automatically get all better from that one nighttime conversation, but he was less reserved around the chain. He laughed more freely with them. Of course there was still healing to be done—really the same could be said for any of the chain though—but Wild would have his family by his side once more for every step of the way.

Okay there you go, you got your lengthy enough apology-for-not-posting-in-a-short-while post and I hope you enjoy it. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go replay some totk or rewatch httyd.

[dragon-creates]

These Hands Of Yours (Let Me Protect Them)

Read on AO3

For @xhanisai after I reblogged this post and immediately came up with this after the S5 finale. I have many thoughts but the main one was mostly “MARINETTE MY GIRL YOU DESERVE SO MUCH BETTER!” but yeah, I decided to base this after the finale because I feel like it fits with that post that she made. I managed to write this with the help of the caffeine from my tea, my remaining will to live and the neuro-spicy brain juice swirling around in my head. Anyways, I hope you enjoy this Akari!

The image of her tears-stained cheeks, red eyes and running nose was something Adrien didn’t think he was going to get out of his head for quite some time. He had comforted both Marinette and Ladybug many times before for different reasons, but this was the first time he comforted the same person on both sides of the mask.

It had started earlier this evening when they were both on patrol, Ladybug had met up with them at their agreed spot on a rooftop. The first sign he noticed something was wrong was how tense she was. Sure, she had her signature sweet smile and adorable sass, but her grin seemed more strained, and her quips were forced rather than seamlessly rolling off her tongue.

When asking her if she was alright, she brushed it off with a nervous laugh and swung away to start patrol. Chat Noir thought about chasing after her, but decided against it, knowing that if he continued to press on about it, the less willing she would be to tell him what was going on. They met up again twenty minutes later, but this time the sass and smile were gone, replaced with a face clouded with gloom and her posture slouched. He asked again if she was sure she was okay, only to be given a single nod before Ladybug attempted to swing away again; key word, attempted. For when she threw the end of her yoyo and prepared to jump, her clumsiness seemed to strike, and she nearly lost her footing. If it hadn’t been for Chat Noir’s quick reflexes and grabbed her wrist to pull her away, there was a definite chance she would’ve been injured.

He asked her one last time if she was okay and something inside her seemed to snap. Her eyes began to water, and her bottom lip trembled before launching herself into his chest and began to sob, strained cries ripping from her throat. Chat immediately scooped her up into his arms and walked over to a chimney, sitting them both down with her in his lap as he stroked her hair.

“I’m s-sorry, I’m so sorry!” she wailed, her tears leaking onto his leather covered shoulders as she buried her face into his neck.

“Shhh,” he buried his claws into her hair, gently taking out her hair ties and began stroking through the soft dark locks to sooth her, “You don’t need to apologize, you didn’t do anything wrong.”

“You don’t understand!” she hiccupped, her small hands gripping the back of his suit as her entire body began to shake with more sobs, “I was stupid, I was really stupid this time Chat!”

Another tremor wracked through her body, causing Chat Noir to start purring, hoping that the vibrations would ease the panic threating to bubble to the surface. The purring seemed to be working, for he felt her trying to even out her breathing, though it seemed that she struggled as she would let out a cry once in a while that just shattered his heart every time he heard it. “Whatever it is, we can get through this together like we always do.”

“Not this time Chat!” she whimpered, “It’s just gonna make things worse if I say it. Everyone’s already so happy I can’t say it.”

“Then don’t say it to everyone,” he took one of her hands, his thumb stroking the top as her face peeled away from her shoulder to look at him, “Just say it to me, and let the rest just follow.”

“I…he…he should hate me!” she sniffled.

“Who?”

“Adrien!” her chest began to heave again as her other hand clawed at her face, “He should hate me for what I did!”

“Adrien Agreste?” Chat Noir inquired, starting to put the pieces together, “If this is about what happened to his father, Gabriel made that choice to help save the city. It’s not your fault, he doesn’t hate you for that.”

While true, a part of him was still grieving the loss of his father, he was glad that in those remaining moments his true self came to light for what he would do for his family. With that information in mind, it was something he could live with. However, it seemed that what he said just made his Lady feel worse as ripped her hand that was held in his to claw at her neck as she cried harder.

“No, no, no!” She began to rock back and forth, red marks were starting to contrast against her pale skin on her jaw, making Chat Noir grab her hands into his own large ones so she wouldn’t cause further damage to herself. “He shouldn’t have died; I shouldn’t have let him die! Then the wish wouldn’t-”

She clamped her mouth shut, praying that Chat Noir didn’t hear that last part. Unfortunately, his enhanced hearing was able to catch those last few words, the boy turning to her slowly. “What do you mean about the wish?” his tone was slow and steady.

“I-I didn’t…that wasn’t what I…t-that’s not what I meant to say-”

“-Ladybug,” she nearly jumped at the sound of his voice, the intensity making her nerves twist again, “What do you mean about the wish?”

He didn’t look or seem angry, but she knew that this was a conversation that he wasn’t going to change. Trying to compose herself as much as she could, she began to explain.

“He-he tricked me,” her own voice seemed to start shaking, “M-Monarch tricked me.” She felt his claws trail up and down her back to try and relieve some of her panic as her stuttering continued. “He tricked me. He tricked me. He tricked me.”

“It’s okay,” he whispered. He thinks he has a bit of an idea now. “Monarch is nothing but evil. He would do anything to get what he wants. Don’t blame yourself for Monarch making Gabriel sacrifice himself, you did all that you could.”

It didn’t seem to make her feel better, her eyes were still wide open and spilling tears as her breathing worsened. She began to shake her head. “Monarch tricked me. Monarch tricked me!” she turned to meet his gaze, “Gabriel was the trick!”

Chat Noir raised a brow in confusion. How was Gabriel the trick? His thoughts were interrupted as Ladybug’s rambles became more frantic.

“Monarch tricked me! Gabriel tricked me. Gabriel tricked me. He tricked me!”

A pit began to form in his stomach. No, no there’s no way. It felt like pieces of a puzzle starting to finally click together. Or to put it more simply, two men – two horrible men – began to mould into one monster. It was only confirmed when Ladybug opened her mouth again.

“Gabriel is…was Monarch,” she gripped his hands as the memory flooded back into her mind, “He started saying these things and I though that maybe, just maybe, there was still some good him. How could I be such an idiot?! To fall for a few nice words and suddenly it’s enough for me to give him Tikki and Plagg!”

Chat wanted to tell her that she wasn’t an idiot, that he understood being manipulated by that man – if you could even call him that at this point – that she did everything that she could in that moment. But at the same time, Monarch was his father! He had spent the last few weeks wondering how he could ever live up to how great his father was in his sacrifice. When in reality, there was no sacrifice, just an act of cowardice and his lady was left to pick up the pieces. He forced himself to repress a disgusted shudder. No wonder she looked like she was about to break down the minute he saw her arrive. 

“How can he look at me like that?!” she asked aloud, the question not being directed to anyone, “Even when I keep lying to him?!”

Chat Noir tucked a loose stray hair behind her ear, “Lying to who? About what?”

“Adrien,” the name alone made his breath hitch, “Every time I see him, he just looks at me as though I handed the world to him by just simply being there, and he doesn’t even know what I’ve been keeping from him!”

Oh, that made sense…wait. Adrien hadn’t seen Ladybug since she gave him his father’s ring. The way she was speaking about him was as if they had seen each other many times before. Did he know her outside of the mask? Could he even be that lucky?

“I don’t know if I can keep doing this,” she continued, “I don’t know if I can handle him looking at me like that whenever we’re at school, or play video games at each other’s houses, I don’t think I can be able to keep it together when he takes me to the little coffee shop down the street that he knows that I adore. He’s done so much for me, cares so much for me and yet I’m doing this to him, and he doesn’t even know what a horrible person I am!”

School…coffee shop…dates…A chill rushes through his veins, realisation seeping in. The girl he was holding in his arms, her hands glued to his in a desperate sign practically begging not to be alone, was someone that he knew far closer to him than any of his friends. Someone who he knew that already had so much on her hands that just got piled on after everything that was said to him. It can’t be.

“I SHOULDN’T BE LADYBUG!”

Was the last thing that tore from Marinette’s throat as her suit disappeared, leaving behind the love of his life in her pyjamas, Tikki nuzzling her cheek to try and calm her as the wave of panic and weeping returned.

He drops everything that was circling in his mind - his father, the wish, his Lady’s identity – and wraps Marinette up in his arms as much as he can, purring and keeping her as warm as he can with his body heat. Her left arm was wrapped round his torso while he kept a hold of her right hand in his own. He takes a look at her ungloved hand, hundreds of little scars leaving their marks on her skin, leaving a mocking reminder of how much she failed that day.

The fact that Monarch…no…the fact that his father was so selfish and vile that he went out of his way to not only emotionally damage, but to go as far as to try to physically damage his Lady just for a wish. Was his own son not enough? Was he that self-centred to ignore his only family left while claiming that he was doing this for his child? How could he use that to justify hurting and manipulating such a sweet and kind person as Marinette?!

“This is my fault,” she whispers, her voice raspy and sounding sore, “This is all my fault. He should hate me, I’m a terrible person and a terrible Ladybug.”

“No,” Chat Noir shook his head, a slight growl escaping with the word.

“I’m really sorry,” she whimpered, “I should’ve told you; you have every right to be angry with me, you’re my partner, you deserve to know.”

Did she…did she think his anger was directed at her? “Oh Mari,” he pressed his lips to her hair, “I have no reason to be angry with you. Never, ever blame yourself for the cruelty of others. You don’t need to apologise for any of Gabriel’s actions.”

He takes her other hand and clasps them in his again, making sure that her attention was focused on him and only him. “Since the moment I met you, you’ve been pressured to put the weight of Paris on your shoulders. From our friends to the other civilians, even yourself, it might not have been said out loud, but you definitely felt them giving you that responsibility. You are so strong; I’ve seen the remarkable things that you have accomplished with your hands. How you’ve protected so many people, to figuring out any lucky charm thrown your way, to even fighting the most feral akumas. But it’s also left its impact on you as well, and eventually, the weight that your hands have carried for so long has started to take effect. It doesn’t make you weak, no, however it is something that you don’t have to do alone. We’re the bug and cat team, we’re meant to share the weight, not take the burden from the other. And know that I know, I’m gonna make sure that you never feel such a weight again, both in and out the suit.”

She tilts her head in confusion before a flash of green made her squint and look away. When she looked back, she gasped, for there in front of her, in his pyjamas and zip-up hoodie, was none other than the boy she swore to protect from all the darkness she held so that he would never be burdened with. “Adrien?”

He pressed a kiss to her hand, “Hi Princess.”

Her eyes filled with tears again, she tried to make sure that Adrien would never find out about this, not at the expense of his happiness and now she managed to screw that up as well.

He was more prepared this time when she let out more apologies, taking off his hoodie, wrapped her up in it and pressed her face to his chest as he tightly embraced her. He purred louder and more even to make sure she was relaxed. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry Adrien!” she blubbered out as he rocked them back and forth, “I should’ve told you, but you were finally happy! Finally free with your life and I didn’t want to take that from you!”

“It’s alright, shh, it’s gonna be alright,” he let her continue to sob, his main priority at this point was her and taking care of her, “I’m okay, we’re okay, it’s not your fault.”

A few minutes later, her sobs turned to quiet sniffles. He took another look at her face, his stomach twisting when he saw just how exhausted she was, the guilt had really taken an ugly toll on her. Tikki was still cradled in the crook of her neck, having fallen asleep while soothing her holder. He stood up, holding her in his arms as he called out for his transformation phrase and jumped off the rooftop, making his way back to the bakery.

Once he landed on her balcony, he released his transformation again before going through her trapdoor window and gently placing her onto the bed.

He lifted her upper body he raised her duvet and placed her under it, making sure she was wrapped up safe and warm before joining her under her blankets, wrapping her up in his arms again and resumed his purring. Tikki had woken up and moved from Marinette’s neck to her hair, Plagg joining her as he buried himself in her dark locks and he began to purr as well.

Adrien could feel her body struggling to relax, constantly shifting from trying to letting herself by soothed by the warmth and love she was being given to stiffening back up again as though she didn’t feel as though she were allowed to.

His brows furrow in concentration, forming a plan in his head on just how to help his princess within this moment. He looked at their hands again, having conjoined again while in the midst of her much needed cuddles. He raised her dainty pale hand to his lips, gently pressing them against the tips of her fingers, making her look up at him and pausing her internal dilemma.

“I’m not surprised that you’re Ladybug,” he told her, “I mean, I am a bit shocked at the sudden reveal, but it makes so much sense that you’re her. The kindness with how you treat civilians, the creativity when figuring out any lucky charm thrown at you, not taking any nonsense from anyone – all of that comes from Marinette.”

He presses two more kisses to the back of her hand and laid it on her pillow and started stroking her palm in small circles with his thumb, taking notice that she was focused on the lazy motions and the soothing feeling it gave her. “It comes from everything I’ve seen you do outside of the mask,” he continued, “How you treat our friends and students outside of our class to make sure everyone is happy, coming up with ideas for not only your fashion but with baking, drawing and so many other projects, and you refuse to let others be walked over and stand up for those who aren’t able to do it themselves. All that comes from you! And all those amazing things come from your amazing hands.”

She tried to smile; it wavered a little, but she wanted to show how much his words meant to her. She wanted to believe him, she wanted to believe him so badly! So why wouldn’t the final image of Gabriel leave her mind?! Why did it have to keep reminding her of how much she failed.

She curled in on herself, the brainstorm building up again. Luckily, Adrien seemed to take notice. “But those hands have been hurt way before you became Ladybug, haven’t they?” he asked, making her thoughts pause as she peered up at him through her eyelashes.

“Despite saving the city multiple times, its far from the first time your hands have been used in that way,” he brushed his thumb over a faded scar, one that he noticed from the first time he met Marinette. Back during the hat contest, before everything, when he gently brushed his hand against hers to take her winning hat, he saw it on the top of her hand and was curious as to how it got there, but he didn’t want to pry. Now, after knowing all she went through, he had a bit of an idea on how she received it.

“All those years that you had to defend yourself from Chloe’s ruthlessness to the point you were terrified to go to school, and then Lila trying to do the same to you as well. Not to mention, you always tried to take on everyone’s problems, whether if its Kim and Ivan fighting, or Alix trying to pick a fight with someone, you’ve constantly found solutions to the point that they just keep coming back to you for help,” he continued, “They see you as the only way to fix a problem instead of trying to figure it out themselves. I know that you’re afraid of our friends getting akumatised, but you can’t take on everybody else’s burdens if you’re already being dragged down by your own.”

Marinette whimpered, every word he was saying was ringing so true that it hurt to listen to. Adrien sensed her distress and pressed a few more gentle kisses to her cheeks and forehead; he knew she had to hear this, but he knew that there was already going on in that head of hers for her to finally be confronted with both her greatest strength yet biggest flaw.

“And now knowing that you had to defend yourself from my father, both with and without a miraculous,” a bitter taste formed in his mouth as he remembered how Ladybug tried to fight Hawkmoth after Tikki and Plagg took back their miraculous. His father might not have known it was Marinette at that time, but he did know that the person he was fighting at the time was defenceless and vulnerable to the extreme damage he inflicted. “The fact that he would do that to you, that he tried to go out of his way to hurt you and then proceeded to trick you…...I’m so sorry Marinette. I’m sorry that you’ve kept this to yourself just so you could protect me but,” he looked at the scars on her hands again, the ones that Gabriel left there permanently, “No one was there to protect you from what he did.”

“-But you’ve already protected me for so long!” Marinette injected, the sudden volume startling Adrien a little bit, “You’ve already done so much for me, even when I pushed you away you were always by my side even when I didn’t deserve it. Even after keeping this from, you, how could you still want to be my partner…I don’t deserve this.”

He pressed a finger to her lips; she looked up as their eyes locked with one another, anxious blue met a frustrated green, but not at her. “Don’t ever say that again,” he murmured, his voice low and laced with both hurt and concern, “You deserve so much more than you’ve been given. You barely ask for anything, nothing even, and yet no one can even give you that.” He brought her hands to his chest, right above where she could feel his heart drumming softly, “You are so incredible, so talented, so amazing. And it hurts to watch that being stripped away every day, as Marinette and Ladybug. You think that you need to take on so much more than you already do, that you have to feel this horrible, but you don’t! Ladybug wasn’t meant to be on her own and neither was Marinette. You don’t need to do this alone anymore Princess…please, let me in, let me help you, let me share and protect the world that is threatening to fall out of your hold.”

“I-I-I,” her voice broke a little, the weight of his words was hitting harder than she thought it would, giving her a sense of peace and relief that she hadn’t felt in so long. But she knew that she wouldn’t be able to hold onto it forever, something was going to make him realise that she was a terrible partner, and he would finally realise that. “I can’t. I can’t take your happiness away after you fought so hard for it, I can’t let you be dragged down with me. I should’ve been smarter that day, I could’ve found another way – I could’ve! That way you don’t have to be here now to feel burdened by me!”

“I can assure you that never have, or will, burden me with anything,” he let go of her hands and wrapped both of his arms around her smaller form in a silent promise of never letting her go. “I’m here because I want to be. Gabriel has always found a way to trick others for years, he tricked us both when he first thought he was Hawkmoth, he’s managed to talk his way in and out of situations without anyone batting an eye and he has manipulated me for years into thinking that I was wrong about everything. And the fact that all of Paris believes that he’s some kind of hero while you’re suffering in silence after everything he put you through just proves how much of a monster he is. And I feel sick knowing that I believed that too for a while.”

Marinette shuffled in his arms. Ever since she became Ladybug, defeating Hawkmoth was the only goal she knew that she had to complete. She sacrificed everything in order to do that, her hobbies, her love life, even herself to some degree. And yet when the time came, she failed. Part of him just wanted Adrien to scream at her, tell her that she messed up and messed up bad. But seeing him look at her with the utmost love after she thought he would hate her for keeping these secrets and failing to complete the most important task of their lives, even after finding out that Hawkmoth was his father, a part of herself felt as though he were telling the truth about everything he said in that moment.

He let one of his arms fall and clasped her hand again, bringing it to his lips, “You’re not alone anymore Marinette. No matter what the future holds for us, we’re going to go through this together. You didn’t mess up; you didn’t fail, and you deserve to be happy. I’m here now, so please, let me take care of you as you took care of me and everyone else,” he gently pressed his lips to her knuckles as one more promise, “It’s you and me against the world.”

The dams broke once more as Marinette buried her head in his chest, wailing once more as he gripped her tightly with as much protection as he could give her in this moment. He let her cry as much as she needed to, stroking her hair as she got everything else out of her system while whispering and presses comforting kisses to her forehead.

A while passed before her cries turned to whimpers and her whimpers turned into soft, even breathes. Looking down, he saw that she had cried herself to sleep. Judging by the bags under her eyes and how deep she seemed to be in her dreamlike state, this was probably this first time she properly slept since her battle with Hawkmoth.

Her arms were tightly wrapped around him, as though she were begging him to stay – as if he could ever leave her after what happened. With one arm wrapped her waist and the other round the back of her head, he cuddled softly into her, relishing in the soft content noise that left her throat. The kwamis retreated to the other side of the pillows, giving their holders much needed space while close enough in case they needed them.

Before he allowed himself to fall asleep however, internally, Adrien made one more promise to her. I won’t let this happen to you again Marinette, not after this. No matter what, I’ll keep you safe and never let your hands carry that type of weight ever again. Now that I’m free for him, nothing will stop me from protecting you or leaving your side.

Only after making that promise, did he join her in sleep.

(In the morning.

“Plagg, how do you cataclysm a dead person?”

“Adrien I just woke up what the fuck.”)

I am so sorry it took this long! I swear I should’ve gotten it out sooner but it’s here now and I hope you like it! <3

[firawren]

WIP Wednesday

My main WIP at the moment is "Rose Brides," a retelling of Disney's Beauty and the Beast with a different curse where Adam has been a beast his whole life and Belle is magically bound to his palace, and some aspects of the original fairy tale woven in.

The snippet below is the prologue:

Once upon a time, a young lord lived in a shining palace. Although his mind was strong and face was beautiful, his heart was cold and shriveled from his wicked ways. He cared for no one but himself. Instead of watching over his subjects' wellbeing, he laughed at their misfortunes, and made them greater through his greed and neglect.

One day, a poor peasant woman of infirm condition was admitted to his court to petition for his help. She explained the mishaps and afflictions that had led to her sorry state, and begged him for only a single bag of grain to feed her hungry children. The wicked lord sneered at her request and dismissed her without a penny. She warned him that his own body might one day be twisted and imperfect, and his own children might one day be desperate, and begged him again to consider her need.

When he laughed and dismissed her again, she transformed into an enchantress, beautiful and terrible in her power. The lord fell to his knees and tried to apologize, but it was too late, for she had seen that there was no love in his heart.

As punishment, she transformed him into a hideous beast and placed a powerful spell on his bloodline, cursing any sons he would sire to be beasts as well, for posterity. He ripped at his fur with his claws, raging about how he would ever be able to have a wife, let alone sons, in this loathsome form.

Perhaps this touched her heart, for the enchantress then softened her curse with a gift: a bag of enchanted rose seeds. She explained that if he planted one of these seeds, the old rose bush in the nearby village would bloom with a single rose. Any woman who plucked the rose would be compelled to come to his palace, and would then be bound there, and bound to him, a companion for all of his days. His rose bride.

Or perhaps this was not another gift from the enchantress, but rather, another part of his curse. Perhaps it was a test, or a warning, for she did urge him to consider what might bring him true happiness. But if it was a warning, the beast lord did not heed it, for before a day had passed, he had planted the first rose seed. His corrupt heart throbbed in wicked glee when a beautiful young woman appeared at his palace, holding a single glowing red rose in her trembling hand. He took her, but was not satisfied. His greed only grew, and he demanded payment of a woman from the village whenever it suited his whim.

The villagers quickly learned never to ignore the enchanted rose bush when it was in bloom. If no woman plucked the rose, he would descend from his palace and attack the villagers in a ferocious rage, tearing them apart with his inhuman strength, and no one was ever able to stop him. They tried to destroy the rose bush as well, but its enchantment protected it from their axes and their fire. And so they lived in fear of their beastly lord and prayed their daughters and sisters would not one day be compelled to become one of his doomed rose brides.

The first rose bride bore the lord a beastly son, and he too took rose brides, as did his son, and the next. None of these poor women ever lasted long, wasting away in the misery of their palace prison. With each life it claimed, the once beautiful palace sunk deeper into darkness and decrepitude, laden with a palpable gloom that oppressed all those within its dismal walls.

Such was the woeful home into which Adam was born, a strange and fearsome beast like his father and all the lords before him. Bitter and despairing at his lot in life, Adam became disgusted by his family’s lineage and legacy. When his father died, he burnt the bag of rose seeds, determined to never demand a rose bride and live his life in miserable solitude. He dismissed all but two of his servants and locked himself away, never appearing to anyone outside his palace. As the years passed, the young people of the village grew to nearly forget there was ever a curse on their hidden lord, as the rose bush had never bloomed within their lifetimes.

Until the day when it bloomed again.