#my sleep was wretched last night and it's catching up to me

[stcries]

i literally only managed to get one ask done, and i can already feel my brain short circuiting on me here. pretty sure i'll take a nap sooner rather than later, maybe try and get my energy levels up a bit more before i return.

[devilmademewriteit]

If You Lie Down With Me

pairing: (pre-ellie) dbf!joel miller x fem!afab!reader

summary: there’s only one guy in all of boston that can get you a morning after pill. unfortunately, on top of being a huge asshole, Joel Miller also happens to be your dad’s closest peer.

warnings: rough sex / smut (masturbation, fem penetration, oral [m receiving]) so 18+ only content; unprotected sex; light choking & restraint; light dom/sub dynamic; fem afab reader; reader has long-ish hair (that gets touched); plot-typical violence (guns, death); plot deviations (no Tess); medication ingestion; pet names (baby, sweetheart, angel); dubcon (slight intoxication, power imbalance, no explicit consent).

word count: 6.5k+

no use of y/n in this fic

alright y’all I’m baaaaAAAaack! so this is basically the other version of Dark But Just a Game that I started back when I was writing it & figured I’d finish it to get out of my hiatus. like any devilmademewriteit fic, it’s dark and nasty and deprived like meeeeeee <3 hope u enjoy !

don’t forget to reblog, check out my masterlist, sign up for the taglist, & leave any comments / feedback / & suggestions!

(ps: new part of Salvatore up next !)

—

“three times the guy I ever thought I would meet, so don't say you're over me when we both know that you lie”

— lana del rey, ‘If You Lie Down With Me’

—

Fuck.

Waking up to a racing heart, a pounding head, and a stomach swimming with nausea was never ideal, although it was always a better experience alone — when you could squint and hiss at the light slicing through the weaknesses in the drapes without hearing your groans echoed by a lower, louder, and annoyingly more pitiful voice.

Right. What was his name?

Jared? Jordan? Jermaine?

Ah, who cares.

If he’d wanted a safe place to nurse his hangover, he shouldn’t have fallen asleep in your bed. Sure, the odds of dad being conscious at this hour (especially the odds after a party like last night’s) were Kate Moss — no, Rolling Stones — slim, but the man would get up at some point, meaning that this poor J-whatever was likely sleeping through his only window of escape from certain homicide.

You whisper. You shake him gently. You gingerly tap the roundness of his bicep.

Huh — Not bad.

You congratulate last-night-you for reeling in this morning’s good-looking catch.

Still… nothing. Not a twitch. Nary a croaked ‘lemmesleep’ graces your ears.

After loosing an exasperated sigh and running through your options, you decide to take the most effective (and least girl-next-door) route. The corner of your elbow collides with his ribs, and the boy jumps up, his loose, blonde curls as wild as his eyes, searching the room for his attacker.

You want to smile at the scene, but the motion hurts your head.

“Y’gotta go,” you croak out, thumbs rubbing circles against your aching temples.

He collapses onto his back, copying your movement with his own fingers to his brow. “God. I feel like shit.”

Despite muttering your agreement, you let your eyelashes flutter closed and your weight turn you away from last night’s paramour: no use figuring out who he is after the (f)act — that just makes it personal.

After a few breaths, the boy moves back up to a shakey sitting position.

Probably sourcing for his clothes.

He reeks of booze and sex — but then again, so do you. His roughened, unfamiliar tenor climbs to barely above a whisper, “Z’something stuck on my leg… blood, or something…”

His interrupting your suffering comes as a deeply unwelcome annoyance, so you try to sort him out to clear him out: “Prolly just the condom,” you mumble, rolling back onto your shoulders, reluctantly supervising his movements.

He lifts up fully, sitting criss-cross and pulling his calf towards him.

“No,” he tries to laugh but succumbs to the nausea, settling for a low breath instead, “S’blood, dude, from beer darts — and I didn’t use a condom.”

Your eyes immediately dart over, settling on his naked, wretched, shivering form. He notices your ire and the hitching of your throat, immediately defensive.

“I asked if you wanted to.”

Unfortunately, he had. The memories of your drunken entanglement start to resurface inside your mind. “It just feels better without one.” This time, you curse last-night-you for being such a careless, inconsiderate, horny bastard.

You’re making problems for me, girl.

“J’s get out.”

J-whatever spares no time complying, collecting his few strewn belongings and staggering out the front door. Once it slides shut, so too do your poor, weary eyes.

Shit.

There goes the afternoon.

Getting your hands on condoms in the QZ was at least fifteen times easier than snatching a morning after pill. Those were a hot commodity, especially among the younger, less responsible crowds.

Luckily for you, as a member of aforementioned younger, less responsible crowds, you knew where your best chances lay in finding whatever it was you needed (if what you needed was deeply immoral or wholly illegal). Unluckily for you, that ‘best chance’ happened to be your dad’s closest and longest-running business partner: temperamental, judgemental, frustratingly competent, Joel ‘Local Asshole’ Miller.

But that could all be dealt with after another eight hours of sleep.

—

Opportunity strikes sooner than expected.

Miller’s in your living room by the time you wake up, the low rumble of his southern baritone recognizable even through the closed door. After scrambling to throw on some clothes, you press an ear to the chipping paint, hoping to determine the number of bodies gathered in your home.

Not many. Just Miller (and the old man, of course).

The latter’s presence bodes ill for you. This would all have to be done in secret, which was not an uncommon strategy where ever the former was involved. No one dealt with Joel Miller to conduct clean-cut, wholesome activities. No one was calling him up for a spare copy of the holy book.

No, getting him alone was essential.

A drink slams down on the counter. After a good, patient ten minutes, you hear your father (‘s rather crude way of) excusing himself to the washroom and heavy-set footsteps decrescendoing down the hall.

This is it.

You slip through the door.

At first, your company takes no notice of you, his eyes still glued to the maps and papers littering the counter before him.

Then, a low grumble: “fun night?”

His voice makes you weak in the knees — an involuntary, near ritual-like response you’d noticed around your mid teens and hadn’t managed to kick yet.

You swallow before responding. “Yes.”

It’s all you manage to muster. Miller finally looks up, wincing slightly as his back straightens. He looks tired, at least more than usual, with his wild, grey-streaked hair tousled and the lines by his mouth cutting deep into his skin.

You’re sure you don’t look much better, a suspicion proven by the man’s slowly spreading, barely-noticeable smirk. That gaze makes you self conscious, mute; your right hand snakes up, absent-mindedly dragging a fallen bra strap back to its proper position.

“So, what was his name?”

He’s teasing, sure, but Miller was there last night. He’d always had sharper perceptions than your father did, especially — and ironically — when it came to you. That skill tended to squander your confidence as the daughter of a modern-day mafia-boss and the owner of a hard, violent heart.

Rushed by the sound of your father’s footsteps, you default to honesty.

“I don’t remember.”

“Try.”

“Josh.”

Amusement flits across his stern expression. “Again.”

“Jamie.”

“Warmer.”

“J-J-something—”

“Gettin’ colder, sweetheart—”

“I need the pill.”

It just tumbles out, an exasperated, desperate plea. Miller, a bit taken aback by your candor, drains of his previous playfulness. You almost notice the split second those dark eyes glaze over. For a second, you’re almost convinced he’s distracted by his imagination’s recreations of the act that had you making such a request.

You almost notice the tingling between your thighs.

He stares. You stare back.

Fuck.

It was moments like this that made you wish Tess was still around. Oh, she wouldn’t be any kinder — no, not at all — but she’d certainly be more professional. Tess was all work, no play. Joel was…

You’re enjoying this, you bastard. You’re enjoying that I’m cornered like this, aren’t you?

The bathroom handle clicks when it turns, and your heart drops into your toes.

Maybe Miller really wasn’t going to help you. Maybe he didn’t have the pill and you’d just embarrassed yourself for nothing. Or, maybe he did, but preferred outing you to your dad at the very first opportunity — letting him deal with you the only way he knew how.

Your fears seem confirmed: his eyes leave the grace of your own, trailing back to his big, splayed hands on the countertop. Unwelcome tears burn the corners of your eyes as the panic begins to set in, as footsteps begin to fall…

“Mine. Tonight.”

It’s low and rushed, but it’s clear, cutting off to the sound of your father lumbering in. A man who saw, thought, and lived through transactions, he’s (thankfully) blissfully ignorant of the tension collapsing around him.

“Morning,” he throws your way.

A taunt, of course — it was well past noon.

You nod in acknowledgement, slowly backing into the doorway of your sacred, beckoning room. They resume their conversation from before, letting you sink into irrelevance.

Before shutting yourself in, you catch a few of Miller’s hushed words. They’re spoken casually to your father but, you later decide, surely meant for you:

“Not that one kid — Jeremy — don’t trust him.”

The door seals (well, not seals… it creaks on its rusty hinges and squeezes into its shrinking frame), and relief courses through you, reaching the very tips of your fingers.

That only lasts a minute.

Soon, you’re negotiating with the rising anxiety of being at Miller’s place alone, asking for his help with a problem that could’ve been avoided if you’d only kept your legs shut.

Alone with Miller, the both of you knowing that you hadn’t.

Crawling back under your covers, you begrudgingly make a vow of celibacy. If this was the cost of attention and a (potential) mid-range orgasm, you were about to become very frugal.

Dreams come easy, but they don’t come sweet.

Flashes of last night’s sins overlay Joel Miller’s unintelligible speech, his voice from the next room over lulling you into a rather confusing, disturbed sleep.

—

At nighttime, it’s a short walk to his building.

Down this alley, past this street, up this back stairwell. Part of being in with Boston’s seedy underbelly gained you access to the best and most up-to-date intel; by the age of twelve, you could run the safest — well, least policed — post-curfew routes from memory.

(Which had come in handy in situations a lot more dire than this.)

Sneaking in was easy, although you cursed him for being so preoccupied during the day. Coming in at this hour required some delicate maneuvers through a half-shattered window, and a less-than-graceful leap down left you with a nick on your cheekbone and a shallow cut along the side of your hand.

Thankfully, the blood mostly dries on your walk up the six or eight or ten flights of stairs. You don’t resent the exercise; it feels good to move, putting the jitters building in every still moment in abeyance.

Still moments like the kind that passes after a barely-audible, coded knock delivered by a girl sucking on the side of her hand, almost wishing for the door not to open.

It does.

He’s in jeans — dirty jeans, dusty — and a simple flannel. It’s Miller — it’s Miller at his most Joel-Miller-like-ness.

So why am I so fucking nervous?

He holds the door open, brows knitting at the sight of your hand in your mouth.

“Window,” You offer.

He mouthes a silent ‘ah,’ before leaning forward to duck his head out the door and, in the process, somewhat sandwiching you against his chest.

Maybe it’s because he smells like forest-fires, but your skin burns red-hot.

Miller looks both ways, checking the status of the hall (empty), then nudges you into the dim light of his place with the weight of his hand against your lower back.

The door shuts behind you.

You’d been here at least a million times before, but the thoughts rising now feel so… new. The jacket strewn on the side of the sagging sofa is his — Joel Miller has sat at this table and showered, slept, fucked inside these walls.

Cut it out. It’s just ‘cause you’re alone. And older.

But what about it, now that you were alone and older?

Old enough to know what goes on between a man and a woman and a little bit of desperation at just the right amounts… and there sure was a lot of him, and some desperation, too…

“Nervous?”

Your feet hit the floor, all thoughts evaporating at the sound of his word. Blushing, you try to de-code his taunt, spoken with playfulness and too much condescension.

“Wh — what’d you — nervous for what? No.”

He’s already across the room, sifting through a box of miscellaneous items. A yellowed lamp shade catches his side-profile, illuminates the smirk spreading across his face. Then, a low command:

“Relax,” and your spine settles, acceding to his wish. “Some girls get nervous, y’know, takin’ it the first time.”

Oh.

You clear your throat, daring to take a step into his place, incensed enough to trace the indents and stab-marks decorating his kitchen table.

“No.”

You’re taken aback by the accuracy and the strength underpinning your answer. It’s true, you aren’t afraid, and hadn’t been afraid of much in a very long while.

What’s a Joel Miller to your best friend’s public hanging? What’s he to a dozen rows of semi automatics raining down on your zigzagging toes? What’s he to a period cramp?

Like a bolt of lightning hitting you in the chest, that cocky, gauche and indelicate rebel you’d grown into reappears.

“I’ve been told I take things pretty well my first time.” The tension rises — this time, at your command — just as Joel does, carrying a leather pouch in his right hand. “And it’s not, anyways,” you add for good measure.

The leather drops onto the marked-up table. Joel crosses his arms.

“Not sellin’ me on givin’ you one of these, sweetheart.”

He gestures to the bag.

A mock-frown as you draw closer to him. His eyes, although severe, reflect the playfulness dancing in your own.

“Why not?” You ask, voice dripping with false innocence.

Joel’s gaze doesn’t stray as it hardens, focused on your own. “They’re for accidents, mistakes, attacks,” he explains, deep and dangerous, “Not girls who can’t keep their pretty lil’ legs together.”

Oof.

On one hand, it sounds like he’s genuinely chastising you for your careless behaviour. But, on the other, he sounds jealous, taunting, hungry.

I’ll play that hand.

Sleeping all day had left you wide awake, and that long-time, school-girl crush on the man before you was dying for content to fantasize about. Even if he pushed you off, you’d get to feel the weight of his hands on your body, right?

So, you return with a taunt of your own: “You think my legs are pretty?”

He shakes his head, his signature scowl spreading as he mostly ignores you. “I think you should at least use condoms,” a breath, “N’ know their first names.”

Ouch.

“I usually do.” you murmur, “and it broke last night.”

“Bullshit.”

“What do you mean, bullshit?”

Joel sighs and lowers himself into one of the four old, rickety chairs lining the table. His hand comes up to his temples and you notice how his legs, exhausted, part.

The man doesn’t deign to respond.

Irritation begins to well in your core, sneaking through your arms and up into your throat. The muscle in your jaw must be twitching like crazy.

How does he know? How the fuck does he always know?

Across the QZ, as a skilled liar and born and bred bandit, people tended to hold whatever image of you that you’d crafted for them.

Not Joel. Never Joel.

He saw through you in a way that had always felt… intimate. It was one of the reasons, you guessed, he didn’t dare spend too much time alone with you and why you’d always been curious about him (as a man, of course). Now, there was no avoiding your obvious vulnerability from either of you — you were stripped bare, your dressings in his hand.

It makes you want to flee as much as it makes you want to leap into his arms.

You snatch up the pouch, opening it up to find a mass of differently coloured and shaped pills. Rifling through, you ignore Joel’s stare boring into your hands’ erratic search.

“Yellow ones,” he says.

“I know what they look like,” you retort.

“‘Course you do.”

He moves faster than he should be able to.

One moment, your palm is slicing through the air, headed straight for the highest point of his cheek. The next, you’re facedown on the table. Your attacking hand is caged in by a much larger, much stronger one, pinned to the decaying wood; the other, he pins behind your back. Pills litter the floor — Joel’s boot crunches into a wayward one as he adjusts himself behind you, leaning over your struggling, smaller frame, immobilizing you with his weight.

“Let go of me—” you hiss, words smothered by the wooden surface pressed to your profile.

“—Shut up ‘n listen,” he commands, leaning over to tower over his trapped victim. “Try that again n’I’ll do worse’n kill you. Understand?”

Despite the authenticity of his threat, a strangled laugh wracks your lungs.

“Gonna turn me in for contraband, Miller? Watch them gun me down in the square?”

You smile through your heavy breaths. There, behind your hips, is a growing movement indicative of some other kind of punishment he’s got in mind.

“Or,” you continue on coyly, “Give me another reason to need that pill?”

Joel pauses, untangling your meaning.

Then, an exasperated scoff. His hold tightens on your wrist and you wince. “You always thinkin’ of the fastest way to get a man to fuck you?”

“Only when his cock’s pressed against my ass.”

He goes quiet — only for a moment. Somewhere outside, rounds echo through the night.

“Z’that what you want?” His voice is deep and threatening, promising of the kind of hard, mind-numbing fuck you’d been craving for weeks.

After a hard swallow, you nod, catching the raise of his eyebrows in your periphery.

A moment passes as he mulls over your answer. Only your shallow, anticipatory breaths populate the quiet space.

“Alright.”

And he lets go.

Heart racing, wrists aching, you flip around to his neutral, impenetrable expression.

“Get down on your knees.”

Without taking a moment to decide whether you’re living anything more than just a really fucked up dream, you sink to your knees, folding your hands in your lap (to stop them from shaking). Before you, Joel’s bulge twitches while he watches you yielding to submission, and you try to ignore the excitement building between your own two legs.

His eyes burn into yours: black, starved, weighty. He tells you to shut your own and you do, unable to resist the tone of his command. Within the self-imposed darkness, Joel’s following order — ‘open your mouth,’ — parts your lips as if they were under his spell. You wonder what you must look like to him, needy and ready to receive whatever you’re given.

He speaks again.

“Show me your tongue, angel.”

The gruffness punctuating his arousal doesn’t let you stand a chance. You let your mouth fall open wider.

Next, there’s rustling. You try to remember whether or not he’d had on a belt, listening and failing to hear the soft clinks of a buckle coming undone.

Too soon, something wraps around your chin — thick, calloused fingers — and the pressure of a thumb running down the middle of your tongue sends a rush of electricity down every stacked vertebrae. It’s slow, tantalizingly slow, as if the man were trying to memorize the feel of every groove, ridge, and bud on his leisurely way out.

When Joel drops his hand, a small weight remains at the back of your throat.

“Close.”

You do, opening your eyes to meet his own: severe and wanting — or wanting for severity?

It’s a pill. That much is obvious once the taste begins to spread, bitter and chemical and totally gag-worthy. He follows up with ‘swallow’ for his own sick enjoyment; by the time he says it, it’s clear that you already have.

What kind of game is this, Miller?

Your cheeks burn when your company kneels down. He places his big, broad hand partly on your neck, partly to the side of your jaw, and you’re still too taken aback to tear it off. The feel of his rough palm against your racing pulse silences every urge to enact revenge. Words don’t come — too quickly forgotten on one’s knees.

“You’re way too easy for your own good, sweetheart,” he near-whispers, shooting to kill in a blow packed tight with condescension. “Don’t let me see you here again.”

And that’s it: your cue to get lost.

Slowly, ever so slowly, Miller pulls away from your reddening skin, straightening to stand. You follow suit soon after, heart pumping lead, tongue bruised by the memory of his touch (more overwhelming than the metallic residue dripping down your throat).

He turns, running a few fingers through his hair. It’s the last look you get before resigning yourself to the journey back home.

Still, before turning the rusted handle, in a brief moment of respite, of clarity, you seize the final word:

“I’m only ‘easy’ when I’m drunk. Or interested.”

Silence courses through the room as Joel registers the meaning behind your confession.

“Goodnight, Miller.”

With that, you see yourself into the hallway, checking its status before tearing into the stairwell.

You barely breathe.

He wanted me — he had to have wanted me.

Miller was a pragmatic player; surely, he’d only bother to play with toys he liked like that… right?

Right?

Unable to clear your head or cool the heat radiating through your core, you take the long way home, the distant sounds of a war between rivals soothing the cacophony of noise swimming between your ears.

—

For the next two weeks, all you’re able to think about is him.

You think about him when he’s gone and when he’s in the room, grumbling in hushed tones to your father. You think about him when you’re unable to fall asleep, letting your hands slip beneath the waistband of your shorts, imagining your own fingers as thick, tan ones running through the warmth between your legs.

He takes no notice of you — a fact you deeply resent. Even in your skimpiest clothing, he’s like a damn horse with blinders on. You decide, in the past weeks, he’d either acquired the patience of Job or purged every sinful craving from his system when he’d stuck his fingers down your throat.

Naturally, you’re more than happy when, at breakfast (two in the afternoon), your father gives you the heads up about tonight’s gathering at the Bar (which was really just an asbestos-ridden basement equipped with enough prohibition-style gadgets and architecture to host a good ‘strategic meeting’ every other month).

“Everyone’s gonna be there,” he mumbles. “Need you to keep your ears open. Had to take a couple rats out last week…”

Everyone’s gonna be there.

Smiling to yourself, your thoughts start to spin out. Business, distractions, booze. Tonight would host a million opportunities for you to get him alone.

Hope blooms through your chest.

Do your worst, Miller.

—

“Man, I wish we could’ve experienced cocktails. Straight hooch is ass.”

A peer named Mel, just a year older than yourself, cringes as she sips on whatever murky liquor’s found its way into her cup.

You don’t mind the taste so much, having grown mostly immune to its taste and burn. In fact, you’d come to welcome the subsequent lapse in breath and judgement.

There was little else in this world that made you feel alive.

“Mhm,” you respond absent-mindedly, looking for a familiar scowl among the mass of scowls peppering the crowd.

A sigh to your right. “Always awesome, having your attention.”

The criticism snaps you back into your body. You smile sheepishly at your friend, apologizing through a wince.

She shrugs, her raggedy, pin-decorated jacket jingling with the movement. “S’okay. Known you long enough to know that look.”

For that, she receives a quizzical glance.

Mel comes back with a scoff. “No victims tonight?”

“Oh god,” you shoot her a look of disgust. “Do you mind not using such weird vocabulary? Make me sound like a predator.”

As the words tumble out, you zero in on the object of your search. There he is: eyebrows knit together in concentration, drink in hand, unsurprisingly (and annoyingly) in conversation with your father. A few other stragglers are in the mix, too, but they’re easily overlooked. Time slows to a full stop in his wake —only for the briefest of seconds —

“Well since the last guy actually wound up dead a week later, I think it’s fitting.”

Once again, Mel’s managed to wrangle your interest.

You stare blankly into her onyx eyes, ringlets falling through molasses around her face. “Jeremy?”

And she’s bewildered. “You didn’t hear?”

This time, both of your heads turn in the same direction.

“Ratted to FEDRA about the storehouse off tenth,” she explains, gesturing towards Miller and your father with a tilt of her head. Famous for her bravery, she stoops into your shoulder, averting his gaze and speaking under her breath, “Judging by the way they found him, my guess is it was mostly Miller’s stuff.”

It’s as if she’d screamed it.

The subject of your conversation turns to face you right as your company’s words drift off. Despite the level of noise, the amount of people, and the cloudiness of the air, you’re trapped in the corridor of your mutual stare, cornered.

The challenge, the knowing marking his expression.

“I need some air.”

You twist into the body standing behind you, shoving row after row of criminal scum out of the way. Mel doesn’t follow — she’d never hung around to comfort you, only to inform you. A mutual, typical relationship for the age, and just how things worked in the QZ.

You slam into the door, stomping into a deserted, silent alley, empty save for a few drunk strays. Your lips begin to tingle and a scream builds inside your lungs. Stalking blindly into the night, unsure of your direction, alone in half a top and a plain, ass-length skirt, shivering despite the warmth of the air…

You’re practically begging for trouble.

Just as your eyes catch the numbers on the old, rusted street sign above, just as you realize you’re on a monitored street tonight, only safe after curfew every other Monday and Wednesday, you’re grabbed by the waist, pulled into the space between two buildings, and shoved into a sheltered nook.

A dim, yellow light clicks on automatically. There’s a door (chained closed) leading into the building to your left and darkness to your right.

And there’s Joel Miller above you, his expression indeterminable.

“You asshole,” you barely hear yourself breathe over the sound of the blood rushing in your ears before lunging forward in a useless attempt to, once again, strike his profile.

He catches your wrist, no doubt having anticipated the attack. It’s written on your face, in your eyes, in your shallow, uneven inhalations. He takes your other hand before you’ve even thought to use it, lifting it above your head and slamming it against the old stucco behind you.

“You’re violent,” he says flatly.

He tightens his hold when you struggle against it. “Proud of yourself, yeah? You’re a killer.”

That inspires a slight smirk. You half expect him to return with an ‘as if you didn’t already know that.’

Instead, he says, “Sweetheart, you didn’t even know his name.”

“You should’ve told me.”

And that’s the real source of this anger: it’s rage at being the last to know.

And for what? To protect your feelings? Since when had anyone in your life bothered to do that?

“And don’t call me ‘sweetheart’,” you add for good measure.

You’d wanted him to touch you so badly for weeks now, but here, scorned at being left in the dark and confused at the death of a paramour, you only want to get free.

“And what’d he call you?” He spits, leaning down and in, inadvertently pressing his thigh between your legs — when his breath grazes the skin of your ear, it causes them to part (against your better judgement). “Got lots of names, right?” He continues to tease, “Heard your boyfriend’s pretty one for you before I shut him up — ‘that fuckin’ slut,’ f’I’m rememberin’ right.”

Despite your rage-shakes, you’re warming at the core, Joel’s pressure against it dizzying your already-addled head. It confuses you, makes the scorn easier to access.

“How did I come up, Miller?” You exhale, jutting your chin towards him. “Couldn’t help asking for all the dirty little details, could you?”

He smiles, and the act lacks any sort of kindness. “‘Lot easier gettin’ him alone once he thought he was meetin’ you.” Joel slams your wrist harder into the wall when you try to wriggle away. “Not sure you wanna keep making that kind of impression, angel.”

It’s hard to rationalize with him so close, as his pet-names echoe inside your head. He’d used your name to enact gang-law violence on a boy who’d been inside you, and yet, all you can think, all you can hear, is the way ‘sweetheart’ sounds tumbling off his lips.

“Fucking let me go, Miller,” you manage to exasperate, resenting the begging edge to every word. “I don’t need another abstinence lecture from you.”

Kicking one ankle off balance, Joel turns you around, pressing your stomach to the wall, your back into his chest. Ignoring your whines and pitiful struggle, he wraps a free hand around your neck, pushing your head against his collarbone. Your stomach erupts with butterflies as the rough pad of his thumb traces the front of your throat.

Yes — no — yes, he wants me — no, no, this is wrong, this is so wrong —

“‘Be wasted on you, anyways,” he says, rough and earnest, like his hand sliding down your chest, your breasts, your stomach, “Startin’ to realize if I can’t fix your dad’s mistakes…” and he’s finding the hem of your skirt and yanking it up, bunching the fabric around your hips —

“Might as well take advantage of them.”

He moves hungrily. He’s everywhere, sliding into your underwear and across your breasts, his big arms and suffocating biceps enveloping your entire frame.

“Joel—”

But he claps a hand over your mouth, silencing any hope of your pleas being effective.

“Think I haven’t seen you? Your lil’ looks…” a low laugh, “n’ those fuckin’ clothes?” God, the rumble, the sheer want in his voice hammers at your initial resistance, and you feel yourself welcoming the feel of his thick, long fingers, sliding between your wet folds. You’re clay, melting against the curved, firm wall of his chest.

You mewl pathetically into his palm.

Another low laugh wracks his lungs, dances at the top of your ear.

“Knew you’d be this wet for me.”

“Knew since you got down on your knees,” Joel continues, uncovering your mouth only to ease a few fingers between your lips — lips that part as though commanded, and a mouth that welcomes and caresses whatever it receives, “‘N opened this pretty lil’ mouth for me to fuck it. Can’t close my eyes without seein’ you like that — so fuckin’ needy.” He exhales from between his teeth, signalling his approval while you suck him down to the knuckles.

His fingers tease your clit and you give him your thanks by pleasuring those of his other hand.

When his hands move, it’s to hold you steady and balanced as he drags your underwear down your legs. That thick, heavy cloud of arousal hides any and all rational thoughts from view.

And he knows. He knows you’re past the point of no return, restraining you only out of his desire to rather than out of a real need to. He knows from the whine you breathe at the loss of his hand against your clit, moving to work at his belt buckle instead.

“Gonna use a condom?” You breathe, emboldened by your clearing senses at the temporary lack of stimulation.

At first, you think he’s missed your taunt.

He backs up, pulling your hips along with him until the tips of your fingers are no longer touching the decaying wall before you. Joel pulls you upright and against him with an arm around your waist and a hand around your throat, turning your head and tilting it back to meet your eyes.

You grasp onto his forearms, failing to stand, unable to breathe. His hardness digs into your back, and his cruel eyes show you just how much pleasure he takes in your struggle.

“Don’t like to waste ‘em,” he finally answers, rocking his cock against your spine, “But I will if you beg. You gonna beg?”

He manipulates your answer, fingers moving to your red-hot core — he barely grazes the nerves, only dancing over the needy flesh. You can’t tear your eyes from him either, tethered to your body through his gaze.

Joel Miller was a frustrating lover.

“N-no,” is your answer, slightly strangled and softly stuttered.

He smiles. “S’what I thought.” Then, “Show me what you can do, angel,” he coos, lips just inches away from yours, his hold on your body relaxing —

“Use your pretty lil’ hands n’ put my cock where you want it most.”

And you both know exactly where that is.

After a nod, Joel allows you to bend forward slowly — it’s like moving through honey. Your legs burn with effort as you reach between your legs to wrap a hand around his thick, hard length.

Christ, he’s huge.

He groans when you touch him and uses his own hand to help guide his tip between your folds. One hand holds your waist, fingers extended under your ribs to support your weight in a skilled show of experience.

With his tip at your aching entrance, you try to lean back, to slide yourself slowly down his many inches.

But Joel doesn’t allow it.

He pushes into you in one go, clicking his tongue at your strangled gasp —

The man hadn’t even bothered to open you up with his fingers.

“Ah, c’mon,” he condescends, “You can take it.”

Then he’s setting a hard pace, hands moving from your hips to your ribs to your biceps to your hair to your neck — anywhere he wanted to go, he went. One eventually comes to the front of your throat, tilting your eyes back and up towards the ceiling. Every one of his thrusts arches your back further until you’re contorting into a half-moon shape, standing only by the grace of his support.

And it feels so good. Joel fills you up to the brim, takes you to heaven and floods your ears with hymns, punishes you in the kind of way you’d only experienced in dreams.

Words tumble out, but they’re filled with nothingness. “Joel,” “fuck,” and “yesohgodyes,” quickly become staples of your vocabulary.

He laughs whenever you sob, grows harder every time you moan, restrains you when you try to run away.

The hand around your throat tightens, digging unforgivably into the flesh as you start to let go, as your walls begin to clench and flutter appreciatively around his cock.

“M’I making you happy, sweetheart? My cock making you smile?” He asks gruffly, pulling you back into his chest. Joel readjusts you into whatever shape you need to be in at the new angle, hips still slamming into your ass. Struggling to stand on your tiptoes, he steadies you with his arms and his hand on your jaw, forcing you to look up into his rugged face.

“Mmhm,” is all you can offer him, the pitch jumping up halfway through when the head of his cock grazes that perfect spot inside your cunt.

He doesn’t let up.

“Show me, baby—” he commands, out of breath, too, but not nearly as tortured as you, “—Show me your smile.”

You do your best, smiling up at him, degrading yourself even more at the hands of Joel-fucking-Miller. And he eats it up, loves the way your grin turns into a bitten lip and knit eyebrows over closed eyes, slowing his thrusts to rock even deeper inside you.

You moan something unintelligible, and a laugh rustles through your tangled hair.

“Am I makin’ you come?”

You nod, feeling that familiar rush of pressure blooming somewhere within that throbbing bundle of nerves under his spell.

He smirks in pride and victory, the last look you get before your head falls against his shoulder, your muscles going lax as the peak builds, as your half-sobs grow louder.

“S’it, baby, tell ‘em,” he coos, nipping and sucking the skin on the side of your throat. “Gonna tell the whole street how you take it like a good lil’ slut.”

His fingers fall to your clit, enticing you right over the edge. You vision blurs and your legs shake, but Joel talks you through your orgasm, sweet nothings starting with, “S’right — show me — yes, fuck — good girl…”

And then —

He stops.

You whine, stars dancing before your eyes as the mean, mean man inside you refuses to fuck you through your climax.

“Joel,” you plead, grinding back against him in a pathetic show of need, “Come with me.”

He does the opposite, sliding himself out of your sore opening. You turn to face him, restoring your balance with hands against his chest, gazing up at him in desire-stricken reproach.

“Use your mouth,” he says, voice gruff at your ruined sight and from his own hand on his cock, keeping his arousal level, “Not gettin’ any more help from me.”

It’s unclear whether ‘help’ means pills or his cock, but you assume both to be safe.

You try to argue (having spent the last few weeks dreaming of Joel dripping down your legs) but he just won’t budge.

Then, his voice softens.

“You know your dad’d kill me, angel.”

And it’s really the sweetness of his tone that does it.

Sinking to your knees, it’s déjà vu when you open wide for him, steadying your shaking knees with both hands on his half clothed, half naked hips. Gravel and debris dig painfully into your bare knees, but you ignore the sting, smiling instead at the taste of yourself on Joel’s cock, lips sliding adoringly down the thick length of it.

He groans his approval, tangling his fingers in your hair to help guide your movements.

As you take him in again and again and again, pleasing every inch of him, he chokes out a laugh.

“Never seen you so quiet,” he muses (mostly to himself), caressing your cheekbone with his free hand —

“Gagged by an old man’s cock.”

You pull off, pumping him with both hands, asking breathlessly, “Are you all so big?”

He smiles, eyes darkening at the dirty compliment. “Give you a few numbers n’ you can tell me.”

God, he’s beautiful from down here.

You hold his attention and lick a slow stripe down the underside of his cock, half-grinning up at his lust-filled expression.

“I only want yours, Joel Miller.”

An uneasy inhale as you take him back in, his brows furrowing and his cock growing impossibly harder. Your words please him, he returns by groaning orders and praises like: “S’all yours, baby — take it all — take aaall that dick — good fuckin’ girl.”

He’s so close and you know it, moaning in submission at his hand’s pressure against the back of your head. With your nose crunched into his abdomen, you hold your throat open for him to use it however he pleases — reduced to nothing more than the man’s plaything.

There’s a low “ah, fuck,” from above, and then you finally know what Joel Miller tastes like.

It’s better than the Plan B.

You hear nothing beyond his recovering breaths, feel nothing past pride, lust, and exhaustion.

Eventually, he loosens his grip. You pull off of him delicately, drawing a groan from between his gritted teeth when you make sure to suck every last drop of his seed into your mouth.

Sitting back on your ankles, you roll your head up to face him.

He swipes a thumb under your lips, clearing the saliva connecting you to his softening cock.

“Still mad at me?” He asks.

You’d be crazy to say yes.

“Only for pulling out.”

You note the twitch at the corner of his mustache.

Joel helps you back on your feet, using one hand to pull you up by your arm and another to arrange himself back to decency.

You adjust your shirt; Joel fixes your skirt. It’s a strange kind of silence settling inside this pocket at the side of a random, ruined building.

Then, your company clears his throat, that mask of seriousness falling over his expression once again.

“You gonna be smart?”

What ever could he mean?

Stay away from him? Stay away from men? Practice abstinence? Use protection?

Either way, you’re not one to make promises you know you can’t keep.

You cross your arms.

“No.”

He sighs.

Well, looks like things are already back to normal.

His face softens and he shakes his head, already regretting his next words. “Just — just come find me, then. I won’t do… this again, but — but I’ll help.”

You frown.

“What do you mean, ‘this’?”

He stares down into your accusatory eyes with a look you’d received many times from him, one screaming, “get real.”

“Fine,” you mutter, breaking eye-contact, “Thank you.”

With a stoic nod, he walks around you, heading back into the night. You try, in vain, to watch him go in silence — god knows you had some thinking to get to — and find that, instead of getting it out of your system, the entanglement had only left you wanting for more.

And more and more.

“Is this what you meant?” and you hear his footsteps halt, “When you told me you’d do worse than kill me? When I tried to hit you?”

It comes out before you can help it, and you twist around to face his still, broad shoulders.

You can hear the smile teasing his lips as he utters the words.

“Why are you askin’ me that?”

Still facing his back, you break into a smile of your own. “So I’ll know what I have to do to get you to do it again.”

You watch him shake his head, grey-streaked ripples in the low light.

“Try your best not to find out, angel.”

With that, he disappears into the darkness, leaving you in the flickering doorway. Thighs aching, heart racing, you take a deep breath, trying to memorize the feeling of what it felt to have them taken from you by Joel Miller.

A feeling you’d chase.

—

Put your red boots on

Baby, giddy up

Baby wants a dance

Baby gets her way

Dreamy nights

Talk to me with that whiskey breath

Twirl me twice

I'll treat you like a holiday

And don't say you're over me

When we both know that you ain't

Don't say you're over me

Baby, it's already too late

Just do what you do best with me

Dance me all around the room

Spin me like a ballerina, super high

Dance me all around the moon

Light me up like the 4th of July

Once, twice, three times

The guy I ever thought I would meet, so

Don't say you're over me

When we both know that you lie

If you lie down right next to me

Lie, lie, lie, lie, lie, lie, lie, lie, lie

If you lie down right next to me

Lie, lie, lie, lie, lie, lie, lie, lie, lie

When you lie down right next to me

Get your jacket on

Be a gentleman

Get into your truck

And pick me up at eight

'Cause we were built for

The long haul freight train

Burnt by fire

Without trial like a stowaway

And don't say you're over me

When they all know that you ain't

If you lay down right next to me

Dance me all around the room

Spin me like ballerina super high

Dance me all around the moon

Like six times 'til I'm sick and I cry

Once, twice, three times

The guy I ever thought I would meet, so

Don't say you're over me

When they all know that you're lying

If you lie down right next to me

Lie, lie, lie, lie, lie, lie, lie, lie, lie

Lie, you lie

If you lie down right next to me

Lie, lie, lie, lie, lie, lie, lie, lie, lie

Lie, you lie

When you lie down right next to me

—

TAGLIST (cont’d in reblogs): @millllenniawrites @inkedells @stardust-chords-enthusiast @mattmurdocksgirlfriend @liviloo12346 @anyas-stuff @readingsunshine97 @maudlinflowers @sullysflm @sexygaypalpatine @livyjh @s-unflowxr @lostsoldieronahill @chapterhappygirl @silkiers @jupitersmoon-cal @supernaturaldean67 @peqchsoup @corrodedcherries @hawsx3 @monboudoir @theonewithacrush @pono-pura-vida @fruitcupsworld @mads-grace4 @killerrxger @niallsbunny @snowyarcher @grnherbs @mswarriorbabe80 @tercabed @sweettea-and-honeybutter @bbyanarchist @thisgirl-knm @pedrit0-pascalit0 @redhotkitchen @isitselfishifwetalkaboutmeagain @pseudonymist @goldengrapejuice @soullumii @kamcrazy123 @wclverine

[fuckyeahdindjarin]

Pressing

Jack Daniels x F!Reader, dude ranch AU

A Palomino oneshot, but can be read on its own

{ Series Masterlist | Main Masterlist }

Rating: E

Summary: Jack marks you as his in an unexpected way.

Warnings: PWP, Jack's belt leaves an impression on reader's skin, unintentional branding, unprotected sex, long-distance relationship, desperate and feral cowboy, no physical descriptions of Reader, very lightly edited, written as part of the Palomino universe, set after the end of the series, but can be read as a oneshot on its own

Word count: 1.4k

Notes: This little story came from an ask sent in by 🐴 anon in December 2022, which I have long lost, about a song that mentions a guy’s belt buckle leaving marks on his girlfriend's inner thigh while fucking. Naturally, they thought of Jack’s belt. 🐴 anon, if you’re still here, thank you for the inspo and for your patience ❤️

Also thank you to @lola-lola-lola for getting me horn knee about our cowboy again 😘 Writing Palomino smut first thing in the year was not on my 2024 bingo card, and I’m not mad about it!

Cutest dividers by @firefly-graphics.

It’s been two and a half months. Week after wretched week of phone calls on stolen time. Day after day of aching to reach through the phone screen and the distance between you to touch him.

It’s hard being hundreds and hundreds of miles apart. It’s even harder on weeks when he’s in the mountains with no reception. Harder to find time to call when you have to work late and he has to get up at dawn.

But you endure it all - for days like this. 

It’s a rare weekend off in the high season, with Teak pulling back-to-back pack trips to cover for him, joking that he can’t take all his sighing and pining for his Darlin’ anymore.

Jack takes the last flight out on Friday night, arriving first thing on Saturday morning, before the city - or you - wake up. You’re half-buried under the duvet when the jingle of the key in the door jolts you from shallow slumber.

On unsteady feet, you wobble out into the hallway, crashing into the walls as you go, balance off-kilter from sleep.

But it’s ok - he catches you, all white t-shirt and tight blue jeans. Incognito, if you will, in casual sneakers, but the cowboy hat is on as always. You knock it off post-haste, burying your face in the side of his neck in a desperate need for contact, his warmth seeping into your skin and wrapping you up in the deepest of comforts.

His hair is longer than he usually keeps it, and your fingers twist into his tousled curls when you pull back, taking in the stubble on his sharp jawline, and his tired eyes. But before you can say anything, he leans in and slants his lips over yours.

The taste of airplane coffee is sharp and bitter on his tongue as he kisses you deep and messy. You startle when he suddenly slams the door shut behind him, not realising it was still open, and his beat-up weekend bag is tossed carelessly behind him somewhere in the doorway. 

The legs of the kitchen table scrape jarringly against the floor as he crowds you onto it, big hands cupping your ass and pulling you against his straining erection through his jeans.

‘Fuck, it’s been too long, darlin’.’ His voice is gravelly from an apparently sleepless overnight flight, and hearing his voice finally on the shell of your ear has you whimpering needily.

‘Can’t wait any more,’ he growls, desperation thick in his voice.

With a flick of his wrists, he shucks off your ratty sleep shirt, eyes hooded as he gazes down at your tits, like he can’t believe he’s actually touching you. Cupping them, soft and heavy, with reverent, rope-worn palms, he sucks one nipple after the other between his lips, making you squirm against him and leak wet and sticky between your thighs.

Strong hands hold you in place easily as you buck, the scrape of his moustache almost painful on your over-sensitive skin, nerve endings on fire after being deprived for long weeks. 

Too impatient to wait, you tug your pyjamas shorts down your hips and kick them off clumsily, panties tangled in your damp folds as you writhe under him. 

You feel the breath catch in his broad chest at the peek of your pussy, a rapidly growing damp spot darkening your cotton underwear. Hooking his thumb under the fabric, he tugs it unceremoniously to the side, baring you to him. 

‘Look at all this,’ he marvels, tracing the fleshy pad of his thumb through your folds, making you arch clean off the table. ‘So wet for me and you’ve barely woken up.’

‘Been thinking about you the while night,’ you admit, hips twitching as you chase his touch. ‘Couldn’t sleep.’

‘Did you touch yourself, darlin’?’

You shake your head vehemently. ‘No. Wanted your fingers. Your cock.’

His nostrils flare at your answer, unabashedly possessive in the way he looms over you. 

‘Good girl,’ he murmurs into your throat, nosing the side of your neck while thick fingers thrum against your clit. ‘I was so hard for you the whole fuckin’ flight.’ 

As if to prove it to you - not that you need it - he rolls his hips into your inner thigh, the hard bulge undeniable.

You mewl, hooking your ankles around his waist. ‘Fuck me now, Jack - please.’

There’s a wordless fumble for the solid sterling flask bottle of his belt buckle, his usual level-headed composure nowhere to be found as he pushes down his jeans with shaking hands, just enough to pull his cock out of its denim confines - 

And then he thrusts home inside you.

After months of only your fingers, it’s a stretch. But what a delicious stretch it is.

You feel him throb deep inside you, feel the thunder of a pained groan in his chest, pressed up against yours. Your cunt is all slick and give to his determined strokes as he begins to move. 

There’s no finesse, hardly any awareness, when he fucks frantically into you. His solid weight pins you to the table, and it rattles precariously under your back.

Your legs are splayed obscenely wide and bent at the knees while Jack pounds into your wet heat, eyes wild and mouth hanging open, watching your tits bounce as you take him, your nails digging into the cotton of his white t-shirt. He never did take off your panties, and the fabric rubs your clit just so with every one of his thrusts, rapidly sending you to the edge.

In the back of your mind, you’re aware of the coarse scrape of his jeans against your inner thighs, and something digs hard into the tender skin, the repeated motion dulling the sensation to an almost numb pressure. 

When you cum, you’re crying out before your head catches up, your body convulsing with blind bliss as your pussy clenches around him in a hot rush. The blood pounding in your ears is drowned out by your chants of his name, and then his hips start to stutter and his whole body tenses, frantic eyes on yours as he teeters on the edge. 

‘Where, darlin’?’

‘Inside me.’

The words have barely left you and he’s coming, broken pants against your lips as he comes and comes and comes - spilling inside you, filling you to the brim until he’s empty, turned inside out.

Slumped, boneless on top of you, humid pants pressed into your shoulder, his fingers tangle with yours, squeezing as if to let you know that he’s here.

You almost doze off, the gradually slowing rise and fall of the cowboy’s broad chest a comforting anchor, when he rouses you with gentle lips along your jaw. You giggle, feeling him softening and sliding out of you, making a mess of your kitchen table. 

‘Mornin’ darlin’,’ he says somewhat belatedly, warm eyes crinkling as he smiles at you.

‘Morning,’ you grin back, and when he shifts, you wince at the ache in your joints from being pinned to one spot for this very vigorous wake up call. His hands smooth over your legs in apology, and you jump when his fingertips brush over somewhere at the juncture of your upper thigh that is surprisingly sore.

‘What’s that?’ you ask, puzzled.

Jack doesn’t answer, curiously quiet. You look down to where he’s bracketed between your legs, watching him trace his index finger over the unmistakable imprint of his distinct belt buckle on the inside of your thigh, where it’s been digging into your skin the whole time. 

He glances at you. ‘I’m sorry. Did I hurt you?’

‘No, you didn’t,’ you give him a knowing grin. ‘And are you really sorry, cowboy?’

He doesn’t even have the decency to look sheepish. Gently pinching your swollen folds together, he groans when a milky bead of his cum dribbles out of you, running down the inside of your leg and smearing onto the flask-shaped impression.

‘Ain’t sorry about somethin’ that looks this good on you, darlin’.’

‘Could’ve asked me before you branded me, you know,’ you half-joke, running your own finger along the deep lines carved into your skin, for now.

‘Beggin’ your pardon, I tend to forget my manners when I’m balls deep in a pussy as sweet as yours,’ he retorts, one eyebrow arching when he feels you shiver at his words.

You huff in jest, ‘Doesn’t sound like much of an apology if you asked me.’

‘Whatcha want, darlin’? Me on my hands and knees for you?’

Heat flashes under your skin, from your cheeks down to your toes, and Jack’s eyes darken as his tongue wets his bottom lip. ‘Alright. I hear you loud and clear, ma’am.’

Slowly, he sinks onto his knees in front of you, his joints creaking endearingly as he goes, and you can’t help but tease, ‘Easy there, cowboy.’

The wicked tip of his tongue peeks out, and you bite your lip in a moan when it cleverly traces the outline of the belt buckle on your skin, ending in a playful nip that pulls a gasp from you.

With an unapologetically smug grin, Jack winks. ‘I’m only just gettin’ started, darlin’.’

Note: Thank you for reading ❤️ I’ve missed these two, and if you’re new to Palomino, I hope you’ll give the series a chance!

[0bticeo]

jonathan sims | get some rest (tomorrow is already here)

summary:

“what do you propose?”

you take in a sharp inhale. you should leave. drag him away from his desk. but jonathan sims is a stubborn man, so he must be coaxed into doing so. 

“a massage.”

"a what?"

wc: 2.5k

tw: massage, making out, reader being a horny mess, jon being exhausted and a cranky bastard, hinted at elias' voyeuristic tendencies, usual tma ominous feelings, fluff (shocking, i know)

the analog clock reads 3:27, stark red embedded upon your retina. you sigh, fingers rubbing at the back of your neck as you step into the archives, weary bones aching.

it’s not your fault if you fell asleep in a secluded corner of the archives departement, squeezed between two shelves and piles upon piles of unlabeled statements. scratch that: they’re labeled. chronologically.

they do not make sense, however, because jonathan sims’ predecessor - whose name you curse with every breath and sleepless night you spend organizing her damn mess - left the whole department in such a state of disarray you might spend the rest of your life making sense of it. damn her. and damn your boss for being so uptight about it all.

you feel the weight of the institute, a looming force of knowledge pressed at the back of your neck, sweet pinprick of pain. you’re watched. oh, orwell, how right you were.

you make your way towards your desk, stepping over sasha’s pink slippers and picking up an empty mug. grab your keys, get out, and walk home. you’re not too far away from the institute. no trouble.

as you lean forward, palm pressed flat against a manila file, something catches your eye.

light. 

thin rays of it crawl, seep out from under the wooden door of the head archivist’s office, stark golden in dull gray penumbra.

he’s there, jonathan sims, head archivist of the magnus institute. holed up in his office, recording a statement, voice poised and measured and controlled in every way he isn’t upon being confronted with his poor sleeping schedule. 

you should leave.

you hear the soft click of a tape recorder being stopped. a long, deep-suffering sigh. a drawer opening, more muttering, some shuffling, rustling papers - oh no he won’t.

in three decisive steps, you’re before his door, your sharp knocking rinnging like gunfire in the quiet of the office. 

“who-who’s there?”

unease. suspicion.

you’re quick to answer with a long suffering sigh of your own, forehead pressed against the door.

“it’s me, jon.”

a pause. an exasperated sigh.

“what do you want?"

you take it as your cue to step inside his office, dimly lit by a lone desk lamp, dust particles turning midas-gold under its rays. your foot catches on a discarded paper - another statement, this one regarding a gambling fool of a soldier. 

(he who tries to cheat death gets the fruit of his labor and weeps upon tasting it.)

you pick it up, and let your gaze roam about the place.

a cork board takes up the majority of a wall, red strings twisting and turning in a web of confusion.

bookshelves align themselves in neat rows, cramped against one another, overflowing with statements, indigestions of facts made up and real.

a cluttered desk - a switched off tape recorder, manila folders, an open computer casting its blue glow upon the sharp edge of jon’s face.

he’s glaring at you.

“have you grown deaf since the last time i saw you?”

you let out an amused breath and make a move to put the statement on his desk. finding an uncluttered space is harder than it proves to be.

jon all but snatches the damn paper from your grip. if looks could kill, you’d be in bad shape. you lean back, arms crossed over your chest, hip pressed against the edge of his desk.

“no, merely mute with shock upon your wretched appearance.” you smile, teasing edges fading into concern. “seriously, when was the last time you slept?”

“that does not concern you-”

“it does, actually. you’re my boss. i can’t let you waste away, who would pay me otherwise?”

“elias pays all of us-”

“and he probably would have me promoted as a glorified secretary if you were to overwork yourself to death. i hate accountance, jon.”

he pinches his nose with long, deft fingers, glasses riding up ever so slightly. they reveal the deep circles under his eyes, embedded in his olive skin. you can practically see the tension oozing from him, the knots in his shoulders.

“if you’re determined to waste my time-”

“i came to help, actually.”

he raises a quizzical eyebrow, the living embodiment of judgment.

you feel his gaze rake your form, the own dark circles under your eyes, the crumpled shirt, the dust that clings to your skirt, what he’s sure is the imprint of the shelf you fell asleep against on your cheek.

you raise your hands in mock surrender. (you miss the way his gaze softens a little.)

“you’re exhausted. hell, i can feel your nervous energy from here.”

he opens his mouth, frowning, protest ready on his tongue. you cut him, merciless.

“when was the last time you’ve gotten more than three hours of sleep?”

that shuts him up. his frown deepens. you want to smooth out the wrinkles on his forehead.

“that - look, if you have nothing better to do than pester me-”

“it’s three in the morning and we’re the only living souls in this institute.”

maybe. you don’t really want to know what lies in the tunnels. or in the artifact storage. or what’s watching you.

“you’re not going to sleep at all at this rate - no, i know you’re not, because i know you. kinda.”

he sighs, exhaustion crawling out of his very marrow, and leans back in his chair. you take in the wrinkles in his shirt, now exposed because lo and behold, jonathan sims’ jacket is not sewn to his body and - 

and he’s loosening his tie, two fingers digging in his windsor knot, smooth silk gliding away under skilled fingers. you wonder what they might feel like slipping under your shirt.

“what do you propose?”

you take in a sharp inhale. you should leave. drag him away from his desk and into bed. but jonathan sims is the living embodiment of stubborness, so he must be coaxed into doing so.

“a massage.”

“a- a what?”

you laugh a little.

“don’t pretend your neck isn’t stiffer than the stick up your ass.”

“i do not have-”

“jon, please let me help.”

silence. again, he pinches the bridge of his nose. at least, he’s considering it.

you eye the piles of statements on his desk, half-discarded, half-classified. there’s a pattern in the way jon operates, even if he’s not conscious of it.

he only ever calls for your help when he’s sure the statements at hand are lelgitimate. this means he rules out those he deems written by lunatics and madmen. this means he does most of the work. this means-

“all right. but under one condition."

you tilt your head to the side, curious.

“one last statement.”

“only if i massage you while you record it.”

a glare.

“we’re wasting time, jon.”

“fine. get over here.”

you smile, palms smoothing out the pleats of your skirt as you make your way behind his desk.

he pays you no mind, long fingers selecting a manila file from a pile, opening it with care. there’s a certain stiff grace with which he carries himself, you muse as you step behind him. 

you watch the ripples of tension in the back of his neck, the fine strands of auburn hair tainted penumbra-dark brushing against his nape, and gently run your knuckle against his skin. he’s warm.

“whenever you’re ready,” you breathe, fingers resting on the back of his chair.

he coughs a little. composes himself. hits record.

“continued statement of trevor herbert regarding their latter years as a vampire hunter. original statement given july 10th 2010, audio recording by jonathan sims, head archivist of the magnus institute.”

you watch with fascination as the calm, composed, formal voice slips into something… else. something between jonathan sims and trevor herbert, and it’s fascinating, because for a brief second, split second instant of Knowing, you can See him, the tramp and his collapsing lungs, writing away his youth and hunts on bland institute paper.

you blink and it’s gone. 

there’s only you, the “lofi charm” of the tape recorder, and jon. his nape is bare. intimate knowledge settles in your mind, the fragility of mortality. bury a sharp needle there and his body collapses. 

you frown. push it back. roll up your sleeves and rub your hands together, warming them up because they’re always cold, and the least you can do is give him a modicum of comfort.

slowly, carefully, you put your hands over his shoulders. he tenses at that, briefly, until you start rubbing away the years of tension gnawing at him.

slowly, surely, you knead poor, exhausted muscles. slowly, surely, he relaxes under your touch, head leaning back ever so slightly.

from this close, you can smell him, you realize. cold coffee, dusty paper, cedarwood aftershave and something like a hint of sweat. 

“good?” you whisper, almost silent, voice lost in the quiet static of the tape recorder, in the dust-soft penumbra.

he nods, cheek brushing your wrist. your heart hammers in your chest. a strand of hair brushes the back of your hand - they’re graying a little. you wonder why he exhausts himself so. why he spends nights buried in his office, burrowing himself in piles and piles of files. 

hypocrite.

the only reason as to why you’re here, massaging your fucking boss and growing desperately wet at his deep sighs of content, is because you, too, spend much more time than reasonable trying to make sense of it all. 

the only reason as to why you’re here, taking in the gentle mess that is jonathan sims, is because you both leave at ungodly hours. because he can keep his eyes on you and so he knows that you cannot be responsible for gertrude’s murder.

you think he might trust you.

his hand settles over yours, and you startle.

he’s warm, palm large enough to cover the entirety of your hand, from wrist to fingertips. you don’t know what to do with this knowledge.

you don’t want to think of what you might do in the quiet death of the night, your hand slipping under your covers, down the apex of your thigh-

he slides your hand lower. oh. oh. 

you lean forward, until your cheek brushes his, skin on skin, and unbutton the first two buttons of his shirt. you think he might be leaning into your touch. you think you might cut yourself on the edge of his jaw, on the sharpness of his words. 

your hands meet his bare skin and you feel like you’ve caught fire, breath stolen away as you feel him in a way the cotton of his shirt didn’t allow. there is a sharpness to him. you can feel his jutting clavicles under your fingertips, sharp angel wings of bone, and your heart tightens. 

he works too much.

it’s quiet, for a while.

you don’t know what sets it off. one moment, you’re massaging him, relishing in the feeling of his skin under your hands. the next, your fingers catch a particularly tight spot in his shoulders and he groans , and fuck, you should not feel familiar heat curling in your lower belly but you do. 

you should stop. bid him good night and leave him with his precious recording. 

you don’t. 

instead, you rub at that spot, tentatively, and watch as he bites his lip mid-sentence, voice catching on a word. he’s a little breathless.

you are, too, heart hammering in your ribcage, hummingbird trying to flee its bones.

his hand wraps around your wrist and tugs you forward, free hand settling on your lower back, guiding you until you’re in his lap, looking up at him.

you think you might be dying of a heart attack with the way he looks at you, with eyes so dark you can barely make out the beautiful green of them.

“just what do you think you’re doing?” he growls.

you feel like you're on fire with how close you are. how his hand still encases your wrist in an iron hold. how you can feel warmth of him. how you can see the fluttering pulse of his throat, adam apple bobbing up and down as he swallows and fuck you want to take a bite.

your mouth feels dry.

“i- i don’t-” 

his grip tightens on your wrist. 

“answer me.”

somehow you’re closer. close enough to feel his breath on your lips, to find yourself staring up at him through hooded eyes, to find him staring back with parted lips. 

whatever’s left of your resolve dissolves into a puddle of desire. 

“jon, please, let me kiss you.”

a pause. the faintest glint of disbelief in his eyes.

then his lips crash on yours. 

you startle, hand shooting forward to grasp the nearest thing for purchase and find only him, him and the crisp cotton of his shirt, all exhaustion and boiling frustration.

he puts his mouth to you like one would to a lover’s and kisses you slowly, deeply, unraveling you like a beloved mystery. 

your body sings for him, and it’s so right you dismiss the ever-present pinprick pressure at the back of your neck. 

his palm cups it, your nape, warmth consuming that pinprick pain, until the only thing you can do is sigh in his mouth and press yourself closer.

his lips part from yours, briefly, a breath away, and it’s too damn far, so you tug at his cravat and pull him down. your fingers dig in his shirt, his hair, and he groans at the way your nails rake his scalp.

your lips part for him in a soft, whisper-quiet moan of his name, and he swallows it down almost greedily. you feel his tongue brush against yours and let out a low, needy sound, molten desire coursing through your veins.

his hand slips under your shirt, reaches for the soft skin of your side and presses up, up, up until it meets your breast and his thumb presses against your nipple in tight circles and you’re almost sobbing against his lips. 

you’re not aware that your hips are grinding against the hardness of him until his hand settles on your hip, slowing you down to a stop, and you part from him, breathless, and so, so needy.

there’s a thread of saliva between you, thin little spider-web intertwining your fates.

he looks at you, disheveled, glasses slightly askew, their lenses foggy, shirt half-opened for your gaze to meet tantalizing skin. a feast for the sore eyes.

“you might want to make me breakfast instead.”

“not like this,” he mumbles, thumb swiping against your bottom lip. “not- at least, let me treat you to dinner first.”

he chuckles at that, a little breathless, a little exasperated, definitely fond.

“cheeky.”

you peck his lip, sweetly. his hand tightens over your hip.

“look at the time, jon.” 

he rides up his sleeve ever so slightly to reveal his watch and with it, the tantalizing softness of his pulse, beating wildly against the tender skin of his inner wrist. almost four in the morning. you press your lips there, feel the yearning of his beating heart. 

he doesn’t think he’s seen you this beautiful. you, disheveled, on his lap, almost chest to chest with him, bringing his palm to your cheek and pressing fluttering kisses to his fingers. you, smiling up at him, exhausted, worn to the bone, but happy, and -

“oh.”

“what is it?”

your gaze lands on the tape recorder. oh.

“still recording. i should -”

“go home, get some sleep and finish what you started - me included - later.”

he sighs. there’s still a smile on his lips, exhaustion melting down to affection. 

"fine. end recording.”

[sarahghetti]

all the echoes in my mind; m.s.

pairing: marc spector x reader centric, steven grant x reader, jake lockley x reader

summary: marc falls victim to his own self-doubt. you get caught in the crossfire.

warnings: angst, hurt no comfort, implied self-harm, a bit of a character study.

word count: 1.3k

MOON KNIGHT MASTERLIST | ALL MASTERLISTS

It all had to come to a head, eventually.

The bitter, vitriolic part of Marc always knew that it would happen. That one day, you would see him for who he is—a leech on your life, a waste of space. Someone that would only bring you pain, no matter how much kindness Steven or Jake might show you.

He can sense it as soon he climbs in through their apartment window, retracting the hood and mask of the suit to scan the room. You’re waiting for him on the couch—you always are, no matter how many times he insists you sleep when he goes on patrol—but you don’t make a move towards the first aid kit laying on the coffee table like usual. There’s a distant look in your eyes.

“Baby?” Worry spikes in his chest as he makes his way towards you.

Your breath catches at his voice, and finally, you look up at him. There’s a hesitance there that makes him uneasy. He reaches out towards you, but you both falter when you see the blood staining the white bandages.

It’s a lapse of judgement that causes him to retract the rest of the suit, forgetting about the bruised and bloody state of his body underneath. It all aches so much worse without Khonshu’s powers. He nearly collapses onto the couch but you’re there in a second, supporting him with an arm under his shoulders.

“Marc…”

The hairs at the back of his neck stand on end. Alarm rings clear in your gaze as it roams over him, taking inventory of all the ways he’ll need you to patch him up before either of you can go to sleep tonight.

Distantly, he recalls that you wanted to wake up early tomorrow—a presentation at work. When you’d showed him your slides earlier with such light in your eyes, he couldn’t help but share that excitement too, even if he didn’t understand any of it.

He should just keep the suit on and send you to bed. But you won’t tolerate that—not today, not ever. You said that you couldn’t sleep without knowing that he was okay. On his good days, the sentiment warms him from the inside out.

But tonight?

It takes everything in him to not squirm under your touch. To not find the nearest shadow and hide there until all his injuries have scarred over, and his mind settles into something less agitated.

His muscles flex with uneasiness, and you’re too perceptive for your own good. Your brows furrow. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.” It comes out sharper than he expected.

And that confirms it for both of you: tonight is not a good night. Tonight is actually a very bad fucking night and it flares in Marc’s chest, in his words, in the annoyance that is sending him off the deep end.

“Would you like me to take over?” Steven, ever-patient, ever-kind, only grates on Marc’s nerves. He swears through gritted teeth. You tense from beside him.

When this happens, you know to give Marc some space to himself to decompress. He’s never told you what exactly sets him off because it’s never just one thing. It’s doing sloppy work on their patrols, not getting there in time before someone gets hurt, allowing himself to get beat up just to hear the blood rushing in his ears.

It’s crawling back to you in pieces, knowing that it breaks your heart to see him this way, and still letting you put him back together.

The self-disgust wretches him away from your touch and you startle, automatically reaching out again only for him to flinch back.

“It’s okay,” you try, but he scoffs. “Please, just sit down?”

“Go to sleep.”

“Marc.” You aren’t letting up, tone soft as you speak to him, but he can hear the exhaustion underneath. It’s not just from tonight, he knows—he asks too much of you. Of course, you’re tired of him. Isn’t this how he ruined things last time, too?

“Don’t.” He turns away, limping towards the kitchen with no real goal in mind. After a pause, your footsteps quietly follow him.

You should know better than to keep trying. Maybe you would, if he hadn’t worn you down so much.

“Take a break, hombre.”

God, shut the fuck up, Jake.

“All I want is to help—”

But that’s the problem, isn’t it? All he does is take and take and take, until you’re nothing but bones in his dust. You’d do anything for him, and he wishes you were less kind for your own sake.

A bitter laugh erupts from his throat and before he can stop it, his voice is scathing. “If Layla were here—”

“DON’T.”

The word thunders in his head, so forceful that he can’t tell if it was Steven or Jake. They buzz in the background, begging, demanding for control, but his wounds burn. They burn and his mind is paralyzed with anger (“It’s fear, you’re just afraid—“) and his fists ache for release and this is all he’s good for, isn’t it? Fighting. Fleeing. Why do you bother with him? You can’t reason with a bull.

When Marc finally focuses back on you, his blood turns to ice. He's spoken about Layla before, telling you about their relationship, why they fell apart. Once, and only once, did you admit to being insecure in comparison to her.

You called yourself a downgrade. Marc fucked the word out of your vocabulary.

But now your expression is the same as it was that night, and it’d yank him into action if the rational part of his brain were still functional. You're frozen in place, tears welling in your eyes that you try to hide by turning away from him. It’s too late, though. The image of your face, contorted with hurt, is carved into his memory, right beside what he had told you in assurance: I don’t want you to be like her. I love you for you.

Marc needs to say something, anything. He needs to take it back. He needs to turn back time, and cut off his tongue.

But nothing comes out. Even as you glance back at him, a glimmer of hope in your gaze that he might be a better man than he is, he has nothing to give you.

All he does is watch as that hope is snuffed out by his silence, and your shoulders fall, defeated.

“I—” You’re speaking through lead, and every sound seems painful. You can’t even look at him as you shake your head, trying to get a handle on yourself. “I—I need to go.”

You should. He can’t be the partner you need right now, and staying might only make things worse. If he hurts you, more than he already has—he clenches his jaw. The thought makes his hands shake.

You shouldn’t. It’s the middle of the night, and even if he just came back from patrol, Marc knows exactly what kind of vermin might still be wandering the streets. You won’t want him to watch over you; he’d just have to pray that nothing bad happens.

It’s ultimately not up to him. You move quietly around him in order to grab a sweater (one of yours, he’d realize later, there’s probably no comfort in one of his own anymore—) before slipping on your shoes. If Steven or Jake are trying to talk to him, none of it gets through. His whole body is numb.

The sound of the door unlocking is like a gunshot. It jolts Marc just enough to know that this is his last chance to stop you, but he doesn’t.

His gaze stays steady on the floor, and you leave without another word.

[shitouttabuck]

oh my god nina!!! 8 for the bedsharing prompts if it takes your fancy <33

thank you sweet peach this scratched an itch !!!

bed-sharing prompts: whispering “Oh, you are going to be very embarrassed when you wake up.”

Eddie’s not old—he’s not even 30, despite the near-constant jokes about his senior citizen-isms he seems incapable of shaking. And he wouldn’t even say he’s a man of creature comforts. He just likes familiarity, and routine, and his own goddamn bed.

Quarantine has brought a lot of change: being away from Chris, living in a single-occupancy apartment with three other people, and sharing a bed with all six-foot-two of Evan Buckley.

Currently, this means waking up at some wretched hour and squinting in the moonlight filtering in through half-open blinds, because the aforementioned best friend has stolen Eddie’s pillow from right under his head yet again.

Eddie groans quietly, easing his neck out of the crick it’s cramped in. He glares at the enormous lump snoring serenely beside him and pats the mattress blindly for his pillow. Eyes adjusting to the dark, he’s greeted by the same sight he’s woken to at ungodly hours thrice this month already: Buck with his gigantic thieving arms wrapped happily around Eddie’s goddamn pillow as he clutches it to his chest, dead to the world.

“Fuck’s sake,” Eddie mutters, reaching out and tugging the end of the pillowcase to no avail. Buck’s vice-grip doesn’t falter even in sleep. Eddie’s usually able to coax it out of his grasp without waking him, but it takes a minute, and their last shift had been a full-body workout from hell, and Eddie just wants to go the fuck back to sleep with a single measly pillow supporting his exhausted head. Surely that’s not too decadent a luxury to expect.

He tugs again, harder and meaner than he normally would. The pillow inches out of Buck’s hold, and Eddie grabs a firmer handful to yank it away, grunting triumphantly when it pops free.

“Hrmmph,” Buck grumbles, crease appearing between his eyebrows. Eddie stills, holding his breath as he gauges Buck’s proximity to consciousness. He thinks he’s in the clear, but then Buck murmurs unhappily and rolls ever-so-slightly towards Eddie.

“S’your turn to be th’ li’l spoon,” he slurs, and Eddie freezes even further. “’M th’ big spoon t’night.” He pats half-heartedly at the mattress between him and Eddie, jaw going slack again after a few seconds.

Eddie grins, just barely containing the snort that bubbles up at Buck’s sleep-talking. There’s enough distance from Ali and even Abby, post-train debacle, that means he can wring weeks’ worth of teasing out of this. Whichever one of them it is Buck’s dreaming of, Eddie thinks multiple nights of interrupted sleep allow him a little good-natured—if merciless—ribbing.

He shifts onto his back, shoving the pillow under his head and shutting his eyes with a sigh, but the movement has Buck mumbling again. His face is mashed into his own pillow, words barely intelligible when he says, “Y’re littler than me. C’mon, lemme be big spoon.”

The snort sneaks out of Eddie then, just a bit. He barely knew either woman, but he can’t quite picture them indulging Buck in this line of conversation. It’s—sweet, if deeply mortifying for Buck himself to know anyone else has heard it.

Buck snuffles discontentedly, forehead scrunching as he reaches out in search of the pillow, still asleep.

“Oh, you are going to be very embarrassed when you wake up,” Eddie whispers, wondering if there’s more entertainment about to be provided and if it’s worth getting up to unplug his phone and catch the tail end of this on video.

“Urgh,” asleep-Buck responds, patting the bed a little more insistently when he’s unsuccessful in his pillow-retrieval endeavours. “Wh’re—c’mere. Eddie. Y’re li’l spoon.”

This time when Eddie freezes, it’s such a sudden locking of every joint in his body that his neck cricks in the opposite direction. He barely feels it, singularly focused on Buck’s latest garbled complaint, because—is Buck awake? Is Buck dreaming about him?

He’s frozen so still he doesn’t realise Buck’s questing hand is now well in range of Eddie himself, and he jolts back into his body when Buck’s strong, calloused fingers wrap around his wrist.

“C’me back,” he whines, tugging at Eddie while shuffling closer at the same time. Eddie holds himself carefully still, hardly daring to breathe as Buck slowly but surely plasters his long, long body along Eddie’s side, hitching one leg over Eddie’s thigh before flinging an arm across his torso and dragging him nearer.

“Mm,” he hums, brow smoothing out. His cheek rests on Eddie’s shoulder, face smushed but seemingly satisfied. Eddie’s arm is trapped between his own side and Buck’s stomach, and he worms it under Buck’s body almost on autopilot, more to get comfortable than anything else. This leaves him basically cradling Buck to him, and Buck gives one final happy grunt before burrowing his face into Eddie’s neck and going limp, a dead weight over Eddie’s right side.

Eddie makes his fingers relax where they’re clutching the back of Buck’s t-shirt. This is—fine. Normal and fine. So Buck isn’t dreaming about cuddling an ex-girlfriend, he’s dreaming about holding Eddie. They’ve been living out of each other’s pockets more than usual recently, leaning on each other a little heavier through a global pandemic and missing Christopher. Eddie’s told himself it’s because of constant proximity, and maybe it is, but whatever the reason, if Buck’s subconscious is embracing that vulnerability in this way, that’s fine. He’s an affectionate guy, and while it’s relatively new for Eddie to be on the receiving end of that from another man, he’s not one to shy away because of someone else’s archaic ideas of masculinity.

And—hold on. Y’re littler than me? Was that what Buck said? Eddie huffs indignantly, and then huffs again for different reasons, feeling his cheeks heat. He doesn’t know why, but he pulls Buck a little closer.

It’s still normal and fine, he finds, turning his head to press his nose into Buck’s curls. That surprises him a little, that there’s no freak-out of any kind accompanying—whatever this is. Buck smells like vanilla, because he used Chim’s fancy shampoo that’s actually Maddie’s fancy shampoo because both of them are missing her something fierce, and he’s definitely drooling onto Eddie’s neck, and now that he’s not sleep-talking he’s back to snoring like a motorcycle, and Eddie’s slipping under before he can marvel any more at just how normal and fine it all is.

When the moonlight is swapped for sunlight, Eddie stirs to Chim singing along to radio in the kitchen downstairs. Buck blinks awake right alongside him, cheek imprinted with creases from Eddie’s collar and turning pink as he hastily peels himself away.

“Oh, um, sorry,” he says, voice rough with sleep. He contorts his body in surprise trying to roll off Eddie’s arm. “Did I—sorry, Eds.”

Eddie works his arm back under Buck, easy and deliberate. “S’fine,” he yawns. “It was my turn to be the little spoon.”

In his peripheral vision, Buck turns a brilliant red, and Eddie gives him a reassuring squeeze before taking great joy in telling him just how embarrassed he should be about the contents of his dreams.

(Buck’s mortification is blessedly short-lived, since the contents of Eddie’s dreams are equally embarrassing in the very exact same way, as it turns out.)

[rynneer]

Misty Memories Cold

When you wake in Fíli’s bed with no recollection of anything after an accident in Mirkwood, he’s ready to risk anything, even his uncle’s wrath, to bring back what you had together.

<< Beginning | < Previous | Next >

Chapter Four

Fíli paces the living room, running a hand through his tangled hair, only succeeding in tangling it further. Shafts of dawn light peek through the window, taunting him with reminders of the sleep he did not get. His head snaps up when he hears footsteps from down the hall. “Y/N, I–”

But it’s not you. Instead, Thorin stands before him, arms folded and looking at his nephew expectantly.

“Where is she? She never returned to our chambers.”

Thorin nods back toward the way he came.

“Is…” Fíli swallows hard. “Is she upset?”

“She came to my door last night, would not say what was wrong, and began to cry.” Thorin raises an eyebrow. “So, is she upset?”

Fíli’s heart sinks. “She was crying?”

“Sobbing would be a better word.” Thorin shakes his head and sighs. “Fíli, what happened?”

Fíli turns his head away, face growing hot with shame and guilt. “I said hurtful things. Foolish, hurtful things.”

“Such as?”

Is he really going to make me repeat it? Fíli steels himself as if he’s the one on the receiving end. “I asked her if it was real. The dance. The kiss. Or if she only did it because it was expected of her. Because people were watching.”

“You are right. That was foolish and hurtful,” Thorin snorts.

Fíli sinks down onto the couch, pressing the heel of his palm to his forehead. “I messed up.” He runs his hand down his face. “Some husband I am,” he mutters.

Thorin studies the wretched dwarf in front of him. Fíli is hunched over, shoulders drawn and tight. He stares dully at the ground. Every once in a while, he shakes his head to dispel some thought, mustache braids swaying with the movement.

“You are dismissed from your duties today,” Thorin says curtly.

Fíli looks up, dumbfounded. “But the trade negotiations—as heir, I should be there!” he protests.

“Kíli will take notes for you. Mahal knows he needs to pay more attention during these meetings anyway.”

“But–”

Thorin silences him with a hand on his shoulder. It’s not Thorin, King Under the Mountain, looking down at him, or Thorin Oakenshield, the warrior.

It’s Uncle Thorin. The dwarf who raised him, who held him as a child when he cried, who sang lullabies to him when he thought no one else was listening. The softer Thorin.

“Fíli, make peace with your wife.” Thorin squeezes Fíli’s shoulder and takes his leave.

Fíli watches the heavy, wooden doors shut with a thud, as if waiting for Thorin to change his mind. To return, to berate him for how he treated his One.

But the doors remain closed. There will be no reprieve for Fíli, nothing to stall him before he has to face what he did. He says a silent prayer as he stands and trudges to Thorin’s chambers. As he reaches a hand out to the door, he freezes. Dread of what awaits him keeps him rooted in place.

Don’t be ridiculous, Fíli scolds himself, shaking his head sharply. It’s just Y/N. Nothing to be afraid of.

He knocks first, but receives no reply. With a deep breath, he carefully pushes the door open. His eyes scan the dimly lit room, finding no sign of you at first. Then, movement in a wingback chair facing the fireplace catches his eye.

Fíli takes a cautious step forward. “Amrâlimê?”

You don’t respond to the endearment.

He changes tactics. “Y/N? Can we talk?”

You poke your head around the side of the chair for a second before turning back and burrowing further into the cushions. “Go away,” you mumble, pulling the blanket tightly around you. While Fíli’s frustration had softened over the sleepless night, your surprise and hurt had hardened into bitter anger.

“Y/N,��� Fíli closes the distance. He traces his fingers along the chair’s arm. “Please.”

“Go away!” you snap again. You press your face into the opposite arm of the chair and cover your head with the blanket. It’s petulant, you know that, but you don’t care. Maybe it will soothe your pounding headache.

“No, my love,” he says gently, but firmly. “We need to talk.” Fíli settles on his knees so he’s level with you and pulls the blanket off of your head.

You scowl at him, but with his careful, honest eyes searching your own, you can’t hold it long. Your gaze drops to your hands, clutching the blanket tightly. “Still?” you ask at last, voice soft.

“Still what?”

“I’m still your love?”

Fíli gently pries your fingers apart until he can hold them, rubbing them to coax warmth into your cold hands. “Always,” he murmurs. “You will always be my love.”

Hot tears fill your eyes. “Then why’d you have to get mad at me?” You try to pull your hands away, but he squeezes them tighter.

“Oh, no, no, amrâlimê, I was not angry with you.” He reaches up to brush strands of hair away from your face.

Your glare tells him you don’t believe him.

“I was not angry,” Fíli insists. “I was…” He shakes his head while he gathers the right words. “May I speak plainly? Without upsetting you.”

You look at him warily, but give him a tiny nod.

Fíli brings his hand back to your hair, smoothing your marriage braid with his thumb. “I am afraid,” he whispers. “I am afraid that I’m losing you. I am afraid that you have gone somewhere that I cannot follow.”

The tears finally spill over your cheeks. The walls of anger you’ve hidden behind crumble, and you wrap your arms around Fíli. You bury your face in his neck and cry. Your hands claw at his back, desperately searching for purchase.

Fíli immediately pulls you from the chair and into his lap on the floor. “Oh, Y/N.” He kisses the top of your head, patiently waiting for you to find your words again.

“I want to remember,” you sob. “I want to love you the same way you love me. I want what we had. I don’t know what we had but I want it back!”

Fíli hugs you tighter as your chest heaves and breath shakes.

For the first time, you don’t recoil from his touch. You need to feel him. Soft skin over hard muscle, coated in gold curls. The weight of his chin on your head. Every inch of him warming you.

You sniff. “Has it been good?”

“Hm?”

“Our life together.“

Fíli lifts his chin from your head and loosens his grip, encouraging you to pull back enough to look at him. “It’s wonderful,” he says. His eyes grow distant with a faint smile. “We both have our duties as the future king and queen, of course, but I treasure every spare moment I get to spend with you.”

The wistful happiness on his face only makes you feel worse. “I’m sorry I took it away,” you whisper.

“You’ve done nothing wrong.” Fíli returns to the present, hand rubbing gently up and down your back. “We can start over. You are still you. The brave and clever woman I fell for. My little fighter. And I am still me.” He tilts your chin up and kisses you, quick but soft. “I waited eighty-two years to find you. What’s a little more?”

You shake your head, sending fresh tears spilling over. “It won’t be the same.”

“What if it could be?”

You both jump at the voice. Fíli pulls you back into a tighter hold while his eyes grow darker, scanning the room for threats. The protective lion.

The owner of the voice stands in the doorway, studying you with a careful eye.

“I have an idea,” Tauriel says.

“You cannot seriously be suggesting we take her with us.”

Gandalf leaned back in his chair, puffing at his pipe. “At worst, she makes for an interesting companion. At best, her knowledge of the journey could prove useful.”

“At best, she is a distraction and at worst, a burden,” Thorin retorted. He cast a disdainful look at you, standing in the corner. Bilbo had run out of dining chairs. “The girl’s never touched a sword in her life.”

“Neither has Bilbo,” you muttered.

Kíli snickered.

“Well, I, for one, do not intend on leaving a stranger in my home while I am not here,” Bilbo declared, hands on his hips.

“So you are coming!” Nori exclaimed.

“I never said that!”

“If it’s any consolation,” you interjected, “I’m not exactly thrilled to be here either.” The whole thing was starting to give you a terrible headache as everyone bickered over your presence. Or maybe it was the copious amount of smoke filling the dining room. Either way, you needed out.

“Where do you think you are going?” Thorin demanded as you made for the door. “This is not finished.”

“Somewhere where no one’s blowing smoke in my face,” you snapped. You yanked open the door, barely remembering to duck as you exited. Of course, the awkward height of the doorknob makes it almost impossible to forcefully slam the door behind you, but you did your best.

Some of your frustration melted away as you took in your surroundings. Since you’d just shown up on Bilbo’s doorstep, an overnight bag in hand, you hadn’t gotten the chance to appreciate where you were. It was almost enough to take your breath away. Stars scattered across the sky like tiny diamonds spilled over dark velvet. More stars than you’d seen in your life. Fireflies flitted about the garden, flashing and winking at each other in the night. Small, round windows set into the hills, little puffs of smoke drifting from chimneys nestled in the earth, hobbits settling into their evening routines. You plopped down onto the wooden bench just inside the gate.

The Shire.

Damn it.

Middle Earth.

Damn it.

You put your head in your hands and let out a heavy sigh. You didn’t look up when the door opened and shut again, not until you felt the wood of the bench bend beneath you.

“Care for a smoke?”

Of course it was them. The curious little boys. You lifted your head to see Kíli already lounging next to you, kicking his heavy boots up onto the fence. Fíli sat on your other side, offering you your backpack.

“Didn’t want to go rummaging through your belongings just to find your pipe,” he explained as he tossed it into your lap.

“I don’t have one,” you said.

“Ah, that’s alright. You can borrow mine,” Kíli offered.

The smell of the pipeweed was almost sickening. You pinched the bridge of your nose. “Did you not hear me tell Thorin why I left?”

“Something about smoke?” Kíli puffed out a series of increasingly smaller smoke rings. They vanished in the cool breeze.

“To get away from the smoke. Just… never mind.” You shook your head. “Did Thorin send you to make sure I don’t run away and spill his plans to the world?”

“No,” Fíli said, as Kíli said “yes.”

You just rolled your eyes.

Fíli leaned back, lighting his own pipe. “So,” he said through teeth clenched on the end of his pipe. “Not from around here, eh?”

“That’s one way to put it,” you replied with a shrug. “I guess I should get used to it. To this.” You gestured vaguely towards the rest of the Shire.

“It’s not bad,” Fíli remarked. “Peaceful. Quaint.”

“Boring,” Kíli added.

You groaned, putting your head back in your hands.

“I hope you won’t be sulking like this on the road.” Fíli nudged your side with his elbow. “It’d be a bit of a downer.”

You looked up at the dwarf prince. The stupidly handsome and charming dwarf prince. His stupidly handsome and charming brother. Your stupidly handsome and charming favorite dwarves.

Don’t get attached, warned a voice in the back of your mind. You know what happens.

You tried to shut it up, but it refused to be silent. It all flashed through your head—Fíli falling from the broken tower to the ground in front of his brother. Kíli bleeding out as Tauriel leaned over him. Bilbo crouching at Thorin’s side as the king slipped away.

“It’ll be fun, having a lass along,” Fíli interrupted your train of thought. He leaned his head back and blew out a steady stream of smoke. “We’ll watch out for you, naturally. Keep you out of trouble. We would not want you all battered and bruised by the time we face the dragon.”

“You are way more chill about this than you should be,” you said. Absentmindedly, you fiddled with the zipper on your backpack. “Do you actually understand what you’re supposed to do?”

Kíli stretched his arms over his head. The bench creaked in protest as he shifted his weight. “Sure. Get to the mountain, kill the dragon, get the gold. Simple.”

“If you expect it to be that easy, you’re fucked.”

“Ooh!” Kíli’s eyes lit up. “She’s got a mouth on her—I like that in a girl.” He winked, but his mischievous expression dimmed a little when he looked over at his brother.

Fíli’s brow was furrowed. He tilted his head as he peered at you. “You speak as if you already know our path.”

You bit the inside of your cheek. Clearly, they did not listen very closely to the argument between Thorin and Gandalf after you let slip some key information about the quest, things no one else should know. Your gaze fell to your backpack in your lap, not wanting to meet the prince’s eyes. It was far too modern for your rustic setting. It didn’t belong.

And neither did you.

“Because I do,” you admitted at last. “I read the book. I saw the movies. I know how it goes.”

Fíli’s face lit up. “Do we win? I bet it will be a spectacular victory.”

“Not telling.”

“Come on!” Kíli pressed. “Nothing?”

You flashed him a warning glance. “Look, I’m just along for the ride. I’m not here to change things—if Thorin will even let me come. But I doubt it.” You kicked at a pebble beneath your feet, watching it skip out onto the path worn into the hillside from hundreds of carts and hobbit feet. “I seemed to have pissed him off just by existing.”

“Ah, you’ll win him over eventually,” Kíli remarked with a lazy grin. “He’s a softie at heart, really—oh, hello Thorin.”

You held your breath as heavy footsteps tromped down the steps. How long had he been listening?

Thorin crossed his arms and glowered down at you. His eyes then flickered to his nephews, leaning back casually while you sat stiffly between them. “I want the three of you awake before dawn,” he said finally. “We leave at first light to retrieve the ponies.” With one last, wary glance at you, he turned away.

You finished processing his words just as he put his hand on the doorknob. “Three?”

Thorin halted. “Do not make me regret this,” he grunted.

And then he was gone.

Fíli clapped you on the shoulder, almost knocking you off the bench in the process. “Well, you heard him. Up before dawn.”

“I think I’ll stay out just a bit longer.” You relaxed a bit on the bench as the brothers stood.

“Suit yourself,” Fíli shrugged. When he was halfway up the steps, he stopped and turned back around. “You do have a name, right? We can’t just keep calling you ‘lass.’”

“Y/N.”

“Pleasure to meet you, m’lady.” He winked and vanished inside with Kíli.

All the air rushed from your lungs as the door closed, leaving you alone in the garden of Bilbo Baggins. In Hobbiton. The Shire.

You shook your head.

What did you get yourself into?

[rinzsu]

cw. nanami kento x gender neutral reader, 0.5k wc, angst to fluff,reader calls themselve selfish once wherein your lovely boyfriend sings you a lullaby

the sky was aglitter with stars, as though the heavens were trying to distract from the absence of the moon. you had been laying here for a while now, restless, as you stared up into the inky airspace through your open bedroom window.

a series of rhythmic ticks and tocks echoes throughout the starlit room, the sound of time and progress, marking the passing of each moment and hour without him, his absence making you agitated.

it’s way past midnight and normally nanami would be home by now, sleeping soundly next to you as his shallow breaths and silent snores fill the room.

but this isn’t normal, and the empty spot on the untouched sheets to your left serves as a reminder that he is out there, fighting wretched curses for the sake of society, for you.

and yet here you are, complaining about his absence, resting peacefully in your shared bed as he risks his life each night over and over again. how utterly selfish of you.

the sudden buzz of your phone catches your attention, diverting your consciousness from your previous thoughts as you gently lift the vibrating device from your nightstand. your breath hitches before a hasty wave of relief crashes down upon you.

incoming call from nanamin♡

it takes you three rings to pick up, nine seconds before you press the little green button on the screen before the shrill, reverberated rhythm turns into soft breathing on the other end of the line. 

“..you weren’t supposed to pick up”

there’s a pause before he speaks up again, and you know full well that he’s trying really hard to swallow yet another reprimand about bedtime. you chortle silently to yourself at the mental image of his slightly furrowed eyebrows.

he clears his throat before continuing.

“well.. since you picked up i‘m letting you know that i‘ll be gone for a little longer”

you sigh, before muttering a silent “okay”. 

“you know i hate staying away from you too, and working overtime, but i need to get this done beforehand.”

it’s silent again, neither of you dares to speak up for another ten seconds before you hear someone calling your lover's name in the background.

“well.. i guess it’s time for you to-”

“you can’t sleep can you?”

you smile, sheepishly nodding your head as you give a little hum like he can actually see you. 

silence settles upon you two for the nth time tonight and you’re about to bid nanami good night before he unexpectedly starts humming the tunes of ‘you are my sunshine’.

“..you are my sunshine, my only sunshine”

your boyfriend is far from the best singer, that much you know, and it doesn’t help that the way he tries to keep as quiet as possible makes his voice sound way more hoarse than it actually is. 

and yet, there’s something comforting about the way he continues to miss the lullaby's actual rhythm and leaves out certain phrases.

“..you make me happy~ when skies are grey”

it’s ironic, really, how even just this, a tiny scrape of kento nanami, can lull you into the depths of slumber.

and so, you listen on to his little song as his voice slowly starts to grow more distant, the last lines of the song fusing into sole incoherent whispering. 

©️ rinsque— do not plagiarise nor repost anything on any other platform.

[malarkgirlypop]

MEDIC! - Teaser (Donald Malarkey x Fem!OC)

Hey guys, i'm Kate and i'm new to this tumblr business, but i love writing and i love band of brothers so here i am...here to write and make friends with people who are here to do the same! There...is definitely more of this to come...like forty or so pages already written...anyway please enjoy this teaser/snippet and let me know what you think!

I sit in class, writing notes as the lecturer goes over the powerpoint of the class. My head hurts and I need to get a proper sleep, but life goes on before I can catch up these days. After the class ends I pack up my books and laptop into my bag as the other students file out of the class. I move slowly in no rush to leave. I have nothing to do after this except for study, which has been the normal now for three years. I am nearly at the end of my Bachelor of Nursing, only having this last semester to go before sitting my State Exam and then going out into the world as a Registered Nurse. The thought scares me that in about 3 months I will be properly in charge of patients and making decisions about their welfare. I shudder at the thought as I stand to leave the class, I make my way down the empty hallways as this was the last class for the night. I walk out into the cold night my breath showing on the air, I pull my cardigan closer trying to trap the heat that escapes me, the thin material of my nursing uniform offers me little relief but in my defence it was warmer during the day as spring poked its head out from the clouds bringing a lighter vibe to the air, teasing summer. I make my way to the now empty car park where my little car sits lonely, I unlock the door and slide in, sighing as I settle into the seat, today has been a long day. I plug my phone into the AUX, turning up the volume as I sing my way home. I get out of the car gathering all of my belongings before locking the door behind me, I turn to walk towards the apartment when a shimmer catches my eye, I double take focusing my eyes on the shimmering in the distance, I tilt my head unsure of what I am looking at as I move toward it. 

A large surface glistens like oil in water, it’s transparent though I am able to see details behind it; it looks like looking through a bubble. I reach my hand out hesitantly as I get closer to the glare, my hand tingles like having pins and needles. The odd sensation makes me snatch my hand back and I look down at my fingers. Nothing seems to be wrong, they are normal in colour and no trauma seems to have occurred. I take a breath, reaching my hand out again, willing myself to be brave, my fingers stretch out stroking the transparent film. I gasp as my fingers disappear into the surface like putting my hand in a pool. I try to wretch my hand out of the shimmer but it pulls me further, as if someone is grabbing my hand and pulling me towards them. I panic gripping at my forearm to tug myself back, dropping my books and laptop as I do so. I disregard them, more worried about my limb being sucked into the glimmer. The force becomes stronger. I dig my heels into the ground but it is no use as I watch my whole arm has disappeared, my head frantically turning as I look for help. The force becomes stronger and my whole body is sucked through, I let out a yelp, my body rolls forward as I faceplant into the dirt. 

A cheering crowd walks the street, I quickly get to my feet before I am trampled. “What. The. Actual. Fuck!” I look around, people cheer, sing and dance through the street waving flags, they move them so fast I can’t seem to recognise what flag they are representing. I gaze around. It appears to be a small village, people are dressed in older fashion than I am used to seeing, this fashion style hasn’t been around since the 40’s. My heartbeat accelerates, where am I? Where did that weird shimmer thing take me? 

A lady close by laughs taking my hands in hers. She spins us around, I pull away and she says something in a foreign language. My heart skips several more beats, what do I know so far? I am in a foreign village and seem to be very far from home and some weird I guess portal thing spat me out here. My breathing quickens, I spin around searching for something, even I am not sure what will help anchor me to reality. I feel suffocated as people bump and jostle me, the loud singing and cheering is overwhelming my senses. I try to push through the crowd needing space to breathe and think. My eyes lock onto a tall man walking through the crowd dressed in army uniform, maybe he could help me? I push my way through the crowd reaching the soldier. I grab his arm clinging to him like a lifeline, he turns focusing his attention onto me. I notice the man has grenades strapped to his chest and a cigar hangs from his mouth.  

“Hello!” I say loudly trying to be heard over the crowd, a thought hits me, what if he doesn’t even speak english. I brush the thought to the side, I still need to try. 

“You’re American?” he asks, confused looking down at me. 

“Yes, I was just wondering…”

“You’re a nurse?” He asks again, taking in my appearance. 

“Yes, but…” I try again. 

“How did you get here so early?” He looks confused, taking his eyes off me he scans the crowd.

“What?” early?  

“Are there other field nurses with you?” he turns his attention back to me. 

“I’m sorry?” This interaction is going the complete opposite to what I intended. 

“Did you lose the other field nurses you came with?” He seems concerned, his eyes darting around the crowd again. 

“I didn’t come with anyone.” I say thinking back to how I stupidly put my hand into the unknown substance. What the hell is wrong with me why can’t I mind my own business. 

“Come with me, little lady.” before I can reply his big hand takes my upper arm moving me in front of him. The other hand rests on my shoulder as he steers me through the busy crowd, his firm grip is strong enough I cannot turn to look at him, to show my apprehension of being manoeuvred through the crowd to somewhere else unknown. 

-----------------------------------------

Chapter 2

[tavyliasin]

Scent of Cinnamon 7 - The Dress, The Duck, And The Cambion's Patience

Still unwilling to sleep with Haarlep directly so soon after their deal, Raphael needs to find another way to sate their appetite - and perhaps more importantly to prevent the incubus from the far more dangerous condition of boredom. Fortunately, he has just the client in mind - a poor mortal wretch named Eida - and a contract she's more than willing to sign.

4,025 Words

AO3 Link Click Here or Tumblr Masterlist for SoC Here

Summary: Raphael has a deal to make and the contract requires a little help from Haarlep to satisfy the client's wishes... Pairing: Raphael/Haarlep and Haarlep/Original Female Character SPICE Rating: 3/5  Content Warnings: Aphrodisiacs (mild), Cambion-typical manipulation, Oral Sex, Vaginal Sex, Anal Fingering,Light Angst

Spoilers: Vague House of Hope and Act 3, but most of this series is focused on what came before. Canon Compliance: No canon beyond Haarlep's deals. Other Notes: Hells, it has been a while since I last worked on this series, but it has never been far from my mind or my heart~ I adore the pairing and we have so much further to go with it, yet life - and a few deadlines - kept me from progressing for a while. I also want to give my heartfelt thanks once again to my beta reader https://archiveofourown.org/users/Make_me_thy_lyre for helping polish it up, catch a few errors, and being so willing to chat through things in the comments with me as we polished up a few bits of dust from the draft. Please consider checking out some of her wonderful pieces~

Song Pairing Pure Morning by Placebo "A friend in need's a friend indeed, A friend with weed is better, A friend with breasts and all the rest, A friend who's dressed in leather. A friend in need's a friend indeed, A friend who'll tease is better, Our thoughts compress which makes us blessed And makes for stormy weather." - - Full chapter below the cut! - -

The Dress, The Duck, and The Cambion's Patience

Several tendays passed by in a blur. Time held different meaning to those who lived for millennia, yet there was still little in the form of entertainment for the incubus who lounged upon silken sheets in their new outfit. The leather harness covered little of their body, fitted so precisely to every curve and muscle that it felt almost like a part of their own skin. Chains and spikes added a harsher edge to the look, cool metal the perfect accent to stiff leather and crimson skin. The tailor had clearly earned her position and the renown that came with it. Despite the request being for undergarments, she had clearly designed the outfit with no intention for anything to be worn over it.

Haarlep had checked it over in the mirror a dozen times, finding the overall effect to be quite acceptable for now. Perhaps something could be added or changed later, or in further iterations of the clothing given that leather was not as long-lived as a fiend, particularly in the heat of the hells.

They turned the page of the book that they had barely been reading, the author droning on about mundane interactions for far too long in a tome that promised more enticing content. Were all mortals so dull as to require this much build up? Haarlep sighed and continued on with all the enthusiasm of someone folding laundry. 

—

Raphael knew it wouldn’t be enough for long, that keeping his distance would be entirely impossible when the hunger of the incubus reached its peak. Boredom, too, seemed to be just as dangerous as appetite when Haarlep was involved. No, he could not sate them forever with the same games they had played that night. It wasn’t enough for them to watch each other whilst they teased the pleasure from his mirrored nerves, and he wasn’t ready to lay with them directly…not yet… 

Rubbing the wrinkles forming on his brow, Raphael stepped into the portal, appearing in the run down home of his latest potential acquisition, contract already in hand. The work of a mere hour should be enough on this one, and he saw the way she looked at him…

“You’ll find the terms to be quite satisfactory,” he laid out the page on the table that was just as worn out as the clothes the half elf had clearly been repairing for a decade already, “within a tenday you’ll have all you wish for, and more.” 

“Really? Everything? Even…” The woman’s blush deepened on her cheeks as she lost her words, already looking at the parchment glowing with infernal runes. She couldn’t read it, of course, but it didn’t matter. All she needed to do was sign.

“Everything,” Raphael leaned in closer, allowing the new perfume to fill her senses, delighted at how her breath visibly quickened, “and more.” 

The shiver that passed through her was almost palpable, the seductive growl in the edge of the fiends voice hitting its mark with ease. It was almost disappointing how little of a challenge there was in this… “How can I ever thank you?” 

“Your signature is all the thanks I need,”  Raphael smiled as she took the quill between shaking fingers, “and, of course, you would not think to stray from the terms of our deal now, would you, Little Duck?” 

“N…no, of course not! I would never!” The ink dried on the page with the last flourish sealing their agreement.

Raphael rolled up the parchment the moment it was complete, a swift motion sending it directly to safe storage back in the House. Another spell brought forth a paper package tied with a deep crimson ribbon – a gesture that was perhaps unnecessary, but given her current attire… “I suggest you wear something more appropriate for the evening, I believe this will fit you quite well.” 

—

The boudoir was warm as always, yet the woman standing in a perfectly fitted – and quite stunningly revealing – dark blue gown was shivering. The dark coils of her hair fell past her shoulders, a single gold comb ornament holding it back from one side of her face, leaving slender fingers to nervously push more of the curls behind her pointed ear on the other side. Despite the flawless tailoring of the garment, it didn’t seem to fit her yet. Not that it would matter soon.

“Well, Little Duck, are you to stand there all night? Or did you wish to claim the prize you earned?” Haarlep kept to the nickname that Raphael had chosen for the woman. It was an ill fit for the half elf, but keeping diminutive pet terms was a simple way to be clear about who held the power. 

“I…you’re not what I expected, Raphael…” She faltered, hesitated. The taste of her curiosity was barely an appetiser, but she was a dish that could be seasoned if they were careful. “I thought your invitation was to dine, at least—” 

“Then feast your eyes upon everything you wished for!” Haarlep rose from the bed where they had been reclining, stretching out their wings in a display of power, relishing how her eyes drifted across their exposed form. “You see, there is more than one way to devour, more than one taste that could pass your lips~” 

The visitor took a half step back, tripping on the train of her dress – clearly unused to the trappings of finery. She gasped, but before she could hit the floor, Haarlep was there. They caught her in their arms easily, holding her low in a dancer’s dip rather than helping her to stand upright.

“Be careful, Little Duck, you have not yet grown used to your new plumage~” Haarlep gently stroked a few stray hairs away from her eyes, bringing their lips within reach of hers, savouring how her breath caught in her throat. “Would you like me to help you with that? It would be such a shame to ruin your new dress so soon, after all.” 

—

Raphael remained in the room that would become his archives, brow furrowed as he went over the plans. Security for his most prized possessions would be a key factor, but he should also ensure that contracts, spells, and all manner of tomes that might be of use would be kept perfectly organised. A desk against that wall, yes. A cabinet here, some shelves over there, a few more tables for when the need would arise to bring more debtors in to work for h—

A whisper of feeling crossed his lips. A shadow of a caress across his cheek. His hair felt slender fingers running through it until the echo of touch reached the nape of his neck.

So, it begins… He tapped his fingers on the desk at the realisation. The debtor playing the role of a butler – or something akin to that, at least – had led the newest client to the boudoir. He summoned her contract to his hand, unfurling it upon the desk. Eida, a name akin to a breed of waterfowl. “Little Duck” might not have been particularly imaginative, but it seemed as good a name as any to keep her in line, to remind her how he was taking her from a stagnant pond to a manor’s perfectly kept lake. Her ambitions were simple: leave her life of being poor and destitute, marry rich, live a quiet and pampered life. But she had desired more than that—

His skin prickled again. There was contact with a tail that wasn’t even present as he sat in his human guise, a shudder along the edge of intangible wings.

Raphael reminded himself of the other contract that remained in the Boudoir’s safe, the one place it could not be touched by the incubus. This was their agreement, a mutually beneficial decision to— 

He shifted in his seat. It might be some time before he could sit comfortably.

—

“Bold, Little Duck~” Haarlep laughed as the now mostly naked half elf let her fingers drift lower down their body, “do you wish to prove your loyalty to me? Do you swear to serve me?” 

“Yes, Raphael,”  she whispered, dropping to her knees the moment they pointed at the ground, “I swear it, I swear by every letter in our contract.” 

Haarlep grinned, winding their fingers into the curls of her hair to guide her lips to the leather at the lower point of their harness. “Go ahead, show me.” 

Eida’s tongue ran along the shape of their length, barely tangible through the thick material, but her eagerness – those sweet and nimble hands finding a grip on the straps of the harness to hold herself closer, soft moans already betraying her lust – that was enough to arouse them. No doubt Raphael himself was already feeling this, a thought that was far more interesting than a simple waterfowl. 

Distance was a factor in the incubus’ power, yet Raphael chose to remain within the House. That in itself was a fascinating decision – did he want to feel this? To experience this client servicing his needs without having to look upon her directly? Such a waste, they thought, gazing down at soft eyes that looked up for approval, she looks good on her knees.

—

Raphael shifted in his seat again. A quick cantrip had already made short work of the first loss of control that stained his underclothes, and he was glad of the brief reprieve – Haarlep was apparently returning the favour, if the feeling of pressure on his tongue was anything to go by. At least this allowed time to sort through a few more plans, take some measurements, pen some letters to ensure his pawns would move as they needed them. Eida was just one more piece on the board, but she would be an important one. Securing her marriage to a minor noble, using her cunning and charm to raise that noble’s status and influence, then should it be needed Haarlep could pose as the now high ranking lady of the city. They had to take her form first, of course, but judging by the change in sensation that was not going to be a problem. 

Frustrated, Raphael stood from the desk, leaving the chair on its back where it fell as his body transformed in a swirl of flames. Large crimson wings stretched and shuddered behind him as his tail swished and slapped at the floor with his impatience. Staying here was a mistake. Haarlep warned him – the closer he was, the more he would feel it, but hubris had kept him in the House in an effort to grow accustomed to the sensations more swiftly. His pace carried him quickly towards the secondary bedroom that had become his own after trading away the Boudoir to Haarlep, tail still lashing at the stone as he stumbled several times along the way, clothes chafing at the building heat within his body. 

—

It was challenging to hold back. Haarlep dug their claws into their own thigh to remind themselves – do not take all of her, do not let the Little Duck sink entirely into pleasure’s depths. She had a use yet.

“Pledge your body to me, swear it, and I will give you every pleasure your body yearns for~” They granted her one more kiss, the aphrodisiac enough to entice her, raise her desire to become the perfect cocktail, one to be sipped carefully. “I…I swear…please—” 

Haarlep grinned, wings spreading out behind them, tail flicking back and forth as they finally stopped teasing and thrust fully inside with one swift and merciless motion. 

Eida screamed, pleasure overwhelming her in a single moment, lust echoing from the walls as she called out the wrong name. “Raphael!” 

Haarlep bristled at the name, but bit their lip, held their tongue. They were playing their part well enough, the master of the House would pay for the insult one way or another…and eventually they would need to grow accustomed to this part of the game, the act of wearing his face and body. They would’ve been concerned about the half elf noticing their change in expression, but her eyes had long since rolled back and closed as waves of bliss took over.

She was…not the most exciting lover, but a different flavour was at least adding some variety at last. They continued to ride the tides of her pleasure, memorising every inch of her body inside and out, relishing how she responded to the slightest change in motion with sweet gasps and tensing muscles. Her form might even be fun to toy with, though whether Raphael would grant that was another matter entirely. 

—

The cambion gripped the sheets in his claws, tail wrapped around his aching length in a vain attempt to stem the sensations from the other room. He heard the pleasured cries echoing down the hall, just as much as he felt the woman’s other response in a ghosted grip, squeezing and tensing. He found his other hand reaching for the oil, drifting lower – if he had to endure this, he might as well feel satisfied. 

Sharp teeth worried at his lower lip as his inexperienced touch fumbled to find the ways he wanted to be touched, the ways he needed to be filled. Sweat clung to his forehead, eyes squeezed shut as he writhed upon the silks desperate to find relief from the slowly building pressure.

Raphael’s jaw clenched tightly, air sucked in through a hissed breath, cursing Haarlep’s name for making this so infuriatingly difficult. 

The contract might have changed the incubus more drastically, but its formation had clearly done something to him as well. Unthinkable, that such a creature would make him so desperately needy that his own clumsy fingers were already trying to find the centre of his desire. They made it seem far too easy… 

—

The encounter would have to end soon – it was becoming more challenging not to devour the woman’s entire desires like a glutton – but there was another taste in the air. A lust that did not belong to the gasping and moaning woman whose eyes could not stay open as pleasure itself consumed her. 

Haarlep’s gaze drifted to the door, wondering if the cambion would be so foolish as to walk right in during the middle of the act. Now that might make this interesting…yet no footsteps graced the halls, and it was time to end the game with their toy. 

Careful hands traced along Eida’s heated body, laying her down on the sheets where her chest still heaved with the effort of breathing. “Shhh Little Duck, you have proven yourself to be most wonderful~” Haarlep’s lies were sweeter than honey trickling into her ear as they brushed the errant curls clinging to the sweat on her face.

“Did I—” she began, trying to find what was left of her mind to form a single question, “did I do—”

“You played your part perfectly – rest now, you have earned it,” they laid a cool sheet over her body, bringing with it the permission to sleep. Haarlep should be more careful, this was almost too far…but they had what they wanted, what they needed – a new body to toy with. Yet it was another body that was drawing their attention, the scent of Raphael’s arousal drifting in the air like steam from a freshly cooked meal, beckoning them to discover the source. 

—

Raphael’s eyes were closed tightly, brows knit together in concentration, focus on a singular goal. It had slipped his notice that the ghosted double sensation had disappeared, so when he felt a claw against his cheek he was more than a little startled.

“Poor thing,” Haarlep crooned, soothing him quickly despite the strength with which their hand pressed his shoulder down to the bed to prevent him from rising, “and it was such a simple affair with that one too, to have you so riled up—”

“Silence, Harlot, you forget yourself,” he hissed through gritted teeth, anger flaring despite several of his fingers that had yet to leave their lustful work below, “this is not the Boudoir, you have no power here.” 

“And here I was thinking to help my poor Master find a little relief~” Haarlep made a dramatic show of looking utterly offended as they stood up and began to turn away. “Well, I shall return to my abode then, and leave you to—”

“Wait.” A weak voice for what should have been a strong command, Raphael could almost see their smirk spreading across the mirror of his lips despite the incubus still facing away from him. “I demand that you…you…” 

“That I what, Archduke?” The title added to the insult as so often it did, yet the cambion’s frayed nerves prevented him from further rebuking the incubus. “That I lay with you? That I show you far greater pleasures than the mortal that yet sleeps in your bed – quite thoroughly convinced that you took her yourself, I might add – and give you everything you keep denying yourself?” 

“No,” he shook his head, though almost regretted the decision as a flash of the deal’s formation crossed his mind, “not…entirely. Just your hands will suffice.” 

—

Haarlep licked their lips and considered the offer – they didn’t need to feed on him, this would be a mere dessert, a small mint after a meal in mortal terms. Perhaps it might warm him to the idea of more in the days that followed… Either way, doing the devil a favour would mean a debt owed for a later date. That was priceless. 

“Very well,” they made another dramatic show of sighing as they finally turned around, tail swishing lazily through the air behind them, “that should be more than enough to bring you a little relief to your problem.” 

Raphael was frowning again, small wrinkles forming where his brow met the bridge of his nose. “The problem, as well you know, is you and your deal—” 

“Our deal, lest you forget that part.” Haarlep climbed onto the bed again, picking up the oil and slicking both hands thoroughly. “The details of which you were well aware of when we both signed. If you’d rather, I could use my own form, or that of another, for your clients—” “No.” Raphael snapped, even as he withdrew his fingers from his quivering hole. “I will simply have to grow accustomed to the particulars…” 

“Then I suggest you make more arrangements to that effect. That,” they began to slide a single claw inside him, breathing in the taste of his lust as he arched into the simple touch, “will make this much easier for you.” 

The cambion bit his lip a moment, taking a grip of the silk sheets in balled fists as Haarlep began to ease him open to their ministrations. He seemed almost lost in his thoughts for a minute, before voicing them aloud. “Have you had an arrangement like this before?” 

Haarlep might have been offended at the casual conversation whilst teasing the cambion’s body, but the question was at least one that entertained them. “One where I take the form of my Master and plunge my fingers deep within his body?” 

A snarl began to form on Raphael’s face at the blunt terms, yet the expression was driven quickly back by a curl of fingers finding their target. Almost too easy…

“No, I can’t say that I have,” they continued, as their other hand took hold of his length, grip sliding from base to tip as they talked as casually as one might over drinks with an acquaintance. “I have, naturally, taken the forms of others and allowed them to share the pleasures of the connection between us, but never to pose as them entirely.”

—

Raphael struggled to keep his focus as he listened to Haarlep’s reply, and the lines carefully unspoken between their words. He had never given much thought to the particulars of incubi and their kind, yet that had also never been necessary. Even as they brought him carefully to a climax that frayed the edges of his consciousness, their tail winding around his wrist almost supportively as he sought something to ground him, the thoughts persisted.

The incubus gave little away, working quietly now to clean them both with a hot scented cloth – a pool might need to be added to this room, too, if this were to become a common occurrence. Their tail remained on his arm, a soft pressure, a welcome warmth as he allowed himself room for more quiet contemplation through pleasure’s sweet afterglow.

Sex was clearly different for Haarlep, more akin to food and necessity than simple pleasure for pleasure’s sake alone, nor was it a piece on the Lanceboard table or chip to trade for a contract. To satisfy them – in any sense of the word – would be no easy task. Their presence as they lay next to him on the bed, sated, it seemed, for now, he found himself appreciating their weight beside him. A notion he swiftly dismissed as one brought about by the aftermath of the climax and nothing more, yet he did nothing to ask them to leave.

—

The silence was comfortable for a while, though the questions had been an unexpected needle to Haarlep’s memories. Mephistopheles may have stripped them of name and identity, but their recollections were entirely intact. 

“Why did you agree to it?” They finally broke the stillness of the air with a question of their own, turning their head to observe the cambion’s reaction as he remained seemingly transfixed by some particularly interesting point on the ceiling. “This part of the deal hardly seems to be your preference.” 

Raphael’s free hand pushed the loose strands of hair back from his forehead as he replied. “Only a fool ignores a potential advantage when it strolls into his home.” 

“An advantage?” Haarlep laughed, taking mock offence at the suggestion. “And here I thought we were partners in a favourable deal~”

“An advantageous alliance then,” Raphael was clearly carefully avoiding acknowledging a partnership, “for as long as you prove yourself to be useful.” 

Another needle from his words, but this time to their pride. The prick stung, and they released his wrist, withdrawing their tail from his grasp. “I should say the same of you,” they turned away, wings curling around their body as if to shield themselves from any further spikes from his lips, “lest you forget my other contract and all it promised.” 

—

Raphael sighed. They were right, he should be more careful how he treated them - careless words could sign a warrant for his head from his own infernal father. He glanced down at his now empty hand, no crimson tail within his fingers, nothing but a chasm of space in the mere few inches between the two. 

“Haarlep,” he began, noting how their wings twitched at the use of the name he had given instead of the insulting rhyme he most often used now, “you have my word, you will find my contract far more rewarding than anything that arrogant bastard could ever offer. Selling you so cheaply was his mistake, and one I will not be repeating.” 

Silence followed, but it mattered little. There was no need to reply, all that was required was patience – something that was common amongst devils like himself with millennia of lifespan to allow plans to come to fruition. This was just one more brick in the foundation. 

Rather than trying to shuffle beneath the covers, a swift spell brought a fresh sheet to cover them both as Raphael decided that there was little point fighting the fatigue spreading through every fibre of his being. The debtor would attend to the guest asleep in the boudoir later, shuffling her back where she belonged so she could play her part in time. Just another brick. 

It wasn’t until morning, however, that Raphael noticed the tail wrapped around his leg – though in truth it was a little less obvious than the horns resting against his head as the incubus had curled up against him, wings around them like a cloak.

- - ENDING NOTES - - The next chapter is coming soon! Already halfway written as we dive into what lays behind a certain incubus' closed eyelids in the time that passes for "night" in Avernus~ and of course Raphael can only avoid sleeping with them fully for so long...

[never-wednesday]

Hey its a Lil late in the month but this disability pride month I wanna talk about long covid. I also have chronic pain and all sorts of worms in my brain but I've been dealing with that forever. So we're talking about the new stuff. Putting a readmore because I'm talking about what my experience being sick with covid was like and it's probably unpleasant to read.

It's December of 2022 and I work retail while I'm home from school for winter break. I mask up every time I leave the house, including for work. My parents don't. My father talks about covid not being a big deal. He caught it last year and it was a mild cold for him. He says "i ate lunch with someone who had covid last week and im fine!" My mother catches covid a week after that conversation. I test and am seemingly fine despite symptoms of a cold, and then three days later (one of those days was a full 8hr shift at work where I was worn ragged because it's almost christmas. I also got heat exhaustion because the AC was busted and I live in TX.) I feel the worst I have felt in ages. My mom insists that my dad takes me to get tested for the flu, and I schedule a covid test while I'm at it. My covid test comes back positive.

For the next week I am bedbound, only able to sit up enough to try to eat something and only able to stand up long enough to get myself to and from the bathroom. I sleep through the days when I can get the dayquil down, and cough through the nights when I can't get the nyquil down. I hallucinate when im tired. One of those nights I swear I talk to god. My brain is fogged and it hurts to breathe. I am worried I will need to be hospitalized because I can't seem to keep any water in my system. It's a miracle that I can write instructions for my father to cook ramen for me. I can only drink the broth. One morning I try to take dayquil to soothe my throat and I vomit. My stomach is empty and I stand over the sink wretching.

It feels like a miracle when I recover. Christmas day my symptoms mostly clear up and I'm able to sit up long enough to use my computer, something I was unable to do for the past week. I test negative, my second best Christmas present that year. The first is the Elden Ring soundtrack on vinyl. I am elated that I made it put the other end.

A week later my friend comes from a few cities away to visit for a few days. We go shopping one afternoon, spend a few hours standing around at the local game store looking at dice and miniature plastic dragons. We get home at 6pm. I collapse into bed and wake up 3 hours later. I talk to my doctor about it in January, she says it should go away over time. Six months maximum.

I spend my spring semester exhausted. I start using a cane to make sure I can walk across campus. I'm thankful that many of my friends are also disabled because they understand when I need to ask people to slow down, or bail because of my fatigue. Many of the abled people in my life do not understand. One day I go out to a museum, a thing I am excited to do. When I get home at 4pm I make myself popcorn, then collapse into bed. I can't walk to the sink without my cane, I can barely get out of bed. This is what I have to adjust to.

Six months pass. The fatigue is not gone. I am home for summer break, and I try talking to my parents about my fatigue. They don't understand. I talk to my doctor. She is convinced it's depression symptoms. My mental health is largely the best it's been in years- I've been in treatment for months now and it is helping.

It's been about seven months now. I am not receiving treatment, nor will my doctor acknowledge that I have long covid. She has relented into testing for physical things. I got a CT scan, and have a sleep study scheduled for when I get back from visiting family in August. Depending on what these turn up and how my doctor reacts I am preparing to find a new doctor. I am not excited about this, because I like my doctor. But if she refuses to acknowledge that what has happened to me is likely covid and therefore will not treat me I will find someone else.

I don't really have a moral here beyond please mask up, get vaccinated, etc. Even if covid doesn't fuck you up it might fuck up someone you pass it to. Or even worse, it can kill the immunocompromised people around you. Please have compassion for the people around you. My father, who is a loving and caring man, brought this illness home to me. It wasn't out of malice, but it still has affected my life for probably the rest of my life.

[phoenix-darkmoon]

Beyond Eternity Chapter 1

after playing and being unsatisfied with the way the ascended Astarion romance plays out, I decided to put my authors mind to work and apparently I'm not the only one unsatisfied. I've played a female drow IRL in tabletop campaigns for over 10 years so of course when Baulder's Gate 3 dropped I recreated her in game and went in intending to play her true to drow lore. Never in my wildest dreams did I think I would run into her mirror in the form of everyone's favorite vampire elf. so, here is their continued tale, after the fall of the Absolute, true to Drow lore. It will get violent and it will get hot and heavy. That's all the warning you will get. Enjoy the ride.

Vasxyra came awake slowly, taking in the sounds of the Elf Song Inn beneath her room as the tavern bustled about busily with its morning patrons. She concentrated intently, as she lay on her stomach across the bed, but was thankful to hear that, with the exception of her partner, the rest of their motley crew apparently found other accommodations for the night. A good thing too because she was sure they would have gotten as little sleep as she had. After defeating the Absolute and saving Baldur's Gate, no the entirety of Faerûn, they had returned to the tavern to celebrate their victory and the removal of those dreadful tadpoles. They were only a few drinks in when she couldn't stand it anymore and coaxed Astarion up the stairs. She hadn't laid with him since before they entered the shadow cursed lands. The druid, Halsin, had been more than willing to warm her bed in the meantime and sate her carnal desires, but ever since Astarion had ascended there was a primal hunger in her that craved him more than anything the bear could ever fulfill. Not even the likes of devils could fill the void the vampire left in the pit of her stomach.

As if on cue icy fingers brushed her silvery hair away from her neck and felt breath on her skin. “Don't even think about it.” She said, finally opening her milky eyes as the vampire instead placed a kiss on her bare shoulder.

“Old habits, love.” He said, sitting up beside her “And you are so delicious it's hard to resist.” She sat up herself, languid and lithe like a satisfied cat, the sheet pooling around her shapely hips, her silky hair falling around her shoulders and catching the rays of the early morning sunlight; turning them into a golden halo, in sharp contrast to the grey tones of her skin. With life returned to his body Astarion's breath actually caught at the sight of her. “Gods you're beautiful.”

The tip of her pink tongue came out and just barely touched her top lip as she ran her gaze over him hungrily. He was bare chested, wearing only his leather breaches from the waist down., his pale skin even paler in the morning light. “You're not so bad yourself. I've been waiting for last night since we took out Cazador.”

Astarion smirked. “Speaking of which. I can't believe you let me do that. Killing all those people. A pleasant surprise.”

Vasxyra shrugged nonchalantly. “I wanted a powerful ally and now I have one.”

“Indeed you do.” he responded, reaching out a hand and capturing a strand of her hair, trying to capture the light reflected there. “And one wicked turn deserves another. So tell me what you desire. “ he said, finally tucking the strand of hair gently behind her ear. “What can I do for my dearest pet?”

Vasxyra went rigid, her mood instantly souring and her expression hardened. “ I am not your pet.”

Astarion dropped his hand and scoffed at her. His own mood darkening. “Oh don't be such a humorless little wretch. It's nothing but a joke.”

“It doesn't feel like a joke. It feels like you mean it.” She said, trying to soften her tone. This was not the direction she was wanting this morning to take.

“Life's a joke, dear, but now we're the ones laughing.” he responded.

She closed her eyes with a sigh and shook her head. Turning away from him, she found her robe on the floor and snatched it up, pulling it on over her naked body. “You haven't learned anything, have you?” she asked, pulling the ties tighter than necessary out of frustration.

“Oh? And Pray tell What was I supposed to learn in all of this?”

She finished and sent a glare to the vampire lying on the bed they had shared just the night before. His expression cold and missing any flicker of the affection they had shown just moments ago. “How not to be like Cazador.”

Instantly his cold expression melted into rage and he leapt from the bed across from her “How dare you! I am nothing like him! “ Vasxyra didn't flinch, in fact she expected this reaction and braced to fight. Allegiances with her kind usually ended in violence. Astarion saw her change in demeanor and stopped. Like flipping a switch, his tone softened, his expression changed. The tiniest glimmer of affection was back in his eyes. “I'd never hurt you. I love you. That's what you've been waiting to hear. Isn't it? That's what you want? To be mine? Forever? We could be together for eternity, ruling this world side by side, We could have it all. My dark consort. My right Hand. My most beloved spawn.” He offered his hand to her across the bed and Vasxyra relaxed herself just a bit, still on guard but not quite as tense for battle.

Suddenly it struck her just how deeply her vampire lover was still scarred despite the immense power he now held. Unfortunately for him, he clearly knew next to nothing about Drow society. Perhaps it was time she educated him. “A beloved slave is still a slave.” she said.

A flash of hurt flickered through his eyes, before he quickly covered it and again, like a switch flipping, his mood turned and he tsked at her. “It seems I misjudged you. I thought we might have a future together- even an eternity-but perhaps you're not worthy.”

Vasxyra's fury was white hot and instantaneous. Even Astarion, with all his newfound power, felt the change in the air and knew on some instinctual level that he had made a mistake. She didn't move. Her expression didn't even change, but there was an almost audible crackle and the weight of the weave in the air grew heavy. “Unworthy?” She muttered, her voice low and flat but not so low that Astarion's keen vampire hearing didn't pick up the dangerous undertone to it. Then, before he could even react she held her hand out toward him and her voice rang out with such power it echoed through the fabric of the weave in the room without her even having to shout. “Ad lapide.” His limbs froze in place, his body immobilized under the might of the spell. The mighty vampire ascendant was at her mercy. She lowered her arm and approached him slowly, deliberately. Her movements measured and with purpose as she came around the bed toward him. “The only one unworthy here, vampire” she practically spat the word, “is you. You forget that the only reason you have the power you do now is because of Me.” She circled around behind him out of sight and her hand came up to gently trace the scars on his back with the tips of her fingernails. “Without my help you'd have been nothing more than another one of Cazador's sacrifices for him to achieve what you have. And don't forget why he was so easily felled. It wasn't because of the tadpoles or our companions,” she pressed herself against him seductively, and spoke sultrily into his pointed ear “It's because I am a Necromancer and even a mighty Vampire Lord can be brought to heel with my power over the undead.” she said and then gave a slow lick to the bite scar on his neck that Cazador had given him over two centuries ago. If she didn't know better she would have thought he had shuddered though whether from disgust, anger, pleasure, or a mix of all three she didn't know because the spell would have prevented all movement out of him. Either way, she pulled back and studied him from behind a moment, trying to decide if this allegiance was still worth the effort and benefit. She quickly decided it was, if it could be salvaged, and also decided the best way to proceed would be to do as Astarion had done with her. Show him her scars. It went against everything she had been taught since birth. Every instinct within her rebelled against the notion, but more than just a part of her wanted this for more than just an alliance. Eternity was a very VERY long time. She would succeed in her goal, she had no doubt, but she was no fool. Houses rose and fell in the Underdark as easily as turning the page of a book in history. No house ruled forever. Once her house inevitably fell, what then? Her matron mother would have her beaten to within a breath of death for even asking such things, but it was something she pondered none the less. Astarion gave her the potential of a future beyond her house's existence.

Pulling herself from her thoughts, she brushed her fingertips down his back and over his hip as she started circling him again. “But, I've come to the realization that despite everything I know about you. You know very little about me. For example: Do you even know how old I am?” She asked, finally coming back into his line of sight. His expression was unreadable. Not angry, not disgust, just blank as though he were trying to hide his thoughts and emotions, but he didn't respond, still locked within the power of the spell as he was. “I didn't think so.” She answered herself. “I blame myself for that. It's not exactly in Drow nature to be the most...forthcoming with honesty and information, but I want to make an effort with you, Astarion. If you will let me. Can we have a drink and talk? You may find that we have a great deal more in common than you realize.” His red eyes hardened into a glare and she sighed. “Please, I hope we can work things out and stay together.” At that he blinked in surprise and seemed taken aback by her admission and to her own surprise she realized that she wasn't lying. She did want to reconcile with her vampire lover.

At that moment the spell broke and Astarion was free again. His body was mobile and his voice was his own. She braced herself just in case, but instead of anger his response was surprisingly almost gleeful. “Of course we can. You're the one that I want- the one that I love. I already have everything. Except you by my side.”

Vasxyra inhaled and closed her eyes with relief. Then gestured for the table nearby. Astarion sat and she joined him grabbing two goblets and filling them to the brim with the strongest red wine she could find on the table. “I'll start with an apology. There are going to be things I will say that will no doubt make you angry again, but they are part of me, just as Cazador's teaching's are part of you.” She took a long drink, filled her goblet again and brought it closer to her on the table, spinning it slowly in front of her as she studied the way the light danced off the metal. Astarion waited patiently as she combed through her memories, choosing how best to start. “I'm one-hundred and seventy years old.” She finally said. “Since I brought up my age first, it only seems appropriate to begin there.”

[gelican-gelicant]

Chapter 2: Mirrors

Aysla wakes up with nine bottles remaining. Two was just enough to grant her the brief respite of an hour or two of dreamless sleep before her heart rate begins to pick up, and her palms begin to sweat. She'll take the broken rest over the visions, though. When she's sober, her dreams are vivid and frequent, and she dreads their assured return as she brings her bender to a reluctant end.

In the wee hours of the morning, she stares at the stars, willing her chattering bones to calm their shaking. Bolting to the edge of camp, bottle in hand, she wretches. Nothing in her stomach to hawk up but air, she clutches at her gut weakly until the heaving stops.

She takes a few measured swigs. What a way to start the day. Just enough to stave off worst of the tremors, but not enough to get her good and drunk. She's tapered off before, but she always forgot how god-awful it is.

All her companions are asleep, but one. Astarion leans on a tree off to the edge of her camp, watching her as she rises.

“Good morning. How is our charming resident inebriate? Rising bright and early to greet the day?”

She smiles dryly back at him, amused.

“One could use a drop of my blood as a fire starter right about now - so, more sober than I’d like,” she replies archly.

Astarion thinks he could use her blood for something else, but he keeps it to himself.

“How do you do it, if you don’t mind me asking?” he inquires curiously. “I’ve seen that particular brand of hooch knockout grown men three times your weight - but you seem thirstier than ever.”

“Impressed or disgusted?” she retorts. “You gain a tolerance - it would take a barrel full of whiskey to even get me buzzed.”

“Hmm. I’m sure our little group will thank you for reducing all your barrel-consuming for our benefit - and probably your liver, too,” he says lightly.

He slithers away without an explanation - to clear his mind perhaps? In the forest, in middle of the night? Aysla notes that he didn't pry, so she won't either. She takes one more swig before going to wash up.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

First to rise, Astarion, Aysla, and Lae’zel spend the morning looting through an abandoned village in which they find, among other respective treasures and trinkets, enough swill to last Aysla the rest of her taper-down. 

Her rapier bobs at her hip, covered in goblin gore. 

They're joined by a muscle-bound Tiefling woman that they picked up along the way. She has a jolly disposition and a hot temper, and they collectively decide that she's too charming to be as bad as the Karlach of Avernus that Wyll describes. 

Marching back to camp, Aysla shaky fingers itch for more fighting. The midst of battle is the only place where the curl of cruelty in her heart gets some air, and she almost doesn't notice her cold sweat and her weak nerves. Her heart rate is vital, rather than light and fast like a hummingbird's, if only for a few moments.

She catches a few glances from Lae'zel, who looks like she may finally be beginning to appreciate Aysla's presence as an asset rather than a sloshing burden.

Hiking back to camp is slowed down, bedraggled by heavy bundles of loot as they are. Aysla shuffles through her miscellaneous spoils: a silver ring that doesn't fit her, some boots that seem to glow, and a pretty, decorative handheld mirror. Her hand lightly shakes as she holds up the trinket admiringly, checking her face.

"Find anything good?" she says, to no one in particular. Karlach and Astarion walk on either side of her.

"Nothing to write home about, soldier,” Karlach responds. “What've you got there?"

"Cute, right?" she muses.

She holds up the embellished mirror and examines her reflection. The light yellow-green of her eyes like dying grass looks extra pale against the dark circles settled around them. She smiles at herself for a flash, and it looks more like a grimace. 

Aysla is small and striking, alluring when she tries to be, though her smile has a trace of meanness, the hint of an inside joke she shares with no one but herself. Her body language reads as sardonic and cavalier, but if you stare long enough you'd notice flickers of something more tragic in her edges, constantly shaking and over-tense. Her swagger comes off defiant against the backdrop of her anaemic coloring, toxic and pretty like a poisonous flower. She looks like she might have been beautiful once, if not for being so constantly over-"watered" and underfed, rather than the haunting look she possesses now; magnetic but edgy, like the pieces of a shattered doll glued back together haphazardly, its sharp corners turned porcelain razors.

That’s what Astarion is noticing, as Aysla primps. What he doesn’t notice is how the mirror is angled towards him, revealing his lack of a reflection.

She’s planning the little jest she’ll offer him - ‘oh look, it’s the second most good-looking person in camp, ’ or something - when her eyes widen. She angles the mirror back and forth, seeing Karlach to one side, and an empty space on her other where Astarion is meant to be.

"Oh, it’s nice!" Karlach says.

Aysla smiles at Karlach. Once the tiefling turns away, she taps Astarion’s elbow. She squints at him, feeling stupid. She thinks she can make out two little scars, peeking up from under his collar.

“Can I help you?” he scoffs.

Then, she holds up the mirror once more, looking at him with raised eyebrows. His mouth purses and shock and fear flash in his eyes, but he says nothing with Lae'zel and Karlach still within earshot.

Aysla raises her hands and keeps walking, a gesture of "not my business." She can see his jaw twitching even in her peripheral vision and the tension rolling off of him in waves.

What will she do? he wonders. Stake me? Snitch?

His mind is flashing through scenarios when a strange, probing sensation breaks his focus.

Testing, testing, she says through their tadpoles’ link.

Message received, he answers back.

Don't worry, I can keep a secret, she says. You’re tensing so hard you’re going to burst a vein - oh, wait, do vampires even have veins -

I’d appreciate it if you did, he says.

She nods and almost moves on, but her boredom and curiosity wins out.

No reflection, huh? she asks.

He doesn’t respond, just looks at her drolly as if to say "duh."

Do you want a peek?

His brow knits - it hadn't occurred to him. He nods.

Her view plays in his mind in real time. He's jarred by the familiar yet strange image of his own lithe figure walking, graceful and suave. He recognizes the silver hair coiffed effortlessly sit like an angelic crown atop his head - nice to know that hasn't changed. He's pleased at the image he sees. Broad shoulders and lean limbs, goblin-blood-spattered as they are, beautiful and dangerous. He turns to better inspect his own face. Full, soft and cruel-looking lips and twinkling red eyes; yikes, very red indeed. Overall, a face that is charming enough to make someone's knees wobble. Or, are those her knees? Is it her heart that pitter patters a little faster, as she looks at him?

He realizes she’s grinning at him wickedly when the image fades away.

Not wanting to waste the joke she had cooked up earlier, she projects it now.

Don’t look so shocked - you’re still only the second hottest person in camp, she sends, still smirking.

Right - Karlach was a fine addition, he teases back, smiling widely. Is that why you’ve decided to be such a good little keeper of secrets? I can't blame you - I think I’d swoon for me, too.

She ends the connection then, with a playful gasp.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Back at camp, night falling, Aysla makes her rounds, chit-chatting with each of her companions, intentionally saving Astarion for last.

It’s easy enough for her to fall into banter with each of her traveling mates. She's a charmer, both when endearingly drunk and excruciatingly sober.

She leans on that charm tonight - she needs to form a bond of camaraderie with them all, to redeem herself a bit after basically being labeled the weakest link due to her condition the night before. 

Lae-zel seems to forgive any previous misgivings she had of Aysla based on her skill in battle alone. Despite her delicate constitution, she whips a sword like lightning, taking out droves of enemies before they can see where she comes from - a language Lae’zel speaks and admires.

Gale is easy to befriend, too - Aysla lets him talk to his heart’s content, with nothing but an occasional, “wow, how interesting,” which warms him to her quickly. He even reveals some of his own backstory - a dangerous Netherese orb in his chest, requiring him to eat magical items, and his past love affair with a goddess. It dawns on her that based on the timeline he gives, he may have been predated on by Mystra; but she keeps that to herself for now, not wanting to burst the bubble of esteem he seems to still hold her in.

Wyll is too nice, polished, and well-adjusted for Aysla to be able to find any common ground. She gets a sense that he hides something, but she remains polite and unobtrusive. No tragic backstory? No fatal flaw? Doubtful. But she smiles and makes small talk.

Shadowheart, the first to join Aysla on their quest, has begun to grow on her, and vice versa. She nurses a bottle of wine, and they gossip about the others as if they were old pals.

Karlach is an entertaining and sweet addition. She seems to be genuine and eager for friendship, and Aysla reflects on how that always seems to be the case for the terminally ill, while the hopeless, suicidal wretches like herself are all granted nine lives apiece.

Finally, she approaches Astarion.

“Hello, darling,” he purrs. His sharp features glow in the light of the campfire. 

“How’s my favorite, very normal, mortal companion? Feeling thirsty?” she purrs right back.

She wonders if his thirst is as terrible as her own - day two of withdrawals has not been kind to her, and it seems to only be intensifying as the night falls.

“Oh, I manage. Better than you seem to, sweet thing,” he says, teasing her back. “I’ll probably just go and find something four-legged once everyone’s asleep.”

If she didn’t know the look herself, she wouldn’t notice how he is slightly on edge. He’s jumpy, and his eyes are darting around.

She gets the feeling that he’s putting on his best face, but she recognizes what it looks like when someone desperately, direly needs a drink.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Her intuition is proven right when she wakes to catch him hovering over her, just hours later, fangs bared. 

The first time she experienced alcoholic withdrawals, she didn't understand what was happening. She hadn’t known of such a thing. Hangovers, surely, but spasms? Seizures? Cardiac arrest? No one told her there were repercussions for drinking obscenely for days on end. No one warned her that her body would grow accustomed to it, to the point of need; She had woken up in a cold sweat, only knowing that she needed a drink, right away, or the world would end.

She quickly registers a familiar look in his eyes - shame, urgent hunger - she sees her own reflection.

“Shit,” he says, quickly retreating.

“I’m not mad, just disappointed,” she says, jokingly. She tries her best to convey a light tone, but her voice comes out a hoarse whisper. Her withdrawal symptoms are at their apex now, in the middle of the night, and she’s currently a weak, trembling, tortured mess.

“It’s not what it looks like, I swear. I just needed… well, blood.” He whispers back sheepishly.  

You have no idea, she thinks, how much I get it.

“What happened to ‘something four-legged?’” she asks, still careful to stay quiet enough not to wake the camp.

She wonders why he needed to feed on someone in their camp - but she doesn’t question why it would be her. Aysla, the one who is already dying in her sleep; trembling, in a cold sweat. No one would be shocked if she doesn’t make it to morning.

“I couldn’t find anything, and I was so hungry - I was only going to take a little, I swear, just enough to-” he says, but she cut him off.

“No no no, it’s fine; shhh. You needn't explain it to me - of all people,” she says, gesturing to the bottle she's been nursing. He’s thirsty, and she gets it. 

She lies back down, exhausted, in pain, and kind of okay with maybe, potentially, dying right now. “Knock yourself out.”

He pauses and looks at her. “Really? Just like that?”

“Just don't kill me - or, honestly, do; I really feel like shit right now, so,” she trails off.

His eyes flash to her hands, noticing that they tremble awfully now, even at rest by her sides. “I’ll only take a little - I promise,” he assures her.

She remains still, the only form of consent she has the energy for at this point, and he lowers himself gently. She feels his hair on the side of her face, and his breath on her neck, and she thinks to herself that it might feel pleasant if she didn’t also feel like her blood was made of ants right now. 

She hopes that losing some of it might help the feeling. And if he kills her - well, then the feeling will be over anyway, so it’s a win-win.

His lips ghost against her neck, and she feels his hand gripping her hip. Unable to resist the joke, even in her agony, she feigns flirty chastisement. “Now? Astarion…”

He laughs into her neck. “Absolute freak,” he whispers, before biting down.

She feels an icy pinch, like getting an ear piercing, or being cut by a sharp knife. His teeth slice through her skin easily before her body has a chance to register the feeling. She starts to feel lighter each second - a relief from the high blood pressure she's suffered through all night.

She realizes after a few moments that it’s coming to the point where she ought to stop him if she wants to live, but she pauses, deciding if she should. 

If he finished the job, it would be a sort of poetic justice - the drinker, drunk to death.

A faint chuckle escapes her at that thought, and it seems to jolt him back to the moment. He stops, gradually slowing from an intent sucking, to suckling, to lapping, to finally, a tiny lick before he pulls back.

She sees her own dark red blood stain his lips, which he lazily licks.

“I feel incredible. I feel alive, I feel - happy,” he marvels. “Thank you. This is a gift, you know; I won’t forget it.”

He stands up, and then staggers, before catching himself - looking, well, a little drunk.

She already knows the gist of the joke before he gets it out.

“As delicious as you were, darling, I think your blood may be 80 proof,” he says with a smirk.

Suddenly, she feels a strange aura descend.

She loses time. The next second she remembers, her bedroll is crumpled beneath her, and there’s dirt on her arms and blood in her mouth.

Not only do her hands tremble - her arms tremble, her entire body trembles, her bones, her very soul.

When she comes to, Astarion is looking at her from his elbows.

“You weren't kidding. That was… quite horrifying,” he announces.

Her other companions didn’t wake up, which means she must have had her seizure quietly. She snatches the bottle and pulls, and pulls, and pulls.

[babmaoau]

Chapter One: "When I Wake" - Part One

TW: ANGST/LOSS OF HOPE/DEPRESSION/SUICIDAL TENDIENCIES/STRONG LANGUAGE

"It's dark. Empty. Nothing is here once again."

"No sound, no light... No one to call out to."

"Then! In an instant- There it is!"

"There she is.."

"Her voice brings a comfort I haven't felt in a long time. Her smile brings a light that I could only hope to catch – To keep for when the darkness surrounds me once more."

"It's so cold..."

"Her warmth is like no other. A warmth many can only dream of, including me."

"But this is no dream."

"I try to run, but my feet are stuck, inching painfully slowly through the molasses ink that surrounds me for miles and miles..."

"I try to yell. But no sound escapes my throat."

"It's dry and... itchy."

"Then I start to choke."

"The molasses starts to rise around my legs as my throat fills up with the familiar black tar I have tasted so many times before."

"It's sour- like acid, but way worse. It causes me to gag and vomit."

"It stains my teeth and my tongue. My gums bleed from myself trying desperately to scratch the taste out my mouth."

"The smell is sinful as the molasses creeps up my arms, pulling me down into the darkness, away from her and her light."

"The ink is up to my head now. I panic as I try to catch my breath: my heart is thumping in my ears and tears flood my eyes."

"All I can think is that someone must be coming. But I know no one is. I'll die here; cold and alone."

"It's freezing..."

"I can see my last breaths in the air fog around me as her light leaves me again. She turns but her face is blurred- It's unfamiliar to me. I- I can't remember!"

"I never can, no matter how hard I try..."

"Then, I'm pulled under, drowning in blackness. Unable to escape as I hear his voice, his laugh... mocking me in my pathetic state."

"You'll never amount to anything. You'll fail to save everything and everyone."

"I am confused by what he means every time...."

"You're nothing but a wretched sack of ink, bleeding every chance you get, spilling the mess you call 'yourself' everywhere for everyone to see. It's pathetic. The people around you are sickened. Forever sick."

"Then she breaks his sound with her silence."

"Wake up, Bendy."

I close the book, dating it.

Tuesday: June 11th, 2025 6:30 AM

I take a deep breath as I look outside. The sun is bright and warm on my face. It's refreshing on my itchy skin.

I always wake up itchy...

I listen to the birds tweet and chirp outside my window as I leave my room. I groan walking down the hallway as my headache starts.

I always wake up with a headache...

I open the door to reveal Boris sleeping, still. Peacefully in the dawn light that fights its way through his blackout curtains. Posters and lights decorate his room with his night-light producing a beautiful display of our milky way on his ceiling. I smile as I close his door, walking away. Only to be met with a messy kitchen.

The table is littered with the Chinese take-out we had the night before. Mondays are always difficult for the both of us, so I try to make it easier. Boris loves Chinese, so I treat him to the best place in town. Yeah, our budget takes a slight hit, but his happiness is more important. It's nothing I can't make again within the week.

My alarm goes off.

6:45 am.

I go back to Boris's room, shaking him awake.

In a moment or two he finally opens his eyes: His right one blue and his left brown.

He rubs his eyes as he yawns.

"G'morning Bendy!" He smiles softly, still obviously trying to wake up. "How'd you sleep?"

He still reminds me of when he was a pup when he wakes up. His eyes still struggle to get used to the light, he still rubs his eyes with his fists, and he still wears his silk space pajamas. His hair is a matted mess and his fur is in disarray. His breath doesn't quite stink, but he still needs to brush his teeth. I smile as I reminisce. He'll always be my baby brother, even if we aren't related by blood, and the papers label me otherwise.

"The same as always, but it's nothing to worry about." I smile, softing down his bed-head.

"Did you take your pills?"

"Yes."

"Okay..." Boris frowns. "...they still didn't help?"

"They never have." I laugh. It's a pained laugh, but it's better than making him worry.

"C'mon. Let's get you breakfast and dressed." I pat his bed as I head out to the kitchen.

Boris groans, sliding 'miserably' out of his room and trudging into the bathroom.

I hear water start to run in the next room over as I clean up. I throw away all of the left out food, put away any salvageable left-overs and toss the dishes into the sink. I wipe down the table and sweep the floor of crumbs and bits.

With a flush Boris trudges out into the living room, toothbrush in mouth and scratching his stomach.

"Oh! Sorry Bendy..." Boris realized as he saw the bags of trash.

"It's no problem bro, I left a mess too. What do you want this morning?"

"Bacon..." Boris yawned again, walking away scrubbing. "And eggs..."

"Don't drown in the sink sleepy head!" I called after him. A faint reply can be heard but it's hard to make out. I smile to myself.

Good times... good times are ahead.

. . .

"Are you sure you have everything?"

"Yes."

"You have your phone? Your snacks? Computer? Change of clothes? Duffel bag for basketball tryouts?"

"Yes! Bendy, I'll be fine!" Boris said as he shook the very obvious duffel bag in front of his brother.

Today was the long awaited basketball tryouts. To be an Evergreen Ranger. However, Boris was this close from strangling his brother. Playfully of course, he wasn't actually mad. He just wished Bendy wasn't so worried about him all the time. His older brother had enough on his plate without worrying about Boris getting into trouble, which he never has. As Boris has gotten older he's become more independent. Bendy is just holding on.

"I'm sorry..." Bendy took a deep breath. "Have a great day today okay? Don't let anyone bother you!"

Boris nodded and bent down to hug his brother. He hugged him extra tight this morning, since it seemed Bendy was having a hard time again.

"Don't worry about me! I'm 16 now, I can handle myself." Boris smiled as he waved his brother goodbye.

Bendy smiled. " a-and good luck with your auditions today!" Waving back, Boris disappeared into the school. Bendys' smile lingered for a moment, but quickly faded as he walked off Evergreen Campus.

He was so tired. The world was bright but it felt so dim. Nothing really excited him anymore, except for Boris. Seeing his brother smile meant everything to him. Boris was all he had, and all he'll ever have. The ink illness does a number on him every single day. Even when he isn't having an 'episode' he still has side-effects. Headaches, constant itchiness, low energy and irritability at random bursts. That's why he tries to act so calm and collected. He literally has nothing to give, and doesn't want to exert so much energy that he pops.

. . .

The streets of the town were bustling. The world was spinning so fast around him. All these people, all these jobs and opportunities and he's just getting his day started. However, it's better than nothing. He's making an effort! Even when everything feels like it can fall apart at any minute. And that's admirable.

With a click and a soft ring Bendy enters the restaurant he frequents. "Hello! Welcome in!" A feminine voice calls out. It was gentle, yet confident. Bendy smiles and nods in her general direction as he makes his way to the bar.

The place was bustling for it only being eight in the morning. Toons and Humans alike dressed in the seats of the diner, making small talk and getting to-go coffees and snacks. Children ran around screaming and playing games while their parents tried to calm them down. Too much energy for the morning.

Bendy wished he had that energy that early, that's why he was going to take his coffee here. Coffee always seemed to perk him right up. It was his feel-good drink.

Taking a seat at the bar he was welcomed again by the same girl.

"Good morning! What would you like to have today?"

"Just the usual please, thank you- oh!"

Slid right in front of him was his usual drink, cold and ready for consumption.

"That was fast. Did you have it pre-made already?" Bendy swirled the coffee with a straw, licking the whipped cream off of it.

"Yup! Efficient huh? Especially since you come here every morning and order the same thing every single time." She teased.

"Huh. Guess I gotta switch it up on ya. What drink do you recommend."

"Bitch you know I can't drink coffee."

"Pussy."

"Okay, how about the caramel frappe since you wanna pick fights?"

"Bitch you know I don't like caramel."

"Pussy."

The two of them laughed and laughed. This was a normal thing they did every morning: banter, gossip, poke fun, all in good times. That is...

"Oh my god can y'all not curse? There's children around!" Max scolded them. It was really packed this morning and they know how Mickey gets.

"Anyways... How are you, Bendy?" The girl asked. The sun enhanced her freckles on her tanned fur, the orange glow making her brown hair and eyes pop. She smiled as she cleaned cups, waiting for his response.

"Eh, same shit different day. What about you Bonnie?"

She rolled her eyes. "Same shit different day, but it's going good. Max makes me actually look forward to my summer job."

"I just deal with her. I wish she would actually leave!" Max called from across the diner making several other regulars laugh.

"Pfft– hardy har har." Bonnie responded. "But no really? Nothing good has happened? Nothing at all?"

"Nope." Bendy said, sipping his drink.

"Well... why don't we give you something to be thankful for."

"Okay.." Bendy starred in thought. "How about the fact that I'm an inch taller than you."

"Bendy, I'm being serious." Bonnie laughed.

"Okay okay.. Uhhh." Bendy actually thought long and hard, but he does this every morning, so it wasn't really all that difficult.

"Well, there's Boris. You. The fact I have a roof over my head, a bed to sleep in at night..."

"Even though you don't really sleep." Bonnie interrupted.

"Shut up."

"My bad, my bad." They laughed as bendy listed off more things. All run-of-the-mill 'Things one should be thankful for everyday'. It was his exercise, to keep his depression from getting worse. Having a constant reminder of all the good things does the mind good. It's better than focusing on what's wrong twenty-four seven.

"Hey speaking of Boris, where is he? Y'all usually stop by together."

"He needed to be dropped off at school early. Basketball tryouts are this afternoon and he wanted to get some extra practice in." Bonnie lit up at the news.

"That's amazing! Maybe he'll finally find his coup! High school sucks when you don't have anyone to hang out with."

"Well not necessarily, I had no one in high school and I was completely fine." Bendy boasted.

"That's because you were messaging me every five minutes, ding-dong. All I'm saying is he needs new company; work on his people skills."

"Right." Bendy was irritated now. Not that he wanted to be, he just– was. Mood swings.

Yes, Boris needs to get out more, but he's doing just fine. He gets into no fights, has good grades, comes home, plus he has Bendy. Why would he need anyone else? Having familiar company all your life isn't that bad.

"s-sorry.. overstepped. Let's agree to disagree? I'm a very social person after all so I'm plenty biased. I'm sure Boris is completely fine the way he is, and if he does need anything, he'll speak up eventually!"

If he doesn't bury it down and blow up first... Bonnie finished her comment with a self-thought. Bendy and Boris were close, and very good to one another, but there's been some... tension. Bendy's ink illness has only gotten worse as he's gotten older, and he doesn't know it, but Boris talks: not to Bendy, but to Bonnie and Mickey; sometimes separately, sometimes together. "I wish bendy would take better care of himself." He'd say. "He's sad all the time and it hurts knowing I can't do a thing about it. I'm.. I'm afraid that he's... giving up–". Boris hasn't blown up yet, and maybe he won't! Maybe Bonnie's just overthinking it as she usually does.

But– still...

She looked at Bendy as he messed with his drink. The glass was barely touched. He was just stirring it as if deep in thought, his brows furrowed.

"It's fine." He sighed. "I know you're only trying to help."

There was silence between the two in the very-much still bustling restaurant. Max approached them with a platter of empty cups and plates.

"Uh, is everything okay, you two?" There was no answer. Bonnie just looked at him and shook her head softly, the corner of her mouth pushing into her cheek. Max looked over at Bendy who just looked sad, like depressingly sad. He thought and thought, then, an idea popped into his head. Well, less of an idea and more of a reminder. It can double as both.

Setting down his platter of dishes he pulled a large folded piece of paper out of his pocket.

"You know I almost forgot!" He unfolded the paper and placed it beside the two on the counter. "Uncle Mickey's hosting a talent show! It's the first one of its kind!" Max bragged. "Figured you two might wanna sign up? Since you're on this whole 'let's get famous' thing." He laughed.

Bonnie brightened as she took the paper.

"Hey! Maybe this can be our big break! Right Bendy?" She showed him the paper. It had been a while since they 'performed' together. Maybe this will do them some good.

"Even if it's not this will be good for other reasons. Quality time, fun, food, getting out of your rut..." Max muttered the last part, but Bendy heard him loud and clear. As shitty as it made him feel Max was right. Bendy hadn't taken the time to do something for himself in a while. Since Boris's school switched to this full year schedule last year he hasn't gotten a single break. He thought it could be why he's so down and tired. There was no pick-me-up to pick him up.

He sighed. Smiled a small smile, and nodded his head. "Sure why not? It'd be good to get back to my old self again. My guitar is literally doing nothing but collecting dust in my closet."

"Yes!" Bonnie cheered to herself. "Bendy we're going to make this the best time ever, just you see!"

"Oh! By the way, regarding this Unc Mick wanted to talk to you about something before we hang these up for the official announcement." Max said to Bonnie.

"Oh for real? When."

"Today."

Ring ring ring!

The door to the diner opened, and in walked the rest of the circus gang. Goofy and Donald made a beeline to the bar while Minnie helped Oswald upstairs. Old, but still youthful in soul, in a strange vampirish way.

That's the perk about being a toon in this world. They lived about twice as long as humans do. Part of the controversy and racism really. That on top of the Ink Illness...

But most let them be, and accepted the toons. People, toons and humans alike, will all get sick. It's not something new, and definitely not something you should be playing the blame-game for.

"Speaking of which you better go now. It might be a while before Mickey is free if you don't take this chance–" He whispered through his teeth.

Bonnie nodded as she ran off to the upper levels of the diner.

Bendy slowly sipped his drink as the elders approached them.

"How ya doi'n son! Are ya winni'n?" Goofy laughed loudly.

"Dad.." Max groaned.

"Hyuck! I'm just joki'n. But here! You forgot your lunch!" Goofy handed him a large paper bag. It was bulging at the bottom and... dripping? Max felt the bottom, immediately pulling his hand away. It was soaked! And sticky...

"Thanks... dad." Max cringed as he set the bag under the counter. Bendy just snickered under his breath.

"I told you not to put ice cream in there you doof." Donald snapped.

"B-but i put plenty of ice to keep it cold!"

"Ice melts in heat dad. It's the middle of June... I-it's okay though. I appreciate it, really! I'm really going to enjoy this later."

Goofy's frown turned upward into a smile as he marched off, flexing his fatherly skills in front of Donald, whom of which had no children aside from his nephews, whom he also struggles to keep a good relationship with.

Donald rolled his eyes as he followed Goofy upstairs.

There was a moment of silence, soon broken by laughter.

"Pfft–" "Shut up."

"I'm sorry man.." Bendy laughed. "But that's just so... Goofy?"

Max couldn't help but let out a small chuckle at Bendy's lame pun.

"Yeah. But he tries his best! At least he stayed, you know? I wasn't an easy kid. Especially after mom..."

"You don't have to say it man. I understand." Bendy looked into his drink, watching the itty bitty coffee grounds at the bottom float. "Completely."

"Anyways, I'm surprised you agreed to the talent show. Are you really going to follow through?"

"Have to. This could be Bonnie's big break."

"Bendy..." Max's voice was soft and solemn. Bendy didn't actually want to do the talent show, it was obvious, now at least. He seemed to have no 'umph' anymore. Plus what could he even contribute? He couldn't sing, he hadn't played his guitar in a couple years at least, what song would they even choose? An original? One that already existed? It was pathetic of him.

TW: ANGST/LOSS OF HOPE/DEPRESSION/SUICIDAL TENDIENCIES

"I-I mean–" Bendy started, "I- can't tell her this but I've been thinking..." his voice was soft.

"If I ever– we, ever make it big how long would I actually be able to enjoy it?"

"Bendy, stop." Max said, nervous. He knew how he got. He's hard headed like that.

"I-it's only been getting worse! The pain's been getting closer and closer to becoming unbearable."

Bendy avoided eye contact. His heart beat out of his chest as his eyes started to swell. He was so, so tired.

"There is no cure Max!" Bendy tried to keep his voice low, but the quieter he got the more his voice shook and broke.

"It's happening more, and more, and more; and what could cure it is gone forever! It probably never even existed in the first place. I'm afraid... Max, what if I won't be able to do what I've hoped for so long when all this work finally pays off? It'll just be a big waste!"

Bendy sighed a big sigh, trying to keep his composure. Max put his hand on Bendy's hand across the counter. He was shaking. Trembling.

"Shh, shhh, Bendy it'll be okay, man, we gotchu." Max tried his hardest to calm him down. He's never seen Bendy so upset. He's usually the calmest one out of the three of them.

"How? How do you know that..." Bendy's voice shook. Demanding. 

How long had he been holding this in for? Yeah he was sad but... Max didn't think he was this far gone. This darkness...

It was worrisome.

"Bendy you gotta calm down, you're gonna have an episode!" Max said quietly, wiping away the ink and sweat that threatened to spill from Bendy's forehead. However his warning fell upon deaf ears.

"Boris will be all alone. I... I...."

Bendy had finally broken. He cried quiet tears at the counter, hiding his face. Max rubbed his back, trying to calm him down. He was rubbing hard, like he was trying to wipe away the sadness from Bendy's body. He knew the Ink Illness took a toll, but this was something bigger. Something bigger than themselves, bigger than the Illness.

He spoke quiet things to Bendy, things like– "It'll be okay!" "Don't give up!" But it was hard. Hard for Max, Bendy especially, Boris, and

" crap... " Max whispered. Bendy slowly brought his head up to see what was wrong. Then he wished he hadn't.

Standing right beside him was Bonnie and Micky. She had a very, very sad look in her eyes, worrying for her friend. Mickey stood, eyes wide. He was also worried as he watched the ink dribble down his face.

"..b-bonnie!" Bendy exclaimed through his now, grumbly voice.

"Oh..." Bonnie put down the posters she had in her hands and embraced her friend. She hugged him tightly as Max walked over to Mickey.

"How much did she hear?"

"She heard enough." Mickey sighed.

"..B-bonnie please.." Bendy tried to push her away but her grip only tightened.

"N-no." She mumbled in his collar. "I'm not letting you go." She said louder.

"Please!"

"No! Not until you realize how much we fucking care about you!" The Diner went silent.

She cursed herself. She let her emotion overwhelm her again. Now people were staring, but she ignored them. They weren't important right now.

Max winced at the curse word but Mickey let it slide. This moment had been a long time coming, he could see it. He's just glad Boris isn't here to witness it. Poor boy...

"Bendy. Bendy look at me dammit."

She grabbed the boy's face and turned it up into hers. Her hands were warm and soft, even though they smelled like cleaner and food.

"You are going to fight, you got that? You don't have to do the talent show, but I do expect you to take some time for yourself. I'll take Boris to school and pick him up."

"No, you can't do that. I won't let you, he's my responsibility."

"Then fight!"

Bendy's surprised at her sudden sternness. Her hands are shaking...

"If you don't want me to step in, fight! You will make it through this, you just have to keep fighting! Having this attitude won't cure anything. I'm gonna fix you. We..." She turned and motioned to Mickey and Max, and the rest of the circus gang that stood in the back, silently watching. That's when Bendy now realized the entire restaurant was standing, watching.

"I– I don't know how, but we will! Or so help me..." She broke down. Slamming her fist into his chest she started to cry. In a poof her bunny ears and fur were gone, it was just human skin now. Her cheeks were red as fat baby tears ran down her face.

"Believings only half the journey, if you can get that far then you can do anything. I know you'll be better one day, I'm sure of it! You just.. can't give up."

Her sobs were soft and quiet. Her hands were gripping the collar of his shirt now. She couldn't even look at him. Then she did.

"...you gotta keep going." Her voice was low. "And if you don't, or won't do it for us, do it for yourself. For your hopes, your dreams!"

"Bonnie..."

"It doesn't matter if it wont last long!" Her voice was louder now, her bottom lip trembling. "You deserve the best, even if it is short-lived! You work so hard, all the time..." her grip was tight, then it loosened. She took his hands in hers. They were soft....

"Please... Don't die on us." She couldn't care if she was being selfish. No life was worth giving up on. It may seem hard at the moment, you may want to give up, but there's good coming. There always is. After the most horrid thunderstorms there's a rainbow out there somewhere. You just have to believe, have faith, and look for it, because it's there! It always has been. Just waiting for you to finally see it...

Bendy pulled her in close.

"I'm sorry... I'll do better."

"But, you have been doing good..." Max spoke up.

"You're still here, aren't you?" Donald added.

"You're important to us, Bendy. You may not have a blood family, but you, and Boris, you have us!" Daisy chirped, appearing from the kitchen.

"Your inky family." Minnie smiled. Oswald gave a weak thumbs up and he mustered a small smile.

"... and don't you ever forget it." Mickey finished, placing a hand on his shoulder.

Bendy looked around, wiping tears from his eyes. Everyone looked at him with nothing but kindness in their eyes. When someone has the ink illness, it isn't long until people know. Word travels fast and that can be dangerous. Luckily for Bendy though, he grew up in an area where no one cared about the little things; who you are, what you are or where you came from. This town was a community, mostly thanks to Mickey. Everyone loved and helped one another, even the most vile citizens here were fighting for somebody or something. Everyone is.

And right now, they were fighting for Bendy. There was no cure. But just because there isn't an immediate fix doesn't mean you can't have people back you up. To piece you together when you fall apart or pick you back up when you fall down. And this, this was just that. Bendy has a whole town rooting for him.

"All these people, Bendy, we care. They may not know you like me, or Max, or Mickey and Minnie do; but we are here. We need you to do the same. Be. Here."

Bendy smiled, wiping his face again. He pulled Bonnie in, Max came around and hugged him as well.

"I promise.." Bendy finally admitted.

"I'm sorry for scaring you." He almost-whispered.

"Nn-no, it's fine! I understand..." Bonnie admitted as well. Everyone has their own demons. "I'm just so worried about you." She laughed.

"Same." Bendy half jokes. He was worried about himself too, but. Maybe. Just maybe, if other people are willing to put their faith in him, maybe he should too? Afterall he was young, only twenty-one. Just started to be actually allowed to drink!

He enjoys the warmth of his company and the restaurant goes back to normal, everyone minding their own business, but now with a little somebody in the back of their minds.

In this moment, he realizes that hoping for the best may not be so bad. And that, things can be okay. We'll be okay.

Right?

[cambria-writes]

my prompt for you is: orange light!! good luck deciphering that!!

it took a few days but as soon as you said orange light i knew exactly what i wanted to include and what i wanted this to be about. this is actually a very personal and emotional piece for me, so i actually do hope you like it!

i even put this through two spell checks and a grammar check, so i made a genuine effort!

title from a novel by andré aciman called 'plus tard ou jamais', which means 'later or never' in french.

𝐏𝐥𝐮𝐬 𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐝, 𝐨𝐮—

pairing: male!oc x gn!nameless!oc (barely tbh) rating: t cause i think there's swearing? warnings: nothing really, dreaming, revisiting the past, talking about feeling safe, mention of chronic illness, bitching about climate change the heat, this is just a vent piece where my boyfriend catches me at the end that's it lol

masterlist

It’s too hot. It’s been too hot for three days.

The air conditioner is barely providing any relief. In this heat wave, it would probably take three 18k BTU units to satisfy me. It’s horrible; everything is damp, everything smells like humidity and AC condensate. Every 5 hours, I have to force myself up and away from whatever I’m doing to haul The Bucket—used to be used with the mop, but since last summer, it’s exclusively used to collect the condensation from the air conditioner—to the bathroom and back again.

My fingers hurt. My head hurts. My back feels like it’s been twisted out of and back into shape too many time. Misshapen, I feel misshapen.

It’s 3:47AM and I’ve been on my back on my bedroom floor for... too long. Feels like forever, but I know it’s only been half an hour. But there’s nothing to do; I’m in between jobs, I did all the laundry in a bout of mania last night, the dishes were cleaned after I made myself dinner earlier...

There was a time when I would have known what to do with myself in a situation like this. Would have had a list of things that I could easily do whenever I happened to have the time for them. That list is long gone, though.

Maybe it's with my motivation; eloped, and forgotten about. Good for her.

Beneath me, I feel the old wooden floor shake when a loud clap of thunder sounds outside. Ah, finally, I think, something to cut through this wretched humidity and maybe return some sense of normalcy to my life. I pat my hand around on the floor to find my phone, but when I pull up the weather forecast, it’s grim.

92% humidity for tomorrow and yet more thunderstorms.

Carelessly throw my phone in the general area of the head of my bed. Miserable, this is absolutely miserable. I can’t go out like this; ten minutes in that kind of heat and nevermind heat exhaustion, I may as well just go straight to the nearest hospital for the inevitable heat stroke I’d be suffering from.

From its new place, probably half under a pillow from the sound of it, my phone dings. Probably another email to tell me that though my candidacy was appreciated and my résumé was impressive, they’ve gone ahead and hired someone else for the position.

Someone who was asking for a lower salary, probably.

Miserable.

The amount of motivation required to get myself on my feet again is gargantuan. But at this rate, I’m never going to sleep, and I’m not going to do anything productive. So I shuffle to the bathroom at the end of the hallway, pull open the mirror door, and pluck the bottle of melatonin from its shelf.

Mm. No. Put it back and grab the THC gummy bottle next to it instead. That’ll do. I only grab and pop one in my mouth to chew; I made the mistake of taking two once and only once, and I would rather lick the underside of my shoes than do that again.

I don’t both to get under the covers when I let myself fall into bed. Limbs akimbo, staring up at the ceiling, I wonder. I wonder what my life could be like if everything didn’t have to be so... this. There’s a bitter kind of resignation that sank in year ago, when my then-fiancé simply ghosted me the night before our trip to Japan.

Shit always happens. And sometimes who you are matters.

The light-headed feeling from the edible starts to sink in. I should’ve just grabbed a beer from the fridge. Or maybe made myself a rum and coke. I’m always a happy, sleepy drunk.

Forgot that I tend to get too pensive and subsequently high when I’m too baked.

Ah, god dammit.

My eyes feel dry and sore. I feel so much more exhausted than when I fell asleep. At least, I think I do. I don’t remember falling asleep. I definitely don’t remember falling asleep outside, out on the grass. But the feeling on my exposed arms and legs is unmistakeable.

Freshly cut grass that will undoubtedly make me break out in hives.

I remember this place so clearly. It’s the playground behind my old elementary school. When I sit up and twist to look around, there’s a swell of something in my chest. Some unknowable emotion that’s probably an amalgam. The unkept field is still there, and so are the woods behind it. They flattened it all out and made condos there years ago.

So this is definitely a memory, then. Probably of one of the fundraiser spaghetti dinners they would do a week or two before school let out. If I look out to the softball diamond, there’s a mountain of old wood and pallets for the bonfire that would happen later.

There’s only me here, though. There isn’t the tell-tale chatter of parents by the doors, no shrieking children, no firecrackers. I remember, being freshly eleven years old, looking at my friends and the setting sun and thinking, yes, I need to remember this. This is a moment I’m going to need to remember, someday.

Basking in the setting sun, it’s easy to understand why. Despite the lack of people, I can still smell the industrial quantity of spaghetti sauce simmering in the cafeteria kitchen. The heat isn’t overbearing; it feels comfortable, actually. I remember getting a rash on my arms and legs from the freshly cut grass. The small scar on my forehead left there by a burning ember that got blown my way.

The sun never sets, here.

Through closed eyes, I notice the shadow falling over me.

"Go away," I say quietly. There’s no bite in my voice—no one who would be here would be anyone I get angry at. "I’m trying to nap."

A scoff. Then, "The chronic fatigue doesn’t hit for another..." A brief pause, for contemplation, I suppose. "Seven years."

I shrug as nonchalantly as I can. But I recognize that voice. I didn’t know that voice when I was eleven. Wouldn’t get to know it for a few months still. I sigh anyway and prop myself up on my elbows. I keep my gaze ahead when I open my eyes. I don’t want to know which version of him is here quite yet.

"Why are you here, Michael?" I ask, leaning heavily on my hands. I let my eyes flit from window to window, pausing on the windows I know look into the library longer than the others. I can just barely make out the diaphanous curtains my mother hung over one of the couches. The sheer fabric almost glistens in the orange glow.

"I show up whenever you need a reminder," he answers as he takes a seat next to me. Our shoulders are touching. He nudges my arm with his elbow. "What have you been forgetting?"

I can’t help but laugh. What have I been forgetting? Is that a joke?

"Everything," I grunt, scooching back a bit to lean forward and pull my legs up. "A lot."

Michael chuckles good-naturedly next to me. I missed—miss him. I miss him.

"Shooting stars, sib," he whispers, and I can feel the warmth of his fingertips when he starts to dig them into the nape of my neck. "You’ve forgotten that we’re shooting stars."

All at once, my eyes burn and my nose feels hot and itchy. I reach up for the hand at the back of my neck and bring it to my cheek instead. A thumb awkwardly brushes away the first tear to fall.

"I love you though," I manage to choke out. Look up at the sky like that’ll help my eyes dry out. "I haven’t seen you in forever. Did you get married? Do you have kids? Do you..."

Michael’s thumb stills on my cheekbone. I can feel him leaning in closer.

"...do you even think about me at all?"

Micheal sighs and I feel him rest his forehead against the crown of my head. His breath feels warm there, too. I can hear him inhale to answer, but I rush to speak first.

I don’t know if I want to hear his answer.

"I’m sorry. I’m sorry for not having been a better friend to you. I called you a brother, called you family, but I—"

"It’s fine," Michael cuts me off, gently,quietly. Pulls his head up off mine and his hand away from my cheek in favour of wrapping an arm around my shoulder and pulling me in. "We were young and stupid. You couldn’t have known. It’s not like anyone was helping."

"You did," I counter, a bit more petulantly than I’d like. "Even if you just let me get passionate about things, you—I didn’t get that from anyone else. You made it safe to like things."

Ah. There it is, isn’t it. Michael’s laughter is still so wonderfully soothing. A perfect combination with the warmth of the setting sun. The sound of his voice like perfume in the air, sparkling and sweet.

"Yeah," Michael says eventually,giving my shoulder a quick squeeze before letting go to lean back and get a better look at me.

I forgot I didn’t want to look. He’s got the braids in, like I’d done when we were kids. Otherwise looks just like he did last time I saw him nearly a decade ago; smart, dark slacks, a button-up with the sleeves rolled up with no tie in sigh, shoes shining like his eyes. I can't help but reach a hand out for his own face—to feel the thick beard he’s growing, run a hand through the hair I’d straightened and braided and put flowers in.

"He’s done a great job too, y’know," Michael says, looking away with a smirk. He doesn’t take my hand away where it’s brushing back hair at his temples. "Your husband, I mean."

"We’re not..." I start, but trail off. We’re not actually married, which doesn’t feel fair. "Yeah," I settle with. "He does, despite it all. Despite everything."

When Michael turns back to look at me, it’s a boy, and I find us sitting in his mother’s basement, on her dark green leather couch. The outro to Fortier is playing on the TV.

"He’s not the only one," Michael says, and it’s strange to hear an adult voice come from such a young face. I remember feeling that way after his voice changed over summer break in 9th grade, too. He turns to look back at the TV, but grabs the remote on the couch arm closest to him to turn it off.

I can hear his mother talking to his younger brother upstairs. I hear plates being taken out of a cupboard and pots and pans being moved.

"You were always welcome, you know," Michael says, throwing an arm over the back of the couch. His fingers just barely reach my hair to play with it. "Mom worried about you like her own."

"I felt that," I laugh, quiet and airily. "I just never wanted that kindness to be revoked."

"Dinner’s ready!"

"Come on," Michael urges me to stand up. "She made shepherd’s pie just for you."

The smell of a fresh, home cooked meal lingers in my nose when I wake up. It’s a slow process; I eventually remember that I fell asleep, and work carefully to unstick my clammy limbs from the floor beneath me.

"There they are," I hear next to me, and I can only muster the energy to hum in acknowledgement. "Floor comfier than the bed?"

"F’koff," I mutter, rolling over on the side before pushing myself up. Rub a hand down my face when I taste salt on my lips. Sniffle a few times while running my hands through my hair to try and loosen up some of the knots.

I can still feel the hand on the nape of my neck.

"Bad dream?"

I shake my head. "No, not bad, just..."

"Hmm, just maybe a bit too much?" When I don’t answer, my boyfriend—husband?—crouches by me and guides me to my feet with patient hands. Brushes the hair out of my face and kisses my forehead before pulling me in. A hand at my lower back and the other on the back of my head until I let my forehead rest against his shoulder.

"It’s okay," he whispers, kisses the top of my head. "We’ll go to sleep and you can tell me all about it in the morning."

"Even if it’s ab—about Mike?" The question is out before I can think better of it. He exhales like it’s funny.

"Obviously."

When I wake up again, the sun filtering through the thin curtains above the bedroom window make everything look like molten gold. The dust in the narrow sunbeams coming through look like glitter. Boyfriend pressed up against my back, his nose pressed against the top of my spine, a leg between mine, and a hand curled over my stomach.

I want to tell Michael that he’s right. Despite everything, I do feel safe, here.

I won’t know until I’ve had breakfast and I’ve gone down in sleep shorts and an oversized Five Finger Death Punch shirt that definitely doesn't belong to me, with a coffee mug in hand, that there’s a wedding invitation waiting for me in the mail box.

[touchstarvedphie]

That story about the woman who got the egg apron as a birthday present really broke me for some reason and I had to write something :((

Word Count - 1,001

✧.* Dolor—A Short Story ✧.*

I feel nothing but dread as the nauseating sound of my youngest daughter crying herself awake pries me from sleep, perhaps the only time I get to truly be alone, or rather, be alive for myself. Beside me, my husband doesn’t even stir, his body hasn’t programmed itself to awake to these specific sound waves, because it knows he has no need too.

Upon entering the realm of consciousness, I’m able to summon the composure I must exhibit at all times, and I refrain from letting out even the smallest show of annoyance. Pushing myself up from the bed with a heavy groan that one can only make in the depths of exhaustion, I trudge to my daughters room, rubbing the sleep from my eyes, my bare feet padding across the wooded floor.

I rarely wear shoes. There’s no need to, one only needs such attire if they plan to step on adverse ground, thereby, leaving the confines of their home—a hardship my husband protects me from.

Following the sound of the wretched cries ringing through the air, I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. It’s a small mirror, positioned right above the fireplace—a decorative piece. There’s no light in my eyes, perhaps since it’s night, and thus no light can be found in my home at the moment. But what catches my attention isn’t the deep lines that cover my face, a physical manifestation of my constant stress, nor the painfully dark eye bags beneath my once joyful eyes.

No, what catches my attention is that, for a moment, I see a flicker of the woman I used to be. Beneath my colorless, dry completion, I see a hint of resemblance to her. Suddenly, I’m taken back, mind flooding with images of a girl beaming, standing tall on the stage as she takes a bow, her magnificent white leotard rendering her more of an angel, an ethereal presence, than a mere human.

In the darkness of the surrounding velvety black curtains, the light catches on the surface of her glittering skin, and she not only reflects not only every beam of light gracing her body, but radiates a joy that transcends her smile, a joy the cameras never did capture that day.

The audience had held their breath unanimously, eyes trained her every movement, entranced by the otherworldly creature before them as she elegantly bowed. Cheers had erupted from the crowd, a symphony of cries that rung through the air like bells in the wind, though the sound was so intense it may have been better associated with wind chimes in a storm. Flowers, of all types, flew onto the stage, glitter and white petals rained from the ceiling. This had been arranged prior to the performance, a show of physical beauty that failed to celebrate the true magnificence of the moment. The cheers still hadn’t died down when the opulent red curtains shut, and everyone gazed, awestruck as they caught their last glimpses of the ballerina before their view was obstructed. Even still, the ballerinas presence weighed heavily in the air when the curtains closed, everyone could feel her magnificence.

Her performance has been a success, her ten minute long dance captures some of the most beautiful yet trying moves in ballet. She had glided across the stage without a single misstep, and preformed the En Pointe, a move that requires extreme training. Her form, slender and toned, had taken years of strict dieting and work to maintain, and allowed her to preform the most marvelous of feats that the human body normally isn’t capable of. Her decades of adversity had paid off, in each trying moment she had pictured this very image, one of herself gracing that envied spotlight.

The performance was truly a wonder, and as such, had captured the eye of the headmaster of a prestigious ballet school. Soon, the young ballerina received a letter in the mail, one coveted by most young ballerinas chasing this path.

She had received a full ride for her dream ballet school. The squeals of exitement that filled her home that day echoed across the word, which eagerly held its breath as everyone who knew of ballet waited for the dancer to accept and, possibly, make history in the sport.

But that news never came. Years later, when it was far to late, it was released to every news outlet that could attain the coveted information that the girl had gotten married. Her husband, as he was known as now, had shackled her with a ring.

This had confused the public—hadn’t she been intent on never marrying, or at least waiting to achieve her dreams first? It puzzled them, there was no explanation. Soon it was known she had become a mother, one to eight children in ten years.

Some questioned why she agreed to sacrafice her life for this, some questioned why the husband hadn’t chosen another woman who shared his dreams of a large family and hadn’t been set to become the next prima ballerina, a title only given to thirteen dancers since 1894. Some argued she enjoyed this life, but those people must not have seen the lifeless way she carried herself, as if she was nothing more than a robot occupying a human body for a time, one with the role of ‘mother’, which she played dutifully. The public never got their answer.

Just as quickly as the memories rose, they sunk back into the depths of my mind, shadowed by the more present worries like making breakfast in the morning. A shriek ran through the air, and I was pulled back to the task at hand.

I allowed my gaze to wander over the clutter of items above the fireplace, and they landed on that picture of a girl in her white feathered leotard on stage, a proud grin on her face. Her photo, framed by rusted metal, was now all that remained of my dreams.