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sunsburns · 9 months ago

Text

kiss of life (i.)

pairing: luke castellan x aphrodite!daughter reader

summary: in a universe where soulmates are interlinked by shared pain (senses) and emotions, luke castellan refuses to have anything to do with his soulmate because of what it did to his mother, but he can't ignore fate.

—or: luke castellan and the soulmate he never wanted.

word count: 4.03k

part two!!

warnings: suppperrr angsty, luke castellan pov, long reading time, descriptive injuries, blood, pre-tlt, luke is a dick, annabeth carries her 5 seconds of screen time, there's no happy thoughts in this whatsoever, slight reader pov during capture the flag, i lowkey messed up but whatever!!

a/n: i wanted to make a cute lil fic for valentines day but uh... that didn't happen. this will definitely be a two (maybe 3) part fic so pls bear with me guys. this is based on this request! (sorry i babe this probably isn't what you expected). i'm working on a tag list! lmk if you wanna be added! make sure your tags are on

Luke Castellan had always known of soulmates, a covenant bestowed by the goddess Aphrodite after Zeus' condemnation. In this tapestry of fate, each person had a counterpart, a soulmate crossing the expanse of the world in search of their other half. Aphrodite offered the assurance as an unspoken promise that no soul would tread the journey of life alone.

It was undeniably a blessing, an ethereal gift from the divine.

However, within the enchanting threads of destiny lay the knots of a curse, a double-edged sword cutting through the hearts of those entangled in its mystic web.

If caught in a love affair with the gods themselves, to have a soulmate is to be cursed.

It is a curse.

To be bound by an unseen force to another being carried the weight of uncertainty. The love meant to be shared might be misplaced, bestowed upon one undeserving of such devotion. The anticipation of finding one's missing half, the yearning for completion, came with the haunting possibility of realizing your soulmate is a terrible person (or a god).

Luke Castellan, haunted by the thought of his own mother's despair, struggled with the contradictory idea of soulmates.

He had witnessed the agony of misplaced trust, the shattered promises of an everlasting bond that crumbled into abandonment. The bitter taste of reality lingered in his memories, and he found solace in mistrust. The once-a-believer had been wounded by the fickleness of fate, and the shards of shattered hopes had left him jaded.

For Luke, the concept of soulmates had become a distant echo, a melody drowned in the clamour of broken vows. The elaborate dance of destiny, with its promises of eternal love, had left him disillusioned and wary.

The mere thought sends shivers down his spine. There was a time when the uncertainty of meeting his soulmate fueled his excitement, the prospect of finding the one who could empathize with his scars and decipher the intricate labyrinth of his thoughts. But it all crumbled under the weight of bitter revelations. It was all from a time before he understood the depths of his father's betrayal of his once hopeful mother.

May Castellan, who, like her son, had yearned for the embrace of a soulmate, had fallen victim to the callous actions of the gods, of Hermes. The invisible bond that tethered her to a true soulmate, forever elusive, disintegrated into ash as Hermes, with deceitful promises, claimed her love, gave her a child, and then abandoned her.

Hermes, in the eyes of Luke, was never deserving of the love May once held for him. The curse woven by him and Aphrodite condemned not only May but every parent of Half-Bloods, forcing them to lose their soulmates the moment they fell for a god unbeknownst to them. A life of loneliness, unless deemed worthy of a second chance.

The wicked curse that hangs like a shadow. Luke harbours a desire to curse each deity responsible, yearning to reverse the relentless march of time and rescue his mother from the clutches of an ill-fated love. His gut turns to spare himself from the knowledge that his soulmate is burdened with every ache in his bones, every cut against his skin, every burn etched into his soul, and all the hatred festering within his heart.

A bound linkage to someone unseen, someone he wishes never to encounter, so he can evade the piercing gaze that would reflect the damage he unwittingly wrought upon their shared destiny. The very thought of this entwined fate, tinged with regret and resentment, casts a dark pall over Luke's existence.

He had never desired to cross paths with you, and he dreaded the thought of it, actually. And now, in the cruel twist of fate, he is intimately acquainted with every nuance of your existence. The touch of your hands lingers on his skin, your smile etches itself into his mind, and he has meticulously memorized every curl and detail of your hair.

Luke hates himself because of it.

Even before he met you, he sensed the gentleness that resonated within your heart during the quiet hours of the night. In the shadows of darkness, he felt the healing energy from you, mending his wounds with an invisible touch. The cuts on Luke's skin were yours as much as they were his. The unspoken link between your souls allowed him to witness the subtle acts of kindness, and Luke grapples with the conflict between the soft purity he perceives in your heart and the darkness he knows resides within his own.

Luke reluctantly admits that meeting you has broken down the barriers he built against the concept of soulmates. He sought refuge in the hectic pace of camp life, immersing himself in caring for the needs of others and teaching classes nonstop. The hope was to drown out the impending meeting, to avoid the inevitable collision with the person he believes is destined for a lifetime of torment, told to love a fractured soul like his own.

He battles against the current of fate, fearing that he, like his father, will ruin someone deserving of far more than what he is willing to give. Luke Castellan, with his decaying and rotten heart, grapples with the impossibility of being loved the way a soulmate should be.

Luke used to avoid the infirmary as if it were a contagious plague. He observed other campers entering with the innocent thoughts of treating their injuries, only for some (most) to depart, hands entwined with another camper bearing matching scars.

At Camp Half-Blood, discovering your soulmate was a rare alignment of stars and celestial threads. However, if one dared to tread the delicate line of hope the best place to look in was the sanctuary where most children of Apollo thrived—the infirmary, a haven where wounds were healed, and the whispers of shared pain lingered in the air.

Knowing himself, Luke carried the confidence that his soulmate must be among the group who spent hours of the day in the infirmary. The persistent pain in his body, a result of late-night training sessions when the cloak of darkness allowed him to unleash a more violent, heartless side with his sword, left an indelible mark on his consciousness.

If he aches, you ache with him.

And as you used to pass your days with the intent of healing, he embarked on a self-destructive journey. Rest remained elusive, sleep a forgotten companion, all of it was a relentless chase of distraction from you before even meeting you. It was excessive, and he knew it.

The awareness that he shared hurting wounds and silent pain with a soulmate haunted him long before he set foot in camp. But the realization of you being so close scared him, and it came swiftly when the first breath of the air in the camp seemed to carry a lighter touch than anywhere else, his bruises throbbed less, and the sting of cuts transformed into a light buzz, resonating with the rhythmic pound of his heart. He was fourteen years old when he realized his soulmate wasn't as far away as he thought.

Yet, despite this, Luke avoided any acknowledgment of you. He dismissed the whispers from those who bore similar bloody knuckles or heard rumours of others awakening with jabs on their arms, reminiscent of his own accidental self-inflicted cuts while sharpening his sword. The passage of time at camp became a delicate dance of evasion, each day spent in a fervent hope to remain blissfully unaware of the person who mirrored his wounds and pain.

Driven by guilt and fear, Luke deliberately sidestepped any potential encounters with his soulmate. His days were crafted meticulously to maintain this distance.

And it worked.

At least for a while.

Until the fatal return to camp after a failed quest, a burden placed on him by his father. Hopes and ambitions lay crushed and battered, and Luke's spirit shrunk from the pitiful gazes of other campers and the wallowing anger toward his father grew.

Annabeth ushered him to the infirmary the moment she laid eyes on him.

And for once, Luke never fought her against it.

There, in the quiet confines of the healing haven, Luke sat in a vulnerable silence. His head hung low as an older Apollo child skillfully stitched up the wound on the side of his face, wrapping it to keep it from infections as it healed. By then, tears had become a rarity for Luke, but that night was an exception. When the son of Apollo left the cabin, he could feel them stream down his cheeks, the ache in his chest returning as he sobbed into his hands.

At that moment, he felt like a child again, hiding in his bedroom, hiding anywhere he could; under his bed, in his closet, locked in the bathroom. He only ever wanted his mom. He was scared, fear gripped him, in his heart, and he wanted his mom to hold him and reassure him that everything was okay and that the monsters were only from the stories. That they'd never hurt him. But May Castellan was the one who-

"You're Luke, right?"

He was snapped back to the present as he heard the soft voice, a gentle interruption to the echoes of his past. A pair of old shoes appeared at the foot of his bed, their white socks and lace trim capturing his attention.

Initially, he assumed it might be a random camper stuck on bed rest offering words of encouragement or recognition for his efforts on the quest. Maybe even a pat on the back. However, the soothing tone and genuine concern prompted his clenched fists to uncoil.

Luke looked up with rosy cheeks and glossy eyes, unable to hide the traces of his tears. There you stood, the toe of your right shoe tracing patterns on the floor.

Despite the weariness, a glimmer of hope shone in your eyes as you tilted your head and softly spoke his name again.

The world seemed to... stop. Luke felt himself sinking into the soft mattress, softer than the one on his bed in Hermes' cabin. Tunnel vision enveloped him, rendering him oblivious to the lingering ache on the side of his face, the lingering humiliation, and even his festering hatred toward his father. For that fleeting second, he was acutely aware of nothing but you and the rhythm of his heart, pounding against his ribcage.

He tried to stop staring, but it was difficult. Your eyes, filled with curiosity, roamed across his face, and his figure, before finally settling on his gaze. Luke felt the pull, a silent exchange. You raised your chin ever so slightly, an uncertain smile etched on your lips as if grappling with the urge to ease his pain without knowing how.

Luke couldn't help but think that you were the most beautiful person he had ever seen.

"Hi." You say, voice quiet. It felt familiar, and Luke found himself sitting up, his body finally coaxed back to life. A soft wave accompanied your introduction, and you shared your name.

He repeated it, savouring the sound of it. Luke nodded, clearing his throat before finally acknowledging, "Yeah, I'm Luke." As you looked at him, a sense of familiarity lingered in your gaze, prompting him to question, "Have we met before?"

Considering the number of Half-Bloods at camp, he might have seen you in passing and might have heard your name in others' conversations. He wasn't surprised when you shook your head. "No, I don't think so. Not officially at least."

Gratitude flooded him as you refrained from prying into his well-being or questioning the details of his quest. It was as if you inherently knew not to press him. Yet, there was an undeniable shift in your demeanour.

It only took a few more seconds for it to click.

Alarms started to ring in Luke's head as you tucked strands of hair behind your ears, revealing your full face. A jolt of realization struck him like a punch to the stomach. His gaze fixated not on you but on the healing stitches adorning the right side of your face — eerily similar to the ones he had recently received, wrapped and hidden to ward off infections.

His stare shifted from you to the delicate ridges of your skin, where the cut appeared in far better condition than his own. A pang of bitterness surfaced as he realized you had tended to your injury promptly, unlike him, a failure who had journeyed back to camp shrouded in defeat, covered in grime, sweat, blood, and tears.

Your cut would heal nicely, leaving behind a faint scar visible only under the summer sun's ray in the camp. Meanwhile, Luke knew his own would bear the mark of an ugly scar, a haunting reminder of his losses, of his anger, of how he hated pieces of himself and every piece of the gods. But in between, Luke liked to think of how in the summer months, your matching scars would serve as a silent testament to your contrasting yet interlinked connection as...

Oh.

Oh, no.

You seemed on the verge of saying something, brows creased, a nervous laugh bubbling within you, but Luke avoided meeting your eyes. The unspoken sentiment hung in the air, clear as day, and he didn't need you to say it.

He could almost picture you then, collapsing, your skin tearing as Ladon dug his claws into Luke's face. The echoes of your screams intertwined with his own, and the lingering pain painted a vivid tapestry of shared suffering. It struck him — you never deserved the consequences of his failed quest.

The weight of having Luke as a soulmate felt like an inescapable curse, a burden you never asked for. It was a curse he never wanted to bestow upon anyone, especially you. In the sheer minutes of meeting you, he already felt that you deserved better.

The day had already unravelled into a series of unfortunate events — a failed quest, pitiful glances, and now, an encounter with a soulmate. While others might interpret this moment of fate as the gods offering forgiveness for his quest's failure, Luke perceived it as a cruel mockery. The gods, it seemed, were determined to make him hate them.

When his eyes finally met yours, he was taken aback by the kindness reflected in them. There was no trace of hatred, despite the bodily harm he had indirectly inflicted upon you. A part of him hoped that, in time, you would come to despise him enough for Aphrodite to redirect the course of your fate, steering you toward a soulmate other than Luke.

But she didn't.

And he refused to talk to you since.

When he woke up the next morning, you were there, sitting by the bed nearby, reading a book quietly. When you saw him awake, already looking your way, you seemed to brighten in a way that he could think the sun looked like until he met you. Before you could say anything, he turned the other way.

You got the hint and let Luke settle with the newfound information placed upon the two of you. You gave him time. Surely, he'd come around eventually.

But hours turned to days, and days turned to weeks and you were sure he could feel the way your heart sank every time he'd leave the room the moment you entered. He never gave you a chance.

Luke was being an asshole and he knew it. But it was complicated and the root of it all made his head spin. You started to cloud his judgement and change his beliefs, and he'd only spoken three words to you at most. What kind of sick and twisted fate was this?

Before, glimpses of you were brief and fleeting, mere blurs in the edge of Luke's attention. He could have sworn he spotted you in the company of Silena Beauregard and Piper McLean, and that led him to assume that you were, ironically, a daughter of Aphrodite.

But now, you seemed to be everywhere, appearing in every corner of camp.

You were there by the strawberry fields when he searched for solace. At the lake, you were teaching the youngest campers how to swim, a nurturing figure amidst the laughter and splashes. Even at the Dining Pavilion, he couldn't escape the proximity of you and your friends, sitting so close to his own table.

Luke pretended not to notice the soft smile you sent his way, a silent plea for acknowledgment. Instead, he rose abruptly. Luke retreated to the ritual of burning offerings without uttering a word and left, ignoring the way your eyes followed.

The ache in his chest intensified with each passing moment, and it made him wonder if he could die from the heartache of avoiding his soulmate. Surely, it wouldn't kill him, Luke told himself, his mother was still alive, wasn't she?

Throughout late spring and into the swelting days of summer, you saved time to break through Luke's walls, to get him to talk to you. You couldn't fathom the idea of having a soulmate so near, let alone hate for reasons unknown to you.

One day, you cornered him admits the chaos of Capture the Flag, the end of your sword at his chest. Up close, he noticed the subtle differences in your demeanour - the determination hidden beneath your helmet, the armour wrapped tightly around you, the clinking of metal as you moved.

Instinctively, Luke reached for his sword.

But to his surprise, you made no move to attack. You only wanted to talk.

"There's nothing to say," Luke shrugged, his tone guarded. "Unless you want to surrender your flag."

"That's not what I want to talk about," you countered, your voice firm yet tinged with an edge of annoyance. It was a change from the shy and nervous tone you had shown in the infirmary months ago, or during your previous attempts to confront him.

He shifted uncomfortably, his grip tightening on the handle of his sword. You removed your helmet and placed it by your feet, the vibrant red feathers stark against the lush green grass, and you rose to your full height and met Luke's gaze.

"Luke," You started.

"No," he interjected, defensive as if the mere sound of your voice threatened to unravel him completely.

"I didn't even say anything."

"I know what you're going to say."

You tilted your head in a gesture of inquiry. "I thought you said there was nothing to talk about?"

Your words seemed to fall on deaf ears as Luke withdrew his sword, taking a step back to maintain distance between you. With a firm grip on his weapon, he pointed it in your direction, it clashed against the blade of your own, a warning to keep your distance.

Undeterred, you persisted, unwilling to let him slip away without a fight. "You're my soulmate, Luke."

He shook his head dismissively. "You don't know that."

In response, you scoffed, pointing to the thin line that mirrored the scar he hid beneath his helmet. "I don't?" you countered, your tone laced with incredulity.

Your scar had indeed healed beautifully over the summer, unaffected even by the harsh rays of the sun. It adorned your face like a badge of resilience, a mark of strength that Luke couldn't help but envy. To him, it only served as a reminder of his own perceived flaws - a source of insecurity and self-doubt.

"You can't keep ignoring me," you persisted, taking a step closer to him, your determination unwavering. "At least tell me why. I don't blame you for the pain you've caused, Luke. So, stop looking so guilty when you see me."

Luke remained stubborn, his resolve unyielding. Without warning, he lunged at you, his sword poised to strike.

Startled, you stumbled back, your own sword drawn instinctively in defence. While your prowess with a sword may not have been the greatest, you held your own, maintaining a defensive stance against his relentless onslaught.

"Why are you so against it?" you pressed, your voice tinged with frustration. "Do you not believe in soulmates? What are you so afraid of?"

Luke grunted in response, pulling back when you pushed him away, his expression unreadable as he turned his back to you.

Left standing there, feeling utterly hopeless, you tightened your grip on your sword, its weight heavy in your hand. "Is it me?" you questioned softly, the weight of rejection bearing down on you.

To be rejected by a soulmate was a rare occurrence, one usually shrouded in untold reasons and unspoken pain. Yet, as Luke kicked your sword away and forced you to surrender for the remainder of the game, compelling you to raise a white flag in defeat, you couldn't shake the nagging doubt that perhaps Aphrodite had been mistaken.

Luke had seen it reflected in your eyes – that deep-seated fear of being unwanted. It was a fear he knew all too well, one that had haunted him every time he caught his own reflection in the mirror. However, you never brought yourself to believe in a mistaken fate, clinging to the hope instilled in you by your mother's unwavering faith.

You signed up for counsellor activities you don't usually take on, hoping for a chance to engage with Luke, but time and again, it was Chris who appeared in his place, offering apologetic smiles and half-assed excuses for Luke's disappearances. As a last resort, you left a note attached to the sheath of his sword.

He had found it hours after sword practice, long after the clang of blades had ceased and the eager shouts of campers had faded into the twilight. The training grounds lay deserted, bathed in the soft hues of the setting sun as its golden rays cast long shadows across the empty expanse. He looked for you in his surroundings, but you were nowhere to be found.

In the note, you'd asked him to meet you by the lake the next full moon. You pleaded for an opportunity to talk, no snarky comments, no sarcastic jabs, no running away. You only wanted to understand why he had been avoiding you. You told him you'd wait for him by the dock.

And you did.

The moon cast its light upon the waters, and you waited patiently, the soft ripples of the lake lapping gently at the shore. The night air was cool and crisp, carrying with it a hint of anticipation that mingled with the rustle of leaves in the nearby trees. You hugged yourself tightly, a futile attempt to ward off the chill that crept beneath your skin.

Hours passed in silence, the passage of time marked only by the soft murmur of the water and the distant call of nocturnal creatures. Yet, despite the solitude that enveloped you, you remained steadfast in your guard, your determination (or perhaps stubbornness) unwavering.

Luke stood by the shadows of the treeline, clutching the note you had left tightly between his fingers. From there, he watched you sitting alone by the docks, a lone silhouette against the moonlit expanse of the lake. He felt a pang of guilt tug at his heart as he watched you shiver in the night breeze, the weight of your unspoken words hanging heavy in the air.

For a fleeting moment, he contemplated approaching you, the urge to bridge the growing chasm between you almost overwhelming. Yet, as uncertainty clouded his thoughts, he hesitated, paralyzed by his own insecurities and fears.

In the end, Luke made his choice. With a heavy heart, he tossed the note, watching as it fluttered to the ground. With a sigh, he turned and retreated into the darkness, seeking solace in the shelter of Hermes's cabin, leaving you by the water's edge.

He knew then that he'd been right: to have a soulmate is to be cursed, and you eventually were to realize that you cannot love a fractured soul like his own, even if it was what the Fates had in store for you, it only led to despair.

part two // masterlist

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runimanio · 9 months ago

Text

2024 Game Clear #8 Marvel's Spider-Man 2

Peter failed to load in at one point and turned into a white cube

I hope white cube Spider-Man is in spider-verse 3

(Rambly spoilers thoughts under the cut)

The first Insomniac Spider-Man is one of my favorite games, one of my favorite piece of media, did Spider-man 2 top it? well... no but I still had a damn good time with it and I didn't expect it to since the first game was my absolute ideal of a Spider-Man game & story due to this kind of being the darker middle chapter & the baggage of what it's adapting and pulling from pushes it away from that ideal but it's still a damn fine game.

Also while the first game was the ultimate Spider-Man game that replaced all other Spider-Man games, this is the ultimate Spider-man game that replaces all other symbiote games, throw out your copy of web of shadows with it's unintentionally hilarious moonlight sonata intro you don't need it because this game is literally web of shadows 2 at the end.

Maybe don't throw out your copy of Ultimate Spider-Man yet since it's still the place for a full playable Venom experience but Venom is playable for a second and that really cool

actual maybe don't throw out any games that seems wasteful

So this is my first real next gen game and damn stuff like the opening sandman fight where you get thrown across the city or even non action scene stuff where the city will pan from miles to peter on the other side of the east river was wild to me. I don't think the fact I can just click on at any point on the map and instantly travel there without a loadscreen will ever feel naturally to me genuinely feels like black magic.

Here a bulleted list of random smaller random thoughts

Norman begging Harry to stop during the venom section was heartbreaking

So does Peter just have a symbiote forever now? I guess we'll probably deal with that in the DLC that definitely

I kinda wish Kraven didn't get what he wanted, that the spiders were able to take him down by the book without the symbiote's help but that venom fight in time square is great so eh

I loved Miles helping Peter regain control that fight is amazing also that they call each other Spider-Man

Being able to find the other Spider-Man or Wraith already fighting a crime is so cool

Kraven really cleaned house huh RIP Toomes and Herman i'm sure someone else will take and use your stuff RIP Gargan & Max I really liked your designs and sad to see you go

It's cool that the Donny Cates Venom stuff is kinda woven into the subtext of the symbiote designs

That Spider-Verse cameo! what the heck!

Wish you could change Peter tendrils back to black especially since you get the classic black suit so late in the game

I hope they don't do Superior for the next game, it is different but I don't want to see Peter not acting like himself again so quickly after doing the black suit stuff. I guess you could do it with Miles but im not crazy about that either

No fear, "They might do hulk goblin instead of glider flying pumpkin throwing Halloween man goblin because it's more video gamey", One Fear

Actually I've never really thought about how this Peter is framed as being a experienced and well oiled Spider-Man but Fisk aside he's never really fought any of his A-lister before the events of the games, Vulture could very well been one of his bigger enemies and that kinda cool to think about

Still miss Peter's old face

#Runi's 2024 gamelogs #Marvel spider man 2 #ps5 #queue

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lillianofliterature · 3 years ago

Note

Can you write a one shot/imagine of the reader being a Silvan elf and being a child hood friend of Legolas and them falling in love, but having to keep the relationship secret? In retrospect, that sounds really complicated, but it would be great if you could do it :)

a secret kept by the stars | legolas greenleaf x reader

REVISED on August 1st, 2022.

a/n: Anon, thank you for the request! It’s perfect! Apologies for the wait, I’ve been dealing with so much mental strain these past couple of years due to my disability and such but I feel a little more confident in my writing lately. The reader is implied fem in this one (referred to as a daughter a few times) although I tried to keep it neutral. I hope this is to your liking! <3

Elvish (Sindarin) translations are provided in the footer. Gif not mine, found on pinterest with no link to source.

This is Legolas maybe a couple centuries before the events of LOTR? And he’s 2931 during the War of the Ring (LOTR), so he’s not a lovesick tween in this lmao, both are consenting adults. Also, he is SUCH a quiet character, his dialogue is sort of hard to get a tone for in the films because there's so little of it, but I hope he's in character for everyone. <3

DO NOT REPOST MY WORK!

summary: As a lowly daughter of Legolas’ former governess, your developed relationship with the Woodland King’s only son and heir is a path forged of risk and painstaking secrecy.

warnings: Thranduil being an overbearing father, a bit of angst mingled with the fluff

word count: 6.5K

music: Stars Are Singing by Hristo Hristov

Deep within the still air of Mirkwood’s dense gloom of vegetation, one might easily forget that spring was fast approaching over the vast regions of Middle-Earth. The only reminders of the changing seasons were the blossoms and colorful weeds pressed into the earth beneath your feet and layered within your foraging basket, seeking the warmth of the sun beneath trees woven with web and the never-fading colors of autumn.

You pitied them as they were, little promises of life eager to feel the hope of the world’s light, shunned beneath the shadows of a melancholy forest cursed with the bitterness of her King’s endless mourning. Something about their pale colors wilting back into the earth before they’d fully bloomed stirred a sense of dread deep within the hollows of your being.

Such delicate life trampled and suffocated without a chance to thrive.

However, there were places in Mirkwood’s vast reach that seemed like sealed capsules of its former glory—crooks and divots in the land that were frozen in time. In one such corner of the forest, toward the northwestern borders, was a glen of trees unlike any other. Their trunks were still wide and strong, yes, but their bark was free of rotted sap and teeming with green moss and furred vines. Their leaves were the only ones that changed with the seasons from within the borders of the wood.

In the center of this small circle of untouched trees was a waterfall that matched their reaching heights, pouring forth from a jagged crag and into a clear pool of water. Running directly from a thin stream branching from the Forest River, it was the only still pond on this side of the palace walls whose waters could be trusted to quench one’s thirst and not muddle the mind with dark confusions.

More importantly to you, it was also the only place in your homeland that offered itself as a safe haven for your most dire secrets; the secrets you kept well-guarded within your heart above all else.

Your feet soon left the promises of spring to their end as you scoured the rocks on the edge of the pond. You knelt by the cool entity, dipping your hands beneath its surface to quench the thirst that had accumulated from your solitary hike. The song of insects and toads accompanied the last yearning notes of the late evening songbirds, pleading for the sun’s last light to linger upon the crag’s private glen. Somewhere above you, a familiar voice added to the divine calls of nature.

“I was beginning to wonder if you’d forgotten about our evening rendezvous.”

Your gaze lifted upward into the sprawling limbs to find a pair of sapphire eyes already trained on you. The ends of white-blonde hair flicked upward on the air flowing from the little waterfall’s collision into the pond. Every time you saw the prince’s light head of hair, an image of the fresh white linens hanging from the threaded lines in the servant’s quarry was summoned in your mind.

One might think it silly, comparing the hairs on the head of royalty to the cotton fabric drying in the mountain’s underground breeze, but it wasn’t just the pristine flow of it that reminded you so. The linens in the quarry always smelled sweet and their scent even drifted into the halls beyond—in that regard, the prince’s hair was also very much alike, always smelling of a sweetness you could never quite pin.

“Legolas!” You smiled through the syllables of his name. Standing from your crouched perch over the lily pads and minnows thriving in the water, you gaped up at him. Your shock at seeing him having arrived before you was evident in your pleasant stupor. “You’re here early!”

He grinned down at you. “That is precisely what one who is late would say to those who are punctual.”

Feigning a perturbed huff, you bent down and splashed at the surface of the water in his direction. Of course you knew the short reach of your mischievous deed would not reach up into the extending limbs of the trees, but it was something about the action itself that got your point across. Leaned against the wide center trunk with all the nonchalant elegance of an elven prince, he was very obviously unintimidated by your efforts.

A brief moment of admiration settled between the two of you.

Finally, at the end of the week, after endless strict schedules and hours of painstaking work between the two of you, there was this moment of calmness shared in the presence of the boy you loved, under the shelter of a small corner of the forest that seemed to grow just for the two of you, just so you might have a place to meet and not fear prying eyes or hasty rumors.

“You were able to slip past your father earlier today?”

He shrugged. His brief glance toward the leftover autumn leaves littered around your feet told you it had not been a day of pleasant exchanges between the two of them. The smile on your lips wilted when you sensed the tension in his features, the look of recollecting something unpleasant. Had it been another argument about their obvious differences? Another barrage of patronizing lessons and expectations?

You decided to ward off the subject. These precious few hours were meant for more pleasant memories. “Have you been waiting long?”

He shook his head softly down at you, quietly admiring the fading tint of warm light offering a crown of golden warmth on your hair. He thought you the most idyllic being amongst all the beauty on the edge of the forest—with more melody to your voice than the drowsy birdsong, more calming than the lull of the sweet waters at your feet, and even more heavenly than the waking stars.

“Won’t you join me?”

Without hesitation, you approached the wide base of the tree with eagerness. You rooted the heel of your boot into the knots of the bark, flourishing your way up to him with all the ease of a woodland elf more accustomed to the gracious embrace of the branches than paths hewn of crumbling stone. When you were near enough to be reached, he offered his hand to hoist you upwards one last stretch. Of course, he knew you didn’t need any aid in your skillful climbing, but any chance to exchange the affection of touch was gratefully taken.

“Another minute longer and you might have missed the sunset altogether,” he teased.

“It’s the moonlight I prefer, anyway.” You retorted.

His tone was lightly apologetic as he said, “I believe we are without one tonight, melda.”

“But not without the stars,” you countered, redirecting his gaze to the western heavens. At this height, you were well above the drooping waterfall and given a clear vantage point beyond the crag’s corroded surface. There was a break through the line of trees there—a rarity in itself in Mirkwood, to look up and be able to see the sky above you—where the horizon was visible.

On the edge of the forest, life was still seeping in from beyond the dying border. Just upstream beyond the waterfall was the great roaring of the Forest River’s wider curves and beyond that the distant formations of the Grey Mountains. The outside world, thriving and alive, like a painting you might find on display in the village markets.

So close you could reach out and touch it, take hold of a lowly drifting cloud or taste the fresh air of a growing world. Mirkwood, your home, the forest you’d grown up in, was a beautiful forest beyond compare, even with such sadness that fed through her roots. But out there, beyond the forest, was a place you wondered might feel less constricting.

Not because the trees were tangled too tight or the thickets too full of bramble—but because the love you shared with Legolas was a secret shut into an even more confined space. Square feet of the forest that let you take refuge. Because nowhere else in the king’s domain would the daughter of his son’s modest silvan governess be allowed to embrace such unrelenting freedom. It was here, and only here, that those sapphire eyes could remain trained with your (e/c) ones with unflinching steadiness.

“The life in the forest is fading more with each passing season,” Legolas said, suddenly crestfallen. “And life beyond our borders thrives beyond us. It is as though we are stagnant while the other people of this realm change and flourish, while their customs adjust to generations.”

You looked up at him again, turning to find his expression solemn and stern. That same sense of dread you sensed when looking down at the wilting blossoms of spring fell over you. Somehow, in this moment, it felt as though Legolas were a wilting blossom seeking the light and air beyond his father’s borders.

“We are now as we have been for over two thousand years. Every day is unchanged from the one before.”

You took hold of his hand, entwining his fingers with yours gently. He peered down at the touch and rose to trace your knuckles with his free hand.

“Legolas, what happened today? Did your father say something?”

“The same speeches of detached arrogance as always, concealing himself beneath his robes and jewels, never saying what he truly means—what he feels…what his reasoning is for allowing our home to become so void of the very breath of life.”

“Why does he not share these things with you? You are his son, if there is anyone who could help him better understand himself, it is you.”

“To know why my father does not confide in me would be to know why he has no expression of compassion, even with our kin. When I press him on such matters, he only recedes further within himself…Sometimes, when I’m with him in those meetings, I no longer see the Elvenking of our great forest, but a stubborn turtle. He is hidden well within his shell, not wanting anything beyond what is already here…and if I try to help, to be a good son, the son my mother would want me to be—I—…I am met with such contempt.”

“Oh, melamin,” you murmured, winding your arms around his firm waist. Without hesitance, his arms nestled around you with an ethereal warmth you thought rivaled the heavens themselves. As he let his cheek rest against the top of your head, the linen wisps of his hair mingled with yours. That sweet, indecipherable scent filled your senses, inviting you to draw in a slow, deep breath. “One day, King Thranduil will be able to open his heart to you again, perhaps when he is not so afraid of his own heartbreak.”

“And in the meantime, I must try my best to understand him, to see my father for who I remember he was once, and not the cold-hearted king he has become.”

You leaned back enough to look into Legolas’ eyes. “It is not your duty to diminish your own pain in light of his own. You simply have to be you, Legolas. That is enough. You, his only son and heir, are enough. Ceri cin heni?”

Upon seeing the moisture gathering in his eyes, you cupped the soft skin of his cheeks. Under your tender touch, the tightness in his jaw relaxed. You felt the warm breath escape his parted lips slowly. He was cherishing every moment of this meeting, just as you were, savoring every shared sensation and vowel as if it were the last.

“Come, let us sit and enjoy the veil of night.” You offered, guiding him to sit comfortably on the widest reach of the strong limb beneath your boots.

When his legs draped over either side of the branch, you squatted before him and tucked the wayward tendrils that had fallen free from his braids behind his pointed ears. He leaned into your touch, his smile returning. The silkiness of his hair reminded you of the frail blossoms you’d plucked on your trek. “Oh!”

His eyebrows drew together upon your exclamation. He watched patiently as you unwound the leather wide strap of your basket from around your shoulders. You unbuckled the latch and tipped the basket toward him to show him what you’d collected this time (it was an unspoken tradition by now that at every meeting you offered your fair prince a gift from the forest).

“I gathered these on the way here for you. They won’t grow much more than this, so I thought I might make better use of them,” you gingerly twirled a strand of his blonde hair around your finger. “May I?”

“Be my guest, dearest melda. I shall be proud to wear a crown of weeds, as long as yours are the hands that fasten it.”

You playfully bumped him with the little basket as you stepped around him. “They’re not weeds!”

From behind, you straddled the branch in the same fashion as he but allowing yourself room enough to adjust your legs in order to reach the crown of his hair (he was, of course, a little—if not quite a bit—taller than you). You reached around and tucked the basket onto his lap. He cradled it obediently, opening the hatch to inspect the flora for himself. As your fingers began to unbind his braids with the swiftness of familiarity, he spun one of the bigger blossoms between his fingers.

“They’re wood sorrels,” you explained, “We use them in the kitchens to make those supplements you’re always forgetting to take in the mornings.”

He turned his head to the side. “How do you know when I forget them?”

You pushed the tip of your index finger into his cheek, slowly nudging him to face forward again. “Servants know more about their masters than the masters know about themselves—or at least, that is what the head healer claims. It is our job to know.”

There was a long pause that was difficult for you to discern. Was it a quiet moment of calm as he mindlessly toyed with the pink and yellow sorrels? Or had the mention of your work in the palace perturbed him? Instead of probing him again, you kept running your fingers through his hair to untangle what the day’s affairs had knotted with the wind.

When the braids were fully unwound, you pulled a wooden comb from your side pouch to reach the tangles that slipped through your fingers. Though there were hardly any to be found on his pristine head of hair, you knew he liked the rhythm of the comb’s tongs massaging his scalp. It had been this way since you were children—since long before the secret rendezvous in his father’s forests became entwined with your requited expressions of romance. For as long as you could remember, you’d been spending an hour or so most evenings combing through Legolas’ pale golden hair.

The only thing that had changed was how often you were permitted to be this close to him. As you both grew into your duties as prince and pauper, the nightly routine turned to weekly, and on the busier occasions, monthly. It hadn’t been easy to adjust to the gradual distance over the years—in fact, it wasn’t any easier now than when the lines were first being drawn between you as teenagers.

Instead of being the harmless playmate King Thranduil indulged as his son studied and grew up under your mother’s role as his appointed governess, you were now an irrelevant memory in the back of the King’s mind—some frivolous friend of his child that had grown up to become a servant herself, dissolved into the walls of his cavern palace. As far as either of you knew, Legolas’ father was oblivious to your presence still in his son’s intimate livelihood. That was how it was supposed to be—how it needed to be.

“You are not a servant to me,” Legolas finally said, “I do not fashion myself as your master.”

The comb halted in his hair abruptly. Valar above, you were glad your face was hidden from his inquisitive eyes. If it hadn’t been for the interrupted movement of the comb, he never would have known how much those words pierced and comforted all in one breath.

“But Legolas, melamin, I am a servant in your father’s halls. I am the daughter of your former governess. I am Silvan and you are—you are your father’s son. Your blood carries the grace of the Sindar…”

“But I am more than just my father’s son,” he corrected quietly, “And I—I do not want to be exalted above you, or any of our people…but especially you.”

“I did not mean it that way—”

The grip of his palm reaching back to rest on your knee comforted your rising anxieties. Just one touch told you he understood you; he understood that what he wanted or how he thought did not alter the way things were. Yearning for change did not alter what presently was.

“I know.”

Your eyes drifted down to the comb in your hands. Your thumb ran over the messy engravings you had etched into it as a child, chasing a prince through murky creek beds and once-flourishing gardens that had since turned to bare stone. A sudden stinging sensation in your eyes warned you that your heart, though loved so well, was cracking at its more fragile seams. Though you tried to swallow the rising lump in your throat, your quick sniffle was more than enough to alert Legolas of your overwhelming emotions.

“Lean on me, melda.”

His tender words brought a smile to your dampening features, tugging a faint sob from your lips. Brushing his hair over his shoulder, you leaned forward and let your forehead rest against the cool nape of his neck. The soft fabric of his tunic caught your silent tears.

You closed your eyes, focusing on the sounds of the forest’s edge and the steadiness of his breathing. For just a moment, you let yourself imagine that you and he were somewhere beyond the grasp of the Woodland Realm, as beautiful as it were. Somewhere that his father could not extend his power and make him feel so trapped—somewhere where kings did not rank status above love. And for an ever briefer moment, you could almost believe it.

You could believe that the smell of a late snow blowing in from the Grey Mountains might be the chill of a Rohirrim winter. You could believe that the sound of the fresh water was not a mere puddle of sacred reflections in the dying forest, but the living waters of the river Bruinen. You could even believe, just for that second, that you and Legolas were already vowed to each other.

The stillness you shared instilled such a calmness as you both grounded yourselves in each other’s presence. It was inexplicably peaceful. So peaceful, in fact, that when he spoke again, the urgency in his tone nearly startled you.

“I would go with you, now, and make haste back to my father’s halls. I would have every soul, within and beyond our borders, know exactly who holds my heart. I am not ashamed. If you would but utter the words, I would make my petition known to my father that our engagement be acknowledged by his own decree.”

Instinctively, you wove your arms under his and clutched onto his shoulders from behind, hugging him to you. His free hand that did not still hold the violet sorrel rose to cover one of your hands. The beating of your heart pressed to his back gave him a measure to time his thoughts to.

“I know,” you murmured sullenly, “You would keep the moon full in the sky for me…and heal the forest of its plague. And I—I would give you a thousand nights just like this one. I would spend my life combing through your hair and fixing you crowns hewn of Mirkwood’s most delicate offerings…”

“We are both well of age, (Y/n), and I would not accept his dismissal in this matter. Even if he were to threaten to shorn me from succession—”

“He wouldn’t do that to you,”

“Or if he threatened your banishment, or your mother’s—I would take leave of this realm and make a life for us in lands more forgiving to us. Whatever it is you fear, I have vowed that nothing will alter the future we have promised to each other, and I would vow so again if there is need for you to hear it.”

He felt your grip on him tighten and the warmth of your breath grow nearer to his ear. You had nestled your chin in the crook of his neck, on the divot of his shoulder.

“He would despise me,” you stated bluntly, remorsed, “He would despise me and my mother, despite her dedication to this realm, to you—despite what she did for him by returning to her work as a governess. I cannot strip her of her reputation and take the honor of her life’s work from her. Not in that way.”

It’s all we have that’s keeping us within the palace and not out in the woodland villages, you thought. And you almost said it out loud. But Legolas knew. Without your words or whispers or suggestions, he knew.

“And as much as you detest the prideful customs of your father’s reign, you are still responsible for this realm when your era dawns upon us. It would be inexplicably selfish of me to agree to flee with you when your influence here could foster so much change—you can open our doors wide to the world, connect us again with our kin.”

In time, we can be together. In an era where there will be no repercussions for our love.

It felt like treason to speak so freely about the passing reign of elven kings when one so poignant sat with such vitality still upon his throne. Of course, there were dozens of things that Legolas’ father had done right by his people through the years—and hundreds more before your time to witness them. There were rarely ever attacks or intrusions from neighboring lands, save for the occasional drunken troop of foolish bandits.

Mirkwood didn’t receive many travelers—no one with enough sense dared tempt the risk of straying from the Old Forest Road, despite it being a shortcut to River Running and the lands beyond. The trade with Laketown was efficient and prosperous for both parties. There was not one family or person within his halls and villages without a home and bountiful pantries. There was no malice bred between elves here, no crimes or evils done to each other.

As Legolas had once said many moons back and many times since, his father was a protector of his people, loyal and devoted. However, in such fierce protection against the horrors of the world, there is also suffocation and stagnance. Exclusion and ignorance.

“King Thranduil’s reign is far from its conclusion, melda.”

Another lingerment of silence.

Your tears had dried, though you felt the clammy residue still clinging to your cheeks and neck. Hesitantly, you withdrew your grip on him slowly, ruefully. Looking out through the framed clearing in the trees, the deep blue of the night had long stretched beyond the Grey Mountains, chasing the pale pink light of the sun to another world.

The stars were brighter here in the forest’s unperturbed dark without the firelight of the Elvenking’s halls. Unchallenged in their glimmering spectacle, it felt as if they themselves were taking careful caution regarding your secret as you took shelter beneath their blanket of light. Somehow, if at all possible, you sensed in their divinity the distinct sparkle of approval among their radiance. And although you couldn’t see where Legolas’ gaze was trained, you felt for sure he was looking at them too.

“I should finish your crown, my prince,” you whispered. “It won’t be long before you’re discovered sneaking beyond the gates after curfew.”

Leaning back and drying your skin with the hem of your sleeve, you gently ran the comb through his hair one final time. “And what of you? Surely your mother must question where you go so often.”

“If she does suspect something, I trust her to keep her curiosities between us.”

“Do you think she suspects us?”

You pondered the possibility of your mother having put two and two together as your fingers parted and wove sections of golden hair with accustomed skill. Of course she had no way of knowing anymore when Legolas took leave of the palace halls or when he returned—but your schedule she knew very well. The only time you had to spare for excursions into the forest was for foraging herbs and other materials that were needed in the healer’s wing. But even then, you were accompanied by a group of other apprentices doing just the same.

In the brief hours you were free from any routine or task, you were sure it was questionable that you fled into the far reaches of the Mirkwood border for unforeseen amounts of time. It seemed only slightly foolish to assume that she, the one person who’d spent nearly every waking hour with you and Legolas from your earliest years until her gracious dismissal, would not have detected the attachment you had both developed.

“She does tease me about you sometimes when the other healers drone on about their suitors and prospects. I think some part of her senses that our connection as children was never really severed, despite your not needing a governess for many centuries now.” You managed to laugh at the idea of being found out by your mother before even the great Elvenking suspected anything was amiss—and not to mention the prospect of a very grown Legolas still being reared and tutored by your mother.

You truly felt no threat from her doting suspicions. If anyone were to ever discover this forbidden extravagance, you wanted it to be her.

But who knew for certain? Maybe your mother thought you were off seeing some human merchant too afraid to step beyond the forest’s edge and into Mirkwood’s gloom—or even bathing naked somewhere along the river, wary of prying eyes.

“Perhaps we should consider telling her,” Legolas mused, smiling to himself. A memory from his youth was stirred silently within him—an image of your mother soothing his cries as he called out for a mother he did not remember.

“You think so?”

“She has always been good at keeping secrets.”

“Oh? What kind of secrets would those be? Anything I should know?”

His laugh—which was more akin to a giggle when you thought about it—made your belly flutter with warmth. “Do you remember a time when we were only half the height we are now, when my father would still spend afternoons in the gardens with us?”

You hummed a confirmation, lips pursed as you balanced four strands of his silken hair between your fingers.

“Do you also remember that on one particular afternoon in the late summer, he wore one of his more extravagant robes? It had genuine gold thread embroidered with those tiny beryl beads. The pockets in it were deep enough to sheath one’s collection of daggers—”

“Oh, yes! I remember that robe! I told my mother the beadwork looked like blueberries; they were so pretty I wanted to eat them.”

He chuckled. “Might you also recall one particularly heinous, (h/c)-haired elleth who stuffed half of the muddied pies she’d made into those silk-lined pockets? Including the oozing ends of worms yanked up from beneath the pathway stones?”

You chortled, slapping a hand over your gaping mouth. “Valar’s grace! I forgot about that!”

“Forgot about it! How in our lifetime could you have possibly forgotten the day you single-handedly managed a squeamish yelp from the ever-poised Elvenking?”

“We were only a few centuries old! It’s been two thousand years since then, melamin.”

“Well, it should please you to know that I’ve not seen that robe outside of his chambers since that afternoon. I’m quite sure my father had it stripped and sewn with a new lining. It doesn’t smell of roots and musk anymore.”

“See, I was right in assuming he would despise me. Now all the more for my act of wrath against his wardrobe.” You reached around Legolas’ arm and plucked a handful of the sorrels from the basket. With his two side braids done, you could now poke the still stems of the small blossoms between their pleats. “I hardly see what that has to do with my mother’s secret-keeping, however.”

“Didn’t you ever wonder why you never got in trouble over that sordid ordeal?”

“I don’t know…I just assumed even your father was above imprisoning children.”

He laughed again. “I might prefer that it had been that simple. You see, you were never chastised by either of our parents not because of my father’s tolerance of children, but for one very important secret kept between myself and your mother.”

As he continued his explanation of how you’d been spared the rod of his father’s sore vanity, you began to part a larger section for the third and final half-up braid that would be centered from his brow. Though there was no moonlight to turn the lovingly woven pleats of gold to streams of silver, you hardly noticed the absence of the moon in his presence.

“Somehow amidst your zealous stupor to feed my father’s garments with rank soil, you hadn’t noticed that his attention had never wavered from me while I practiced my diction. And with your mother focused on her vocal tutoring, there hadn’t been an eye on you between the two of them. My father never even knew you had been within a foot of him that day.”

“After he’d retreated to undress and salvage the mess, I informed your mother I had slipped him some of our attempts at ‘Greenwood cobblers’, which consisted of a healthy balance of nutsedge, mud, and insect larvae. I hadn’t known then that you had added dismantled worms as a garnish. She promised not to tell my father that you had helped me in making them, hoping you would both be spared any scrutiny, seeing as cooking wasn’t one of the subjects I was being taught.”

“Your father thinks you’re the one who ruined his blueberry silks?”

“To this day. Although I hardly think he reminisces on such frivolities anymore.”

After tying the end of his braid off, you leaned forward enough to turn his cheek toward you with your hand and peck your lips to his skin gently. Teasingly, you added, “I had no idea I was so indebted to you.”

His smile was almost mischievous, a glimmer of what it had been as children. “I couldn’t very well have my father thinking my governess ill-fitted for allowing me the opportunity to experience my childhood along with my duties, or run the risk of your not being allowed to accompany her.”

“Are there any other secrets?”

“None you need be privy to as of yet,” he said.

Knowing you wouldn’t pull any such knowledge from him—only because Legolas was a hopeless tease when it came to such details, hoping to make the suspense between recollections and stories linger for your other meetings. Although he was a quiet soul, sparing with his input throughout the week, it was here when alone with you that you relished in whatever he felt compelled to say. And unknown to you, part of him knew very well that the promises and musings shared in private with your mother pertained to his attachment to you, his devotion to her daughter from an early age.

There had been so many inquiries about your wellbeing after the two of you had been forced to spend less time together as you began your studies as a healer. In fact, when your absence was felt most in the days he spent with her alone, many of their conversations had drifted back to you. As a daughter, as a friend…as a companion to the prince who he missed sorely. Words and fond curiosities were exchanged that you had never heard.

“I quite like the sourgrass,” he only half-jested, patting the limp sprigs of flora in his hair.

“Sorrels,” you corrected with a taunt, “Call them by their prettier name. I refuse to admit I’ve crowned the very Prince of Mirkwood with sourgrass.”

It wasn’t long before the toads croaking from the water below had begun to harmonize their songs of ritual and the movement of creatures within the forest stilled peacefully. It was always the late silence of the forest, apart from the sparse chirp of insects, that reminded you both that your rendezvous must come to an end. You were sure it was past midnight now. Your boots echoed a low thump as they planted firmly in the grass, followed by the more graceful landing of your fair prince.

Side by side, you both walked together far off the beaten path along the Forest River in the direction of home. Legolas only managed a few steps into your journey without the comfort of your touch. In an act so natural and tender, he reached out and wove his fingers together with yours. Those conversations carried on as you followed the sounds of the water. Beneath your boots were the same sorrels that now decorated his hair—although you were much more careful to avoid trampling them this time, taking slow steps along the forest floor.

It was hard to force yourselves to quicken your pace, to punctually reach the point of parting before the late night became an early morning. The air was now laden with a thin mist, dotting your hair and skin with its chilled kiss. With no moon to illuminate your path the fog drifting through the region was hardly visible.

When he suddenly stopped to scan the line of towering trees ahead, your heart sank in your chest. Afar off, several dozen yards away, was the flickering glimmer of the first lookout post. If you dared to test your luck beyond your current position, you’d be announcing your courtship to the guards on duty there (who undoubtedly had fixed orders to report all movement or suspicion to the captain).

“I will cross over here and head back the way I came. The guards at the front gates will be waiting for me to return before the palace doors are bolted for the night.” Legolas said. His sapphire eyes were still trained ahead, taking note of the pattern of the lookout guards’ paces. Your grip on his hand tightened subconsciously.

A remorseful smile tugged at your lips as you looked up at him. “I’ll head further east to the village path, then. It’ll take me right up to the servant’s entrance. If anyone asks where I’ve been—” you reached up to pluck a sorrel from his hair, “I have an alibi.”

“I wish we did not have to part like this, melda,” he sympathized. Your gaze fell to your basket of leftover sourgrass, where you began fiddling with the latch. That nagging burning in your eyes returned as you prepared to say goodbye for another tentative bout of time.

It was only made worse when you looked up to see Legolas in the same fragile state. His tears fell first this time under the weight of the oncoming loneliness and distance. You began to undo the crown of sorrels, dropping each drooping blossom back into your basket. He toyed with a tendril of your (h/c) hair as he let you dismantle his crown.

It was better this way, to leave no evidence that you had ever been together. With no flowers in his hair, there would be no suspicion or question of how they came to be or who they were given by. The intricate braids, however, would stay until he could no longer avoid washing his hair. It was a subtle display of his love for every pair of eyes in his kingdom to see. No one would suspect that his hair had been woven by the hands of his secret beloved.

You looped the metal latch of your basket for the last time. The prince was now free of the weeds in his hair and of any evidence that a doting exchange had ever taken place.

Finally, you had the courage to look him in the eyes once more. Your vision blurred, forcing you to blink the moisture from your eyes. You sighed curtly, brushing your tears away hastily with the back of your hand. “I promise I’m not always such a blubbering mess! I do have some semblance of control when we’re apart.”

His sudden proximity siphoned the air from your lungs momentarily as his arms found their place around you. You returned his gesture, wrapping your arms around him, desperate to be as close to each other as possible. Your grip on his tunic was steeled as he pressed his palm to the back of your head with such gentleness.

“I feel as if I weigh down upon you so heavily, my prince. I hadn’t meant for our evening to have been one of such melancholy. I’m so sorry—”

“(Y/n),” he leaned away, garnering your attention, “When we share our sorrows, we grow ever closer. Do not apologize for the tears we shed in the hours we spend together.”

The last few minutes you had together were spent clinging to one another in the darkness of Mirkwood. The time you were able to siphon from your lives to spend together rushed by with such finality of a river pouring across the land in an endless cycle. A kiss to your forehead told you it was time to finally part ways. You had already spent much longer together than before, pushing the limit of freedom either of you had.

“What will we do if someone questions where we’ve been—if my sorrels aren’t enough to satisfy their curiosity? What if your father inquires about your vacant hours?”

“The stars have kept our secret thus far. I believe they will continue to do so.” Legolas cupped your cheeks before drawing near to press his lips to yours. You lingered for one last moment together, tasting the sweet bitterness of your forbidden love affair. The saltiness of your tears mingled briefly before he took a breath.

One last kiss to your hair and the woodland prince was gone into the fog. He moved stealthily across a fallen beam of oak with such swiftness; it was as if there wasn’t a raging body of water rushing beneath him to fret about.

When he reached the other side, he looked back long enough to offer his most indulgent smile. It was a sense of instinctual affection that helped you smile back, despite your sorrows. With a palm to his chest that then extended outward, he offered one last gesture of devotion before turning to disappear into the shadows of the forest.

melda = beloved, dear, sweet

melamin = my love

ceri cin heni = do you understand [very rough translation]

TAGS: @tessaem @izbelross @@moony-artnstuff @wellfuckmyexistence

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rhas-writes · 2 years ago

Text

It's Not Easy Being a Liar - Kaeya x Reader

Another continuation of my Ex-archon Reader! thoughts. Still can be read as a standalone. Uses you/your, so no pronouns.

Spoilers! for Kaeya's backstory. Takes place 3/4 years before start of game.

Content? Angst, fluff, reverse hurt/comfort. Slow burn? but in a one-shot/drabble

- - -

The denizens of Mondstat would surely laugh if they saw their freshly deemed Calvary Captain tripping over himself to hightail it away from you. It's not like you've done anything wrong, on the contrary, you're incredibly helpful to the Knights of Favonius. So, why hide? Why run? Why avoid you like the plague when you've shown nothing but kindness?

There are quite a few times Kaeya has been unsuccessful in evading your presence. The first being his official introduction to you, not just whispers on the street or a masked figure leaving the Knights' headquarters, but actually meeting you. He reasoned his unease was simply due to mistrust, however, he quickly learns that is not the case.

Every time your gaze meets him, Kaeya feels it. He feels it crawl past every layer of clothing he wears and dig into his skin. He feels it rattle his bones as it snakes around his innards. Don't get him started on when your eyes meet, that is something he truly despises. You look past his long eyelashes, past the beautiful periwinkle that makes girls swoon, but you don't look past him. You look deep within. Your gaze hits his very soul and it's like every lie he's ever told comes undone at once. What of the intricate web he's woven if you find what it's attached to?

He hates it. He hates how there's an understanding, a knowing, in your eyes once you look away. Did you really find it? Do you actually know? How could you know? You leave him restless, constantly wondering if the dawn will bring light to his dark secrets.

...but it never does.

Every day he wakes still bearing the title of Calvary Captain. It's...tedious and edging. This one-sided game of cat and mouse. Surely, you don't know anything. Right? It's hard to reassure himself when you seem to have knowledge going back millennia.

Perhaps, the worst part of it all is how you do not fall for his lip service. On the days he feels extra brave - or rather desperately in need of answers - he'll check if you're in town. He'll put up his flirtatious and suave facade. He'll smoothly bring down your walls, get you talking, delicately pushing the conversation onto more personal topics. When you leave, he finds himself no farther from where he started.

About a year passes for this game to get to Kaeya. He is far beyond his limit and it grows as your stays in Mondstat become longer. The final nail in the coffin is when he hears Grand Master Varka convincing you to make the Nation of Freedom your new home. It would be impossible to avoid you then, not without raising suspicions.

Kaeya is smart, tactical, he takes you to the tip of Cape Oath under the guise of a friendly walk to see the stars - far from the prying ears of others. He opens his mouth to speak, but you beat him to it.

"If you want my truth, yours comes first, Kaeya."

The young man has half the mind to draw his blade and simply threaten you. You wield a bow and lack a Vision, he obviously has the upper-hand. But something holds him back. Maybe it's remembering how Varka trusts you to clear out whole domains for the Knights. Maybe it's the ease you stand with in such a tense situation. Or maybe, most likely, it's blank stare you give him. One that reminds him your plethora of knowledge comes from somewhere and it's not books.

For the second time in his life, Kaeya speaks of his past truthfully and wholeheartedly. It is far less tearful and much more put together than the first.

"Khaenri'ah's last hope."

The words leave a bitter yet powerful taste in his mouth as he ends his speech.

"Only those born from the dark underground of the Godless Nation have diamond-shaped pupils," you simply state, beginning your walk down the cliff.

Gobsmacked. Absolutely gobsmacked. Kaeya had been expecting a stronger reaction, one filled with betrayal, anger, some kind of emotion. And what kind of answer was that?! He laid out his entire past and you give him such a short statement in turn!

"Come on," you beckon with your hand. "You'll catch a cold if you stand there all night."

A different kind of confusion rolls over him. Why are you still treating him the same? Why aren't you looking at him like he's the disgusting creature he is? He's a liar! A fraud! A turncoat! He doesn't deserve any kindness.

"Hey."

The moment he meets your eyes, he is no longer the witty and charming Kaeya Alberich, Calvary Captain for the Knights of Favonius. Your gaze strips him bare as it always does, but for once it's a comforting feeling in his soul. The understanding, the knowing, you show him leaves him as Kaeya. Just Kaeya, a young man wanting to enjoy his youth.

"A path carved from your own ambition is the only one you need to walk."

If this was any other moment, Kaeya would have teased you relentlessly for sounding like an old wise man. Instead, he lets the words sink in. He scans you over before returning to his eccentric self, playfully hooking your arm with his.

On the way back to the city, Kaeya finally understands why the citizens of Mondstat call you the Eastern Wind. The cadence of your speech is archaic with a dash of modern language but it's far from boring. If anything, his conversation with you was refreshing, genuine, the most at ease he's felt since his adoptive father's passing.

Kaeya welcomes the relief in his chest as he falls into bed. Liberated, the second time he's felt such freedom. Except this time around, he didn't have to lose anything. He gained something, someone. Of course he's not foolish enough to fall for the first person that accepts him, all of him. At the same time, he's also not foolish enough to squander a companionship he thought impossible to have.

- - -

Published: 11 May 2022

#genshin impact #genshin x reader #kaeya x reader #angst #fluff #hurt/comfort #gender neutral reader #genshin #genshin fanfic #genshin imagines #genshin oneshots #kaeya alberich #kaeya angst #kaeya alberich x reader #kaeya x y/n #kaeya x you #reader insert #x reader

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kim-monsterlings · 4 years ago

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monster matchy👉👈? im 20 y/o enfp gay man who aspires to work in forensics or in ecology. i like monsters like nagas, merfolk, vampires, demons, fair folk (like the WEIRD ones) and driders. obvs big fan of nature but i also play the guitar and used to be a competitive figure skater. my love language is acts of service, no pref for him. BIG fan of there was only one bed, either sfw/nsft is good (a lil both? lol). hope thats enough info if theyre closed rn lmk ill drop you a kofi when they open

Keir - M Drider x M Human (Reader) // NSFW Monster Match

Anon monster match <3 I hope you love him!

Matches under the read more!

Content: NSFW/Lemon; colleagues to lovers, friends to lovers, flirting, teasing, hints of intimacy (hugging, massaging), only one bed (made of webbing), neck kissing (+ hints of marking), receiving handjob (+ release, not explicit), kissing, allusions to more (+ anal fingering)

Masterlist // Monster Match Info + Masterlist // My Ko-Fi

Headcanon

By necessity some time long ago, the creature you adored now more than any hadn't made the best of first impressions. Creeping from the forest on eight legs trembling worse than leaves he ducked beneath, the drider hesitated several feet before you, pedipalps tucked tight to his abdomen.

Though not the only drider in your company, the camouflage patterns to his darker fur mesmerised you. For how terribly uneasy he was that day - his hand soft in yours, fingers slender and shaking in the briefest of introductions - he hadn't faltered since.

The grace and balance of maneuvering such a large frame enthralled you into admiring him at any opportunity - always endeavouring to without him noticing, though you were certain he had. When his four, glinting eyes crinkled with a smothered mirth, you hid your stares.

It was a curse and blessing that for many weeks, your relationship remained one constrained by professionalism. You worked together brilliantly in discussing plans for sharing land sought after by those in towns and cities, and those living in the woods. With input from those on either perspective, there were tensions.

Until Keir understood you sided with him, not wishing for anyone to be displaced. His proposal was one ensuring everyone retained a fair share, and when he turned to you during his presentation - an attempt to persuade you, his mandibles slackened.

"Really," you said, smothering your laugh as he only swallowed. "I support this. I do."

It felt like it was the first time he looked at you.

Come next morning, Keir brought a warm drink for you - your favourite, and from that day, free time passed together. Where you before enjoyed lunch amongst other colleagues, you preferred the peace of only eating with Keir.

Your working relationship became something more through a blurring of lines.

Before you needed to complain of your exhaustion, gentle touches would comfort you, easing the pain of stress between your temples. When Keir needed to rest his legs after supporting him all day, he would curl at your side, cheek resting against your shoulder.

Travelling together blurred boundaries impossibly more. He remained ever patient through your unsubtle staring, and on a long journey he smiled slightly.

"You can say what's on your mind," he murmured, eyelashes fluttering as he blinked away a light sleep. "You have questions."

Too many to speak of, and he indulged you in all. The journey became a learning experience for each of you; Keir demonstrated how to cradle the delicate webbing often pooling beneath him in sleep, and you helped him learn how to play guitar, an instrument he had a natural affinity for.

Sometimes, he pretended not to, seeking your help, and you would press your bodies tight together, arms against his in explaining the strings once more.

This trip was longer than any other and after the cramped travel, Keir retired sooner to your shared room, the hotel only having the one vacancy when booked.

"Keir?"

Soft humming greeted you. Surrounded by a great expanse of webbing glittering in the late sunlight, the drider was in his element, such a unique sight you were left speechless. It spanned from wall to wall - in place of any beds.

"Oh," he breathed. "I'm sorry. We never share, I... I forgot."

By the depth to the webbing, it was larger than any he had created for himself before, as though made for two. Keir looked down when you reached out, his mandibles chittering when the webbing pulled.

"Do you want to share with me?"

"On my web?"

This time, you didn't hide your smile. "In your arms, too."

Drabble

Times traveling apart were rarer with how important your work was. When Keir returned into the dark forest after parting goodbyes or you venturing into the city further than he was comfortable with, though it stung in the moment - watching your love fade from the sight, their face blurring, it never hurt long. No matter how distanced, knowing your boyfriend was waiting to reunite helped.

From sharing the night together, your relationship blossomed naturally. That night, you discovered how a drider's web reacted to the softer skin of a human, how it clung to your frame as you woke tucked close to Keir, bound tight. For such a new relationship, you spared no time before returning to that position - bodies entwined, Keir experimenting with spinning softer threads to have your body positioned to his liking.

Those memories remained with you so clearly when apart, as sweet as those made beyond a bed.

While you continued to help Keir with the guitar (though how much you helped over hindering was a mystery), he taught you how to hunt, how to scavenge.

Your initial appraisal held true - that of admiring his grace. It extended beyond the forest planes when you found an iced over lake, one frozen thick enough not to splinter beneath you. Webbing shone on his legs in his excitement.

Those dates, however sweet, paled against the thrill of reuniting. Keir always arrived first to prepare the room for your stay. With your bags resting in the doorway, your boyfriend pressed close, mandibles nipping at your sensitive nape. He coaxed you into his elaborately woven trap with gentle kisses.

"Missed you," he whispered, speaking softly as you shivered. "How long do we have?"

Little more than a fortnight before moving on, but you couldn't speak as you arched into the clinging webbing. Slender fingers peeled your clothes back until you were aching and warmed by soft fur to your back.

"Long enough," you said, "for us to have some fun."

The slick of his emerging length nudged against your back. "Fun, hey?"

Hand curled into your hip to steady you, Keir began to grind himself against your thighs. He stroked over your twitching cock and sighed when you managed to turn to steal a soft kiss, the first always the sweetest after so long apart.

Desperate for him and whatever he would give you, bucking into his flexing palm became a mindless reflex, seeking the high he was so quick to give you. Your bodies warmed against his webbing when you leaned into him, his touches turning lower.

Two weeks had barely begun, and you were aching already.

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thewheezingwyvern · 4 years ago

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For Arcane April, maybe Shinso w/let’s say number 12? I’ve really been loving any Siren!Shinso stuff I can find. Thank you for your writing! It’s a pleasure to read 💕

This took longer than I thought but then again this ended up longer than I thought. I wanted to try and take like an urban fantasy spin on this but go a bit...grittier? idk. This was just where my brain took me so I hope you like it! <3

Gossamer Web

Siren!Shinsou x Thief!Reader (a bit of sexual tension)

Warnings: Brainwashing, Dubcon (kissing) and blackmail

It was just another party, a gathering for some fundraiser or another that he honestly couldn’t even remember anymore. When you held a position like Hitoshi, seated among the rich and influential, a certain degree of public relations was necessary. And doing events for charity in the eyes of the public was just another part of maintaining his image. While Shinsou couldn’t remember what party he was even throwing anymore, his assistant would inform him later, he did like to think he knew the face of every important figure in the city. And plenty abroad too.

So his surprise was quite palpable when he saw you.

His lifestyle constantly had him around pretty people, coiffed and waxed to perfection, top of the line brands to smooth over any flaws that could possibly be present. Pretty faces to hide pretty fangs and pretty paint to coat their pretty claws before sinking them into someone. However, yours was a very different sort of attractive. Naturally at an event like this your makeup was applied and done so artfully, but it was in such a way that it enhanced what you had rather than attempted to bury whatever perceived flaw could be seen.

Most women attended these events hoping to look like the most beautiful one in the room, while the men sought to look the most powerful. But you moved and spoke and looked with a different purpose. You were searching for something. Indigo eyes slipped down to eye the gossamer threads of your dress, a stunning thing of spun shadow that fit your body like a glove. But it was only more exquisite whenever you moved, showcasing the elaborate enchantment that was woven into the very threads. Stars would wink and burst from your body, along with tufts of purple black clouds. But strung on a simple silver chain was the bespelled glow of a crescent moon.

HItoshi found himself breaking away from whatever boring conversation he was caught in to approach you, eyes glinting with interest. You were even more stunning up close, showing that you held a natural glow all on your own. With every step closer, the wink of starlight woven into your hair like constellations would catch his eye, beckoning him further to you. Whatever witch had magicked your clothes and hair was very talented and knew what they were doing.

“You look a bit lost.” he said to you after drawing very close to your back, close enough that it pulled a startled squeak past your lips, “Can I help you find something?”

Hitoshi deliberately laid the smooth demeanor on thick, a crooked smirk quirking on his lips. If he wasn’t so good at reading expressions, he might have missed the string of emotions that flitted across your face and in your eyes but he caught them. First surprise followed closely by recognition which melted to a look of worry or fear. And then it was gone beneath the smouldering curve of a coy smile.

“Hmmm and what if I just found it?”

A line he’d heard before but there was something lacking behind the delivery. Shinsou couldn’t quite put his finger on it but there wasn’t enough spice between the lines that gave the tell tale sign of someone looking for a quick fuck. Curious. A charming smirk wormed its way onto his lips, hiding the way his mouth had already began watering at the prospect of finding out more of what you were looking for. Anyone who came here with a purpose usually intended to use something against him.

“Well I guess that depends,” Hitoshi purred lowly to you, “what was it you were planning to do after you found me?”

This would have been the perfect opportunity for you to make another pass at him. To hint at how you wanted to be pressed against him in the throes of passion or whatever other way that it could be worded. But you completely skipped over that chance. One of your hands drifted up to toy with the luminous crescent moon that hung around your neck, deep and thoughtful eyes assessing him carefully.

“I guess I just wanted to see the man behind the name in person.”

A predatory glint sparked in his eyes, indigos boring into you as he drew impossibly close. Even through the well made fabric of his Armani suit, Hitoshi could feel the warmth of your body. He tilted his dark lavender head, drinking in the sight of you and how you seemed to fidget with him drawing nearer. The CEO decided he was going to make use of a power that he had at his disposal that very few people knew about.

He tipped your head up to look into his face before purring out, “Tell me your name.”

The magic woven into his very vocal cords twisted around you, bewitching you, until a glaze had fallen over your eyes, pupils swelling beneath the grip of his enthrallment. It was almost unfair how easily he could twist people to his whim with the power of his voice, have them spill their deepest secrets and desires to him. So to hear your mouth and tongue curl delightfully around your real name, it sent a surge of satisfaction.

“A beautiful name, Kitten.” a thumb traced along the curve of your jaw, “What were you really looking for tonight?”

“You keep the Wayfarer’s Orb here, third floor behind a wall of several enchantments and and a summon from the Infernal district,” you recited to him almost dreamily, “I’m going to steal it.”

Hitoshi tilted his head, dark smirk on his lips, “And what else? I know you didn’t risk pissing me off just for that.” he pressed a taunting kiss to your temple before leaning back, “Tell me the story while you walk with me, I want to hear all about it.”

He pulled your body close to his, your side pressed up against his as he led you away with an arm wrapped around your waist possessively. To anyone else, it would just appear as if he had found a new play thing that he was taking off to have some fun with. And in a way that was true. Indigo eyes swept over your delightful body and he couldn’t help but think how satisfying and how it would be to see you a broken little mess under him. A wet tongue snaked out to lick at his lips, arousal spiking in him. You’d look so pretty arching your back, column of your tender throat bared for him to bite as he speared inside of you.

“The orb was just a bonus and a way to cover my true intentions. I’ve already begun uploading valuable intel from your security databases and placed trackers so I can find more information about you and sell it.”

“What a clever little thing…” Hitoshi hummed down at you, fingertip tracing small circles on your hip, “And I’ve no shortage of enemies so you could charge whatever you wanted and they would pay it.” He led you deeper into his mansion, guiding the way up to the wing where he kept the stone you had planned to take, “You looked scared when you saw me...did you know that I’m a Siren?”

“Suspected but wasn’t sure.”

The dry drone of your voice was so satisfying. It was a song in and of itself, tongue curling around your forced submission to him anything he wanted you to. Hitoshi only stopped guiding you when the both of you reached the room which held the Wayfarer Orb on a pedestal. It was a smooth, polished stone of milky white with flashes of crimson red flecked throughout its surface. He had acquired it at least a year ago, an ancient stone said to help bring protection to the owner. It seemed necessary given how rapidly he had grown his empire.

“Look at me Kitten.” he yanked you to him, the sweet swell of your breasts pressed against his front, “Would you like it if I kissed you?”

He would be lying if he said that he asked this question with completely innocent intent. The thought of claiming your mouth was tempting but he wanted to know if you had at all been tempted by him in the brief time he spoke with you. Or while you did your research. Hitoshi swept a thumb along your lower lip, parting your mouth for him as you stared blankly at him.

“Yes.”

Shinsou dipped his head and brushed his mouth faintly against yours, murmuring, “When did you start feeling attracted to me?”

“We’ve met before. Enji’s holiday gala. We danced together.”

Now that was interesting. He pulled back, brows shooting up as he looked down at you. Despite how closely he studied your face, the sweep of your cheek bones, the hue of your eyes, he couldn’t remember you at all. Indigo eyes lidded lazily, a stray fingertip dragging along the arch of a brow.

“Why don’t I remember you then?”

“I spiked your drink with a memory potion.”

Shock zinged through him then. It had been proper years since the last time anyone had gotten the jump on him and yet there you were, speaking only honesty for his ears as his voice compels you. Had this encounter never happened, he never would have known. If you could pull a stunt like that then the skills you have were unspeakably valuable and he had every plan to use them. Shinsou chuckled softly before dropping the enthrallment of his voice around you.

The world came spinning back then, awareness creeping into the edges of your thought as you tried to grasp just where you were. By the time your pupils had refocused, he was crushing his mouth down onto yours. A muffled squeal was his answer along with you pushing at his chest. But the sensuous way his mouth moved against yours had you melting in his arms, soft moans humming in your throat as he kissed you.

When he finally broke the kiss, both of you were panting while you glared daggers up at him.

“What the fuck?!” you ripped yourself free of his grasp, staggering backwards with a hand clutched to your mouth, “What’re you doing?!”

The look of frustration blended heavenly with your flustered expression. Mirth spilled over in his open mouthed smirk. Casually he slipped his hands into his coat pockets, cocking a brow and half lidding his eyes at you. Tilting his head to the side, a soft laugh rumbled in his chest, drinking in your more outraged expression.

“Nothing you don’t want me to do, Kitten.”

“And how do you work that out?”

“You told me yourself.” Hitoshi gestured out towards the vault, hand showing you the glint of the Orb you came to steal, “Along with your goals. Your suspicions proved right.”

“Shit…”

“Now here’s how things are going to go,” he slowly advanced on you, “you’re going to put those skills of yours to work for me.”

You glared at him, “And if I refuse?”

“Well, I use my abilities and have you out yourself to every powerful figure here tonight.” that smirk widened, “You’re that one thief that’s been targeting all the high rollers, aren’t you? I imagine that they would all love to meet you.”

Fear flooded your eyes then, “You...you wou-”

“Wouldn’t I? If you’ve done your homework about me then you know how much of a dangerous man I can be.”

You had done your homework and that was truer than you would like to admit. Hitoshi’s public image was great but if you dug a little deeper, strange disappearances that surrounded him. Brainwashing you and having you out your secret to some of the most influential people of the city who would love to see you punished for your work. It would be the end of you and he knew you would have no choice but to work for him.

And that was how you, The Firefly, thief of rich assholes extraordinaire, came to work for Shinsou Hitoshi. Through blackmail and the threat of one of the most powerful men in the city ruining you.

#Shinsou x reader #Shinsou x y/n #Shinsou x you #Siren Shinsou #BNHA #BNHA fantasy #my writing #ArcaneApril #Anonymous

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the--highlanders · 4 years ago

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for the drabble game, situation 17 (because I'm predictable dklsjnb) and sentence 2, or situation 6 and sentence 28? :3 <3

“I just want to let you know that I love you. A lot. Never forget that.”

on ao3.

“Can I see him?”

The nurse bobbed back and forth before him, dithering as if their size alone did not block his view of the door entirely. They towered over him, tall and solidly built, but the tendrils that ringed their face were twitching in alarm, waving back and forth as he tried to peer past them to catch a glimpse of the Doctor.

“I’m sorry, sir,” they were saying with the practised patience of someone who had given the same explanation a thousand times to a thousand different people. “He’s still in a fragile state. We can’t allow him to be disturbed just yet.”

Disturbed. Like he was just some interloper, come to bother the Doctor. Like he had not been the one to carry him into the hospital, cradling him in his arms, Victoria rushing ahead to push open the doors and snap at the reception staff to call for help. “I want tae see him, I’ve – I’ve got tae see him.”

“I’m sorry, sir,” the nurse said, as infuriatingly patient as before. “I simply can’t allow it.”

“Please.”

“I can’t. Unless...” The nurse’s tentacles paused in their waving, twitching in place. “Are you family?”

Wordlessly, Jamie reached inside his shirt, tugging out the chain that hung around his neck to hold it out towards the nurse in triumph. The silver of the ring that hung from it glinted in the cold, white light of the hospital, almost making him blink with the brightness of it. “Is this good enough for ye?”

“O – oh.”The nurse looked as if they wanted to ask for something more, papers or tablets or whatever ridiculous system they used to document such things on this planet, but something in Jamie’s eyes must have made them decide against it. Instead they stepped aside, flicking one hand towards the door. “Go right ahead, Mister – er -” They floundered, mind visibly ticking over. “Sir.”

It was kind of them, Jamie thought, to be letting him inside. “Not sir,” he said gently. “Jamie.”

Stepping into the doorway, he hesitated. He had stormed his way through from the reception to the Doctor’s ward – but for what? To see him lying battered and bruised in a hospital bed? To sit and hold his hand until he fell asleep over him and dreamt of how small he had looked when he had collapsed, his limbs all bent at odd angles? Could he really stomach seeing him like this?

“He still needs quiet,” the nurse was saying. “And time. I’m not sure how long it will take for him to wake up.”

“Alright.” He held his hand out to grip the door handle, but did not turn it. “Can I – can I touch him?”

“Gently. No sudden movements.”

“Alright.” Scrunching his eyes shut to brace himself, he turned the handle and stepped inside.

Closing the door to lean against it, he dared to squint out at the room before him. It was not so bad as he had feared, he supposed. The walls were painted a soft blue, and the vase beside the bed held a spray of yellow flowers. There was a low bookshelf against one wall, curtains rather than shutters over the windows to the corridor outside, and the chair in the corner was comfortably upholstered. It could almost have been called homely, he supposed, were it not for the bed itself, clothed in starched white sheets and netted in by a web of softly beeping machines. No amount of homey touches could take away from the horror of that, of seeing the Doctor curled beneath the covers, frighteningly small against a mattress designed for a far larger species.

Stepping closer, Jamie reached out to bump his fingertips against the bars at the end of the bed. He pulled his hands back as soon as he felt the shock of cold metal, looking around as if alarms might start blaring at any moment, but the quiet was unbroken. The machines kept on murmuring away, burbling out the ups and downs of the charts that snaked their way across their screens. Gripping the bars more tightly, Jamie leant forwards to examine the machines, trying to make out what they might be measuring. One of them was clearly monitoring the Doctor’s heartbeats – he had seen the same lines before, on machines hooked up to himself after he had taken one too many risks. The lines on this one were doubled, one for each heart – and wasn’t it terribly lucky, that this had happened on a planet where people knew what to do with two hearts?

Sidling around the bed, he drew the chair up to perch on the edge of it. It was as comfortable as it looked, and somehow that only made him feel worse. There was something permanent about the way the room was furnished, the threat that the Doctor would be staying here a long time woven into the very fabric of it. The Doctor had snuffled a little at the sound of the chair legs scraping against the tiled floor, but he did not wake, nor did he move. It was odd, Jamie thought, to see him sleeping so peacefully. He had always been such a restless sleeper, as busy at night as he was during the day, shuffling around the bed and snoring and occasionally muttering to himself in some incomprehensible language. To see him so still was unnerving.

He lifted one corner of the sheets, just enough to reveal the Doctor’s hand, and drew it out into the open tentatively. The Doctor gave another mumble, but his fingers did not so much as twitch.

“Hello,” Jamie said. “Erm -” What did he think he was doing, talking to someone who would not hear him?

“You’re gonnae wake up soon,” he carried on awkwardly. If talking to the Doctor felt silly, then saying something so confident felt even sillier. Like he was saying it for the benefit of a small child rather than himself. “You’re gonnae get better, aye?”

A Dhia, he hoped the Doctor really could not hear him. It would be awfully embarrassing for him to wake up and remember everything.

“Ye shouldn’t have done that, ye know,” he added, sternness creeping into his voice. That was something he wished the Doctor could hear – and that he knew he would say again, one he was recovered enough to take it. “Ye can’t just go around throwin’ yourself in front of things like that. That’s my job.” He squeezed the Doctor’s hand just a little too tight, and let go hurriedly. “I don’t know what I can do for ye if I can’t protect ye. You’ve got tae let me help ye.”

There was no use replaying the moment it had happened in his mind, he told himself. No use imagining the Doctor shoving him out of the way to take the full impact of the blast himself, the split second in which Jamie had seen him lit up with the flash of it before he crumpled to the ground. The acrid energy-weapon tang that had drowned out his normal honey smell, seeping out of his clothes and hair and skin. But when he turned the Doctor’s hand over, he found his palm bandaged, the skin around its edges still reddened from where he had thrown his arms up to shield himself. Well, he had no choice but to think about it now.

To wish that their places had been reversed.

Was that selfish of him? To wish that he was the one unconscious in a hospital bed, and the Doctor the one left to wait for him?

Maybe it wasn’t. The Doctor would surely be much more rational about the whole thing than he was. Or so he wished he could believe.

“Victoria’s been worried sick,” he carried on. “She pretends she’s not, but she is. They’re lucky she’s good at puttin’ a brave face on things, else they’d be out of tissues by now.”

They should be going home, she had told him. They should have been back at the TARDIS by now, setting off on some other adventure. Not stuck here, waiting for the Doctor to come round again. But the Doctor had made a slight miscalculation, and Jamie had been paying just a fraction less attention than he should have been, and now they all had to live with it. Victoria had not said that last part out loud, and he knew she never would – but surely it was there at the back of her mind.

“Ye know what the worst thing is,” he said flatly. “That they never even caught Wilkins. He’s gone, sure, we chased him off – but he’ll just go on tae the next place through that portal he made, an’ he closed it behind him so we couldnae see where he went. Nothin’ we did will have made any difference. It was all for nothin’, ye endin’ up like this.”

Maybe he should have thrown his knife, he thought. Or better yet, taken some sort of gun of his own, before they had left the city. If he had just thought a little more about it, then maybe he might have struck first. Wounded Wilkins before he could fire back. The Doctor would have disapproved, of course – but then, he would never have known what might have happened. Better to have him a little offended than lying in a hospital bed.

But it was not just the Doctor’s injuries on his conscience, he thought with a pang. The Doctor might have gotten the timing wrong, but it had been his own slowness that had allowed Wilkins to escape. He had run to the Doctor’s side as he collapsed, and only looked up again just as the hateful little man was vanishing through his portal, and all the evidence of his wrongdoing with him. They could have brought him back to the city, put him on trial for his experiments, called on someone to come and take care of him. As it was, he had only moved on to do the same thing somewhere else. All the destruction he could dream up next time – that was all Jamie’s fault, too.

He wondered if the Doctor ever felt the same way. He wondered how he bore it.

“I just want ye tae know -” Drawing in an unsteady breath, he scrubbed his hand over his face. His eyes were blurring with tears, and he rubbed at them until they stung. “I just wanted tae tell ye that I love ye. A lot, ye know? Don’t forget that.” He squeezed the Doctor’s hand one last time, then shoved the chair backwards to stand up. “I’ll be back. I”ll come an’ see ye tonight, aye? An’ tomorrow. Maybe I’ll bring Victoria, if she wants tae come.”

Opening the door, he threw another glance up at the machines. This ought to be the moment when the Doctor revealed that he had been awake all along, he thought. They would have a teary reunion, and Victoria would arrive, and the three of them would bundle together, and he would be able to breathe again. But the graphs were as even as ever, and the Doctor still slept soundly. He had rolled over a little, drawing his hand back into the safety of the covers, looking quite unwilling to open his eyes.

Well, then. No use waiting around and dwelling on it in here.

Jamie stepped through the door and closed it behind him with a click.

#second doctor #two/jamie #fanfic archive #my writing #ettelwenailinon #happy anniversarynameday <3

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7-wonders · 5 years ago

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Heaven & Hell Were Words to Me

Summary: A surprise takes a turn that should be sickening, but instead only serves to draw you even further into the web that Michael has woven.

Word Count: 2305

A/N: Hey, it’s been a while since I wrote Michael smut that wasn’t for one of my series’! Enjoy; feedback, likes, and reblogs are all appreciated!

Warnings: Heart eating, ritualistic sacrifices, Satanism, blood, sex, KINKY sex, I don’t know, it’s smut about the Antichrist. Figure it out.

“I want to show you something.”

With that simple sentence whispered silkily into your ear on your way back to your room following Ms. Venable’s mandatory cocktail hour, you had taken Michael’s hand without any sort of hesitation and let him lead you down the dizzying maze of hallways. You would let Michael lead you to the ends of the world, and you barely even knew the man. Just getting to know his first name had seemed like such a privilege. (something he had told you last week, when you were moaning out the name he had given every resident of Outpost 3.

“Michael,” he had said, so quietly that at first you thought you had imagined it.

“What?” you asked, as his hair formed a curtain around your face that made it impossible to stare at anything but him.

“My name is Michael.”

“Michael,” you repeated, testing the word out. “It fits you. After all, you’re beautiful enough to be an archangel.”

Michael laughed huskily, your chest filled with warmth at the sound, although you hadn’t been sure of why he was laughing.)

He comes to a stop in front of a door that you realize is in a restricted area that residents had been given strict instructions to never go near. Not even the Grays were allowed to go in unsupervised; if their services were needed for cleaning, Ms. Mead would stand there guarding them, and they weren’t allowed to tell anybody about what was inside.

The door opens by itself, but you don’t have time to ask Michael how it did that. He looks back at you reassuringly, as if he can feel your apprehension towards the situation. The room is dark, dim light coming from a single sconce on the wall. You grip Michael’s hand tightly, hoping not to trip over what looks like a large circle of unlit candles.

Your unease is heightened when you see a Gray, Samantha, sitting against the wall with her knees pulled to her chest. Jealousy wells deep in your stomach, although you’re not sure why. While you had assumed that you weren’t the only one Michael had seduced, it’s still a little disheartening to see another one of Michael’s bedmates in a room that had seemed like it was a secret shared between you and Michael.

“You are,” Michael says from out of the blue, making you furrow your eyebrows in confusion.

“I am what?”

“You are the only one.”

Your breath catches in your throat. “How did you--”

“My father,” Michael continues, “decided that it was time that I show you this.”

Mind racing, you try to figure out which man in the Outpost is old enough to possibly be Michael’s dad. Michael looks to be in his late twenties, so unless Gallant is actually 50 (not likely) and Evie is a dinosaur (likely), you’re out of options.

“Samantha,” Michael calls, holding out his hand.

The Gray slowly gets up, stumbling her way towards Michael and grabbing onto him with a shaky hand. Snapping his fingers, the candles all light themselves simultaneously, and you realize as you look around that Michael’s led you to the center of the circle.

“Father,” Michael’s voice echoes through the room as his eyes search through the air for some sort of answer, “may you accept this sacrifice as a token of my devotion to you, and give me strength in exchange!”

“Michael, what’s going--” your question is cut off by a choked scream as Michael plunges his hand into Samantha’s chest.

Staggering back a step, you clap your hands over your mouth in horror. Samantha attempts to make a sound, but it only comes out as a mere gurgle as blood bubbles past her lips. Michael yanks his hand out from between her ribs, holding the Gray’s still-beating heart in his grasp. Tissue connects the arteries to the rest of her body, so Michael pulls harshly in order to free the organ. Samantha falls backwards less than a second after her heart is separated from her body, her glassy eyes staring up at nothing.

Michael smirks at you, the darkness that he carries with him prevalent on his face as the flames roar around you. Blood starts to pool on the floor, and you could almost swear that it’s bubbling beneath you. His hand is stained red, dripping with blood as he holds the heart up to show you what he’s done. Bringing the heart of the girl who lies dead on the floor to his mouth, his full lips part and he sinks his teeth into the fleshy meat. He hums delightedly, lips stained red with blood as he chews the piece he had bitten off of the organ.

You should be disgusted. You should run out of this room screaming and vowing never to see Michael again. You should hide in your room and only hope that he decides to leave you here to die once the Outpost is inevitably overrun, instead of deciding to murder you as brutally and as carelessly as he murdered Samantha. Instead, you take a step closer to him, your head tilted in intrigue.

Michael smiles wickedly, salaciously licking the blood off of his top lip before replacing it as he takes another bite. Your own heart is beating wildly in your chest as the magnetic force that is Michael Langdon draws you closer. You shouldn’t find the moan that he makes after he swallows arousing in any way, but you clench your thighs together to alleviate some of the heat that pools between your legs.

He doesn’t say anything as he holds the half-eaten heart towards you, but it’s clear what he wants you to do. A part of you knows that this is wrong and immoral, but you place your hands on top of his anyways. It’s like you’re spellbound, the air around you charged with an energy that should feel sinister to you, but instead pushes you, whispering in your ear to “give in.”

Your eyes are locked on Michael’s as you both lift the organ towards your mouth. His smile widens as you take a bite from the heart as well, candlelight glinting off of the whites of his teeth. Whatever spell you were under breaks after you finish, revulsion over what you’ve done washing over you.

“What--why did I--”

“Because,” Michael says, tucking loose strands of hair behind your ear, “you’re fulfilling your purpose.”

Any doubt that remains in your mind is erased when Michael kisses you, his teeth clashing against yours as his own arousal becomes too much to bear. The blood that covers the bottom halves of your faces is already drying as Michael bites your bottom lip hard enough to add your own blood to the mix, slipping his tongue into your mouth when you groan.

“Michael,” you moan breathily against his lips, the metallic taste of blood tainting your tastebuds. “Michael, what just happened?”

He shushes you, removing your heavy purple gown as he lowers you to the floor. The blood that still streams from Samantha’s corpse has formed a variety of lines that almost look like a star, you note dimly when your head falls to the side to allow Michael access to the smooth skin along your throat.

The strength that Michael possesses startles you when he shows it firsthand, getting fed up with unlacing your corset and just tears it off of you instead. Feeling entirely underdressed, you reach your hands up to help him remove his own clothing. Although this--relationship? Tryst? Rendezvous?--continued sexual encounter with the man who will determine whether you live or die has been occurring for weeks now, the sight of Michael’s lithe, toned body still takes your breath away. His bicep ripples under your hand, which looks small placed on top of Michael’s arm.

In this moment, as Michael’s hands trail down your skin and his lips meet yours repeatedly, there’s no nuclear wasteland, or draconian rules, or tyrannical Outpost supervisors. There’s no death, or questionable murder, or possible ritualistic happenings. There’s just you, and Michael, and the passion that you share for each other.

Michael groans when your nails scratch down his back, making him throw his head back as his hand stutters on your upper thigh. His fingers ghost along your labia, dipping into your wetness and drawing it onto your clit before bringing his coated fingers up to his mouth. You gasp as Michael sucks your arousal off of his fingers, the sight of it nearly too much to bear.

You wrap an arm around his neck, pulling him into a kiss and chasing the taste of yourself off of his lips. When he pulls away from you to go down on you, you grab his chin and shake your head. Michael looks at you in mild surprise; this is the first time you’ve ever been any sort of dominant during sexual situations with him.

“Michael, I want you inside me.”

He smirks, nodding. “A request I’m happy to fulfill.”

It only takes a couple of quick strokes to coax his cock to full hardness. He lines himself up with your entrance, swallowing your moan with a kiss as he slowly thrusts into you. Your jaw goes slack as you adjust to Michael’s length completely filling you and stretching you. The burn is delicious, and you can see his eyes sparkling as he watches your face. He taps on your bottom lip, letting you know that he wants you to open your mouth. Closing your eyes, you shudder in delight when you feel his spit land on your tongue.

“Such a good little whore for me. Look at you, driven half-mad by my cock. You’re so desperate for me that you’d probably beg for me to spit in your mouth, isn’t that right?”

“Yes Michael, I--” your own gasp cuts you off as Michael thrusts sharply into you.

“What was that?” he asks tensely.

“Yes sir,” you amend, realizing quickly that the soft dominance that Michael has exuded tonight is gone, replaced by an intense need to own you, to claim you.

“Good,” he croons mockingly, pulling out before thrusting into you once more.

Michael sets a harsh pace, his balls slapping against your ass as he lifts one of your legs and positions it around his hip to get a better angle. You’re crying out, hands gripping at your breasts, his back, his hair, your own hair--anything to ground you, yet remaining still seems torturous. Michael’s large hand closes around your neck, squeezing just enough to make your vision go blurry around the edges. Although he groans deeply enough to sound like a growl, he still locks eyes with you to make sure that you’re okay. You give a quick nod, heart fluttering at the softness of his gesture in the midst of his brutal fucking.

Both of your hands hold onto Michael’s wrist as he puts most of his weight on your throat, nails digging into his skin. Tears gather at the corners of your eyes as your moans and whimpers, sounds of ecstasy and pleasure and borderline pain that you’re experiencing all at once, come out as little more than choked whines. You’re not sure if it’s the lack of oxygen or simply a trick of the flickering lights, but Michael’s eyes look completely black as he continues to pound into you, releasing and squeezing your neck in time with his thrusts.

The whole time, Michael’s muttering in your ear, praises for your cunt and your obedience intermingled with degrading terms like “whore” and “slut” and “minx.” The presence of his hand around your throat, while extremely erotic, also keeps you acutely aware that he can absolutely kill you just as easily as he killed Samantha. You’ve known he’s dangerous from the moment his riding boots clicked outside of the library, but cold-blooded murder is something you hadn’t really been anticipating.

Michael’s thrusts start to become erratic as he begins to reach his climax, choosing to let go of your throat and intertwine his hand with yours instead. You clench your walls tightly around him, urging him to let go and give in.

“Cum for me, Michael,” you say hoarsely, your chest heaving with anticipation. “Claim me, fill me.”

Your words of encouragement push Michael over the edge. He thrusts once and then again before cumming with a loud shout of “Ave Satanas,” the unfamiliar words sending the flames of the candles shooting up towards the ceiling as his hot release fills you and makes your entire body feel warm. He somehow has enough sense in him amidst his aftershocks to rub his finger against your clit rapidly, making you spasm under him only a minute later.

Your loud breathing intermingles with his as he lays down next to you, refusing to let go of your hand. Pushing your hair away from your face, your heart falls when you see that the corpse is still outside of the circle and that this wasn’t some odd foreplay.

“Michael,” you say quietly as a million questions float through your head.

“Can’t you feel it?” he says, once again seeming as if he’s reading your mind. “You were made for me, (Y/N), just as I was made for you. I’ve been waiting for you; you’re the missing piece I need in order to fulfill my mission.”

“What’s your mission?” You don’t look at him, instead tracing shapes with the freckles on his chest.

“To carry out my father’s rule on this Earth as his only son.”

Your fingers still, and you look up at him with wide eyes. “Michael, who’s your father?”

He smirks, knowing that you’re already aware of the answer. “Satan, of course. And you, my dear, play a very important role in this new world.”

Tag list: @nana15774 @queencocoakimmie @sammythankyou @girlycakepops @trimbooohgodplsnoooo @lichellaw @ajokeformur-ray @pastel-cloudz @ultragibbycentralworld @grim-adventures58 @dandycandy75 @langdonslove @tcc-gizmachine @starwlkers @jimmlangdon @sloppy-little-witch-bitch26 @1-800-bitchcraft @venusxxlangdon @storminmytwistedmind @hecohansen31 @lvngdvns @ccodyfern @divinelangdon @forgetting5sos @michaelsapostle @izuniias

#michael langdon #michael langdon imagine #michael langdon x reader #michael langdon x you #ahs #ahs imagine #ahs imagines #ahs apocalypse #ahs apocalypse imagine #american horror story #american horror story imagine #american horror story apocalypse #american horror story imagines

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unfolded73 · 4 years ago

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Husbands: Two Years In (4/5) - schitt’s creek ff

This fic is complete, posting every other weekday. While I'm including it as part of the "Labels" series, the preceding fics are not required reading. Previous fics in this series: Boyfriends; “I Love You”, Partners, Fiancés

Warning: This fic deals with depression as one of its major topics.

Special warning for this chapter: This chapter comes with a referenced underage sex warning, although Justin has turned 18 by this point. The sex is only discussed in somewhat vague terms with Patrick, but there is a 4-year age difference between participants that some readers might find upsetting.

Rated Explicit, this chapter 4737 words. (ao3)

Thanks to @high-seas-swan for cheerleading and B13_MaybeThisTime for many valuable comments (and also cheerleading).

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Chapter 4: Autumn

The first thing that struck Patrick when he awoke was the quality of the light in their bedroom. The days were getting shorter, so why was the sun through the window so bright? He fumbled for his phone, saw the time was 9:23, and sat up with a start. He should have been at the store an hour ago, he thought, his heart starting to pound.

There was also a text notification from David, and he thumbed over it to read it.

David: You turned your alarm off 3 times so I figured you needed to sleep. I’m opening and you can come in whenever. ❤️ you.

Patrick quickly responded with I’m up now, sorry, a stab of guilt in his chest as he fought his way out from under their warm comforter. It was his job to make sure the store opened on time, just as it was David’s to close up without Patrick a few nights a week so that Patrick could get a head start on errands. But now David was carrying his weight because Patrick couldn’t manage to get out of bed on time. He berated himself throughout his morning routine and in the car all the way to the store. He decided on a quick detour to the café to pick up a coffee for David as thanks.

While he waited for Twyla to get his drinks, he spotted Ronnie across the room and gave her a half-hearted wave. She appeared to be finishing up, and she made her way over to the counter slowly, the check for her breakfast in hand.

“How are you, Patrick?”

“Good,” he said, even though it wasn’t anywhere close to the truth.

“Hey, I meant to tell you after the last council meeting but it slipped by mind. There’s an LGBTQIA+ group over in Thornbridge that meets up once a month that you might be interested in. I hadn’t heard anything about them in ages — thought they might have disbanded after marriage equality made some people think there wasn’t anything left we needed to fight for. Back in the day they used to organize protests, letter writing campaigns, things like that. I guess they still do.”

“Oh. That’s cool,” Patrick said, unsure where Ronnie was going with this. Wondering how she managed to rattle off all those letters so easily.

Ronnie huffed, annoyed. “You mentioned that you had missed out on the activism part of it all. This would be an opportunity for that if you were interested.”

Patrick frowned. “Thornbridge is a long drive.”

“Here you go, Patrick,” Twyla said, setting two to-go cups down in front of him.

Rolling her eyes, Ronnie handed her check to Twyla to ring up at the cash register. “Suit yourself.”

“No, I’ll… I’ll definitely look them up,” he said. “Thanks for telling me.”

“Uh huh,” she responded, her skepticism that he would do any such thing obvious in her voice. He couldn’t really blame her for that. He was skeptical too. Waving goodbye to Ronnie’s back as she left the café, Patrick sighed, then paid Twyla for the drinks.

He gave David a wincing smile as he entered the store. David was dealing with customers at the register, so Patrick set the drinks down on the counter and went over to see if any of the people browsing in the back of the store needed any help. Guilt churned in his stomach again, that David had been forced to come in early and work the store alone just because Patrick was too lazy to wake up on time.

When the store had finally emptied out from that little mid-morning rush, Patrick made his way over to David.

“I’m really sorry, David,” he said, picking up his tea from where it was still sitting in the cardboard tray.

That was David’s cue to be dramatic, to pile on with some teasing scorn for burdening him with opening the store. Patrick would feel perversely better if David flopped down on the counter right now and moaned about how much he had suffered this morning. Instead he gave Patrick a sweet smile and said, “Don’t worry about it.”

It was somehow worse. He didn’t want David’s generosity.

“I can close this evening.”

“You don’t have to do that. Closing is my job on Bethany’s days off,” David said.

“And opening is mine. So let me make up for this morning,” Patrick said, some of his testiness coming out in his voice.

“We don’t need to keep score. You’ve been really tired lately.”

“That’s not an excuse!” He was almost shouting. “David, just let me close.”

Now David looked a little annoyed. “Fine. Oh, also I took care of the car insurance payment.”

Patrick narrowed his eyes. “The what?”

“They called and said they hadn’t gotten our payment? So I paid them over the phone; I hope that’s okay.”

Patrick winced. There was a stack of unopened mail on his desk at home, he could see it in his mind’s eye, and he was pretty sure that the car insurance bill was in that stack. “Sorry, I guess I forgot.” He felt the urge to shout at David even though it wasn’t his fault, even though David had once again done something to help him. Or maybe because David had done something to help him.

“It’s no problem,” David said matter-of-factly. Then his eyes lit up. “Oh! And Ray called. He said there’s a retail space in downtown Elmdale that just opened up that we might be interested in.”

Doing his best to suppress the swell of panic he felt at that news, Patrick moved to go back into the storeroom behind the counter. “Uh huh.”

“He said it looked about the right size for Rose Apothecary,” David continued, following him. “What do you think? Should we go take a look at it?”

“Maybe,” Patrick said, shuffling a stack of invoices on the table.

David huffed. “Can you not show even the tiniest bit of enthusiasm?”

Patrick looked up and stared at him, caught between anger and guilt, when his phone chimed with a text. Patrick pulled his phone out of his pocket and looked at the screen.

Justin 🌈: i might need yr help

“Hang on, I’ve got to respond to this,” Patrick said as he typed, What’s up?

There was a pause, and then dots finally appeared as Justin typed. “Who is it?” David asked, sounding annoyed.

Justin 🌈: how long would it take you to get to toronto from where you live

“What the hell?” Patrick muttered as he typed: 4 hours, why?

“What’s the matter?” David asked.

“Justin is asking me how long it would take me to get to Toronto.”

“Your cousin Justin?”

“Yeah,” Patrick said as the next message appeared.

Justin 🌈: i’m stuck here and i don’t want to call my parents

“Okay, I’m calling him,” Patrick said, clicking the header at the top of the text chain and then clicking the call button.

“Hi,” Justin said when he answered, that tiny word somehow sounding ashamed.

“What do you mean, you’re stuck in Toronto?” Patrick asked without preamble.

“I took a bus here? And now I kind of don’t have anywhere to stay that’s… umm… safe.”

The bus trip from Patrick’s hometown to Toronto must have taken forever, he thought. “Do your parents know where you are?”

The phone speaker crackled with Justin’s heavy sigh. “They think I went with my friend Alison on a weekend trip to a waterpark in Niagara.”

“So you’ve woven a complicated web of lies is what you’re saying,” Patrick said, meeting David’s eyes. David grimaced with a mixture of sympathy and intense curiosity.

“I came here to meet someone, but…” Justin sighed again, and this time it sounded laden with tears.

Patrick took the phone away from his ear to look at the time. “If I leave now I might be able to be there by 2:30. Can you text me with where you’ll be?”

“Are you going to call my parents?” Justin asked.

Patrick hesitated. He did need to tell them, but he didn’t know what was going on yet, and he didn’t want Justin to change his mind and disappear into the city, never to be found. “Let’s talk about that later,” he said. “For now, just let me know where you are.”

As soon as he’d disconnected the call, he met David’s eyes regretfully.

David waved his hand to dismiss the apology that he could probably read on Patrick’s face. “Go.”

“He said he took a bus all the way to Toronto to meet someone, and it sounds like something bad happened.” Patrick said, his mind immediately going to all kinds of dark places.

David nodded like he had guessed as much from hearing Patrick’s side of the conversation. “I’ve been there. Well, in my case, it was taking the jet without permission to Berlin, but same idea. Go get him. I’ll take care of the store today.”

The drive felt interminable. Patrick tried to distract himself with an audiobook so that he wouldn’t think about the kind of man that would lure a boy to Toronto, and what that man might have done to him. It didn’t work. He eventually turned the book off, realizing that he hadn’t taken in a word of the story, and switched to music.

At the end of three and a half hours (he’d exceeded the speed limit a lot), Patrick parked in front of the diner that Justin had sent him the address for and went inside. He spotted the boy immediately in a booth, hunched over his phone, and Patrick steeled himself, walked over, and slid into the booth across from him.

“Do you want me to get you something to eat before we get on the road?” Patrick asked.

Justin shrugged. “You don’t have to do that.”

Patrick plucked one of the laminated menus out of the holder and opened it. “All I’ve had today is toast. I need to eat anyway. Are you sure?”

“Did you call my parents?” Justin asked.

“Not yet.”

Sighing, Justin grabbed a menu for himself.

Once a bored waitress had come over and taken down their orders for burgers and fries, Patrick leaned back in the booth and folded his arms. “Tell me what happened.”

Justin seemed braced for an argument, and he came out swinging. “Do you get that there’s only one other gay guy in my whole school? One. So it’s not like there’s anyone for me to date there.”

Patrick nodded. “I get that.”

“So I met this guy Mike on TikTok — I followed him, and he followed me, and we ended up DMing each other a lot.” Justin narrowed his eyes. “Please don’t ask me what TikTok is.”

“I don’t need to ask you what TikTok is,” Patrick protested, although really he only had the vaguest idea.

“We really… vibed with each other, and he goes to school here in Toronto so he invited me to come visit him for the weekend.”

“When you say he goes to school here…”

Justin huffed. “He goes to college here.”

“So he’s a few years older than you.”

“Four years is not that big of a deal.”

Patrick agreed with that in theory, but when one person is barely eighteen and the other is twenty-one or twenty-two, it could very well be a big deal. So far Justin had said nothing to soothe Patrick’s worries, and he felt like he needed to know the worst of it before he vibrated out of his skin. “Did he pressure you to do something you didn’t want to do?”

Justin squared his shoulders. “I’m not a kid.”

“I know you’re not. That kind of pressure can happen to adults too.”

As quickly as he’s drawn himself up, Justin deflated. “It wasn’t that. I felt like I was ready for… you know.”

Resisting the urge to trot out the old chestnut about how people who were having it needed to be able to say it, Patrick added, “for sex.”

“Yeah. But it… it was awkward and… and really not good and I just… I needed to get out of there this morning.” He put his head down on his folded arms. “I have a non-refundable bus ticket for tomorrow, but I didn’t have anywhere to go tonight, and—”

“Hey,” Patrick said, reaching over and putting a hand on his arm as the waitress showed up with their food. “I’m glad you called me.”

They ate in silence, and then Patrick paid for the meal and led Justin and his overstuffed backpack out to his car. Justin sank into the passenger seat, exhaustion in his every movement. Patrick wondered how much sleep he’d gotten. He sent David a quick text, letting him know that he had Justin and they were on their way back.

“Can I ask you something else?” Patrick ventured.

“I guess.”

“Were you safe with him? With Mike?”

“He used a condom, yeah,” Justin said.

Patrick heaved a sigh of relief. “Okay, good.” He started the car and pulled out into traffic. “If you’re going to be sexually active with multiple people, or, you know. With people you don’t know very well, it would still be good to get tested regularly. It’s a good habit to get into.”

“What, am I supposed to go to my pediatrician and ask him to test me for herpes and HIV and stuff?”

Patrick mulled that over. “Back when I was your age, there was a clinic about an hour away that I know people would go to for testing and, like, abortions. We can look it up when we get back to my place.”

“Okay. Thanks.”

They settled into silence, Justin staring out the window and Patrick focusing on driving carefully.

“I thought you were going to be a lot harder on me for going to meet a guy alone or whatever,” Justin eventually said.

“Well, don’t get me wrong, it was incredibly stupid to go hundreds of kilometers from home without telling anyone where you would be, to meet a guy that you’d only communicated with online. You’re lucky you weren’t sexually assaulted or murdered.”

“There it is,” Justin said, sinking lower in his seat.

“But I sympathize with doing a reckless, stupid thing for love.” He thought about going into business with a guy he didn’t know very well in part because he’d finally, for the first time, recognized that he had romantic feelings for another man. “I’m sorry it didn’t work out with him.”

Another long silence passed. “I thought it would be… I mean, I knew it wouldn’t be like porn, but I’d read some stuff online, and he said he knew what he was doing, and I thought it would be…” In his peripheral vision, Patrick could see Justin cover his face with his hands.

“What?”

“I knew the sex might not be amazing, the first time, especially… you know. Doing… you know.”

“I don’t know, actually. Do you want me to guess?” Patrick said with a smirk, trying not to sweat too much over this conversation.

“Bottoming,” Justin finally said, his hands back over his face. The word was somewhat muffled.

“Oh.” Jesus, kid, you couldn’t start with a handjob? Patrick thought. His thoughts immediately went to his own first experience with that act, at Ray’s house with David while Ray was out playing poker. It was a very good memory. “I mean, it can be amazing, even the first time, with a patient partner.” He was very glad to have the road to focus on; he didn’t think he could have had this conversation looking his cousin in the eye.

Justin didn’t respond to that for a minute, back to staring out the window. Then he finally said, “Yeah, Mike was… not that, I guess.”

“He didn’t, umm… hurt you, did he?”

Justin snorted bitterly. “Not… I guess he just didn’t care if I enjoyed it or not.”

“Then he’s a complete asshole and you’re well rid of him,” Patrick said, thinking that he’d like to punch this Mike guy in the face. Convincing a young kid (albeit above the age of consent) to board a bus to come all the way to Toronto, and then to treat him like that… “I hope you blocked his number.”

“Yeah, did that while I was waiting for you to pick me up,” Justin said, his voice wavering. “God, I’m so stupid.”

“No, stop it. You’re not stupid. You did something rash and… and dangerous, but for understandable reasons.” He debated what to say next. “I will need to call your parents. I don’t need to tell them everything, not the… sexual details. But I can’t hide this from them. For one thing, we need to figure out how to get you back home.”

“I can take the bus.”

Patrick frowned. “I don’t feel great about putting you on a bus alone after what you’ve been through.”

“I’ll be fine,” Justin groused, and Patrick understood that teenage stubbornness, that visceral hatred of being babied.

“I know you will be,” he said.

He took Justin straight to the house when they got to Schitt’s Creek. Justin looked around with interest at his surroundings while Patrick first texted David to give him a quick summary of what happened, then went into their office/guest bedroom, closed the door, and phoned his cousin Sara.

“Patrick!” she said in answer to his call. “How are you? Everything okay with your parents, I hope?” Her quick words betrayed that immediate worry when a distant family member calls, that something terrible has happened.

“They’re fine. I’m actually calling about Justin.”

“Oh, he’s on a weekend trip with his friend Alison’s family. Did you not try his phone? He told me you guys have been texting, and I can’t thank you enough for being a friend to him.”

Patrick steeled himself. “Yeah, so what I have to tell you is that he’s not with Alison. He went to Toronto to meet a boy. It, umm, went badly, and he called me. I drove out there and picked him up and brought him back to Schitt’s Creek.”

There was a moment of silence, and Patrick imagined Sara trying to process all of that information at once. “What do you mean, it went badly. Is he okay?”

“He’s okay. Heartbroken, probably, but he’s not really talking about that. He’s safe.” Patrick said.

“Was he… did he have sex with this boy?”

Patrick ran a hand over his face. “Remember how you told me that I could keep his confidence as long as he was being safe? I told you the unsafe part, the… the getting on a bus to a big city to meet someone from the internet part. The rest of it, I think you’re going to have to ask him.”

She sighed. “Thank you for going to pick him up, Patrick. God, that must have taken you all day.”

“It’s okay. I’m happy to help,” he said, because he was. At the very least, it had effectively distracted him from his own problems for several hours. “He wants to take a bus back home. Are you okay with that? He can sleep here tonight and then I can put him on a bus tomorrow?”

“No, I should come pick him up,” she said, but she sounded uncertain. For good reason; it would be a fourteen-hour round trip for her to do that.

“I’ll watch him to make sure he gets on the right bus,” Patrick said. “And send you the schedule so that you’ll know when to expect him. Okay?”

“Yeah. Yeah, okay.” Her voice trembled, like the implications of what might have happened to her son were hitting her belatedly. “God, he could’ve been—”

“I promise he’s okay, Sara. Do you want to talk to him right now?” Patrick asked, opening the door and walking back out to the main part of the house.

“Yes, please.”

Patrick found Justin in the kitchen, standing awkwardly with his hands shoved in his pockets. “Your mom wants to talk to you,” he said, handing him his phone. He left the room to give Justin some privacy and went to make up the bed in the guest room. As he pulled sheets down from a shelf in the linen closet, it occurred to him that he’d been a little bit jealous of Justin, before: self-aware enough to understand his sexual orientation as a teenager and self-assured enough to come out to his parents. But it was just another path, another person’s journey to being their whole self — not better or worse than Patrick’s path, just different. And plagued with its own pitfalls.

Justin found him to give him back his phone as Patrick was smoothing a quilt over the neatly made bed.

“How mad was she?” Patrick asked.

“Pretty mad,” Justin said. “I’m definitely going to be grounded, but it’s not like I have anywhere to go anyway.” His hands went into his pockets again.

Patrick clapped him on the back. “Well, you can worry about that tomorrow. Want to come help me make dinner?”

That was how David found them when he got home. To his credit, David acted like a teenage houseguest was a normal occurrence, asking Justin politely about his high school and his interests and avoiding anything about the reason he was at their house.

At least, he did that until they were finishing dinner, when David draped his arm over the back of Patrick’s chair and said, apropos of nothing, “When I was sixteen, I convinced my dad’s pilot that I had permission to take the family’s private jet to Germany to meet a guy that I only knew over AOL Instant Messenger.”

Justin frowned with confusion. “What’s AOL Instant Messenger?”

David suppressed a whine. “Okay, never mind that part. That’s not the important part.”

“What happened?” Justin asked.

“The guy turned out to be in his forties and into a lot of kinky shit that I barely knew the terms for, much less—”

“David, I don’t know if this is an appropriate story—” Patrick began.

“All I mean is, you can do stupid stuff as a teenager and survive it and… and learn from it, I guess,” David said. “I don’t know! I’ve been where you are, that’s what I’m saying,” he huffed. “And one other thing, in case Patrick didn’t mention it. Something I didn’t know back then.” David was giving Justin a serious look. “Consent can be revoked at any time, for any reason. No matter what you may have consented to before.”

“Okay,” Justin said, blushing. “Thanks.” Then he wrinkled his nose. “Private jet?”

“My life was very different back then,” David said with an imperious sniff.

~*~

Patrick gave David a wan smile when he joined him in bed that night, after they’d spent the evening playing board games and watching TV with Justin before finally packing him off to the guest room to sleep. “Thanks for helping to keep Justin entertained.”

David got under the covers and let out a long breath. “He’s a good kid; he’ll be okay. He’s got that Brewer earnestness.”

Patrick laughed. “Brewer earnestness?”

“You heard me.”

They settled into silence, but neither of them reached to turn off their lamps. Patrick considered picking up a book and trying to read, but the hours and hours of driving had left him shattered. Maybe he’d just go to sleep.

Before he could turn off his light, he became aware of David looking sidelong at him. As Patrick so often could, he could read David’s face easily: David had something he wanted to say that he wasn’t saying.

“What is it?” Patrick asked, rolling to face David, one hand tucking up under his pillow.

“Nothing,” David said quickly, his eyes widening a little before he averted his gaze.

“David.”

There was a pause as David appeared to weigh his words. Every millisecond edged Patrick’s worry higher. “There was something I wanted to talk to you about earlier, but now with all of this Justin stuff, it seems like a bad time,” David said, not meeting his eyes.

“What did you want to talk to me about?”

David exhaled audibly. “Don’t get mad at me.”

“Why would I get mad at you?”

“Because… look, I spent a lot of my younger years in therapy, and I’ve spent more years than that struggling with anxiety, you know that. I’ve had panic attacks. I still have spiraling, intrusive thoughts sometimes. Mental health is… it’s complicated.”

Patrick felt a cold spike of panic, and he pulled himself up into a seated position against the headboard. “Yeah.”

“So I of all people know that there’s no shame in needing help.”

“David—”

“I might be totally off base, but I think it’s possible that you’re depressed and it might not be a bad idea for you to see a professional,” he rushed out, wincing, his face twisting like he was bracing for an argument.

“I don’t… I’m fine.” The words came out without his permission, a denial from deep in his gut. He needed to be fine. He needed David to not be saying these things.

David sat up next to him, his hand reaching over tentatively to touch Patrick’s thigh. “You don’t seem fine,” he almost whispered.

Patrick felt a swirl of emotions: irrational anger and shame but also relief. Relief that David was putting a name to the thing that Patrick feared, and that he was pointing out a path that Patrick could choose to walk like it was no big deal. Like it was normal. But the shame momentarily rose up and dominated his mix of feelings, and Patrick drew his knees up and leaned his forehead against them.

“I mean I get it, I’m not an easy person to be married to, I know that, and—”

Patrick lifted his head. “What? David, no.” He grabbed David’s hand and squeezed it tight and swallowed around a sudden lump in his throat. “You are the only bright spot in a sea of… of…” Lacking a suitable metaphor, Patrick brought David’s hand to his mouth and kissed his knuckles. “It’s nothing to do with being married to you. I’m grateful every day that I’m married to you.” His eyes burned with unshed tears. “I’m just… I’m so sorry.”

“What do you have to be sorry for?” David asked softly.

Patrick let go of David’s hand and put his own hands together, twisting his wedding ring. “You shouldn’t have to deal with me like this.”

David’s arm went around his shoulders. “What are you talking about,” he said, like Patrick was being silly.

Patrick met his eyes again. “I’m supposed to be stable. I’m supposed to protect you and take care of you and—”

“Okay, but that’s not the way marriage works?” David said. “Sometimes I can be the protector. You can be the one that falls apart sometimes.”

“But that’s not who you married.”

“Patrick, I married you.”

Swiping away the tears from his eyes in frustration, Patrick resisted the urge to get out of bed to put some space between himself and David. “I wasn’t raised to talk about my feelings, you know that. Or at least, not to talk about difficult feelings.” He plucked at a loose thread on the blanket over his legs.

David chuckled. “I do know that, yes.”

“So I’ll probably be terrible at therapy.”

Kissing his cheek, David said, “Well, you’re naturally gifted at too many things, anyway. It’s past time for you to be terrible at something.”

“I’m terrible at a lot of things lately.”

“Mmkay, you’re going to learn about a thing called ‘recurring negative thoughts’ if you end up seeing a therapist,” David said, scratching affectionately at Patrick’s shoulder. “I think you and I will be able to bond over that one.”

Patrick leaned against David, in the circle of his arms, and let out a heavy breath. Not for the first time in their relationship, he felt like an enormous weight had been lifted off of his shoulders. “Thank you, David.”

(Chapter 5)

#schitt's creek ff #schitt's creek fic #david x patrick #david x patrick fic #david x patrick ff #my fic

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itsomgitsgreenblogging · 5 years ago

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The Spider: A Critical Role Fanfic

For Day 3 of @essek-week I took the prompt Spy. This is a Vollstrecker!Bren AU, with a just slightly more lawful evil than neutral evil Essek. I absolutely love a Volstrecker!Bren AU, they are definitely my guilty pleasure. This is just my attempt to take a crack at it.

I hope you enjoy!

Read the collection on AO3

Trigger warnings: mentions of torture, ambiguous but definitely implied murder

“You are an intelligent man, Shadowhand. Surely you understand what my masters offer you, a chance to study that which you find most interesting,” the shadowed figure said, feminine voice heavy with an accent belonging to only tenant farmers and idle noblemen. But of course she was a tenant farmer, after all the powerful never used their own to crawl between cracks and slit throats. They liked to keep their hands clean, a sentiment Essek never truly shared. After all, what was an achievement you didn’t earn by your own virtue? “It would be foolish to turn down this opportunity.”

“And I also hear what your masters say about us from their high towers and in their studies, none of them too flattering. I am an intelligent man, but a vain one too I am afraid. I will not subject myself to working with those who clearly do not give me the respect I deserve,” Essek said, leaning his head upon his hand as he viewed the figure from where he sat at his desk. “I also must apologize in advance as well, for another one of my transgressions.”

“And what is that?” the figure asked, voice icy and cold.

“As Ludinas likes to say in his little secret meetings, a cold-hearted Crick like me is capable of many things. Killing a messenger is one of them,” Essek said with a sharp-toothed smile.

The Dungeons of Penance were menacing at the best of times, but with the whole city under high alert, somehow it was made ever worse. He had been startled out of trance by a hard knocking at his door, and since then it had been a desperate flurry to try to get anywhere meaningful. Moving through Rosohna was a different sort of nightmare now and so by the time he reached the Dungeons he was almost relieved as he escaped the sight of green lanterns moving along the walkways like ghostly apparitions, while the beacons flickered their urgent message across the city. The streets had been dead silent for a long time, and only the roving Watch moved throughout the city like a many-headed beast from deep below ready for the kill.

“Report,” Essek ordered as he met the five guards at the arch. The head guard nodded in deference before turning and keeping step with Essek’s glide. All of their shoes and armor clicked with the pace of their descent, the weight of their duty anchored them heavily to the ground. Essek remembered when a knobby-kneed Verin got his first suit of armor, and had scoffed at the display. On these men there was nothing to laugh about.

“The Watch caught him outside the Skysybil’s home,” the guard explained as they walked the hallway of the Dungeon of Penance. “Thankfully she was at the Cathedral and was safe when the coordinated attack occurred. He was disguised as a drow, and attempted to cast some kind of charm magic. The lead guard of the Watch resisted the magic, and when he was struck with an attack the spell was dropped, revealing the attacker for what they were. After being subdued they were immediately brought here.”

“I see, very well done,” Essek said pointedly in Undercommon with a prim nod before they arrived at the designated cell. There were two additional guards posted at the door, standing as dour monuments to the assassin's power. It wasn’t often they took one of these creatures alive, after all. “I shall go in and take stock of our new guest, make sure that they are comfortable.”

He nodded at the guards who had accompanied him. The head guard then shifted and one other moved to join him, they motioned and the door was opened. Without any pomp and circumstance, Essek floated in to assess their unexpected gift.

It was a human man. That didn’t surprise Essek, as most of the scourgers--the Empire’s pet assassin-spies that they caught tended to be humans. He was bound and muzzled according to regulation, hands behind his back and chained to the floor. He wasn't a large or physically intimidating human. The man instead looked at Essek expectantly. It was quite unlike the rabid struggling and spitting he had encountered with other scourgers. Though sometimes it was hard to tell with humans--they aged so quickly and were transitory creatures on the whole, Essek immediately got the impression that this one was older. Most of his face was obscured by the muzzle, and his hair color was covered by a layer of street-grime and dried blood on top of being cropped close to his scalp. But his eyes were a blue as calm, empty, and resigned as a vernal pool ready to disappear when the rains scattered to the wind.

Who are you? Essek wanted to ask the scourger. What backwater frost bitten village or city slum did they scrounge you up in? What gutters did you claw out of? What soldier barracks were you sprung from? When the people in Rexxentrum saw your potential, did you cower or bite the hand that fed you?

It had to bite, Essek thought. From what little they knew about Scourgers they figured only the strong survived the process of being broken in. But an old one like this? He wondered if there was any personality left to be scraped from the inside of his skull. Perhaps the Assembly lobotomized their souls on top of their rational sense? It was funny to him how those who claimed to be on the side of civilization tended to be the ones who made themselves monstrous, they needed nothing but a miniscule push.

“I must take the time to thank you,” Essek said, circling the scourger, taking a moment to catalogue him and his features. His ankle was twisted strangely. One sleeve had been torn and it revealed a set of wicked looking scars criss crossing his wrists and forearms. His blood was an almost startling red against his fair skin, slick and dripping on the stone. He would have to have a guard clean that up. Magic users tended to get funny ideas when they had access to blood. “You traveled a long way to be here, and I am certain we will learn so many new and interesting things.”

The scourger remained staring forward, not stubbornly or angrily. His shoulders were loose and his neck was relaxed. The only inclination that Essek had that the man heard him was the slightest twitch of his head, as if Essek’s voice had surprised him. His common was good, though accented. It had been drilled into him by the best tutors that his denmother could afford. His guest probably hadn't heard common yet from any of the Drow, or maybe he thought Drow were incapable of common courtesy. That was a sentiment that was unfortunately prevalent. It was a foolishness that made Essek laugh.

“I am here simply to let you know of the conditions of your stay here,” Essek said as he took in the rumpled and disorganized plain clothes. Not meant to raise suspicions, Essek figured, but of course they did. The Xhorhassian cut was about twenty years out of style, an amateur mistake. This man was not an amateur. Had he wanted to be captured? Or had his masters simply underestimated the Kryn? Empire-folk did like to think themselves so clever, after all. He wouldn’t be surprised either way, but he would find out sooner or later. “I know you must be a busy man, so I shall not take up a big portion of your day then necessary.”

The man didn’t make a sound, but Essek felt his eyes on him when Essek returned to stand before him. There were freckles scattered across his nose and forehead, a handsome furrow to his brow as if he were always deep in thought. The more he looked, the more certain he was of what kind of creature he was facing, and he relished the opportunity.

“You will find me to be a fair man,” Essek said simply, pleasantly. “I believe in what I can see, and results that I can gather from hard work. I am interested in nothing but knowledge. It gives me no greater pleasure than to discover something that no one else has discovered before. I am sure that someone like you can understand that. I am a slave to the truth, I am afraid. And I am willing to do a good many things to discover the truth about anything I set my mind to.”

Essek could see the gears turning in the scourger’s brain, a small twitch of the brow and tensing of his arms. Of course, of course, Essek thought excitedly though his expression as always was eternally smooth and amiable. The scourger was looking for an angle to work, something to barter, something to scheme with. Give them an inch, they would take it a mile. Essek already knew what the scourger saw. Young, handsome, egotistical, with a chip on his shoulder and something to prove. Good, good. The game wouldn’t be fun if the other player didn’t play, and Essek was so ready to coax this spy into the trap.

“If you are compliant and what you tell me is the truth, I promise, your death shall be quick and painless. If not...well, truly I look forward to seeing what truths are teeming inside of you while I crack open your ribcage,” Essek said with a gentle smile. “I am excited for what we will discover together.”

The scourger watched him, a light opening behind his blue eyes like a beacon uncovered. There was someone rattling around in the recesses of his mind, Essek would just have to see who it was that would peak out from the depths...what sort of monster would creep along Essek’s finely woven web. Essek nodded at the guards before leaving the cell, the guards leaving behind him in order to guard his back. Once they had all exited the room and took a few steps away from the cell to be safe, Essek turned around to address the guards.

“No food or water for at least two days, after that, two cups of water and a crust of bread until I say so,” Essek said in Undercommon. “We want him to settle in neatly.”

“Yes, Lord Shadowhand.”

“I’ll visit again on the third day along with a healer. We’ll have to heal him up before we break him in again otherwise the pain will be dulled and ineffectual,” Essek said. “Though I will want updates on his condition until then, especially if it looks like his health is taking a turn. I shall take a look at his belongings in the meantime and see what we can find out about our little spider. I’m assuming someone will accompany me?”

“Of course,” the head guard said, nodding to his fellows who saluted and then resumed their duties. “What do you expect to find? All we found were some general equipment and a few pieces of amber.”

“I expect to find everything,” Essek said as he began to glide once more. “After all, a wizard never leaves the house without his spellbook.”

#critical role #critical role fanfic #shadowgast #essek theylss #caleb widogast #scourger AU

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write4tomorrow · 5 years ago

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The Necromancer (pt. 2)

Word Count: 1966

Pairing: Quentin Beck x Reader

Summary: You are Fury’s secret weapon. An avenger in your own right, you should be able to handle anything thrown your way. But Quentin Beck? A man from an alternate universe? Your gut tells you one thing while your heart tells you another.

Genre: Angst / romance

PART 1 PART 3 PART 4 PART 5 PART 6 (COMPLETE)

You and Peter were becoming close. Even though he spent most of his time on his field trip through Europe, the time he spent learning about the elementals and working with Beck had allowed you two to become friends in the span of a couple of days.

While a large group of bustling people moved around the base, Peter, Beck and you were sitting together - almost relaxed. Fury had instructed you to look after both Peter and Beck like a babysitter. Truthfully, you didn’t mind. You felt off your game and appreciated the seemingly easy task. Something was distracting you, but you couldn’t tell what. You hoped that this was just some sort of European sickness. Perhaps a cold. You hadn’t been sick since before Stark’s changed you.

“Are you cold?” Peter asked in the middle of Beck’s sentence. He had noticed you rubbing your hands along your upper arms. You felt like there was a fine layer or new hair on your skin or permanent spider webs had been woven over you. This feeling hadn’t gone away since it began a few days ago.

“Y/n’s been shivering the past couple of days,” Beck answered for you. Before you could do anything, Beck reached out and placed a hand on your cheek. You froze at his touch.

“I have not been shivering,” you lied, “I’ve just been catching the glare from your helmet, fishbowl boy.” You knew it was a dumb excuse, but you were not about to admit that you weren’t okay. Beck rolled his eyes at the nickname you had gifted him. After using it the past few days, it had begun to catch on.

“She’s not feverish,” Beck finally says. He doesn’t look away, even after noting that you felt fine. You look at his expression, searching for something amis. There was still something inside of you that wouldn’t allow you to trust Beck despite the fact that he had given you every reason to trust him. He had even managed to wring a laugh from you a few times.

“I’m okay,” you answered, finally looking at Peter. “I’m just adjusting to the weather,” you smile. Peter looks between you and Beck, cheeks becoming mildly rosy. You could tell that Peter thought he was intruding on some sort of… moment.

“How can you be adjusting when you never leave this place?” Beck asks with an award winning smile. This one was gentle and meant for you. It felt personal and you felt yourself smiling in return.

“Did you just call him ‘fishbowl boy’, y/n?” Peter asked with a small smile. Beck shot him a warning look but you nodded, the beginning of laughter filling your chest.

“C’mon,” Beck glanced at Peter before pulling you to your feet, “I’m sure Peter should go check on his friends. You and I can go for a walk. Maybe a boat ride?” Beck offers.

“I can’t leave - and a boat ride? We’re not in Venice anymore,” you protest, “Fury will-”

“Oh! Mr. um Fury! I have a question for you!” Peter races past you and captures all of Fury’s attention. He blocks Fury’s view of you and Beck. You feel a small smile creep onto your face. Had Beck planned this? You watch as Beck smiles fondly at Peter and begins to pull you out of the room.

“Let’s go before Nick realizes our little distraction plan,” Beck says in a low, conspiratorial voice. You suppress your own laugh and allow Beck to pull you away from your work.

It was late and the streets were mostly quiet. Beck seemed to know where he was going so you followed him as he talked. You ignored the feeling of disorientation that had been following you the past few days and tried to enjoy this moment. Beck had changed into a long sleeve shirt, rolled to the elbows and a pair of regular pants. He told you some stories about his earth. He never said anything specific, simply glazed over a few fantastical parts. You assumed it hurt too much to ask for details. Nevertheless, you enjoyed Beck’s stories. He seemed to be a natural performer and did great impressions of people from his earth. His imitation of his old and angry director made you laugh loud enough to hear it echo form the buildings around you. Beck laughed with you and watched as your smile dimmed to a simple grin.

“You’re so bright,” Beck said quietly. You were mildly surprised.

“I mean I graduated with-”

“No, not smart,” Beck said with a shake of his head, “Although, you are smart. I just meant that you are- radiant is a better word for it. You are a radiant person, y/n.” Beck ran a hand through his hair and kept walking.

You? Radiant? You knew you were smart. Maybe likable. But you were also an agent that pretty much belonged to Nick Fury. You smiled when it was necessary and that was almost never. You weren’t depressed, but you weren’t happy either. Not like the way you had been once upon a time. The girl that used to be radiant died on a cold pristine table in one of the Stark Industry labs.

But here you were, smiling along with Beck. This new hero was taking the time to make you laugh. Gone were Mysterio’s armor and cape, but there was magic here. Perhaps it was necromancy; Beck was bringing some part of you back to life. You felt a strange haze settled over you. You were content and wondered how Beck was so charming.

“Did you dance in your world?” You asked suddenly. Beck looked just as taken aback as you felt. Where had that come from?

“We had the most elaborate balls you’ve ever seen,” Beck answered. His eyes were glittering as he watched you. His attention was almost overwhelming.

“Sounds like a fairytale,” you mused, “I miss having the time to dance or even having energy to just sway to the beat around my room.” Beck let your sentence hang in the air. You loved music but you didn’t have the time to enjoy it anymore. You missed being able to discover a new song and the euphoric feeling of listening to it on repeat until you grew tired of it.

“I- you know, I took a page out of the kid’s book,” Beck said when you didn’t continue. Was he talking about Peter? His hands were in his pockets and he seemed nervous. You had trouble hearing his heartbeat. It sounded muffled and as if it were coming from different directions, but it didn’t take someone like you to see that Beck was up to something.

“What do you mean?” You asked. You watched Beck search in his pockets for something. He began to speak just as your phone rang. Apologetically, you shrugged towards Beck before answering the unknown caller.

“Yes, ma’am?” you answered the phone knowing exactly who was on the other end.

“Get back here,” Maria Hill instructed. She didn’t sound angry, but you could hear Peter in the background issuing apologies to Fury.

“Time to go,” you tell Beck. You didn’t want the walk to end but duty called. Reflexively, you run your hands over your upper arms again.

“Hey,” Beck cups your face in his hands. “Is there something wrong?” You could feel how fast his pulse was. His wrists were so close to your ears that it made you blush but you heard his pulse more clearly now than you had in days. He was definitely nervous. Still, he smiled and stepped closer to you. You could feel his breath on your skin as he looked down at you.

“This - all this - is new to me,” was all you answered. Beck nodded and you swayed a little on your feet, feeling disoriented. Beck pulled you into his chest and pressed a kiss to your forehead.

“They overwork you, honey” Beck said angrily. “You have given and given and given but- you know what? We should get you back.” He was right. You were overworked and you needed to get back. But why had Beck been so angry? You pull back and look up at Beck, still wrapped in his arms. He smiled down at you. You could see all his teeth and you ignored the suspicious feeling welling up inside. Instead, you press a small, delicate kiss to Beck’s lips. He almost immediately deeps the kiss. So much intensity. Too much.

You broke away and look at him once more, still feeling disoriented.

“Quentin, I-”

“Let’s get you back,” Beck interrupted with a warm smile and a gentle blush in his face. You nod and followed him back, still tucked under his arm.

He was so close to having you wrapped around his finger. He had to tread lightly, though. He almost overstepped when he kissed you, but he almost couldn’t stop himself in that moment. Yet, he knew how to win you over.

Sounds like a fairytale. The words echoed in Quentin’s head as the next step in his plan for you began to form. He knew you’d love it.

He also knew that the constant exposure to drones was making you sick in some kind of way. What were they doing to you? Quentin noticed how you swayed on your feet, though. So had the kid.

A few more days, honey. Quentin thought. That’s all he needed and he would come clean to you. And you would understand. You would understand and wrap your arms around his neck and tell him it was okay. Eventually.

Quentin knew that you may turn against him, but it wouldn’t last long. After you understood everything, you would help him. Quentin would make sure of it.

What if the plan doesn’t work? An unwelcomed question popped into Quentin’s head. He wouldn’t allow himself to think like that. You were too good to let go. You were too good to just be a weapon. Over the past few days, Quentin had begun to realize how much he missed your genuine self. Hell, even the kid told Quentin that the two of you would be a good match. Of course, Quentin only told him about his feelings for you to garner some trust from him, but it hadn’t been a lie. Rather, it had grown more true with each moment spent with you, finding your laugh and smile. Tonight, he almost jumped for joy at the sound of your laughter bouncing from the street walls. You hadn’t done that in years, Quentin was sure.

“Beck,” a voice pulled Quentin out of his memory, “We should run the fight one more time.”

Quentin knew he should.

“Show me the choreography for the fight again,” Quentin said through a yawn, “Also, reduce the settings on the drones around y/n.”

“You want us to remove a drone?”

“No,” Quentin wasn’t a fool, but he didn’t want you to continue to feel disoriented. “y/n will figure it out if we reduce the number of drones. Just reduce the settings by fifty percent and gradually bring them back up to eighty percent when I am around. If y/n begins to suspect anything, bring all settings to one hundred percent and alert me immediately,” Quentin commanded. He pulled a small, simple necklace from his pocket. It was a small fish bowl on an elegant chain. Quentin had wanted to give it to you tonight in the hopes of making you smile. Perhaps he’d find the opportunity tomorrow.

“No one harms, y/n. I will deal with it if the situation becomes a risk.” Quentin said, tucking the necklace away. You were his and he would allow no one to harm you.

PART 3

A/N: Hi again! Thank you so much for reading! This will be a six or seven part story. Let me know what you think, please!

#mysterio #mysterio x reader #mysterio x oc #Quentin beck #Mysterio x you #quentin beck x reader #quentin beck x y/n #quentin beck x you #quentin beck x oc #mysterio x y/n #spider-man far from home #spider-man #peter parker #jake gyllenhaal

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artificialqueens · 5 years ago

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gold coloured prisms of light, chapter one (branjie) - holtzmanns

His older sisters talk about soulmates with hearts in their eyes, about the boys at school whose arms they keep checking for matching Sharpie marks. Because, they say to him, it runs in families. Not everyone finds their soulmate, not everyone can write and have it show up on their soulmate’s skin.

(read on ao3) | (tumblr: plastiquetiaras) | word count: 5059

AN: This fic wouldn’t let me go until I wrote it. Hope you enjoy! Only thing to note is that their age difference is two years, rather than five, but other than that nothing is different. Aside from the soulmates part, that is. Writ is the best beta and cheerleader and I love them <3

Brock learns about soulmates when he’s four.

His mother shows him a scribble on her arm, matching the one that his father has just drawn on his own forearm with a marker.

Brock doesn’t understand how it works, how drawing on his own arm doesn’t make anything appear on anyone else’s. He doesn’t get the idea of a soulmate - two people that are made for each other.

Brock supposes his parents must be soulmates, from the way that they often turn towards each other, having conversations without words with just a glance, just a slight touch.

He wonders what it would be like.

But some people have some extra help in finding theirs.

There’s the librarian in his school, Mrs. Chen, who always wears long sleeves whenever Brock goes at lunchtime to read there to be away from the other kids because they’re too loud, noisy. She always grabs the books from the top shelves for him, hands them to him with kind eyes as if she knows a lot of things about the world and wants to share them. But even when he sees the ink peeking out from her sleeve by her wrist, the ever so changing marks, he never has the courage to ask.

Maybe Brock doesn’t even have one. It’s okay, because he likes being by himself. He can’t imagine having someone else to spend time with forever, like his parents.

Brock is five and lying on his bed when scribbles appear on his arms.

They’re haphazard, no recognizable letters or numbers, or even pictures. They’re drawn with an unsteady hand, ink bleeding along the surface of his skin in a multitude of colours that grow and grow and grow.

He pulls on a sweater because he doesn’t know what else to do.

His sister tugs on his sleeve when he comes down for lunch and is about to eat a bite of Mac and cheese. “What are those?”

“What?” Brock is defensive as he scarfs down another bite, because he himself doesn’t know what is happening and how is he going to wash it off and-

“Did you draw those?” His sister doesn’t give him a chance to answer, pulling him up from his seat and rubbing her fingers on his ink stained skin and looking to see if the colour transfers. She lets out a gasp when she sees that it doesn’t.

“Mom! Dad!”

Brock shrinks from their gaze when they come bounding down the stairs, along with his other sister. He crosses his arms, tucking his hands underneath so that they can’t see but then his mother points at his neck.

“There, look.”

Brock runs to the bathroom, and gasps when the scribbles have seemed to grow even more.

“Must be a toddler, or another kid, from these scribbles.” Brock’s mother’s voice is soft as she comes up behind him with his dad, looking at Brock in the mirror.

“I don’t want a baby.” Brock is five. He’s not a little kid anymore.

“She’s not going to stay a baby forever. Nor will she always have free range with a bunch of markers to draw on herself like this.” Brock’s mother flips his hand over, looks at the purple webs drawn on there. “She’s quite the little artist.”

“Why does it have to be a girl?” Brock grumbles. The girls in his school are weird, and one told him that he was too tall.

“That’s the way things are.”

Brock doesn’t get it, but he supposes it’ll make sense later.

The marks start to fade while he’s getting ready for bed, brushing his teeth. They disappear fast, as if someone is scrubbing at them, before his skin is completely ink free as he climbs into bed.

He wonders if his soulmate’s mother was angry about all of the scribbles.

Brock is seven before another drawing appears on his arm.

It makes him gasp, pull down the sleeve of his sweater. Part of him had started to believe that the scribbles had been a dream, made up by his subconscious after hearing so many stories about his parents and the tales woven by his sisters.

He had started wearing t shirts again, no longer fearing that a wayward scribble would appear on his skin, not after it had been two years since his arms and neck and chest had lit up in rainbows. He’d supposed that his soulmate’s parents had stopped letting them near any markers.

Until now, because he’s pulled up his sleeve and now there’s a smiley face on his wrist and a messy star beside it, and it doesn’t hurt, but he feels like he’s electrified, his heart beating faster and faster while his teacher, Mrs. Paul, is trying to teach them about what photosynthesis is.

He still doesn’t know, and it doesn’t matter, because the drawings have stopped, and now he’s staring at them under his desk and seeing how his soulmate’s drawings have changed. They’re no longer scribbles - now, the small doodles are drawn with an unsteady hand like one would expect from a kid like him, or maybe younger. Brock wonders how old they are now.

He rifles through his desk, a wave of disappointment washing over him when he realizes that he’d leant his markers to his friend Sean at lunchtime, who still has them in his desk. He pulls out a gel pen that his sister had given him earlier in the year, wonders if it’ll work.

It’s worth a shot.

He draws a smiley face next to the one already on his arm.

Waits.

Another one appears, right beneath his elbow.

Then one by his palm.

Then Brock’s teacher calls on him and he stutters because he didn’t hear the question, then his classmates are laughing at him and he’s turning red and sinking in his seat, wishing to disappear.

But when he looks down, he sees a flower. One by his wrist.

It makes Brock feel better, somehow.

It’s another six months before there’s more than just drawings that show up on Brock’s arms.

He’s doing his homework at the kitchen table with his sisters, ignoring the way that his parents are arguing in the den (the door is closed, but he can still hear them, and he’s sure that his sisters can too). He pulls up his sleeves like he’s become used to doing in the past few months, looking for more art upon his skin.

This time, there’s a star, and four letters. Four haphazardly drawn letters that Brock can make out if he squints.

J o s e

They’re messily written, with shaky hands. Brock’s not quite sure if it says ‘Tose’ instead, but ‘Jose’ sounds like a name and he’s sure that there’s someone named Jose in the class above him, so it must be a name.

The words show up again on his skin, underneath the original letters. Then again, until his wrist is covered and all Brock can see is the name Jose Jose Jose.

Is that his soulmates name? Brock wonders if he’s practicing writing it.

He interrupts the writing, grabbing the Sharpie from the cup of pens on the table and writes down Brock.

The writing stops.

Then, in shaky letters-

B r o c k

- and a smiley face.

He wonders what his soulmate thinks of his name.

Brock’s arms become a mosaic of letters from A to Z, interspersed with the stars and smiley faces and flowers that are ever changing. There’s words sometimes, words like cat and sat and mat and hat, but most importantly, Jose and Brock.

The writing becomes more self assured over time, neater, less shaky. Then, eventually, he sees-

Brock nearly scrambles off of his bed to grab the Sharpie that’s taken up permanent residence on his desk to write a response back.

Brock has barely dropped his Sharpie onto his bed when more words start to appear.

My nam is Jose

I know

My name is Brock

I know

Jose. His soulmate’s name, his actual name, is Jose.

At least, Brock thinks that Jose is a boy. He’s never met a girl named Jose before.

His mother is wrong, maybe he does have a boy soulmate.

It makes him feel better than it should.

Brock becomes great at deciphering Jose’s handwriting. The letters that would look like scribbles to anyone else trying to read them are like a lifeline to him.

Brock’s lying in bed, having just woken up and he needs to get ready for school, by the way his father has already slammed the door, already left for work, and the way his mom is yelling up the stairs to his sisters to get out of the bathroom.

He pulls on a sweater, ready to cover up the marks like he does at school, after a classmate of his had pointed at them and asked what they were in second grade. He doesn’t want anyone else to see them, because they’re just his and Jose’s, just theirs.

Playing soccar todai :)

He wonders where Jose lives. Right now, as he looks out the window, it’s December and it’s snowing and he knows he’s going to have to wear his winter boots and his snowpants and his giant jacket if he doesn’t want to freeze.

That sounds fun

Ya I’m relli good

I want to play soccer too

It’s not true, not exactly. He doesn’t really like gym class, or when soccer balls or basketballs come his way, because he’d rather duck instead of having them hit him. He doesn’t want to get hurt, even if it makes his gym teacher yell at him every single time.

But maybe it would be fun with Jose.

Wat are you doing todai?

School then dance

He’d begged and begged and begged his mom to let him take dance classes the way his sisters do, and his mom had relented, letting him take some jazz classes. Except he still wants to take ballet, like his sisters do in their pink leotards and the buns in their hair.

Brock is nervous about mentioning dance to Jose, because the boys in his class had teased him for it, even though some of the girls from his class are at the studio, too. Would Jose make fun of him, too?

I like dance too

Brock gasps, his heart filling with something akin to hope, lightness.

You take dance classes too?? What kind? I do jazz

I dunno I just dance

Brock lets out a little laugh. He wonders what it would be like to meet Jose in person, if everything he said would delight Brock the way his words always do.

Brock’s mother sees the words on his arms one night when he’s nine, as he rolls his sleeves up to wash his hands before dinner.

“Is she finally writing to you now?”

Brock yelps, pulling down his sleeves because what if she sees Jose’s name and their conversations? He catches his breath once his arms are covered, safe.

“Yeah.”

It bothers Brock, the way his mom says ‘she’. The way she can’t possibly fathom that he could have a soulmate who is also a boy. What’s wrong with it?

He doesn’t know, because they don’t mention soulmates at church. Nor does he know why his mom muttered under her breath when they passed two guys on the street holding hands, even though Brock had thought it looked quite nice to do. He had wondered whether Jose would hold his hand like that.

“Can I see?” His mother reaches out for his arm and Brock dodges her grasp, crossing his arms.

“No.” His voice comes out more panicked than he wants it to, but he doesn’t want her to see and be mad at him for it.

He’s afraid that she would be.

Brock pulls his sleeves up past his palms as they eat dinner, and it’s good, really, that his mom and dad are arguing again because now it means that his mom won’t want to look at the writing on his arms anymore. Even though the yelling is loud, and his sisters are both texting underneath the table, tuning it out. Brock doesn’t have a phone, so he can’t do that, but he does have-

Jose.

Brock draws a smiley face on his arm. His and Jose’s way of alerting each other when they want to talk.

It’s two, three minutes before Jose draws one back, with its tongue sticking out.

Brock smiles, despite the way his dad slams his fist on the table, making his fork clatter against his plate. It startles him, just for a second, because Jose starts to write.

I’m eating pizza 4 dinner

Wat about you

Casserole

Ew what’s that it sounds gross

Brock has to stifle a laugh as he writes back.

It IS gross

Yuck

How are you doing????

I’m ok

Brock doesn’t want to talk about how his dad has stormed off to his study, how his mom is eating in silence, how his sisters are too. How this has become the norm, more often than not.

Brock had previously thought that soulmates never fight. Now, he guesses that it’s not true.

He wonders what would happen if his father drew on his arm again, if anything would actually show up on his mother’s skin the way that it used to.

Brock

Brock’s eye catches on his wrist when he sees the words appear, tossing the pencil he was using to do homework to the side in favour of his Sharpie.

He’s twelve and middle school is a place that he does not want to be, because the other kids in his class are mean, teasing him about stupid things and he wishes that he didn’t have to go.

He wishes that Jose went to his school, because at least he would have a friend there.

Yeah?

My abuela

She’s in the hospital

We’re in a waiting room

My mom is crying

Brock can feel his stomach turn. Jose talks about his abuela all the time, about how she always whispers in Jose’s ear that he’s her favourite grandson, that he’s going to be a star when he grows up. About how her hugs feel the softest.

Oh no

I’m sorry Jose

He wishes he could teleport to wherever Jose is now, hug him in real life, because he feels useless right now, so far away and unable to do anything or make anything better.

I dunno what to do

How can I help

Can you tell me a story

And so Brock does. He weaves a story about two friends who live far away but are penpals, talking all the time and it’s soft and familiar, covers him like a warm blanket. Jose draws smiley faces and hearts around the words that Brock writes, and it feels like he’s holding his hand.

Brock does the same thing a week later during Jose’s abuela’s funeral.

Brock is fifteen and has gotten into the National Ballet School, something he knows will surprise his mother and his father and his sisters when he tells them, but most of all, it surprises himself. It makes him giddy, makes him feel like maybe he’s good at something.

He writes to Jose in the bathroom after the audition, after his name has been called and he’s gotten a place at the school for the upcoming fall, because he wants to tell Jose first. He shuts himself in a stall, drawing a smiley face and then a star until Jose draws them back to him.

Hi hi hi

I DID IT

AHHH

YOU GOT IN

I TOLD YOU

YOU DID

YOU WERE SCARED

But you’re the BEST at dancing

You’ve never even seen me dance

Don’t need to

Brock smiles to himself, tracing over Jose’s words with his finger. He pauses, realizing something.

I’m going to have to wear short sleeves when I start ballet school

Because of the uniform for dance

Brock pauses, because he doesn’t want Jose to think that this means that he wants them to stop talking, and he’s about to write more when-

Look at your chest

Brock wrinkles his nose before writing back.

What?

Just do it

So he does, pulling his shirt up because he’s still in the stall and he gasps, because Jose’s starting to write along his ribs all delicate and he can see goosebumps rising up on his skin beside them.

This better? More sneaky

Brock’s not sure that he’s imagining the shiver that runs down his spine as the words appear, because this feels different from the writing on his arm. He feels more exposed even though he knows that Jose can’t see him, that Jose’s just looking down at his own chest and writing on himself.

He wonders, for a second, what Jose looks like right now, before pushing the thought from his head, away to the corner of his brain where he pushes most thoughts like that these days.

Yeah. Better. For school.

The Sharpie tickles on his ribs as he writes and it feels so novel, so new, as if they haven’t been doing this for years and years and years already.

Jose always manages to surprise him somehow.

Brock doesn’t start at ballet school for a few more months, but Jose keeps writing to him on his chest, along his ribs, above his hip bone, and it makes him shiver every time. Like it’s his secret, his secret that he shares with Jose and no one else, and he wonders if first kisses feel like this, enough to make his head want to spin.

He doesn’t even know what Jose looks like, where Jose lives. He knows that Jose is two years younger than him and also likes science and dance like him but really likes soccer, which Brock doesn’t. He knows that Jose loves his mom more than anyone in the world, and that his brother is older than him and that he doesn’t have sisters like Brock, but he wishes he that he did.

He wants to know more. He wants to see how Jose laughs in person, if he’s as loud like Brock expects him to be, from the way he loves to write in big capital letters when he’s excited.

Jose writes to him one evening, their customary smiley face scribbled on his hand, and Brock shovels his dinner so that he can go write back.

I kissed someone today

The words are etched onto Brock’s shoulder in black ink, bleeding into his skin and Brock draws in a breath, not quite sure why his heart feels like it’s going to fall out of his chest.

Because it doesn’t matter, right? Just because they’re soulmates doesn’t have to mean-

It was a girl

It was weird

Brock’s never mentioned that he likes boys because he hasn’t wanted to ask Jose himself, but he’d thought that if his soulmate was another boy that it would mean-

But it doesn’t matter. Soulmates don’t always get together, in the end.

It’s not like Brock has been thinking about it, letting himself hope that one day, one day, he’ll find Jose in real life and they don’t have to write to each other anymore and that things will suddenly be perfect.

But that’s not how things work.

So it’s okay, really, because Jose can kiss girls if he wants to.

Brock realizes that he hasn’t written back and so he pulls his Sharpie out from his bedside table, scrawls with shaky hands.

Okay

What else can he say, really?

For the first time he wants to scrub Jose’s words off of his body, wishing that he didn’t have to see them anymore because Jose kissed someone else and why is it making him feel upset for no reason?

He pulls on a sweater on top of his t-shirt so that he doesn’t have to look at his shoulder anymore, doesn’t have to see what Jose responds with.

Brock is getting out of the shower the week when he sees Jose’s writing on his side in the mirror.

He’s been trying not to look, trying to give himself some space because thinking about Jose is making his heart flip in his chest and he doesn’t like the way it makes him feel even more out of control than he already is.

But the words that show up now make him pause.

Brock

I think I like boys

Brock looks down, trying to crane his neck to see if it really says what he thinks it’s says and it draws all the air out of his lungs when he realizes that it does.

His Sharpie is on his desk, as always, the ink blurring slightly on his wet skin.

You do?

I don’t like kissing girls that much

I don’t wanna kiss them

So why did you?

It was spin the bottle, everyone did

And then that girl tried to kiss me again later and I was like ew

Brock cracks up, despite himself. He doesn’t even know what Jose looks like but he can picture a look of disgust that mirrors his words easily.

How do you know you like boys?

Brock’s heart is beating faster and faster, and he’s not sure how long it can go on for before it gives out, trying to pump oxygen when he feels so out of breath.

Because I wanna kiss boys

The next words that appear on Brock’s skin make him gasp.

I wanna kiss you

He’s frozen, his towel around his waist and his skin is starting to dry off from the shower and Jose wants to kiss him.

Brock?

Sorry I shouldn’t have said that

Brock scrambles to write back because Jose needs to know-

I want to kiss you too

It’s true, when Brock thinks about it, so true because he’s never even met Jose in real life but he feels like he knows him better than anyone else in the world, because Jose is his best friend and he really really is-

His soulmate.

Jose draws a heart below his ribs and Brock wonders what it’s like to fall in love.

Brock is eating breakfast at the kitchen table when he’s seventeen and his mother turns to him. He can see they way she’s peeking down at his arms, even while trying to be discreet.

Jose only writes to him on his shoulders and chest when he’s at home now, just in case. Brock didn’t have to explain himself, because Jose got it without him having to.

“Brock.”

He doesn’t want to look up, because he can’t tell anything from his mother’s tone of voice. He’s not sure if he really wants to know.

“Yeah?”

“Look at me.”

So he does, reluctantly looking up from his cereal and his mother looks tired, worn down.

“Is there anything you want to tell me?”

Words bubble up in his chest but he can’t say them, he can’t make things worse and he knows that his mom probably knows and wants him to say it too, but he can’t-

“No, there isn’t.”

“Brock, your soulmate-”

He escapes from the table and goes up to his room (‘gotta go, I have homework’) as his mom sighs, and he realizes as he climbs the stairs and passes their old family pictures on the walk that his dad hasn’t been home in awhile.

He doodles a small smiley face on his wrist, enough for Jose to notice, then continues above his hip bone.

Does your mom know?

Know what?

You know

He doesn’t want to say it, because he hasn’t even said the words to himself, and if he does then it means that it’s all real and that his mom will hate him and-

She knew since I was a kid and kept stealing her dresses and makeup

Brock laughs a little, trying to picture a five year old strutting around in his mother’s heels.

Me too, I did that too

And she doesn’t know??

I think she does

She asked me if I had anything to tell her

Today

Yikes

You think she’ll be mad?

Yeah

I don’t want to tell her

No one says you have to

If you don’t wanna right now

Okay

If you end up doing so, I’ll be here to cheer you on

Jose draws a stick figure that’s grinning above his belly button and Brock can’t help but feel just a little bit lighter.

Brock is eighteen and drunk at a party and kisses his friend Kyle and all he can think about is Jose.

He doodles on his thigh when he gets back to his room, after his friends drop him off and he flops onto his bed and thinks about what Jose’s lips would taste like.

It’s like 3 am

I’m trying to sleep

Brock squints as he fumbles with the Sharpie, trying to write clearly.

I wanna kiss you

I missssss you

He draws little stars all over his leg while he waits for Jose to write back.

You’ve never met me

But I wannaaaaaa

Why do you live in Alska

Alaksa

Alaska

Brock tilts his head. He can never tell if things are quite spelled right when he’s drunk.

That’s a weird way to spell Florida

So you don’t live with polar bears :(

Definitely not

We have gators, though

No that’s scary

How drunk are you

Soooooooooooooooo drnk

I want a polar bear

You should sleep

Wanna cuddle with you

Jose doesn’t respond and Brock’s drunk brain pauses for a second, wondering if he’s said too much but what does it even matter, when Jose’s his soulmate and he love love loves him, even if he doesn’t have a polar bear?

Maybe we can do that. In the future

YES

Drunk you is bananas

You better not wash these off I want you to see this when you’re sober

Sober Brock can eat it

Let’s see what you say about that tomorrow

A thought comes to Brock’s mind, one that sober him has been pushing down, down, down, because it’s felt too much to ask, too personal, but fuck it, he’s gonna do it because why the heck not?

I wanna see you

Your face

I wanna see

It’s kept him up at night, distracted him during dance class. Wondering what Jose is like, what he looks like, and Brock isn’t shallow, per se, he’s just curious. Curious as to what his other half looks like.

Bold

Pleaseeeeee

There’s a pause, and then-

Write down your phone number

Brock does so, breathlessly, waiting for his cellphone to buzz as he flips it over in his hands, when a picture pops up from an unknown number.

Jose is the most beautiful boy he’s ever seen. He has a backwards cap on and he’s raising his eyebrows at the camera with a facial expression that’s saying really?

Brock grabs his pen to reply but keeps his phone in his hand, open on the picture because wow Jose is perfect and he can’t stop staring.

Wow

You never told me you were HOT

Omg

Sure, sober Brock is going to hate him but Brock can’t help it, who cares about inhibitions or self control when his soulmate is absolutely perfect? His dimples and his jawline and his eyebrows and Brock gets how easy it is to fawn over someone, because he’s head over heels for Jose.

Now send me a picture of you

Let’s make it even

Brock fumbles with his phone and grins into the camera and it’s probably blurry and he’s a bit stubbly because he didn’t shave today and he’s still in his clothes from the party and looks like a mess, but he sends it anyway.

A minute ticks by, then another, and Brock’s wondering if he’s made a grave mistake, maybe Jose’s changed his mind-

You never told me you were hot, either

Dork

Brock wakes up with a massive headache and a dry mouth. His thighs are covered in his own scribbles and he groans, because it’s almost 11 a.m. but he feels like he’s been hit by a truck.

He grabs his phone, opens his texts and freezes when he sees an unknown number, a picture of himself and then-

Jose.

It all comes rushing back to him, flooding his memories and oh god he had texted Jose.

He writes on his stomach because it feels like the most right thing to do.

Oh god I’m sorry I’m sorry

I shouldn’t have done that

Shouldn’t have made you send a pic

I’m sorry

Please don’t hate me

Brock feels like he’s going to cry, because shit shit shit, he’s probably gone and ruined everything between them and he’s never, ever going to drink again.

It’s okay

Wanted to see your face for awhile anyway

You did?

Tell me you weren’t curious too

I clearly was

My drunk self took over and did that

I’m glad it did because I was too scared to

Me too

Brock lets out a breath. Maybe Jose isn’t mad at him, and things aren’t falling apart just yet, and they’ll be okay.

Now I can imagine your cute ass face when we write

Brock lights up, because Jose actually thinks he’s cute. Jose’s seen a picture of him, and instead of being uninterested, Jose thinks he’s cute.

You’re cute

Real cute

He wishes he could say more without sounding too pushy, too forward, too expectant. He wants to tell Jose that his eyes are brighter than the stars and the photo he sent is still making him smile, even now. He only as of last night knows what Jose looks like, but he feels like he’s known his entire life.

Brock’s phone buzzes again and it’s another picture, and this time Jose’s blowing a kiss to the camera and Brock finally knows what all the movies mean when they talk about love at first sight.

#rpdr fanfiction #brooke lynn hytes #vanessa vanjie mateo #branjie #canon compliant #soulmate au #holtzmanns #gold coloured prisms of light

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